Romanticizing the Insanity

The Balinese have a habit of asking people where they are from.  We were asked everywhere we went and from anyone whom we spoke with.  It wasn’t in an offensive way.  I’ve been asked many times, usually from Filipinos, and have been irritated to have been asked that in the first place.  I suppose I let it slip by for a few reasons–it seemed that they were generally curious instead of trying to size me up or judge me, and with the things we were doing and places we were going it was pretty obvious we were visitors/tourists, so as a way of starting up a friendly conversation, it was only reasonable that they’d ask.

We eventually found out on our bike tour that the Balinese don’t travel.  I think it’s a combination of a lot of things–cultural and economical.  Our bike tour guide had mentioned that he had grown up in a small town 5 miles from the bigger city of Ubud and had not been to Ubud until he was in his 20′s.  I can imagine how much curiosity it would breed not being able to travel.

On one point in our bike tour, I was asked by a sales associate, probably a few years younger than I, where I was from.  Up until that point I had been answering “America,” “The US,” or even “California” to people who had asked.  When I told her one of these answers, she had this dumbfounded look on her face.

She told me, “But, but, but your face looks Indonesian…?”

I eventually explained to her my parents are from the Philippines but moved to the US.  It was then that I realized when they were asking me (us, anyone) where we were from, they were really asking us what race or ethnicity we were.  I suppose in their mind where their society and country is pretty homogeneous, race, ethnicity, nationality are all the same thing.

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Alex had an even harder time trying to give an answer.  In his German way, he would thoroughly and specifically explain, “Well, I’m originally from Germany, but I now live and work in the US” etc.  Only rarely it was deeper, “Oh, I look a little Asian because my mom is from Korea.”

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When I was in Japan, we stayed with one of Alex’s old friends from college, Artur and his family.

Since Artur is Hungarian, his three kids are of mixed race.  He really feels it’s important that they know their Hungarian background and therefore is trying to speak only Hungarian to them.

His wife was super sweet and super Japanese to me–right down to the typical facial expressions.  She was almost this walking anime/cartoon cutesy Japanese character to me.  There was something “off” about her, however.  There was something physical about her that wasn’t so Japanese to me.  She was very asian, don’t get me wrong.  But she really reminded me of this girl I went to middle school and high school with who was Korean.  Both my school friend and Artur’s wife were tall, curvy with a tiny, tiny waist.

It came up in conversation during part of the night that she’s Korean by blood.  She didn’t recognize herself as Korean.  Her grandparents came over from Korea many years ago and her parents spoke nothing but Japanese and lived nothing but a mostly Japanese lifestyle.  When people ask her, she’d say she was Japanese.

My immediate thought to her response was, “that’s cheating!”

When she asked me what I reply to when I’m asked where I’m from I say that I’m from San Diego [California or America].  I told her depending on the person, how they ask and what they are, it’s generally accepted.  But those who want to “know,” will ask me and word it in a way as to ask what my background is or what my ancestors were.  In my mind, it’s pretty obvious that I’m not the “typical American” (read: Caucasian) people from overseas think about.  If people want to know/pry into what my background is, then the burden to find out falls on them.

With her, she could very well pass as Japanese.  Her kids could pass as half Japanese, half “other.”  So, because it wasn’t obvious to other Japanese people (almost all never realize she is Korean by blood), keeping this “a secret” was almost cheating to me.

What would she tell her kids to tell other people they were?  Would they grow up not knowing they were Korean by blood?

Is it important for them to know?

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Whenever I thought about it, I always referred to my kids as being “half Filipino” and half something.  Although I consider myself American, I never thought to call my kids, in Alex and my case, “half American half German.”  It came across to me as half Filipino, a quarter German, a quarter Korean.  (Although, I’m sure in Alex’s mind he sees it as “half German” and half whatever.)

Will I try to encourage Filipino culture into their lives?  Maybe.  How?  I’m not sure.

