By Marifi Jara

BANYAGA: FOREIGNER
By Nicholas M. Mararac

(I am reprinting the email of the author’s father Mr. Maximo Mararac, to me as a background for the publication of the article in my corner -Marifi Jara).

Marifi: Your experience in a foreign land is shared by everyone – lack of understanding of different cultures and nationality generates this kind of treatment.

Last time, you published for me “Piece of Heaven” and in our exchange, I promised you one of the articles written by my youngest son. As my son’s essay explains, his experience is similar to yours. This piece is part of the essay he submitted as required by his acceptance at the US Naval Academy in 2003. It took me a while to give this to you as I have to dig his file, and still have to ask permission from him. He allowed me to submit this as it is – no addition, deletion or edition.

I lacked the facility to attach the file, so I have to retype it verbatim, including his errors per his instruction. Nicholas has since graduated from the Academy, and is now serving as a commissioned officer of the US Navy. In retrospect, he thanked me for sending him in the midst of Pangasinan – his experience came handy when he was assigned to serve in the “Balikatan” a joint project of the Philippine and US Armed Forces.

My intent then was for them to learn the culture on their own, embroil them in the daily life of an ordinary kid and not to learn the culture through the different Cultural show here in States.

Both of my kids are well traveled – I insist for them to spend their summers at different parts of the world and not in the different summer escape of college kids here in States.

It comes with a stiff cost that is the reason why my wife and I work hard. Now that they are grown – they are on their own, and I do not have to worry much about it.

***

I am a Filipino American. It has taken me a long while to grasp what being Filipino American means. My parents were both born in the Philippines. They arrived in the United States during 70’s. For many immigrants, starting off new country is difficult. The hardship they endured was justified by the prospect of a better life for their children.

However, I thought this better life came with an expense. My brother and I could not understand Tagalog, the Filipino language. We lacked knowledge of Filipino heritage and culture.

After my sophomore year, my father thought it was about time I learn. So he sent me to the Philippines to go to school. I got accepted into La Salle – a renowned high school in Manila (full of rich kids that speak English). My father had second thoughts about the school. He decided to drop me in a small catholic school in a rural region of the Philippines. In Binmaley, a town in Pangasinan, I went to Binmaley Catholic High School.

I wasn’t going to be surrounded by rich kids that spoke English. My father said, they were too Americanized. La Salle would have been perfect.

Binmaley Catholic High School was different. There was one main entrance with a guard. He didn’t allow students to enter if their shirt was not tucked in properly. He also disciplined those that were late. The days I was late, I turned around and went home.

The school looked rundown. My classroom looked like my garage. My garage, however, has electricity. Binmaley Catholic wasn’t the most technological advanced school. Large windows on both sides of the classroom substituted for the lack of electricity. There were no lights. The windows were only frames in the wall that closed shut with large wooden boards. The floor was swept off most of the dust that morning by the students arriving early. Paint was peeling from both walls, floors and ceiling.

Sitting in class, I found myself more concerned with the building and its discrepancies. The school was rundown. I could understand why my parents saw a better life in the U.S.

While analyzing everything, I forgot the reason I was there: to learn and live my culture. That wasn’t going to happen. I am American, a foreigner. People didn’t mind pointing that out either.

“Hey Americano!” shouted a woman with a cigarette.

I looked to my left. There was a group of adults playing billiards and smoking. I thought to myself, “Shouldn’t these people be at work?” Apparently I caught their attention by walking silently minding myself. I was being ridiculed because I am an American.

The only similarity I have with these people is the color of my skin. We do not speak the same language. We do not share the same culture. They saw me as a foreigner. I was not Filipino in their eyes. I was told before I came to the Philippines that it is obvious I am American. The way I walk. The way I talk. The way I dress. Even my posture spelled American.

In the Philippines, I ‘m called “Balikbayan,” meaning returning home. However, I am not returning home. I am visiting. My classmate and the woman shouting “Americano” pointed out I am a foreigner. This, of course, made me feel like a foreigner. I did not belong in the Philippines. I am American and the Philippines is not my home.

However, in America, my differences start with the color of my skin. In America, Chinese and Japanese can account for all of Asia. In America, I am commended for my “good English.”

“Excuse me; I just wanted to tell you that your English is really good.”

I turned around to see an elderly woman smiling at me.

I wasn’t quite sure what she wanted, so I responded, “Come again?”

The elderly woman smiled again and looked at my friend Gwen who is Chinese, “I overheard you and your sister talking and I thought, ‘they speak English really good.’”

Gwen chose to respond, “Well. We speak English WELL,” she sounded irritated. The misuse of well and good is a personal pet peeve of hers.

“Thank you ma’am, we were born here. And she’s not my sister,” I finished the conversation by walking away and bringing Gwen with me.

The woman assumed that because we aren’t white, we must be foreigners. Seeing two foreigners together, they must be brother and sister. Pointing out their “good

English” makes her a good American. She left feeling a better person. Gwen and I left feeling irritated.

The only difference I have with other Americans is the color of my skin. We speak the same language. We share the same American culture. However, I am still seen as a foreigner. The color of my skin blinds them.

I cannot deny my Filipino heritage. Denying I am Filipino, is denying I have two

Filipino parents. However, I cannot deny I am an American. I was born in the US. I am Filipino American and that is my culture: combination of Filipino values and an

American attitude.

The color of my skin is a petty difference. Someone who makes it an issue is not worth my time. Going to the Philippines made me realize that just because I look Filipino, does not make me entirely Filipino. Despite their negative approach at making a point of it, I realized that inside I am an American. However, the American woman that only saw the color of my skin helped me realize that some people are just ignorant. I am an American.

I am a first generation Filipino American. I won’t let anyone deny me my heritage. My parents overcame the hardship for the prospect of their children having a better life. I am both Filipino and American. I received the gift of two cultures in one.

(Readers may reach columnist at marifijara@gmail.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/roots/
For reactions to this column, click “Send MESSAGES, OPINIONS, COMMENTS” on default page.)

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