By ERIN SINOGBA

DISCUSSED: Where you are from, Identity Politics, Who You Are

Age 23, in Grinnell Iowa repping Pinas in Intl Student Night

I can still remember that one night back in college, at my part-time job calling alumni for donations, when the woman on the phone asked me the question I dreaded the most: “So, Erin, where are you from?”

I drew my breath, “I’m from the Philippines,”

“Oh, really? Where in the Philippines?”

“My family lives in Quezon City. It’s a part of the Greater Manila area, which is the capital.”

” . . . I see. Hold on while I get my husband.”

Thinking she had the phone muffled, she called for her husband, whom I was supposed to talked to.

“She says she’s calling from Grinnell College. And she says she’s from the Philippines, but she doesn’t have an accent. I don’t think she’s really from the Philippines.”

Answering a simple question like, “Where are you from?” means unloading all the baggage that comes with it. Many people may believe that there is a logical connection between where one is “from” and what he/she is supposed to sound like, but it is much more complicated than that. With the woman on the phone, I could almost see images of nurses, lumpia, and Imelda Marcos’s shoes flashing before her eyes as I carefully evaluated my choice of words, knowing that my answer would immediately shape her impression of me – what I looked like, what I liked to eat, what I believed in, and ultimately whether I could be trusted with her family’s hard-earned money.

While the conversation above took place in the United States, many people all over the world fall prey to the assumption that “where you are from” determines who you are. In the Philippine experience, I find it frustrating that the our cultural landscape places so much emphasis on standardizing the expression of Filipino identity. With these expectations in place, it remains a fruitless exercise in monitoring one’s level of Filipino-ness and thus a challenge to advocate for diversity in Filipino cultural identities.

My story may represent a tiny fraction of our population; however, it is significant given the global nature of the Filipino community. As Filipinos continue to live and grow in different parts of the world, our cultural identity will evolve.

“So…where are you from?”

In Korea, age 1

I was born in Severance Hospital in Seoul, South Korea, when South Korea was still poor and in the middle of a war. We lived in a small apartment in Itaewon, a district in Seoul known for its shopping, expats, and prostitution. I attended a U.S. military daycare, where I got kicked out after a year for not being a U.S. citizen, and Seoul Academy International School.

Both my parents worked for multinational companies, and I had a Korean nanny, who I called Ajima (a name to address older Korean women, like grandmother). I spoke English at home and at school, and I did not understand anything when my parents spoke to each other in Tagalog. I spoke Korean with Ajima, who spoke very little English, and my parents told me that one day, I came home so incensed over something that I was throwing a tantrum in Korean.

My mom, brother, and I then moved to the Philippines when I was five and a half, while my dad stayed in Korea to finish a project and prepare for the move to Grenada. During this two-year period, my brother and I learned Tagalog from talking and playing with our relatives, neighbors, and friends. I also attended Our Lord’s Grace Montessori, a private school in Tandang Sora. I rode a packed service van to school, played Chinese jumprope, and had fishballs and sago after school.

In Grenada, Age 6

In 1990, my mom, brother, and I joined my dad in Grenada. In the beginning, I really hated it there. Grenada is a small place — in fact, it is second smallest independent nation in the Western hemisphere. To my seven-year-old self, Grenada was boring because, at the time, there were no malls, there was only one TV station, and there was nothing much to do besides go to the beach. Plus, I got increasingly frustrated with locals I encountered, who would look at me and say, “Hey, you, Chine-y!” (Meaning, they thought I was Chinese or some other kind of Asian.)

I attended the International School of Grenada (ISOG), a tiny little school that started out sharing facilities with St. George’s University (where American medical students were rescued during the 1983 raid at the height of the Cold War), before moving into its new facilities in nearby True Blue in 1991. Despite how small it was, with a student body numbering between 30-50 children, ISOG was a very diverse school. We had students and teachers with passports from the U.S., the U.K., Canada, Grenada, Trinidad, Barbados, Antigua, Taiwan, France, Japan, Australia, and every combination in between. We had families whose parents were medical students, professionals with multinationals, or simply came to Grenada on their boats.

In case anyone's wondering where Grenada is...

I also made friends with Grenadian kids, most of whom lived in my neighborhood. Before we left, I had a slight Grenadian accent, spoke a little Grenadian slang, and was very much into dutty whining along to my favorite soca songs (in the comfort of my bedroom, of course). I had become very comfortable and settled with my life there. When my dad asked me one day how I would feel about moving back to the Philippines, I threw a fit, saying that I didn’t want to because “Grenada is my home.” Nonetheless, we moved back to Manila in October 1994.

My brother and I attended Brent International School Manila. At the time, I basically did not want to be “back”, because I did not feel at home and did not feel like I truly belonged. It was weird to me that people didn’t know where Grenada was. My new classmates also apparently thought I wasn’t Filipino and was actually from South America or was African American, most likely because I was so dark back then, while the other Filipino girls were completely lighter-skinned from staying away from the sun. On the other hand, in my mind, there were no better friends than my friends in Grenada, and even though Manila was bigger and had more things to do, I thought it was boring and wished I could go back and play video games and have adventures with my old friends.

Over time, however, I adapted to my new life. I became friends with many kind, genuine people, much of whom are my friends for life. I stayed in Brent from the sixth grade until graduation. During this time, I watched others come and go, gaining new friends and losing them to distance. (Oh, the pre-Facebook days!)

Finally, I attended Grinnell College in Grinnell, Iowa, U.S.A., as well as worked in Des Moines an hour away and in Washington, D.C. I had come to the U.S., thinking that I would fit in better in a more culturally diverse and academically engaging environment. It was in the U.S. where I solidified my core belief system. Many of the experiences I had there shaped me into the person I am today. I lived there until 2007, before moving back to the Philippines.

