In a bustling playground, a young girl’s innocent question sparked a profound conversation about identity and cultural preservation. “Where are you from?” the little girl asked my five-year-old daughter, Anita. There was a pause, and with a mid-jump gesture toward our street, Anita replied, “From there!” The other girl looked confusedly at my husband, who had been conversing with our daughter in French. Amidst laughter, he explained that while Anita was half French, their family resided just two streets away. “Next time, just say you’re Filipino-French,” I suggested. But my daughter protested, “But mom, where am I from?”
After much deliberation, we settled on the Philippines as Anita’s place of origin, where she was born and currently lived. Sharing this anecdote with others often leads me to ponder whether the question or the answer needs to be re-evaluated.
When Anita was born, we were bombarded with advice on raising a bilingual child. I proudly corrected them, stating that she would be trilingual, learning English, French, and Tagalog. I even aspired to introduce my parents’ native Ilonggo dialect. However, I was met with the question, “Why does she need Filipino? She won’t use it anywhere.” While I feigned shock, I understood the underlying implication. Practically speaking, Anita may not require Filipino proficiency for schooling or employment. But why deprive her of the playful wit of an Eraserheads song, the emotional depth of Up Dharma Down’s lyrics, or the impact of a well-timed Ilonggo expletive?
As parents, my husband and I embarked on a mission to ensure that both our cultures would be woven into our children’s upbringing. I was particularly determined, driven by questions about language and identity. Six years later, our journey has been surprisingly smooth. I attribute our good fortune to the unwavering support of both our families. During visits to France, my mother-in-law enthusiastically whips out her rice cooker, a testament to her acceptance of our blended heritage. Rice accompanies pot-au-feu dinners and morning silogs, sometimes even accompanied by SPAM and hotdogs.
Our in-laws have embraced our decision to co-sleep with our children, recognizing the benefits of washing them with soap and water. They chuckle at their “beautiful eyes” and “close-open” expressions. While we raise our children secularly, I ticked off “Catholic” on school application forms at my husband’s request. It seemed reasonable for them to learn the basics of a religion deeply intertwined with French culture. Besides, I was alarmed when our daughter referred to angels as “kid birds” and questioned the shepherds’ persistent search for Jaden every Christmas.
My desire to infuse our children’s lives with Filipino traditions, however superficial, stems from my own childhood, where much of my heritage was overlooked. I don’t blame my parents for encouraging us to consume primarily American and European media. Coming from middle-class backgrounds, they sought to give us a leg up in life, and their choices were a reflection of that. Sending four children to private school was no easy feat, but my father remained steadfast, despite our occasional disappointments when we couldn’t acquire the designer clothes and gadgets our peers had.
Proficiency in English and familiarity with Western culture instilled in us a sense of intelligence and confidence. I recall my father proudly showing around an American colleague who was impressed by my “American” accent and knowledge of her children’s interests. In retrospect, I realize that while those accomplishments may not have been significant, the boost in confidence and sense of acceptance were invaluable. However, I gradually lost that accent, along with the kolehiyala one I picked up in private school. By the time I entered university, I still couldn’t speak Tagalog, and I didn’t care. Thankfully, that apathy began to shift, thanks in part to a Filipino-American roommate. Our friendship opened my eyes to her intelligence, artistic talents, and unwavering curiosity. She was determined to learn Tagalog, and through osmosis, I learned alongside her. Over the years, we embraced the language and immersed ourselves in local culture. I vividly remember nursing a heartbreak while listening to Sugarfree’s “Kuarto” and sipping on San Miguel beer. The song resonated with me more profoundly than Leonard Cohen’s. It’s embarrassing to admit that it took the influence of another person, technically a foreigner, to awaken my appreciation for my own country and culture. However, that’s how it unfolded, and I wasn’t alone in my cultural ignorance.
As my children grow, they will undoubtedly encounter their shared heritage and the complexities that accompany it. My hope is to equip them with the tools to approach each culture with empathy, respect, and understanding. The question of “Where are you from?” can only be fully answered by them, a reflection of their unique experiences and identities.
