The Relationship With My Country

On this blog, I have explored facets of my identity as a woman, as a Filipino, and as an American. In my moments of exploration, I have had ups and downs about my value and worth as a citizen and my responsibility as an educator. I have measured myself and my citizenship with standards of "White" America. Recent events in the past two weeks have made me rethink my identity as a person of color, not as an Asian-American. I have reflected recently about my relationship with Black America. This might sound racist, but it isn't. I see it as breaking up with one boyfriend and moving on with a new one. A new relationship is going to make me see myself differently. I have reread some of my old posts, and they need to updated or qualified, given that I have grown and developed again. I've had some pretty major life changes since my last post in 2014, and my experiences have made me rethink and review my identity, my values, and my loyalty to a country. These past two weeks have been painful, but also eye-opening. Renewal is not easy, but it feels good to start on the road to healing.

Anti-Technology

I use technology as a tool. I use technology as a social network. I also use technology to publish this blog. Technology is part of my life--it comes as a computer, a cell phone, and an iPod. It has been part of my life since my father put together a "home brew" PC in 1994. I know what my life was like before computers and internet pervaded my habits and became part of my daily activities.

As Governor Schwarzenegger proposes the "Digital Textbook Initiative" in California, I fear Ray Bradbury's futuristic society of Fahrenheit 451 coming to life. In his book, Bradbury predicts that television will take over society by brainwashing and censorship. Television will be the only form of communication for information--completely regulated by government. Although Bradbury's fear focused on television, television itself is metonymical for technology in our current times. Replace television with Internet, computers, or media; it's all the same. And they're all a deadly combination.

In a sociological sense, the internet has benefited us as well as handicapped us. The benefits are obvious: communication and access to information. It has made the world more globally connected. I have made international penpals through the internet, stayed in touch with relatives and friends across the country, and exchanged ideas with colleagues and professionals in my field. Internet and computers have made my life easier in that sense. But as a teacher, I see a greater handicap: the dehumanization of a new generation.

Seven years ago when I first started teaching, iPods were not yet invented and cell phones were not that prevalent in the classroom. I had students who would listen to me when I lectured and listened to each other when we had discussions. I had students who grew to know each other in the classroom as the year passed. The only problem I had to deal with when it came to writing was "text message" spelling, which was easily corrected because students still knew the differences between all the homophones.

Seven years later, I have seen a great change in the sophomores I teach from the sophomores of 2002. I have to compete for students' attention because they would rather listen to their iPod or send text messages to students in another classroom. When I assign a book to read, they immediately ask if there's a movie version. Their reading skills have declined because they don't recognize how real words are correctly spelled. Homework competes with Myspace and Facebook. And what about the exchange of ideas during class discussion? Forget that. Discussion is an argument because they don't want to learn the rules of engagement. The classroom is one large chatroom and whoever types the fastest is the one who gets the floor. In this case, the one who shouts the loudest dominates. And forget ideas. They would rather gossip about someone's blog or Myspace and then bring that drama to the classroom where it distracts from lessons.

Wikipedia is omniscient.
Google is god.
Youtube is all-seeing.
Myspace is all-knowing.

Yet students are not learning anything useful. Sure, they're learning social skills, but not the kind that will help them in the working world. They know how to start drama through Myspace, but they don't know how to fix it when it invades their waking life. They may know how to blog, but they write incorrectly. And although they have a wealth of information at their fingertips, they don't learn anything. Their writing has deteriorated, they don't absorb ideas, they don't build on what they know, they don't correct their mistakes. The computer will do it all for them. Microsoft Word corrects mistakes (except homophones), Google will find information, cut and paste and plagiarize, and turn it in for a grade. But did they learn anything?

Now our California governor wants to digitalize textbooks. He says it is to save money. As Bradbury wrote, "there's more than one way to burn a book." I'm a concerned teacher. Schools can't afford computers for each student or each classroom. I can teach without a book, but the dynamics of a classroom will change. Students will not pay attention to me if they're browsing the web. Students won't care to socialize or get to know each other if they're glued to the screen. What guarantee will I have that students will read digitalized textbooks anyway? They will still have iTunes playing in the background while chatting with friends while they are supposedly doing homework or research.