“That was too confusing. Where are you really from?”

School pic taken in South Korea, Age 5

To sum up my background, I self-identify as a third culture kid.

The term “third culture kid” (TCK) was coined by Dr. David Pollock and Dr. Ruth van Reken in their seminal book, Third Culture Kids: The Experience of Growing Up Among Worlds. It is defined as:

“A person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents’ culture. The TCK builds relationships to all of the cultures, while not having full ownership of any. Although elements from each culture are assimilated into the TCK’s life experience, the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of a similar background.”

What does this mean? It means that my years growing up and living in South Korea, the Philippines, Grenada, and then the United States affected me, my cultural identity, and worldview in ways that make me different from a person who has lived in the same town, city, or country.

All my life, I have been moving constantly between different cultural settings. I was given a Filipino birth certificate and passport when I was born. I grew up in a Filipino family and was often surrounded by other Filipinos befriended by my parents. I lived in cities where the majority of the people didn’t look like me, where I learned how to eat different foods, and where I grew accustomed to learning different languages or accents and switching when it was convenient. In addition to the complexity of living in different countries, I also was part of each country’s vibrant expat community, whom I met through friends while attending several international schools.

Considering that my upbringing is the collective result of living in and between multiple places and cultural settings, I do not consider myself to be “from” just one place. I believe it is disingenuous and problematic to say that one place can define my entire identity. Growing up and identifying as a third culture kid has led me to believe that there is much more to one’s identity than the “obvious” factors and that we have the agency to express and shape our own identity in spite of them.

“OK, so…are you Filipino or not?”

About two years ago, a Filipino colleague and I were talking to two visiting foreign consultants. One of them had asked us about our backgrounds.

Right after I had finished giving the abbreviated version of my life story, my colleague interjected, “Yeah, she’s not really Filipino.”

Age 11, with bro in school pic in Grenada

There is something in the post-colonial fabric of our society that compels us to be hyper-conscious of our Filipino-ness. Perhaps many Filipinos feel some degree of guilt for acknowledging that modern Filipino identity is not divorced from its many colonial influences. We compare ourselves too readily to other countries and we revel in their ability to be authentic, while we see our culture as too tarnished to be a true representation of who we really are.

By extension, we hold each other to a high standard when it comes to being a good Filipino. Our schools teach our children how to be good citizens through the Panatang Makabayan. We are all taught to exalt the same individuals for their heroic deeds, in spite of our own political and moral leanings. The law requires us to “not be selfish” and sing the Pambansang Awit in the proper way, or we face a fine and a jail sentence. When some of us speak our minds and criticize our way of life, others accuse us of not being a good Filipino. (A commentor who disagreed with one of my blog posts once told me that I am “not worthy of the blood running in [my] veins.”) Even when we try to convince each other not to leave the country to pursue better lives for ourselves and our families, we invoke our nationalism and tell each other to stay to make our country better.

In this way, I can see why there are people who think that I am not Filipino enough. My background, life experiences, and parts of my personality do not reflect all the things that supposedly make a good Filipino. This is in the same way that some black Americans felt that President Barack Obama wasn’t “black enough”, just because he didn’t descend from slaves, or that some of my non-resident Indian (NRI) friends aren’t considered “Indian enough” by other Indians in India.

Identity politics are a social reality. It is natural for human beings to seek and achieve common ground with fellow community members, from the color of our skin to the language we speak, from the religious beliefs we espouse to the food that we eat. This is how kinship and nation-building begins. However, in turn, deviance from the norm becomes too complicated, too messy. The diversity in our experiences becomes a liability rather than a strength.

Of course I am Filipino. This is what my birth certificate and passport say. This is my family’s heritage. The Philippines is where I have spent almost half of my life. The Philippine experience is what inspired me to pursue a career in development. I represent Filipinos wherever I go in the world, whether I intend to or not. Most importantly, I choose to express that as an important part of my cultural identity.

However, Filipino identity is so diverse in its manifestations that it is impossible to nail it down to one uniform entity. We represent so many walks of life and traditions that are flourishing within the country and globally. In his column in the Philippine Star last 18 May 2009, Butch Dalisay said it best:

“This nation’s more than a hundred years old. We should feel confident enough about ourselves to accommodate a range of expressions about who and what we are. If we’ve failed to cohere as a nation, it isn’t the fault of the anthem or of its singers, or because we’ve failed to sing the anthem to the one lawful beat, or flown flags with the prescribed shade of blue. It’s more likely because we haven’t been open and inclusive enough as a society in more significant and more material ways.”

A person’s identity – who I am – is greater than the sum of one’s nationality, race, ethnicity, religion, hometown, mother tongue, and accent. Coming up with a consummate answer to where you are from does not account for all the nebulous gray areas that make each person unique—it does not account for the more important question concerning who you are.

By speaking out about my experiences, I hope to open others’ minds about the possibilities of Filipino identity. Every person has a right to express his/her identity in his/her own way. This means that there must be room for and an acceptance of the parts of our identity that removes us from the perceived “norm”. Even when we self-identify as part of a particular place or culture, our personal experiences contributes to our collective diversity. We come in all stripes and nobody can be pigeonholed by a singular point of origin. I challenge everyone to empower themselves to define their identities the way that fits them best.

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Erin Sinogba is a full-time professional do-gooder, part-time online volunteer-er, and one-time wannabe singer.  She geeks out over anthropology, development issues, music, and anything related to third culture kids.  Her favorite weird talent is being able to name when pop music singles were released.