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!

From Manila, to Chicago: Part 2

I remember a boy named, Raul, a Puerto Rican.  A smallish boy – a gangbanger – he had a clutch of boys in the neighborhood.  Thankfully, I was never part of this.  But, curiously, he took a liking for me.  He sort of came into my circle. (Well, not really, as I had no circle.)  For instance, I’d go home for lunch, then he’d come by our apartment building and wait outside for me so that he could walk me back to school.  Somehow I felt safe and proud to be friends with him.

Raul wasn’t a very bright boy.  This, mixed with a troublesome nature, made him the butt of even the teacher’s awful jokes and derisions in class.  “Raul, you have no class!” 

So, there it was, I understood it.  Without his ever demanding anything of me, I helped him with his schoolwork.  The stuff of friendship.  I got the protection that probably helped me stay out of trouble, in countless, unknown instances.  He got a better footing with his academics. 

         

Again, not much talking about it, Raul and I learned lessons for a lifetime. 

*

“I’m gonna kick your ass!” was so effective.  Yet, so ineffective at the same time. 

More than 40 years have passed, since those fateful first months in Chicago, I have very rarely been slurred upon by others.  Maybe it has to do with the toughness and confidence I’ve kept building up over years.  Maybe it has to do with the several relationships and circles I’ve chosen to put myself in.  Maybe it has to do with my smarts.  Who knows.

You see, here’s the thing.  Jap and Chink still reverberate within me.  Why?

Filipinos, by and large, don’t have very strong self-esteem.  Today we’re spread around the world, but more often than not, you’ll find us to be more deferential than assertive, more serving than commanding, more friendly than tough-ass.  Why?

For centuries, the Philippines was under colonial rule – by the Spaniards largely, but the Chinese and Americans figure prominently into this.  The northern part of the Philippines was their stronghold, and they came in when the economic and social fiber of development was still in its nascent stages.  More than just neglect to build the economic foundation of the local people, they actually dismantled it!  For example, Chinese merchants got small-time farmers to sell rice, below its value.  Then, in turn, they sold it at above this value.  

Imagine cutting off a baby’s feet, before he can even walk! 

That’s what happened.  We were duly servants in our own home.  Invisible, in a similar vein as author Ralph Ellison posed the Black American.   

Yes, by the late 1800s, the ongoing stirrings of rebellion in the country led to the formation of a national identity (albeit roughshod and patchwork).  The Philippines gained its independence.

But still, why is our self-esteem generally still low, more than a hundred years later? 

My take on this:  This bit about independence is a pipe dream.  The 1900s was the era of the Americans.  Their sheep’s clothing was liberator, which hid the wolf of oppressor underneath.  More powerful than the Spaniards, I believe, the Americans entered our brain (e.g., through books and TV) – and planted themselves within our tongue (i.e., through language, Filipinos became one of the best English-speaking Asians in the world). 

The Americans more or less left.  But I argue that we are still an oppressed lot.  By whom?  By the longtime wealthy, powerful families in politics and business.  You learn not to mess around with them.  Because if you do, you’ll see that corruption is the least of your worries.  You literally put your life in danger.  My parents must’ve known this.    

I challenge any of my kababayan (fellow Filipino) to win me over with the notion that Filipinos are independent.  He or she will fail.  Today we are still under colonial rule. 

*

Shame is a powerful social, behavioral tool in Philippine culture.  It’s a way to command obedience from children by parents and teachers – and from everyday citizens by those in power.

In fact, oddly enough, to feel shame was a sort of badge of honor amongst Filipinos.  So much so that for a child to be scolded with walang hiya (shameless) was doubly shaming! 

For a non-Filipino, this can be a maddening, twisted thing.  I’d agree.

Jap.  Chink.  This made me profoundly ashamed. 

The slur wasn’t even the fucking right nationality!  How odd and cruel can children be.  Damn it, didn’t they know I was not Japanese or Chinese.  It was as if I didn’t deserve the honor of being kicked in the gut with my own nationality.  Instead, it was like having my gut ripped out of me!  More than just invisible, I was now hollow. 

Talk about self-esteem.  Walang hiya.  Talk about shame.  How deep can you go with your nth power? 

Jap.  Chink.  Oh, I can forgive.  But never forget.  

*

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

From Manila, to Chicago: Part 1

Jap. 

Chink.

