All these things they force you to do aren’t fair
Monday, November 10th, 2008
exhausted Listening : I\\\'ll Run - The Cab Reading : Angela\\\'s Ashes, Haciendo carasOK, I lied. I do have quite a bit to chat about that should keep me going for the rest of the month. If all else fails, I can always share the bits and pieces that I scribble during class. I wrote a doozy tonight in Business Communication, rofl.
Anyways, I started this last night because there was quite a bit I had to get out of my head.
If you didn’t already know, I’m taking an upper-division literature course called “Outlaw Genres,” which focuses on US third world women of color in literature. The class is actually my teacher’s dissertation, so she has a personal interest in it. Her enthusiasm is off the charts, but it’s an uphill struggle for the majority of us. There’s so much to read and comprehend. But that’s expected. I’m glad it’s almost over, because it’s just now beginning to make sense.
I finally realized the other day why it’s so hard for me to comprehend the readings for this class. I cannot separate my academic and personal lenses when I read for this particular class. I mean, we’ve discussed that “the personal is political” in our discussions, but for me, it’s “the personal is not academic.” If I were reading this for fun, sure, I’d be able to do it. But when I read for school, I have my academic lens on and that’s it. No ifs, ands or buts. I am having a hard time on that level.
Although we haven’t done a unit specifically on Asian-Americans (which I will fully call her out on), there are contributions to a book we’re reading right now that include Asian-American authoresses. It’s called Making Face/Making Soul: Haciendo caras and its edited by Gloria Anzaldua. It’s very good, although the font makes my eyes buggy. It made me angry, which is a beautiful emotion to have when you read this book. This is especially true, being a so-called woman of color. A lot of the Asian-American pieces highlight the problems that come with the model minority myth that a lot of FOBs are saddled with.
Therein lies my problem.
I don’t consider myself Filipino-American. I’m an American of Filipino descent. I was born here. English is my primary language. So when I read these pieces and my classmates try to generate discussions based around them, I feel sort of left out. I feel as though I have a duty to represent the Asian-American voice in class (being one of the only Asians there), but I can’t. I simply do not identify with the label. None of these pieces are written about or to people like me, first-generation American borns of Asian descent.
The Asian-Americans in the stories, poems, and essays are full-blooded and came here, or half-Asian and half-something else and came over here. None of them speak to the middle of the road, which is what I consider myself. Not quite Filipina, but not quite American either. If you wanna get down to the nitty-gritty, I’m Filipino-Chinese-Spanish-Caucasian, and my last name is Portuguese. I try so hard to, but I can’t really relate to mestisas. Their identity issues are far more complicated than mine. They came to this country with a different set of priorities, whilst I am an American born fat cat who was “born with a silver spoon” in her mouth, according to my mom. She said that to me once! Swear to God!
Maybe I was lucky, but I never had a problem with people based on my facial features. The only problems I had growing up were because my given name is practically unpronounceable, and the fact that I was smarter than everyone else. Schoolgirl was their favourite slur, which isn’t a slur because if I were a white girl, it would mean the same thing. I made out like a bandit.
(Un) Fortunately, I never fed into the model minority especially in my old age. I am a mediocre student. This I know, and while it sucks, I’m okay with it. I have crappy study habits, barely do homework, and squeak by in class. My parents don’t care about my grades, so long as I’m on track to graduate. And I am.
In grade school, I was a bit of a loudmouth, so I got sent outside a lot. Stuck on the naughty step and all that, only it wasn’t a step, it was the cold concrete right outside the door. I was a tomboy too, so I beat up the boys mercilessly and played in the dirt harder than any girl. I climbed fences in my house dresses. I got bruises and scrapes pretty much everyday.
My parents never encouraged us to learn Tagalog. I blame it on the doctors. My eldest brother was having a hard time learning English. My parents would speak English and Tagalog at home with him. My dad was stationed in Puerto Rico at the time, so his playmates next door spoke Spanish to him. At school, he would speak English. They took him to a doctor who said “English only,” and that was what my parents stuck to for the rest of us.