Information--from music to academics--is a downloadable megabyte temporarily stored from hard drive to thumb drive or music player. Students don't appreciate the art of CD covers or read liner notes from their favorite artists. They don't turn pages to understand words and ideas, but quickly scroll down for subheadings. They don't take the time to read, to understand, to digest, and most of all, to absorb and appreciate what they have. The Internet is like a shopping center, a place where they can get everything. Download means free, so students view knowledge like they view the latest trends: disposable.

As an English teacher, a teacher of the humanities, it is my job to teach students to understand life, people, and the community. Through literature, I hope to teach sympathy for others outside of their own reality, I hope to expose them to ideas that will build their own and beyond. Through writing, I hope to drive them to action that will change the world. But the way students encapsulate themselves in their own selfish and sheltered lives, they care less about others. Why be humane when Myspace drama is so much more entertaining? Although they are globally connected, why should they care about saving Darfur? They are so connected to technology that they are disconnected from humanity.

Technology is a tool. Just because the Internet stores a bunch of information, it does not mean it is not smart. It does not know right from wrong. It is an objective calculator. Unfortunately, our future generation reflects that: they are not smarter than previous generations even when they have a wealth of knowledge at their fingertips. Although they know right from wrong, they don't care if they are not affected. Their brains are like the computers: storing information when they need it, but deleted afterwards. They don't build on past knowledge; they start over.

Technology is beneficial for our knowledge, but has dehumanized many of us in many ways.

The Mother Card

The Mother Card. Women pull this like some black people pull the "race card" when they don't get their way or don't like what they hear.

I am single. I have no children. I have dedicated myself to my career. This is the choice I have made. This is not to say that I am against marriage or against having children; it is just those options were not part of the path that I have chosen to walk. If they cross my path in the future, I certainly am open to it; but at this point in my life, I am deaf to the biological clock.

In a woman's life, there is a prominent fork in the road: career or motherhood. Men never had that choice because most men don't think the responsibility of care-taking as a career. They were taught to just succeed in their life, mostly through their profession. But women do have to make that choice. If they focus on their career, they postpone motherhood. If they choose motherhood, it's difficult to go back to the working world. If they strive for both, which is possible, neither job is perfect. In the workplace, they will get criticized for not dedicating enough time to their job; and at home, Mommy may not always have time for the family or just seem "too busy" for anything else.

I have chosen to dedicate myself to my profession. I realize the consequence of my choice: delayed marriage, delayed motherhood, or even the possibility of staying single and childless for the rest of my life. I understand the choice I made and I can certainly live with it. I have been criticized that I am a workaholic and that I need "a personal life." I'm not insulted when people say such things, but I do get insulted when another woman says to me, "What will happen when you have kids?" or when they insinuate that having a husband or having children will "cure" me of my workaholism. The women who make these kinds of comments to me are usually the women who try to have both: career and motherhood.

I give praise to the women who actually perfected their half-and-half lifestyle, but from personal observation, I have not seen one woman who has chosen both career and motherhood perfect both aspects of their lives. The women who have children leave school early so they can be with their own kids, so their work suffers. The general complaint from coworkers and students is that those women are unavailable or delay paperwork (i.e. grades and progress reports). When these same women ask for help on how to teach certain things, or ask for tips or suggestions, they also reply that my suggestions or tips are too time-consuming for their lifestyle.

I leave it at that. Like all lesson plans that I give out, teachers need to make it their own and make it fit their personality and style. When I criticize women for their lack of time or dedication to their job, I keep it to myself. I don't openly criticize their life or their children. I will never say to another woman that children got in the way of her career. I realize that if I said anything about it, I am holding them to a standard that I live by, which is not right. Career was my choice. Half-and-half was theirs (and if you ask me, half-assed). I just wish those women would have the same courtesy towards me. They should not assume that I am a workaholic just because I lack a husband or lack children of my own. I do not want their pity because they (mistakenly) think my life is empty without the joy of motherhood.

My life is defined by my choices, not societal expectations that all women should be mothers.

Vehicular Envy

After attending a car show in town, I was sure to find a 1965 Dodge Dart, my absolute dream car. But out of 1001 cars (literally, there were that many), I only came upon a 1969 Dart. Wrong year and model. *sigh* I also came upon several 1969 Dodge Chargers, another hot car which I can totally appreciate as much as the Dart.

