Lingua Diaspora

My Haitian friends and colleagues at the hotel I work all fluently speak Creole. Of course, you're probably saying to yourself, what else would they be speaking? People who migrate, carry with them their language and culture, right? I thought so myself. One day at the lounge, I asked my fellow concierge what life is like in Haiti. His reply? "I've never been there!" This elicited a "Really?!" from my lips. "But you speak Creole so well. Is this what you speak at home?"

"Yeah. Our parents use it at home on us. Why?" He found my question amusing.

"Wow," I defended myself. "Filipinos born and raised here hardly ever learn how to speak Pilipino…"

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Most of them can understand bits and pieces of it but for the most part they can't speak it to save their lives; they just understand it a little bit. In all honesty, I have yet to meet a Filipino who was born and raised here in the US who knows how to speak Pilipino fluently. Could be I just haven't met any yet, too. But the ones I have, don't."

Our conversation got me thinking about the veracity of my hypothesis. And made me wish I had paid attention many years ago as a freshman at De La Salle University in my LANGSOC class.

I learned Pilipino only when my mother moved us back to the Philippines when I was twelve. My childhood was conducted entirely in English simply because my American father didn't want me learning any other language. He thought it would confuse me. Or give me a Filipino accent. Eventually, I did learn, I never got confused, and I speak English like I'm from the Midwest, devoid of regionalism. (Fairly recent studies though suggest that the Midwest accent may not be neutral, but I digress…)

My Pilipino though is another story. As a VO in Manila, Tagalog ads were always a challenge. "It's too twangy." A producer would say to me from the other side of the sound booth. So I would do several more takes before walking out of the studio with a sore tongue and mouth from exerting different muscles (It's a linguistic fact).

Growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood, I would always feel embarrassed when my mom would accidentally let out a Tagalog curse word or yell out a part of the female body as an exclamation from either A) a surprise, B) pain, or C) anger. It made me feel that my skin was as brown as hers and that no matter how white I sounded, my complexion would always make people think I "talked funny" like my mom.

For the most part, my childhood was colorblind. Sure, kids thought I was Chinese because I looked "oriental" but I was always accepted as just a regular American kid who happened to have a nice permanent tan. Only once, was my "difference" ever put on display.

It was the fourth grade and a new kid had just enrolled at Peninsula Elementary. He was a boy from Cebu named Arthur who had just migrated to Portland, OR. Unlike me who spent my whole life – up until that time – in the US, Arthur had an accent. Kids wondered out loud, "Why does he have an accent and you don't?" Neither of us understood why but there was an attempt to have us two Filipino kids "communicate in our native language".

"Come on, you guys! Say something to each other in your language!"

"Um, my language is English. What am I supposed to say, 'hello'?" I was irked.

"I'm from a different place in the Philippines. I'm from Cebu. She doesn't speak my language. It's different." Arthur explained.

"Just say anything! Like 'hi' or you know, whatever you use to greet each other in your language!"

Our teacher joined the class in prodding us. "Do you have a basic phrase at least to share so everyone can hear?"

I was uncomfortable but turned to Arthur questioningly. He asked me if I knew how to say 'how are you'.

"'Koo-moo-stah' is all I know," I said.

"She really doesn't know how to speak," Arthur concluded. "All she knows is 'how are you'."

"I told you guys!" I exclaimed.

I tried hard to avoid Arthur because I didn't want to be labeled like him, "different", "speaks with an accent", or "funny looking". My seven year-old mind cruelly didn't want to be friends with the one person whose complexion I shared in a sea of white and black. Here and now though, thirty years later, I am constantly looking for a Filipino face in the crowd. Whenever I do, more than just 'kumusta' comes from my mouth. And if for some reason, God decides to give me a husband and more kids, I'll make sure they grow up speaking both their parents' tongues.

written at the park while waiting for kyera's class to end

Welcome to Club Diaspora

It's a rare moment when our laptop is free for me to use. Sharing it with an eighteen year old really means 95:5. She has it 95% of the time while I'm on it when allowed. Which is when she's sleeping.

So all these blogs that I have incubating inside my head never make it to my fingers until rare moments such as these. I'm stealing time. While there is nothing like writing in the moment, the compositions in my mind get edited and take a different shape as I type. But I'm not complaining. The light of day is the light of day.

There is a large table at our hotel's employee cafeteria where the Filipinos find themselves at lunch. We're all from different departments - Housekeeping, Concierge, Front Desk, Stewarding, Kitchen, Storeroom - yet there is no such thing as rank & file or manager among us when we are together. We are just Filipinos who now call America home and who long for the Philippines in varying degrees. The streets of Cubao, the posh of The Fort and Alabang, the quiet of Ilocos drift into our conversations always followed by the question: "Kelan kayo huling umuwi sa atin?" ("When did you last go home?")

(I have come to terms with calling myself a true Filipino-American. Not an American of Filipino descent like others who spent their childhood or entire lives here but equal parts American - courtesy of my father and childhood in the Pacific Northwest - and Filipino - courtesy of my mother and my twenty-seven years in Manila.)

Who we were back home doesn't seem to matter to any of us here in the US although little hints and traces of our lives in the Philippines slip into our conversations from time to time.

"Saleslady ako ng sapatos noong araw!" ("I used to be a shoe saleslady!") Said a bathroom attendant to me one day when she was resting her feet in the changing area and realizing that at her age, the long hours prove her feet can't keep up with her.

One busy noon at the table we share, exhausted from a hundred percent occupancy, a wardrobe attendant and I sat in silence together, lost in our separate thoughts while eating the day's free meal voraciously.

I broke the silence in between bites. "Grabe, pagod na pagod ako." ("I am so tired.") She agreed. "Dito lang ako sa Amerika nagtrabaho ng ganito kahirap!" ("Only here in America have I had to work this hard!")

I smiled. "Back home we at least had an hour for lunch. And then of course there were all these little breaks in between! Dito, thirty minutes lang talaga ang pahinga." ("Here thirty minutes is all we get to rest.")

"Akala ng mga tao sa atin we're so rich because we're earning in dollars. Hindi nila alam bawat sentimo, pinagpapaguran natin." ("People back home think we're rich because we're earning in dollars. They just don't know that we work hard for every cent we make.") She commented.

We finished our meals in silence and wearily dragged ourselves back to our floors and duties. As I took the elevator back to the seventh, I couldn't help remember the season in my life as a Training Manager. A boss. And how cushy life as a manager in the Philippines was like - not in the trenches but calling the shots from a nice office with a view. Some days I remember my sixteen-twenty hour days/nights at the call center and regret wishing for a job that was eight hours and simple. Nowadays, while I'm so thankful to have a job, I'm reaching the point of wanting more of a challenge beyond making coffee and dinner reservations.

But such is life in the diaspora. It's damning and it's a blessing. Here we are all on equal footing. It's what you do with your steps that makes a difference. The choices are easy - long for what you once had, or make the best of the cards you've been dealt.

"In my country, I was a lawyer." Said a Haitian recently. "Then why don't you just go back home if you don't like being a guard?" Came the reply from a Latino-American face. The Haitian didn't reply.