I was 9 years old and newly arrived in Chicago. Jap. Chink. Racial slurs for Japanese and Chinese, that’s what some kids at school called me. Something to do with my squinty eyes.

My new Philippine passport (1968)

America was virtually a Shangri La for a Filipino boy – the “Land of Milk and Honey.”  America was flowing white and brown.  I also understood the figurative meaning of the phrase.  So I set about to list all the toys and clothes I wanted, because in America I could have whatever I wanted to have.  Heady stuff, for a little boy.  I tried to get my sisters (6 and 4 years old) and brother (5 years old) to create their own list, but they noted only a handful of things.  “You can have more, you can have more,” I urged them. 

By most accounts, we had a good life in the Philippines.  Both professionals – Mechanical Engineer and Pharmacist – my parents had a house built in Parañaque, southwest of Manila.  So we lived a middle class suburban life, and accordingly I went to the well-to-do, Catholic all-boys school of St. John Don Bosco nearby.  What’s more, we had two housemaids living us and taking care of us. 

My parents, though, had a sense of a future not looking so bright at all.  The 1960s was the presidency of Ferdinand Marcos, and economically and politically they felt that trouble was afoot.  I never knew how or when they began to plan our departure from the Philippines, but in 1968 my father’s two sisters and their families left from America in May.  We followed suit in September.  In 1972, President Marcos declared martial law.  Foresighted, my parents?  Surely.

*

I was a shy but playful boy on the westside of Chicago, where there were many more Latinos than Filipinos.  Autumn cool was already in the air, and there seemed to be more cloudy days than I remembered seeing in the Philippines.  It was ideal weather, regardless, for recess in the playground. What goes on in the playground was a microcosm of what was to come for us children.  All that made living delightful was there – the running, the climbing, the jumping.  Play was an entire language for us.  No need for words, really.  The groan from exerting on the monkey bars.  The screaming laughter from some sort of chase.  The soft thud of falling down.

Jap.  Chink.  In the playground, I soon learned to retort, “I’m gonna kick your ass!”  My older cousins taught me that, as they, too, were subjected to such slurs.  “I’m gonna kick your ass!”  I kept saying it, until it stopped feeling awkward and stupid to say. 

*

Life in Chicago was a far cry from our spacious home in Parañaque.  For the first few months, we were amongst three families living in a three-bedroom flat.  The three sets of parents – mine, my two aunts and their husbands – each staked out a bedroom.  We children – a total of 14 in the household, with a wide range in age – mostly slept on the living and dining room floor. 

It was fun for a while, but the cramped quarters led a couple of us cousins to fight amongst ourselves.  Never mind the other kids at school. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass!”  Remarkably it must’ve worked.  Soon thereafter I heard Jap and Chink very little.  Shy or not, I saw clearly that there was value in being tough. 

*

But better than being tough, I found that the real ticket into social circles and approval was my academics.  I was a smart boy.  I came to learn that Philippine curriculum was more advanced than that of America.  There, children go from elementary school to high school – that is, from 6th grade to high school.  In America, there were 7th and 8th grades to navigate, before high school.  So, instead of 18 years old, many Filipinos are in the university at 16 years old.  So the curriculum, from early on, was geared along such a timeline.

Cool, totally cool. 

Visiting the Picasso Abu Dhabi Exhibit

I have now gone twice to see this exhibit, and I am tentatively planning a third tomorrow evening. Just as I had never really noticed Marc Chagall before that tiny print exhibit at the Kohl’s Museum, I had never really looked at Picasso before.

There is the famous large “Picasso” sculpture in the Daley Plaza in Chicago.  I’ve heard about “Guernica.” Cubism etc. But even as I planned to visit this exhibit with friends, I thought to myself that I’m really not that taken by Pablo Picasso.

Well, now, clearly I am!

From the first visit last Friday, August 29th, came my first poem in about 20 years!  “La Lecture de la Lettra.”

With the wonders of Google, the internet, and my own growing knowledge and skills with Microsoft Office, I superimposed my poem on a cropped, downloaded image of this painting.

I see this poem as the first in a series, which I hope to get published somewhere. It’s too late for Gulf News, as the exhibit ends tomorrow evening. But what about the Museè Picasso in Paris?  Well, why not!

In my second visit, last night, I concentrated on the 13 of the 183 works that I found most compelling. I took scores of notes, including verbatim ones on Surrealism and Cubism.