But while strolling down the streets in the midst of roaring engines and fresh diesel air, I came upon several models of the Chevrolet line that I just couldn't take my eyes away from--Novas, El Caminos, Camaros, and Chevelles. For the first half my life, Dodge has dominated my childhood, so I never appreciated any other automobile (until I started driving a Toyota). After that car show, I have to say that my automotive aesthetics have jumped a level now that I have seen what Chevys have to offer: I'm loving the 1969 Nova.

One day... one day I will have a muscle car of my dreams sitting in a garage of a house of my dreams... in San Diego.

Idiots of Society

After seven years of teaching (God has it been that long?), I have come across all kinds of students with myriad personalities. You think I've seen it all; but in comparison to teachers who have taught for over twenty years, I think I've only seen the tip of the iceberg. In my short teaching stint, I have come across three distinct types of students that I cannot tolerate:

A) The Apathetic-Lazy Student: this student just doesn't give a shit about anything. They don't have passion for anything, so they don't care about anything. Since they don't care about anything, they won't do work. Teachers ask themselves: why do you even come to school? I can generally tolerate this type of student because they have a tendency to sleep through class. They waste their time by coming to school but do nothing, so I'm not going to waste my time by encouraging them to work. They're usually not a behavioral problem. Why fix something that isn't broke, right?

B) The Genius-Lazy Student: this student is smart and intelligent and talented, but they choose when to do work. They think their intelligence is natural that it does not need to be nurtured rigorously. Deadlines and assignments are optional to them because they think they're above such tedious things that were meant for "regular" kids. They will do work only if they feel their grade is slipping. I hope their intelligence fades like an atrophied muscle, or that their intelligence remains stagnant as they proceed through college, because then they'll compete with students who DID learn and then they'll realize they're not really geniuses.

C) The Irrational Hypocrite Student: this student is immature when it comes to arguing or defending an idea. First of all, they come up with opinions based mostly on their own observations, so they have a narrow perspective on everything. And when I try to get them to open up their mind or make them see a flaw in their argument, they don't like to be proven wrong, so they'll make up some rule that only applies to them (because it proves them right), but the teacher is always wrong (because the rule doesn't apply to grown ups).

Although I cannot tolerate any of these types of students, I have acquired enough patience to put up with them. Two things can happen to the Apathetic-Lazy Student: 1) the student will eventually leave high school and slip through the cracks of society. They'll leech off their parents and become useless couch potatoes; or 2) some of these students are late bloomers, and eventually, they'll find something to be passionate about to get them moving on with their lives.

The Genius-Lazy Student will eventually discover that they're not as smart as they thought and they'll start taking college more seriously. They'll regret that they should have done more to be as competitive as a college freshman, and they'll realize they were idiots after all. On the other hand, a rare few actually become psychopaths.

Then there is the Irrational Hypocrite Student. I despise this student the most. I hate narrow-mindedness, I hate hypocrisy, I hate immaturity, and I hate irrationality. Immaturity can be fixed with age, but narrow-mindedness and hypocrisy can't. Those two things can only be fixed with experience and education. But to the Irrational Hypocrite Student, education is only learning how to read, not learning to understand the world. Experience is limited to what the student only wants to know, not what the world can offer. The Irrational Hypocrite Student will not take the time to see what teachers or other students can offer; they only know their ideas and their opinions and everyone else is wrong. And when they can't win an argument, they'll resort to cop-out statements, like "That's just you" or "That's how I am."

The Irrational Hypocrite Students are the ones that go out into the world thinking they're smart; in reality, they are the true idiots. The rest of American society can only hope that they won't mess with the gene pool. Ignorance breeds ignorance.

Represent?

The talk of the school today was the boxing match between Oscar de la Hoya and Manny Pacquiao. The Mexicans were disappointed that De la Hoya lost, while the one Filipino student in class gloated with pride. During some down time, the Filipino student asked me if I watched the fight, and I told him that I didn't watch boxing or any type of sports. He informed me that Pacquiao was Filipino and that I should have watched it.

Inside, I was rolling my eyes. Really? Because I'm Filipino, I have to watch another Filipino person? For what? I hate it when my mother watches the Filipino Channel. My student said that I had to watch the fight in order "to represent" Filipino pride. I flat out told him, "I don't believe in representin'."

"You're whitewashed," he said with disgust.

"I know I am," I shot back with pride.

"You should be ashamed." He rubbed his index finger across his other index finger like a six year old.