It’s hard to draw the line on identity for me.  I know when to apply what, American versus Filipino, ethnicity and/or race versus nationality, but people so often conflate the two, I also get confused how to answer.

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It feels so different being “main stream” up here, depending on where I go.  I still haven’t reconciled whether I like it or not.

To a certain extent, I like being just on the outside of things, but not so far out that I feel excluded.  At times I can feel a little uncomfortable being the only “asian” in a group, I still revel a little in my uniqueness.  But, when I’m around people who look like me, I may no longer be “an outsider” but feel so mundane and no longer unique.

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Ronnie and I had a conversation about racial identity recently.  We were talking about the diversity of San Francisco and how there are a lot more asians here.  One of the cities south of San Francisco, Daly City, is known for its rather large Filipino majority population.

Ronnie had agreed with me on one point: we still don’t feel “Filipino enough” to really feel comfortable around other Filipinos.  When I’m around other asians, I can accept the fact that I’m different and depending on which group I’m around, it’s obvious that we’re similar but different.  There’s this understanding that we share similar stories even though our cultures are different.

When I’m around other Filipinos, although I physically blend in with others, I feel uncomfortably different on the inside.  I don’t feel I share enough experiences to really be as “Filipino” as others.

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When we first landed in the Philippines, it was really surreal to be standing in the customs line at the airport.  There I was, surrounded by everyone who looked just like me, but no one would know without interacting with me that I was different.  I felt like a deaf mute.  I couldn’t communicate with them (in their native language) and they couldn’t communicate with me.  I wasn’t sure if the lady behind me was trying to start a conversation with me or if she were talking to her kid.  I’m sure I probably came across as very rude, snobby or stupid not acknowledging anyone who might have tried to talk to me.

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The older I get, the more “Filipino” I begin to feel.  A lot of things from my childhood that my parents did are starting to have a big influence on me.  The most recent and blaring example is how I deal with food.  While it seems that everyone in San Francisco is a “foodie” I feel I’ve become more interested in food as a way to express how much I care about another.

It’s been said that Filipinos, along with other cultures, I’m sure, greet people who visit them with a, “Have you eaten yet?”  I remember my Aunties and Uncles always trying to push food down my throat at parties, “Oh, have you eaten yet?  Eat some more!”

I’ve been hooked on finding food blogs to follow and I noticed something slightly different about some of these people:  I really don’t cook for myself.  I could very well experiment on my own for lunch, but I don’t.  I’ll eat a bowl of cereal for any and every meal, or a bowl of “egg drop soup” (top ramen with 2 eggs stirred in) if it were only me eating.  But once another person comes into the picture, then I start to think of all the things I can cook for them.

I used to get on my mom for cooking so much for only the 4 of us when Alex and I would visit, or even for small parties.  Like a peacock showing her tail, she put out a spread of food that could feed an army.  My dad used to do that too–cook a grip of stuff for a party.

So, Alex and I recently had our housewarming party and finally invited people over to our apartment.  Ronnie came up to visit us, too at the same time.  Both of us were in the kitchen all day making a bunch of stuff.  I even had back up plans of other snacks to eat in case the amount of food we made wasn’t enough.  Alex was trying to warn me before and during the cooking process that it was a lot of food, but I told him that I’d rather have more than enough food than run out and not be able to feed our guests.  Once Ronnie and I were done with our menu, I realized, “Oh crap, that’s a lot of food.”  It was this strange blinding mentality.  Afterward, I had to apologize to Alex, telling him that it’s just the way Filipinos do parties and he’s going to have to live with leftovers.

Everyone, though, was really happy and excited there was a lot of food and the party was really a great success in that aspect.   Danny, one of our friends, said that it was the best and most impressive housewarming dinner spread he’s seen.  We had 9 people over besides Alex and myself.  There was enough left over for a second housewarming dinner the next night with two other couples.

I even became an auntie myself telling people, “Please eat some more!”