Posted 2:20 p.m. Thursday, Aug. 18, 2022
"The Language I Never Spoke"--Literacy Narrative
There are two things that do not exist in the Philippines: winter and bad food. The hovering humid, boiling air that always felt like a hug that lasted too long, the layer of sweat that never left your body. The fruits that tasted like the gods’ ambrosia, sweet Manila mangoes that melted in your mouth like butter, sour mangosteens that made your lips quiver, learning the careful skill to peel away the skin of the rambutan fruits, sipping on young coconut milk (it was here I learned that I am coconut-intolerant). The wafting aromas from the grilled fish and steamed rice inciting a wave of nostalgia for my Lola’s after-school snack when I was in elementary school. For a place I had never seen, had never been to, never smelled its air until then—I sure felt like I’d lived there all my life.
But even still, there was a barrier. The road signs were in English, as well as the brochures and books, menus, and receipts. But the people spoke Tagalog, they spoke Bisaya—they told stories of old times, how the harvested fruits turned out this morning, how the air was still hot, and the days were still long. Sure, the people of this Pacific archipelago knew English, but their true culture was found in Tagalog and their dialects. My heart ached to learn the language, to know the mythology, to learn the culture, to finally feel like a true part of it.
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Before kindergarten, I had very different experiences from my mostly white peers. I don’t think I understood that not everyone was multiracial until kindergarten. For instance, I thought everyone had a Lola and Lolo (the Tagalog words for grandparents), and a Grandma and Grandpa. Croatian and Slovenian on my dad’s side, Filipina and slightly Chinese on my mom’s, loving my mix of cultures was something that came easily to me. My mom loves her heritage as a second-generation immigrant, and it’s something that I’ve always been proud of as well. Although not completely fluent, my mom can hold her own in a conversation in Tagalog and Bisaya. But as a result of being mixed, my Filipino grandparents deemed me too “white” to learn Tagalog or Bisaya. The love I have for my identity was never enough for my grandparents to truly consider me as Filipina.
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Growing up speaking only one language wasn’t exactly a rare thing from where I’m from—most kids just spoke English and that was it. I didn’t truly feel frustrated with my mono-lingual self until I began learning Spanish. The Philippines, originally known to Chinese merchants as Ma-i, found itself under Spanish rule from the early 1500s to 1898. Then, Americans took over for the next 50 years before the Philippines’ independence in 1946. Because of this, Tagalog, the Philippines’ official language, is a mix of indigenous dialects, Spanish, Chinese, Malaysian, and English. When I began learning Spanish, I started to be able to pick up on certain Tagalog words (since the languages are similar). I began to pick things up at family parties, I began understanding conversations and gossip and stories that I was never able to listen to before. I felt like I belonged.
Tsismosa, which was my great aunts’ endearing nickname for both me and my mother, was rooted in the Spanish verb chismear.
Kamusta ka na sounds a whole lot like cómo estás in passing.
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In high school, I got assigned several speaking projects in my Spanish class. From researching Peru, to a Spanish region, to my own family’s immigration story, I always felt inclined to show my Lola my progress.
“Lola, do you want to watch the video I made for Spanish? My teacher said my accent sounded really good.”
“Sure. I won’t understand much of it, though-”
I think part of me just wanted to show her that I could speak another language. I wasn’t too American or too white to learn a different language. The bitterness towards my grandmother ached.
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Learning a language is not easy. Even after taking Spanish for eight years, I’d still classify myself as a Spanish learner and legally biliterate, but not bilingual. When I went to the Philippines in 2015, I bought a Tagalog to English dictionary, determined to learn it. I was going to show my Lola that I could learn it, and that she should’ve been teaching me Tagalog all along.
It’s hard to learn a language in general; it’s even harder to learn a language outside of the classroom. Additionally, widely learned languages like Spanish, Korean, etc. have a large selection of resources available; Tagalog and the other Philippine dialects do not have the same selection. Most people learn it from their families. I felt so stupid every time I attempted to pronounce new words I was learning.
Syllables came out jumbled, the vowels didn’t sound right. Even when I tried the techniques I’d usually use to fix my Spanish pronunciation—a relaxed jaw, softer vowels—it still sounded wrong. It felt clumsy, I felt like an alien trying to blend in on Earth. Not to mention that while Tagalog is the national language of the Philippines, my Lola’s dialect, Bisaya, was the only one I really heard being spoken. The words in my book didn’t match the ones I’d heard out loud—which made learning it pointless.
My sense of language felt like a losing fight. There’s definitely a significantly easier way to teach a child to speak multiple languages—you incorporate both languages while the child is young. The sense of bitterness towards my Lola remained, but it didn’t feel like an active alienation until my senior year of high school.
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In my senior year, I had the option to get a high school class ring. I think I spent a good year planning the design, my initials on one side, the flags of Croatia and the Philippines on the other. I designed jewelry pieces in high school as well, so I knew exactly what type of ring I wanted.
But when it came time to tell my Lola what I was going to order (since it would be
my graduation gift), she told me to take off the Philippines’ flag. I felt sick to my stomach. Being Filipina has always been such a strong influence on my life—from teaching other kids the names of my favorite Filipino foods or joining the Filipino Culture Club in high school—to be told that it was still something I’d never really be a part of… it felt like a part of myself was still being withheld from me. A finish line I’d never cross, a lock I’d never unopen, a stone forever unturned.
I decided not to order the ring at all.
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During high school, I found a best friend I’m still friends with to this day. We met on the second day of school, and although from a different Philippine island, he was also Filipino. As a second generation of two Filipino parents, he speaks his native dialect, Ilocano, fairly well. We’re really close—we took prom pictures together, and my Lola even took pictures with the both of us.
At my high school graduation party, he called my Lola over. Then he proceeded pull up a list of words in Tagalog to hear how I’d pronounce them. The words tasted like the sourest calamansi on my tongue, the syllables falling out jumbled. Laughing it off was the only thing I could do, and I felt incredibly embarrassed under the gaze of both my Lola and best friend. No matter how many times my friend tried to help me sound out the words, each time felt like a kick to the stomach. I know it’s not my fault I never learned the language, but my face was still burning.
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Coming to terms with this has been a difficult thing, I suppose. Being biracial is a unique thing, but over time, I came to love it. Appreciating both sides of my family is something I wouldn’t trade for the world. My Lola remains one of the most important figures in my life; I wouldn’t be the woman I am today without her. But sometimes, I find myself insanely frustrated with the fact that I’ll probably always be separated from the “true” Filipinos. Perhaps it could’ve been fixed by learning the language I never spoke.
Nonetheless, I continue to heavily embrace my identity. Whether by participating in the Filipino Culture Club in high school, being the new co-chair to the Multicultural Student Organization, ALANA (African Latina Asian Native American) Womxn, or constantly creating awareness around both Asian and biracial identities, I am incredibly passionate in celebrating who I am.