"I'm not," I said with a smirk, and at that point, I had to bite my tongue before I said, "Fuck you, you little FOB. Don't tell me what I should be representin, don't tell me what I should be ashamed of, don't tell me what I should do and how I should think when it comes to representin Filipino culture. I know I'm whitewashed, and I'm not ashamed--so don't tell me what to do or how to feel pride. You know who should be ashamed? You should. Your parents left the Philippines. You should be ashamed for not adopting your new home country. You should be ashamed for not representin America. If you have so much love and pride for the Philippines, then go back there. Why do you think I said NO to advising your Filipino Club?"

It is because I am a teacher that I'm not allowed to spew personal diatribes. I do not represent Filipino pride because let's get one thing straight: I never had any. When it comes to representin', it's all about me and my ideas and my beliefs and my individuality. Collective cultural pride does not mean anything to me.

What Would a White Man Do?

I hope my audience does not think I am a racist or a sexist for writing such a title for this entry, but I wanted to expand on what I had previously written four years ago: The Psyche of Asian Submissiveness. In that entry, I reflected on my experience as a submissive Asian person who was too shy to take any iniative at job fairs and so naive to think that I could be a suitable employee anywhere. I was a complete contrast to Caucasian counterparts--individuals who had the ambition and the drive to hunt, not just for a job, but for a suitable employer.

There are days that I still think I am a novice when it comes to navigating through Americanized social mannerisms. And when I say "Americanized," I mean "white ways." It does not matter that I consider myself American and was raised in an American social environment; at the heart of it all, I was raised with Asian mentality and mannerisms. The behavior and the mentality are so innate that I do not even notice how I act unless I come across some other behavior that starkly contrasts to what I know. It is at those particular moments when I find myself asking, "What would a white man do?"

Today I needed an important document from a former professor. I gave him two weeks advance notice that I needed his assistance. I have deadlines coming up, and he has not responded. If he procrastinates any further, I could be losing a golden opportunity that could definitely change my life.

My submissive Asian side tells me that I should passively wait. I had already emailed him once before to remind him. I'm sure that he understands the importance of his assistance in this matter.

But what would a white man do? Would he sit passively and wait? Or would he take some form of action so as not to lose that life-changing golden opportunity? Would he politely ask for his professor's help as a gentle reminder? Or would he assertively request that the professor take some urgent action? Would a white man be bold and audacious to just write up the document and ask the professor to verify it with his stamp of approval? Or would he be breaking social conduct if he did that?

I ask myself: what would a white man do?

Veteran's Day

Growing up in San Diego, the military was always around me. My father served in the Navy, most of my friends' fathers served in the Navy; a few of my friends served and are still serving in the Navy, Army, Air Force, and National Guard; and now I have students who serve the military as well. I am proud of the United States military, and sometimes I wish I could do more than just declare my support for them. Veteran's Day is one way to do that, and I am glad that our veterans are here to remind us about what they fought for, and why they should be honored on November 11th.

Veteran's Day is a holiday that originated in World War I to commemorate Armistice Day. Of all the wars that I have studied during my high school years, World War I is the most dismal and grievous. Never have I read about a war in which most of the soldiers were under the age of twenty-one, most of them fresh out of high school. When the war dragged on, the recruits were getting younger and younger. So many young men, who had their whole lives ahead of them, inspired by the new technological era of the twentieth century, suddenly vanished into a valley of death created by that same technology. Never have I read about a war in which most of the soldiers never knew what they were fighting for or were confused about the reasons for the war. Nearly an entire generation of intellectual young men disappeared, men who could have contributed to our world in more positive ways than being sacrificed in a war that was deemed meaningless and tragic.

Ninety years later, I like to hope that mankind has learned something from that first world war. Yet we still find ourselves in the middle of international conflict. The soldiers range from high school graduates to experienced leaders. They are not as naive or innocent like the young men of World War I. I like to hope that our experienced leaders--whether they be on the front or here at home serving office--not only protect our freedom, but also value the lives of our young soldiers who are fighting, not discount them as expendable resources. We should honor our military so that they know they are not taken for granted. These men and women put their dreams and goals on hold to keep a threat at bay, and many have already given their blood to protect the freedom of others as well as for those here at home.

