Growing Up Halo-Halo

I picked up this book as a way to hopefully bridge my understanding of  my mom’s Filipino upbringing and my relationship with Japanese culture.  I knew my mother always had mixed feelings about Japan. She would tell me about her friend who lives there, but then mention how she didn’t feel safe going there and wouldn’t go past the airport. She would listen to me talk about wanting to travel there, learning the language, how I love the food - and then also have disinterested, pensive responses.  After reading this book, I asked her about it.  She recalled stories from my own Lola, that have very much impacted her opinions as an adult.  Her mother (my Lola) and grandmother (my great grandmother) had locked themselves away for 3 days while the Japanese raided their home. Her mother was kept in a small cabinet in hopes to save her from the rape and torture that many families succumbed to. Thankfully they were left unfound, and the Japanese soldiers continued on - but...

I (finally) submitted my name change a few weeks ago. What I thought would be monumental, a sigh a relief, Instead came anger.  I walked back to my car, closed the door,  And lamented about how much I had spent.  In time, in effort, How much it took,  The paperwork, the organizing. How much it cost.  I felt  angry about the money. For the record, if you ever think about going through the legal name change process, it’s more money than you think. The notary, the fingerprints, the criminal record check, the government fee, the registry fee. It’s so much. Above that, I felt that my father had put me in the position, like I had to do it, then pay the price for it all. I don’t like the feeling of anger. “I sat with my anger long enough that it told me it’s real name was grief”. Grief over my father and the situation before me. Grief and anger holding hands, melding together and festering. Confused and angry over why I was even angry and grieving.  This was ...

I hope you don’t see me, And see my father. I know you won’t see him in my eyes, But you might see him in my hair, or maybe even in the way I talk sometimes. I hope you don’t see me as a byproduct, Of a mistake you might have  made, of a life far gone. I hope you don’t see me and see resentment, A painful reminder. I hope when you see me,  You see yourself.  I hope you see all the good parts of you, That have made me better.  That have shaped  me. I hope when you see me,  You love all the things we share Like our olive skin and big brown eyes. Like the way we laugh and maybe even how hard headed we can be.  I hope when you see me,  You don’t see the other half that made me. I hope with time, That part can fall away  And all we see is you and me.

  This year has started off very strong, and I have felt overwhelmingly blessed by all the people in my life - all the friends I have and the people I have met.  This weekend gave me an opportunity to be around so many individuals both new and long standing. I had many wonderful, deep conversations, and this is when I feel the most fulfilled.  I am so grateful and overflowing with love.  These deep conversations are what I think about now in bed, 48 hours later. Topics spanning from race and immigration, to trauma, to family, and things in between.  Incidentally, I started reading Minor Feelings by Cathy Park Hong. I reached page 47, and read:  “As the poet Prageeta Sharma said, Americans have an expiration date on race the way they do grief.”  This sentence rolled around in my head, trying to untangle itself amongst the rest of my thoughts.  I think I have felt, this almost exhaustion, about these types of conversations.  Trying to explain r...

There’s a running joke about Filipino moms (there’s actually several, but that’s not my point). I’m referring to the one where they take arms  with their chinelas (slipper) or a kitchen utensil and run around with it because you’ve gotten on their last nerve. More likely even to throw it at you.  In retrospect though, when I was 5, I don’t think I found it funny. My therapist recently thought it was an outstanding idea to prod at those family dynamics on a Friday evening. Yes, this was what I was doing on a Friday evening - call me a lola (granny).  It was a very intense, emotional session. It left me dissecting the possibility I was actually holding trauma from my childhood that I didn’t realize was there. When I was maybe 5 or 6, my mother had struck me over the face with a wooden spoon. The spoon wasn’t out of the ordinary; but her cornering me in my room and hitting me in the face was.  I recall my nose bleeding.  I am now 30, and I can still vividly remembe...

When I asked you for turon And you asked me if I was Filipina  When I replied “o po” And your eyes widened and your smile brightened When you said I didn’t look it And all I could say was - I know Dear Stranger  You probably didn’t think I cry in my car Thinking about how I listen to Tagalog music but don’t understand it Thinking about how it’s not my fault that I was born here And if I had the choice I wouldn’t be  But also that I probably wouldn’t be the same me Sorry actually more accurately I would definitely be a completely different me And is that really what I would want (?), knowing and living with myself Dear Stranger, Tell me How can I compare myself to someone who doesn’t exist and yet I still do (You didn’t know those are questions I ask myself, right?) Wondering about the possibilities, all winding back to being more Asian, More of the things I know I currently am not  Wishing I could change my features Maybe I would have a cuter nose and straight black...

Someone asked me recently, "what are you writing about?" I found myself a tad flustered and couldn’t articulate it eloquently enough in the moment. I think I might have been surprised, that this person (whom of which I don’t know particularly well at the moment) took notice and asked me about my blog.  I felt pretty lame when I didn’t have a well thought out response, and considered I should probably ✲ write it out ✲ At the core of everything, I’m writing about my experience as a mixed/biracial, second generation Filipino Canadian.  I know there’s someone out there thinking that I should be writing that the other way around, and every so often it makes me feel like a bit of an imposter. That is a hard, complex topic that I plan to go into at a later date, but as I briefly mentioned in my first post, I am trying to “slowly remove myself from my Caucasian counterparts”.  The “being pushed into a space I didn’t want to be in”, and by space I mean a Western ideal based on som...