My dad really wants the grandkids to learn Tagalog, but they have no interest in it. Their parents - my siblings - don’t speak it competently; why should they? I do think if they could go back in time, they would have ignored that doctor and had us be bilingual. Now that my mom is getting on in her years, she’ll slip and speak Tagalish to me. My heart breaks when she does. I do understand her, but I will never be able to reply to her in her mother tongue comfortably.
Furthermore, I simply do not have a rebel bone in my body. According to these readings, I was silenced by oppressors because of my sex to remain in line, but I don’t see it that way. It’s not that I was afraid of letting my parents down like the model minority myth implies. I didn’t (don’t) have an inclination to party and drink and smoke pot and have sex, like most of the kids I grew up with did (do). I stood apart from them because of that, not because I had slanted eyes.
I feel like I should be angry, according to these readings. I should be furious about how I’m being held down. And if I don’t say something against it, I’m letting the oppression persist.
Maybe I’m angry at the fact that I should be MORE angry. I don’t feel ANYTHING on a personal level with the pieces that speak directly to Asian-Americans. I have never had a problem with my identity in the way that the Asian-Americans do.
The only problem that I think needs to be resolved in my life is the fact that I have no drive to accomplish anything. I am basically winging it as I go along. I always knew I was gonna major in English, but I don’t know what I wanna do with it. Which majorly sucks because I am nearly done with it. I’ve said that before, and I’m saying it again. Just to make a point, haha.
Any identity issues I had were strictly on the teenage self-discovery level. I never questioned why I was the only Asian-looking kid in my group of friends. I lie. I never hung out with Asian kids because we never had anything in common. I was in theater, and Asian kids don’t act. They’re too cool for that. I was into music, but not strictly rap or R&B. I listened to oldies, rock and pop as well. Even now, I’m majoring in English. ENGLISH. Sometimes, siriusly, WTF was I thinking? I’m sure if I had the drive and attention span, I would be a lawyer, or an engineer, or doctor or something, but that simply doesn’t interest me.
I wish I could say my parents had some say to the my path in life but they didn’t. It was almost as though they stopped parenting us after a certain age, and let us fend for ourselves because they had far bigger issues to worry about. They only interceded if something was amiss, which was rarely. We’re all pretty good people, me and my siblings. Not one of us has a criminal record beyond speeding tickets. Those of us who are married are happily so, those of us with kids are doing pretty good too. I’m not quite sure if it was my parents’ influence that did that, or the model minority myth reasserting itself in us. That is something to think about.
Anyways, I believe that this style of parenting is probably why my mother cried when she and my dad had to sign off on an essay for one of my confirmation classes. I don’t quite remember the topic, but I do remember mentioning my suicidal thoughts when I had them during my freshman year in high school. She took it personally saying that her door was always open to talk. But I never felt close to her or my dad in that way ever. She was my mom and I was her kid. She had her own burdens to bear, and she had a lot to deal with: five kids, a lazy husband, and the checkbook, mostly. Even today, I never want to burden someone I love with my issues. However, with all the education that I have, I know that I should have said something sooner. But I never once tried to kill myself. They were only thoughts. That is probably why thought crimes today frost my pie. My parents knew that whatever we kids did, it was because we chose it, not them. They would support us when we needed them, but that’s it.
I never gravitated towards anyone remotely Asian growing up. This is probably because I was the only American-born Asian for YEARS in my ‘hood: small town in the middle of California farming country where cow-tipping and recreating scenes from Jackass were the enjoyment of the day. We had a lot of FOBs, but I never felt like their issues and mine were one and the same. America was a new country to them; to me, America was my birthright.
As you can see, I’m a bit boggled when it comes to this class. I’m not sure if clarity will ever come easily, or ever. I will soldier on. That’s how I do. Survive. I am hoping to expel some of these demons in my final project. Which I am waiting for a day off from school and work to finish it.
?: “Did you ever hang out with kids who have the same ethnicity as you?”
nostalgic Listening : Mixtape - Butch Walker Reading : School shiznit
excited Listening : Animal Instinct - The Cranberries Reading : Stuff for school