Written by Aryanna Bengan
I was that sort of child who wished for a radical change, and hoped it would happen overnight. Well, the thing is, instead of wishing for a pet unicorn or a robot dog, I used to wish I were American.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my childhood. I loved spending Christmas with my grandparents, I loved playing underneath the sun, I loved being a Filipino. All that changed when the realization dawned on me that I wasn’t exactly like the people I saw on TV. I wasn’t Sharpay Evans; I was Gabriella Montez, and trust me when I say that, if I were four years younger, I’d be typing now how much I hated Gabriella Montez. (I seriously do not understand my 10 year old self.) I didn’t like my brown skin, or my black hair, or my wide eyes. I didn’t like dressing up and leaving the house, because for some reason, 10 year old me thought that my features, which are the basic Filipino features, are ugly and shameful. Almost all my friends have mixed blood. 1/4 Chinese, 1/8 Spanish, 1/2 American. Me? I’m 100% Filipino. It’s pretty obvious. That was why I started hating on my own people.
I expressed my dislike and disgust for the Aetas (dark skinned Filipinos) that lived up north, I sneered at the traditions, ways, and beliefs of every indigenous tribe in the Philippines. I chose imported goods over the kakanin or native delicacies. I praised and supported the white washing of native Filipinos, because that was how I wanted the world to see my people: light-skinned, with sharp cheekbones, chocolate-brown eyes, and a slim body that even Barbie would be jealous of. I couldn’t bear what foreigners must think once they arrive in the Philippines. I’d imagine they would think, “What?! These girls aren’t like the ones I see in porn!”
And I would think the same.
The thing is, one can’t help being racist. I was unaware of the racism that laced every thought my mind came up with, I was unaware of the racism behind every joke and insult I made. I thought it was normal and acceptable. It is normal, just not acceptable. When you are being racist to your own race and ethnicity, it’s not okay. It’s troubling.
When I turned 13, I was suddenly so aware. I heard what was wrong behind everything that came out of my mouth. I pointed out the racism in the N word that my friends use to caption their photos on social media. I educated myself on the topics of race and gender, and I became familiar with it, until I saw the two words that would change my train of thought forever: internalized racism.
Internalized racism is when a person of color is being racist to their own race/ethnicity. They “may loathe the physical characteristics that make them racially distinct such as skin color, hair texture or eye shape”, according to an article by Nadra Kareem Nittle. An example is when some Filipino-Americans would choose to pass as white, in order to avoid association. They would emphasize more on their American side rather than embracing their Filipino heritage.
I’m good in English. Here it’s considered a talent, since not so many Filipinos can master fluency in English. I’m an avid reader, so I guess that I educated myself through reading and reading and reading. The thing that I find irritating is when people try to erase my being a Filipino by assuming that I am American. I’m not. I haven’t laid a foot on American soil, I’ve never even seen real snow. But I’m a mostly patient human being, so I just shake my head. On the inside though I’m fuming.
I’m not blaming anyone. I’m not pointing a finger and saying, “It’s your fault I’m racist!” If anybody’s pointing fingers at anyone, I’d be pointing it at myself. I grew up thinking Euro-centric features were the appropriate features, that, as a POC, you are deemed ugly and to be thrown to the sidelines forever. But with intersectionality on the rise, that’s going to change.
Comments are closed.