The Failed Filipino

One thing I’m insecure about is that I feel like I am not Filipino enough. Among my Filipino friends, there is a running joke that I call myself a Failed Filipino. I know it’s not true, but deep down inside I feel inadequate because I don’t speak Tagalog and I don’t cook Filipino food.

Around the Titas, they were always excited to meet me. Growing up, I was tall and thin. They would tell my mom, “She’s tall. So maganda.” I learned quickly that meant I was beautiful. They would make me feel special for a brief moment until they would tell me, “Aye, you need to learn Tagalog, okay? So you can talk to us in Tagalog.” Then I would smile in compliance as if I was actually going to do it.

My parents didn’t teach us Tagalog. They would say certain things to me that we understood, but not enough to have any sort of fluid conversation. My mom’s excuse for not teaching us was that she didn’t want us to get confused with English. I wrestled with that comment a lot because I’ve met many people who speak at least two languages. I was always envious of them.

Granted, I could’ve learned Tagalog on my own. In 1997, my family went to the Philippines to spend time with my grandparents. My Lolo had a stroke, which brought us there for three months. I filled my time by playing with the neighborhood kids who surprisingly knew both English and Tagalog (Mom!). I also worked in my Lola’s market, which was attached to her house. She had a small room at the front where customers would walk up to the window to buy what they needed. It was basically a super mini 7-Eleven.

Working in the shop is where I learned how to speak Tagalog. A customer would walk up to the window and say, “Pabili po.” Depending on where I was, I’d drop whatever I was doing and help them. This was also, coincidentally, my first experience in customer service.

My response would be, “Ano po?”

It wasn’t strange for a young person to work in the convenience store because many of the markets were run out of family homes. Everyone helped because it was the family’s source of income. For me, it was cool because I finally felt like I was part of the culture.

Unfortunately, I didn’t carry the language back with me when we returned to the States.

It felt like I had left a piece of my culture behind.

When I got back home, the Tagalog I had learned slowly started to fade until English once again became the main language I spoke.

I was raised in Fresno, California. There were relatively few Filipinos there—or at least none that I knew of. I had a couple of Filipino friends, though I thought one of them was Chinese until she told me after we graduated high school. I wasn’t exposed to many kids who grew up in Filipino households. I just knew our food was different and my parents spoke a language that none of my friends understood.

Even though I had assimilated into American culture through the language I spoke and how I looked, I still felt displaced.

I felt like I was neither American nor Filipino.

After moving to the Bay Area in my late twenties, I discovered a huge Filipino community.

I was so excited.

There was more of me in my neighborhood and in the grocery store. I finally felt seen and like I belonged somewhere.

Though, when it came to actually meeting other Filipinos, it was hard. I didn’t share the same experiences or traditions they did. I felt whitewashed and embarrassed.

I still do.

I have a couple of close friends who are Filipino. One speaks Tagalog fluently, cooks Filipino food like she grew up in her Lola’s kitchen, and somehow became my guide to Filipino culture.

My parents love when she comes over. She’ll start speaking Tagalog with my mom, and I’ll stand there smiling like I understand.

Then I jump into the conversation anyway.

About 70% of the time, I’m completely wrong about what they’re talking about.

Eventually, I just quietly walk away.

It feels easier than pretending I understand.

I constantly questioned whether I was doing Filipino right.

I spent years believing that not speaking Tagalog somehow made me less Filipino. Maybe because language feels like proof of where you belong.

But the older I get, the more I realize my culture was never something I lost. It just looks different than someone else’s.

I still laugh the way my family laughs.

I still eat the food.

I still call older women Tita.

I still light up whenever I meet another Filipino.

Maybe I wasn’t a Failed Filipino after all.

Maybe I was just raised differently.