For a long time, I took living in the United States for granted. I recount the many fights and arguments I had with my mom because she thought I was being ungrateful. I was a picky child (which I haven’t grown out of quite yet…) and often didn’t finish my food or appreciate some of the traditional Filipino dishes she made (like chicken adobo). I thought she was angry at me for no real reason just because I didn’t like how certain foods tasted. She always told me about how other kids in the Philippines didn’t have the food that we did. There were too many disputes for me to count on my fingers and toes. Looking back on it now, I realize, for the most part, she was right. Moms are always right.
My mom grew up in the Philippines. Cauayan, Isabela. When you search “Cauayan” on Google, you get the basic facts of the city, population, where it is on the map, etc. If you look at the recommended sites, you’ll find Wikipedia (which has unfinished subheadings), Trip Advisor, “7 Best Things To Do in Cauayan City,” the city’s government webpage, and several hotel booking websites.
When my mom told me stories of her own childhood, not once have I ever considered her hometown a tourist attraction. That title always belonged to Manila. Her house was too small for a family of seven. Her older sister (my favorite aunt) moved out when she was college age, making her way to the US to start a family. My grandma was rarely home due to her work. To get to school, my mom would take the bus, a bicycle (driven by someone else with a cart attached to the back) and walk. She wore a school uniform: a white blouse with a black bow around the collar, black Mary janes with white ankle high socks, and a navy-blue skirt. On the weekends, in order to do laundry or take baths, she would carry full buckets of water from miles away. When she got back home the buckets were filled less than halfway. She was in charge of taking care of her younger sister since her mom was always away, and the older siblings had moved out for various reasons.
When my mom tells me stories of the Philippines now, I think about how much easier my own childhood was. I never had to carry buckets of water up and down hills every time I needed water. I never had to wear a school uniform or take three different types of transportation to get to school. The houses I grew up in were always big enough to accommodate our much smaller family of four. And never has my version of “Watch your sister!” held the same amount of responsibility that hers did.
My mom was never gone for days at a time leaving me with my younger sister. When she told me to look after my sister it was because she was going to take a shower, cook dinner, or grab missing ingredients from the store. I would play with my sister and keep her entertained (which is just a nice way to say I kept her out of trouble). My mom would come back minutes later and tell me I could go back to what I was doing. My grandma never told my mom to watch her sister explicitly. My mom took up the responsibility because she knew her other siblings weren’t around to help. She would help her sister with homework, cook dinner for her, make sure she got cleaned up and got to school on time.
I think it’s unfair to compare what we went through as children.
I spent my early years (birth-seven years) in Annapolis, Maryland. When I started school, at the time, I didn’t think anything was out of place. I went to a predominately white school. When I open my grade two yearbook, I believe I’m one of two Asians, if not the only one in my grade. I was a girl in grade two, along with my best friends who were also girls in grade two. Nothing was different.
I moved to Nevada when I was seven. Sin City itself. The school I went to was year-round (a public school that ran all year). The list of ethnic backgrounds was as long as the school year. I made friends with people who weren’t white. And I even met two other Filipinos. The difference in both places was mind-boggling.
When I turned eight, I started to realize that I was treated differently. In class I’d always been quick to learn and understand math. I always got high test grades and my report cards were lined with As. I thought it was a good thing to care about school and academics.
At school, other kids would make their eyes small and stretch them out until they looked like monolids. I laughed and joined in because it made our faces look funny. My favorite activities (while anxiety inducing) were Around the World and the timed multiplication tests (the ones where we were given a minute for one hundred questions). My classmates were amazed and frustrated with me when I finished the tests before the timer was up and whenever I won a round of Around the World. One of our assignments was to write about our favorite food. I wrote about pancit, a traditional Filipino noodle dish. I remember my tablemates asking me if I was going to write about dog or cat. I would pretend gag and say “No!” I didn’t understand what those remarks meant. At the time, I think I was just missing the glasses.
I made my way to Arizona when I was eight. I went to a predominately Hispanic/Latino school. My classmates there joked the same way the ones back in Nevada did. The differences were: there were more than two Asians from different parts of Asia and my best friend joked about herself in the same culture-depreciating way. My best friend and I had “white girl” sleepovers (like the cliché ones you see in movies with the pillow fights and boy talk) with the best passed-down generation dishes.
I’ve always been a brown Asian. When people would ask me if I was Mexican, Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Native American, etc., I’d just shake my head and say, “You’d never get it,” if they even got an answer at all. At some point I became ashamed that I was different. I was “too dark” to be an Asian. I internalized the thought of, “To be a real Asian, you have to have porcelain skin.” I never thought that as true, though I thoroughly believed that my peers did.
It wasn’t until my upperclassmen years of high school that I started to be proud of where my ancestry came from. I took every stereotype and agreed that, yeah, some of them were true when it came to myself. I think they’re a big part of how I was raised. Using old butter or SkyFlakes containers as Tupperware, being oddly good at school (up until college at least), wearing big-framed glasses, taking my shoes off at the door, all of which seem like simple quality of life items.
When I began applying to colleges and universities, I found out that I was considered “first-generation.” I carried that title internally throughout the rest of my high school experience. I thought it was an awesome new adjective to describe myself with, but I feared that it didn’t really matter. How many of my peers were also first-generation? What advantage did I have over my best friend who wasn’t considered first-generation? If it was important, why was this the moment that it decided to pop up in my life?
In recent times, I’ve begun expressing my cultural background in a way that I hope would make my mom proud. She came all the way to the US to give me a better life. She spent years working so she could give me things that she didn’t have when she was growing up. I fear that when she inevitably asks me if she can read this essay (because I foolishly forgot what the name of the city she grew up in was), she’ll feel a tug of sadness. I know that my mom is not safe from racism (how I wish she was), it’s a different experience to grow up around it as a constant. And I know that when I inevitably say that my mom can read this essay (because I know how much she loves my writing even though she says she never understands the deeper meaning behind them), she’ll feel proud of me like she always has been.
I’m a first-generation Asian American. A 20-something Filipina. I’ve never once written it down on paper until now. And for once it feels like I’ve learned how to breathe in the skin I grew up with.
Katherine Castillejos is an author originally from Annapolis, Maryland. She is an English and Psychological Sciences dual major, with a certificate in Creative Writing. She started writing at age four and hasn’t stopped writing since.
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