Ninety years from now, when this is all over, I hope that the future generation will not look back and say that we have sacrificed an entire generation of men and women to what might be called a meaningless and tragic war. This Veteran's Day and for all future Veteran's Day holidays, we should always remember that all our veterans in all the past wars gave their lives for their country and for their fellow man. It should not matter if the war was won or lost; we should always remember that someone died protecting us, our values, and our country.

Confessions of a Coward Under a False Sense of Bravery

In the Roman Catholic Church, absolution is gained through the act of confessing sins or problems to a priest. The idea is that if Catholics ever expect to get to heaven, they first must let go of their conflicts and burdens, ask for reconciliation from God, and then promise that they will never ever commit those sins again.

Growing up in Catholic household, I participated in this rite several times. There were two ways in which we could go about wiping our souls clean: facing the priest and honestly revealing ourselves and our transgressions as we sit before him, or remaining anonymous by hiding behind a thin partition of intricate woodwork. In the few times I had confessed my sins or let go of my troubled mind, I chose to remain nameless and concealed myself behind that screen.

Forgive me, World, for it has been seventeen years since my last confession. Since that time, I have strayed from my spiritual roots and chose to confess my sins and express my mind through the Internet.

Hmm… I guess not much has changed.

Oscar Wilde wrote, in The Picture of Dorian Gray, "It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution." When we confess, we really just need to let go of our inner conflicts, whatever they may be. Wilde even assumes that confession does not have the religious connotation as it did in the past, for the priest does not absolve us. In today’s technological world, the Internet is the modern day confessional, and the confession ranges from secret sins to blatant rudeness.

When it comes to confession, there are some people who find strength behind an alias. We have this false sense of courage because we tell truths that we would not openly say to a person's face. We say that we are “being honest,” but does it count when we hide behind the screen? There is no honesty when we still hide something. When we discharge our hateful thoughts, proselytize our radical ideas, and eject offensive words, we do not always filter what escapes from our lips. Why filter the words when we have filtered our identity? We sit behind a computer screen and then justify our behavior by lying to ourselves that we have not broken any rules of social decorum.

Many of us--Catholic or not--have chosen this great technology as the vehicle for testimonials, yet continue to hide behind the computer screen or some false identity. We unleash a horde of confessions--sinful or not--because we look for absolution or affirmation from a network of cyberspace strangers. Just like in the Church, we seek for conformity and acceptance with other Catholics; we certainly don't want to burn in hell while everyone else has cleansed their souls to get to heaven; whereas in society, we seek that comfort when we know that there are others "like us." We divulge our opinions and feelings because we hope someone will listen and accept us for who we are. For some, to be accepted by the world or by anyone is simply heaven. The Internet has become the new Church, where everyone worships only themselves and confesses their indiscretions and animosity towards each other.

I begin to wonder how much I have confessed or shared my life on this blog. I do not seek acceptance or absolution, so what am I confessing? What am I sharing to you? Although I've opened up on some personal matters, I feel anonymously safe because I'm behind the screen. For so many of us who have impersonalized blogs, like mine, ones that have very personal thoughts and stories, we are comforted by the fact that we have not stripped to our bare identity and then asked to step out from behind that technological partition. We would be completely naked without our alter-ego and our computer monitor; in essence: we would be facing the priest. That is a frightening prospect: when the world knows of your sins and can put a face to them, the revelation is the apex of vulnerability.

Whether you are a coward or a hero, confessing openly is sharing everything about yourself—all your goodness and your iniquities—and then trusting someone to care and accept you while you're still vulnerable and exposed.

For many of us out there, that's still hard to do.

White America

Last week, my students and I were reading a story by Alice Walker. In order to reflect on the story's message, I asked my students to think about their culture and heritage. Many of them have difficulty thinking about that--where they come from, their cultural identity, and their family traditions. They think that culture is limited to the ethnic foods that one eats.

It's even more difficult for students who are of European descent. As one of my students said to me, "This is an unfair question. I'm white; I have no culture."

I have no culture. Those are the most disappointing words one can ever say. When I hear students--especially white students--say this, I think to myself that multicultural America has done this. I believe in diversity, but not to the point where one culture, that of European descent, has been forgotten. Unfortunately, that's where we are today. Multicultural America, multicultural education, multicultural literature, and multicultural history has been the craze in the past decade in order to give equal time in the books to historically oppressed cultures. In implied ways, educators and even the common laymen have pointed the fingers that the whites are to blame for slavery, for oppression, for Hitler, and for being too dominant.

