Becoming an American without Losing My Roots, Part 2

I had to renounce my Filipino citizenship when I took my oath as a US citizen. It was a heartbreaking technicality.   

Although having lived here for almost 20 years, I must admit I have changed. My dancing turned from disco and ballroom to country and rock, my singing from pop to country, and my clothes from blouses and skirts to tank tops and shorts. My kitchen is shifting from cooking pancit and lumpia to grilling steaks and baking pies. My everyday conversation has become American English, not Tag-lish. 

Still, my sixty years of Filipino upbringing are a solid foundation. I felt lost when I was thrust into a largely white community of RVers, meeting only a handful of African-American, Hispanic, and Asian-American couples in eight years. Even in Viewpoint’s thousands of households, there are only three Filipinos.

When I am with kababayans, I readily shift to Tagalog because that is how I think. That’s why I can confuse genders. Tagalog words, except for those that connote respect like kuya for older brother and ate, older sister, are the same. Son or daughter is anak; wife or husband, asawa; brother or sister, kapatid. Speaking in Tagalog will always be easier for me.

I miss authentic Filipino food, too. A sandwich is not a complete meal because there’s no rice. Pan de sal (bread) is only for snacks or breakfast. The Philippine mango is still my favorite fruit. And I will never erase the fact that my skin is brown, and my nose is small. Nor do I want to change any of these.

When I meet Filipinos worldwide who are sacrificing not being with their families to eke out dollars to send home, I identify with the homesickness. And I take pride in Filipino triumphs and feel compassion for Filipino difficulties.  Those will always be my automatic impulses.

But there is a deep kinship between the Philippines and America. We share the Pacific Ocean and with it, the treacherous Pacific Ring of Fire. Spain colonized the American Southwest and the Philippines at the same time. Filipino nurses, teachers, and seamen are part of US hospitals, schools, and ships. And July 4 is doubly meaningful for, on that day in 1946, the US gave us our independence, 170 years after she got her own.

There are also big differences. The Philippines is a tropical archipelago of 7,641 islands while the US is more of a vast contiguous temperate landmass. Plants and wildlife are different. The wide vistas of the Great Plains, the desert landscape of the Southwest, and the glaciers of Alaska are so different from what I knew as a child.

At first, I despaired for my homeland when I saw that American systems are much more developed. But no more. The Philippines is only 78 years old; the US is already 248. And it was America who laid the foundation for Philippine highways, schools, and public administration. There is reason, time, and room to grow!

I will not be able to recapture the life I left in the Philippines. Other people are not as clannish as those with Spanish heritage like us. Sometimes friendships we build here move far away to different states or countries. The good news is that America is moving away from being a melting pot. Pockets of people can preserve their traditions and cultures, except when you marry into another culture like I did.

When I learned that the Philippines is one of the few countries where the US allows dual citizenship, I heaved a sigh of relief. But the nearest Philippine Consulate was in Los Angeles so it took me two years to get the chance to do it. On Oct. 13, 2013, I re-pledged my loyalty to my native land and became a Filipino-American.  

I did not get boiled into a thick soup melting in the pot. Instead, I got included in a colorful chunky stew, contributing to the taste, but retaining enough of my shape, color, and flavor. In this privileged perch, I see my developing homeland from the perspective of my developed home base. I have an enviable dual mission: helping the Philippines as an American and contributing to America as a Filipino.