Pyrrhic Victory over my Native Tongue: Part 2

While diverse nationalities make up the US as a country, Americans in general are known for their can-do spirit.  A writer once described Steve Wozniak, co-founder of Apple, as having the “confidence that seems to come so naturally to Americans.”  To be sure, over many years in the US, I came to adopt that can-do mindset and to walk with an air of confidence about me.    

Enter little Ronnie boy, subjected to quite a bit of teasing, yes, but with a good amount of smarts and nerdish determination, wholly breathing in that American oxygen and poised to strengthen my command of English in a forthright manner. 

My mother loved to read 'Readers Digest,' and had a collection of this magazine in the basement.  There was a regular section called Word Power in each issue.  The reader was quizzed on the meaning of 20 words, then on the next page each word was defined and given a bit of its derivation.  I took every single issue I could find, cut out the Word Power section, and organized them into a folder.  I also made lists and lists of such words. 

What’s more, I read the dictionary.  (Yes, I told you I was a nerd, didn’t I.)  And I added more words and definitions to my lists.  I even made myself get into the habit of having a notebook handy, whenever I read a book.  So when I ran into a word I didn’t know, I’d jot it down and later on re-visit my trusted friend, the dictionary, to learn its definition.      

Oh, I didn’t stop there!  I managed to get audiotapes for learning to speak English.  At night, alone in my bedroom, I followed each lesson.  I’d hear the man or woman speak a word or phrase, then I’d pause the recorder to repeat after him or her.  Night after night, I learned my lessons with a can-do discipline that wasn’t typical of many children.

Still, later on, I fell in love with British literature – that of William Shakespeare, WH Auden, Thomas Hardy and Jane Austen.  There was a series of British programs on “Masterpiece Theatre,” based on high-level literature, which I’d watch without fail.  I’d record some of these programs, then practice speaking like the British actors – for example, Sir Derek Jacobi as Shakespeare’s “Richard II” and “Hamlet.”  I’d memorize passages of Shakespeare, and recite them in the car, in the library, and around the university campus.  Heaven only knows how the British voice re-shaped my English. 

In any event, through my teens, I successfully fortified my command of English and gradually rid myself of my accent. 

*

We know that many immigrants to a country will collect themselves into neighborhoods or villages, so as to retain the old world in the new world.  They have a great deal of love and respect for their home country, and this remains undiminished even as they pursue opportunities in their new country.  Their children are reared in such a context. 

My parents were not like these immigrants.  They gradually and systematically separated my sisters, brother and me from virtually all things Filipino – the country (absolutely no annual leave back home), the people (away from relatives), the history and culture (no books, art or programs on these).  In effect, what they aimed for, even before we left the Philippines, was an utter, categorical immersion into American life.  It was assimilation into the new country that, for each of us children, surpassed 100%. 

Unfortunately, as a result, we as a family also came to disfavor Filipinos.  This is sometimes called “reverse discrimination” – a certain bias against others of the same nationality or race as ours.  There is the notion that people who’ve been historically disfavored – even oppressed – may identify with the attitudes of the oppressor or in the least hold others of their kind in disregard.  The psychology is this – such people may be attempting to master, even control an experience of powerlessness and disenfranchisement that lies within them.     

I can tell my bold Filipina friend that this reverse discrimination isn’t something I’m proud of – is something I’m ashamed of, in fact.  Thankfully, such an attitude remained at low levels, and I rid myself of this as I began to rediscover my Filipino identity in my 20s and to appreciate my Filipino heritage.  

In the end, I am forever grateful to the years I spent growing up and working in the US.  The negative things that happened to me were, indeed, a positive impetus to learn, to progress, and to become a contributing member of the wider global society.  Yes, I admit that the command of English I gained effectively came as a Pyrrhic victory – I lost my native tongue.  Still, I can count on that same can-do spirit as I work to re-learn Tagalog.  

*

Note:  A version of my article was posted on Relativity Online.   

Pyrrhic Victory over my Native Tongue: Part 1

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” a bold Filipina friend, told me once, out loud in front of others at a party. I had just arrived in Dubai, fresh off the plane from Chicago, and she was introducing me to a community of my kababayan (fellow Filipinos).

She was referring to the fact that I couldn’t speak Tagalog – my native tongue. How I lost it is a journey in itself.

*

Soon after the Americans wrested control of the Philippines from the Spaniards, teachers came in hordes to teach English in schools at the start of 1900s. English gradually supplanted Spanish. Even as a government commission identified Tagalog as a national language, English never lost its standing – effectively creating a country with “disglossia” (two official major languages).

With their books, blackboard and chalk, teachers have a power far greater than soldiers with tanks, machine guns and ammunition to re-shape an entire culture. So the Americans wove their language into the cloth of Philippine life. Stitched it, even, on the very tongue of the Filipino. I remember asking another Filipina friend, for example, whether she had lived in the US, because her accent didn’t quite have that Tagalog sound to it. In fact, I could pick up some familiar American tone. She said, “No, I just watched ‘Sesame Street.’”

*

My upwardly mobile parents not only moved the family into a well-to-do Manila suburb, but also enrolled me at the nearby Don Bosco school – where English was actually the primary language. This was a Filipino school, mind you. There was a separate class for Tagalog, although I have virtually no memory of it. I never really learned how to read or write in Tagalog, so I can only conclude that that class ranked quite low on the school’s ladder of priorities.

So, you see, by the time we left the Philippines in 1968, I was boy with an under-developed tongue for my native language. A weak tongue is easy to lose. The fact that I can’t speak it, well, what do I have to ashamed about? I was simply being swept by my parents in a certain direction, and in turn they were being swept by the American zeitgeist of the 1900s.

*

I wrote about the wonderfully mistaken slurs of Jap and Chink directed at me, in my preceding journal entry here. But children at school didn’t stop at this, as they also teased me for my accent.

The th and the f sounds aren’t easy for a number of Filipinos. So 'third' and 'north' become tird and nort, and 'forty' and 'fifty' become porty and pipty. I remember one classmate who laughed at me, when he heard tief come out of my mouth, instead of 'thief.' Shameful, to say the least, as this sort of teasing happened more than once.

Sadly, one teacher played into this as well. As much as I learned English as a little boy, my command wasn’t very good. So, in 7th grade, when our English assignment was to read books and write reports, my report had run-on sentences; paragraphs with little structure or organization; and patches of spelling errors. In retrospect, I knew my report was terrible, but did the teacher have to speak about my report to the class as an example of bad writing? Hell, at least, he could’ve left my name out!