When talking about culture in the classroom, my white kids feel left out. They think being white means having no valid cultural experience. They sit with idle thumbs while they listen to Asian, Mexican, and black kids talk about how they spend Christmas, the foods they eat during holidays, and the superstitions that their mothers pass down. They think that being white is something to feel guilty over because their ancestors have historically oppressed other people. If America is supposed to be about pride in one's identity, my white kids don't have much to be proud of. They've been taught to oppress themselves while multicultural students have their moment in the "multicultural spotlight."

My Mind Is At Ease

I sat to thinking of my new teaching job for the 2004-2005 school year. I realized something about the whole hiring experience: they didn't hire me because I was Asian.

That put my mind at ease. I recalled my first time in the competitive battlefield of job-hunting. One district hired me because they were desperate. In retrospect, I'm okay with that now. But what I remember most was an interview with another district that automatically labeled me as "affirmative action candidate," which infuriated me because I don't believe in that policy.

As I think about the new school year that will approach in September, I smile to myself that the district that hired me this time saw me for my qualifications and credentials. The representative at the job fair saw my resumé and saw my "English teacher" title. They needed English teachers--plain and simple. When the principal interviewed me, he was impressed by my portfolio and teaching experience in Japan. I knew I nailed that interview. The funny thing is: I never filled out an application, so they were never aware of my racial status until they laid eyes on me. Well... maybe my strange name might have alerted them of my "foreignness," but that didn't really make them all the wiser.

During the entire process of applying, interviewing, signing contracts, and orientations, there was nothing about affirmative action candidacy. Nothing of the sort was ever brought up. No issues about minorities and my "obligation" to them. I was glad for that because I want to be seen as an individual, not part of the minority group. I'm an English teacher, not an Asian person for the quota.

The Psyche of Asian Submissiveness

There's a stereotype that all Asians are politely mannered and submissive, that we're such a friendly people. Maybe it's a cultural thing that all Asian parents teach their children. They encourage them to always do their best. I'm sure that non-Asian parents teach their kids those same ideals and values that hard work pays off, but I think that there's an element that is missing when Asian parents try to instill in their children those same ideals.

I could never actually describe this element... until now. It's that weird submissiveness psyche. I've always been taught that girls should never be forward, and I believed it was some age-old sexism that a woman's place is in the home; an independent and headstrong woman will never find a husband. A husband feels that it is his role to take care of his wife, and a woman who can take care of herself is a turn-off to any man who wants a traditional household. Believe it or not, this ideal is very much alive in Asia.

But I don't think it is much sexism as it is the psyche of being Asian. People from Asia with different cultures are at opposite poles with American ideals. In retrospect, I saw a lot of it back in my old university. And I'm seeing it more now in the job market. Asian parents only encourage their children to do their best, while I believe that Caucasian parents encourage independence. These two things-- doing one's best versus independence-- can alter the way a child will grow.

My parents have always taught that I should just do my best. If I ever failed, well... at least I tried. Those were always the comforting words: "At least you tried." Now as a teacher, I'm seeing it all over again. My Asian kids just seem to do the work, they sometimes participate in class, and they accept whatever I give them. They whole heartedly believe that if they do everything, they will get the best grade they possibly could. My Caucasian students are different. Why do they always challenge me? Why do they always argue with me when I give them a grade that they don't like? Why do they try to bargain with me when they fail assignments?

I took it as a sign of disrespect when they come up to me and argue their grade when it's not to their liking. But then I realized something: it's that very skill that makes them more competitive in college and most of all, in the job market. In college, I rarely participated in class, but all my White classmates said a lot. I begin to wonder, how much of their thinking has influenced the classroom to the point where it had affected my learning? I will never know because I never voiced my opinion and my perspective. I sat and listened. Sometimes I participated. I never argued about my grades even when I should have (like those shitty poetry and grammar classes taught by professors who didn't like their subject matter and obviously didn't care about seriously teaching it.) In the meantime, I've heard stories of my White classmates setting up appointments to see their professors during office hours, they loudly voiced their opinions in a lecture class, and in one case, I remember a male student arguing with a professor about abortion laws. I would never have the guts to do that-- not even in the privacy of an office.

