I’m Filipino, but I was born here in the States. For the first three years of my life, it seemed as if I’d immigrated to America with my parents. School coming into the picture, then, was a big change for me. It was the first time I was fully immersed into an environment that was dominated by white culture and tradition. I didn’t realize then, obviously, but looking back now, it was at that point in my life where I began to lose my Filipino identity. At first it was subconscious, but once I noticed my classmates staring at me or making jokes about my being Asian, I began to hide that part of myself deliberately. I could only let my guard down around my family, because I knew that with them, there’d be no judgement.
I was wrong.
Eventually, “being white” was no longer second nature to me. “Stop acting white,” my parents would tell me. I already had to deal with being “too Asian” at school, and now I had to deal with being “too white” at home? How was I going to please everyone?
So I acted Asian or white whenever it was convenient for me. But this ended up being a bad idea, too, because I started getting confused. Am I Asian, or am I American? Why can’t I make up my mind? Eventually, I decided that I was American and that there was nothing I could do about it. All my attempts at embracing my culture had failed, and every other Filipino I knew had already labeled me as white, so I might as well accept it: I was American. Just American.
I felt defeated. Like I’d disappointed every person of color on the planet, but most importantly, my parents. Part of me was bound to be entrenched in white culture, yes, but I didn’t want to just abandon my ethnicity entirely. It seemed like that was the only option, though, so I just ignored how I felt and tried to accept myself.
Fast forward to high school: suddenly having a culture that wasn’t white was a good thing. People all around me seemed to have achieved the perfect balance of their own culture and white culture. I began trying to emulate their actions in the hopes that I’d be able to find that same exact balance. But after awhile, I realized that I wasn’t getting anywhere close to where I wanted to be. I still wasn’t happy. But I kept trying. The more I tried, though, the more hope I lost. Finally, I gave up. Filipino culture isn’t my culture.
And then I realized: I’d been trying to find a balance that would satisfy everyone but me.
I get to decide how Filipino/American I want to be. Whatever ratio I think is good enough is good enough. Worrying about whether I’m good enough for anyone else won’t get me to where I’ve wanted to be this whole time: happy with how much I embrace each of my cultures.