Mom came over in the 70’s.
The oldest of nine, she set the shining example of the possibility of the Western ideal. She never talked about racism or discrimination, the loneliness of being the only one. Multiculturalism is a new term but its reality is the back this country was built on. I suppose it was easier being the other – clearly defined and separated – than having one foot in and one foot out. She had to earn her nationality, her sameness rooted in difference – it’s everybody’s story here right?
“I don’t like purple yam.”
Her expression is mock outrage. Since when? Since always. The beef stewed in blood. Blood. Blood. No. But Sinigang. Sour sour with the radishes I can’t pronounce. Taro root (not potato), spinach, tamarind broth, fall off the bone beef you don’t need to cut. Add the fish sauce. Bowl of white rice. A spoon to ladle it in. Slurp it up. Finish off with coconut floats or sweet tofu and tapioca drowning in brown sugar-syrup. Mom makes all the western staples too, Meatloaf, Shepherd’s pie, Salisbury steak. Bridge the gap. When I have dinner at my friends’ houses, I use a fork and knife but at home it’s always a spoon. You eat this food with a spoon.
Filipino-Danish.
“Ohhhh, Filipino.” And half Danish. “Isn’t that a pastry?” I started saying Danish- Filipino. That would keep them listening for the other half. It is a pastry. A European pastry. They tell us to say “racial heritage” because we’re all Canadian now and it doesn’t matter. Tell that to all the other kids. I didn’t know I looked different until Chris told me he knew a really good Chinese restaurant up the street. He wanted to take me there. We were 8. I came home and asked Mom what he meant. “He thinks you’re Chinese.”
The rest of the family immigrated just in time to condense the cultural differences with my teenage angst. Instant ‘heritage’. Alive and growing. Tita! Tito! Ate! “Maganda!” Hyper-awareness of a culture I didn’t know but was meant to be a part of. Respect your elders! Don’t talk back! Eat, Eat! Kutsinta, adobo, fry the bananas! White rice, red sausage, sugar on the sweet potatoes, palabok! Grandma made the best palabok. Although she never made us call her Lola.
It’s a funny thing growing up culturally unaware of your heritage then having it weaponized and thrown in your face. “You Filipina?” The first time one of them asked I thought I heard it wrong, then realized I’d been saying it wrong this whole time. “You speak?” How FilipinO am I exactly? “You ever go back?” Hot, wet heat, showering in the warm rain, jeepnies, icy Halo-halo from the roadside carts. Don’t sit on that rock, there’s a monster who lives there. Succubus in the forest. Brown puddles and noise. Snakes in the kitchen. Flying roaches. I’ve been back but now I’m here. I can’t speak but I can understand you.