And in the job market... while I hang back and politely introduce myself and answer all the questions, I see my White competitors taking initiative by making themselves known and heard. I came upon this two years ago while I was in the credential program. There was a job fair for teachers. I went and talked to some of the people and handed out my resumé. I made ten copies of my resumé and I only handed out three. I was intimidated at that fair. Intimidated by all the White people; intimidated that when I was talking to a recruiter, a White girl stood behind me eagerly waiting for her turn with resumé in hand; intimidated that while I waited to talk to a recruiter, a White person could talk for an endless five minutes to make himself or herself stand out from the crowd, saying everything from their name to other bits of information that was never on their resumé . They took control of their conversations, asking all sorts of questions. To sum it all: it looked like they were interviewing the recruiters. They took initiative.

After the conference, I talked to some friends in the same credential program. I only handed out three resumés while my classmate, who we used to tease as our "token White guy," handed out eight of his ten copies. I felt like a loser.

I've always believed that doing my best would always get me far, but now I'm thinking differently. Competing for a job is fierce and I have to be aggressive and prove to people that I am the best. Yet doing that is so difficult because it was never in my mentality to be aggressive. It's like being something I'm not. I believe in hard work, but I always thought it would pay off and I will get my rewards. In this case, I have to fight for my rewards.

I feel that that is what's missing in the dynamic of teaching Asian kids success. They are only taught that hard work is good, but hard work is just the basic thing. Competition and taking initiative are just as important. It's a mentality that is not really instilled in Asian culture.

I have a job fair to attend to this week. I may have more experience than those newbie fledgling student-teachers in the credential program, but that doesn't guarantee that I'll get a job. If there's one thing that I learned from Japan, it was that everyone saw me as the aggressive and individualistic American because I spoke my mind too much. But that was Japan; I need to stick out more here in America just as I stuck out too much over there. So, now I have a goal. I have ten newly updated resumés , and I better hand out at least five or more. (It depends on how many interesting districts will be there. I'm picky that way.)

Fledging student-teachers, beware!

Traitor to My Own Kind

When I was young, one of my sisters made fun of me because I listened to alternative music, a genre of rock and grunge. She called it "white music" because only white people created it and listened to it. It used to piss me off when she said "white music," as if it was a bad thing, hinting that I was "whitewashed." I argued once that she listened to rap music and pointed out that she wasn't black. But in my time, the majority of Asians in my high school were listening to rap, and her rebuttal was that it was "acceptable." 

Whitewashed. It's a stereotype, and then it's not. Ever since college, I hated this word and at the same time, I can easily identify with it. It's everything I am, and then am not. The first time I ever heard that word was in an old movie about Tom Sawyer where one of the characters was punished for misbehaving in school, so he had to "whitewash" the outhouse. I assumed that meant he had to clean it, so I always associated "whitewash" with cleaning and sterilizing. The other time I heard it, in its more offensive tone, was from my own sister. Just the tone of how she said it made me realize that I was different from her and the culture we grew up. 

My family is Filipino. My sisters and I grew up in America. In the place where we lived, we were surrounded by Mexicans, Filipinos, Blacks (African-Americans, if you want me to be PC about it), and some Caucasians. My high school was mixed with the Asians being the majority, but we never had much of an impact on the school culture. If anything, Black culture was popular-- everything from rap music, style and fashion, and language. My sister and I grew up around this, but she identified with it more than I did. She liked hip-hop and rap and R&B music and I liked alternative music. Simply put: she saw it as black and white. Maybe my sister saw me as an oddball because I wasn't like the majority of Filipinos at school who followed Black culture. 

I thought I found my niche in the world when I entered college. I was with people who had the same experience as I have: growing up in a multi-cultural environment. But college itself posed a different environment which made me want to get out of my comfortable niche. Affirmative Action was banned from campus, but its lingering effect haunted me for the rest of my college years. I went to college to discover myself and my limits and push my beliefs into ideas where I can develop myself further, and Affirmative Action was like a forceful protest of anti-whatever shouting to my face to believe their propaganda. Affirmative Action was a group of students preaching to me to be proud of myself and my culture and to support my culture by supporting Affirmative Action which will help me to support my culture. It was a roundabout argument which did not answer my lifelong question: what is my culture?

I have written before in past entries about biculturalism. It was my perfect niche. I am Filipino but I adapted to American culture. I felt comfortable with this because it perfectly described who I was. But living in Japan has made me rethink this. To the Japanese, I am not American because I am not white. But there are times when I don't feel like a Filipino because of the American ideals and history that I grew up with. Being bicultural means identifying with both cultures-- Filipino and American. And now I realized that I don't really identify with both equally. In truth, I identify more with American than with Filipino culture. As far as my Asian roots are concerned, I only know food. I know how to eat it, but I don't know how to cook it. Language-- I can understand it only a little, but I can't even speak it. And for cultural traditions and history that date as far back as the Spanish occupation in the 1500s, they are lost and meaningless to me. I can easily identify with American culture, but no matter how knowledgeable I am of American life, some people still see me as a foreigner because I am not white. Everyone wants to categorize. I am not fully Filipino because of my Americanized upbringing, but I am not fully American because I am not white. 

I once wrote that I didn't care about fitting into a category, but even after a while, I want to have my place in the world... without being asked those invasive questions about who I am and what I am. I have often thought of reintroducing myself to my own culture by learning the language, learning to cook, and having my mother speak to me only in Ilocano or Tagalog. I once thought about visiting the Philippines to reacquaint myself with Filipino people who have a deeper understanding of our culture and to participate in the daily lifestyle of pure Filipino traditions, but when I see Filipinos, I am turned off by their arrogance and pride. They don't like Americanized Filipinos, yet they try to aspire to be Westernized. The Japanese are the same way: they don't always like foreigners, but try to be Westernized. And even if they are Westernized, the Japanese still have a strong sense of unity and cultural pride, that despite Chinese and American occupations at different points in history, they have retained their core, adapting around cultural influences. 

Filipinos are different. They are fascinated by foreigners, they try to be Westernized, and in the end, when they become Westernized, they have an arrogant air about them which they will look down on their own people. I try to understand this strange mix of pride and disgust, from my perspective and from theirs. My aunt explained to me that 300 years of Spanish rule and then 50 years of American occupation has led the Philippines and the Filipino people into a state of confusion of who they are. After three centuries of submission to an authority that meant to rule and overpower them, and then freed by Americans who helped to educate them, but not really to rebuild their government, the Philippines are in a state of purgatory. They are trying hard to reestablish themselves and who they are, but are forever stagnant in arrested development while corrupt leaders play a game of power. Nearly four centuries of just succumbing to invaders, the Philippines only knows submission. They don't know leadership, and so they vote for actors who plead with emotions to be their future presidents. And for those already in power, it's a euphoria of fame and egomania. They think being on top means having their way, forgetting that they have a duty to the people first. Three hundred years of oppressive rule is the only kind of leadership that they know. So the people are forgotten. They have nothing left but their pride and whatever is left of their battered culture. They come from a country that has forgotten itself, so the people have only themselves. 

These are the Filipino people I see. They are left with their language and a small part of whatever is left of their roots. And when I see these people, they look down on me with condescending stares. I am an Americanized Filipino. They see me as one who has had a life of privilege, who never knew hardship or what it was like to be poor. Language is the only real sign of cultural loyalty, and since I don't speak it, I am a traitor to my own kind. They give me a condescending stare because they think they are better than me, a tainted Filipino, a "banana"-- white on the inside, yellow on the outside. And I return one arrogant stare with another. I am tainted. I am "whitewashed." I may not know true Filipino culture, but whatever I learned about my heritage, I learned from my parents--and maybe that's all I need. I am a traitor to my own kind because I don't have any love for my native country, and because I now fully understand the renunciation of my native citizenship--and I am glad for it. They look at me with loathing, and I return the favor. I look at those Filipinos with disgust because they used someone to get them out of the Philippines, particularly the women. They married someone who promised to get them out of poverty, and once they got out, they think they're better than the Filipinos who were left behind. And when they arrive in America, they still think they are better than the Americanized Filipinos who they deem to be tainted. What a bunch of hypocrites! But who's to blame them for that? The Philippines and the Filipinos were never uprooted per se, but our roots and our foundation have been stomped on, replanted, stomped on, recycled over and over again. The future of the Philippines is being built on shaky ground. The people reflect that: what is there to be proud of when one has to leave their country and try to be anything but Filipino? What kind of roots can one look back on when all we see is the end result of foreign occupation and brainwashing? What foundation do we build for our future when we ourselves embody the confusion that torments our country? 

I am ashamed to admit when I realize I have placed a stereotype on another person, especially on my own people. Time and again, I have been made to rethink about my identity and my position in a long history of personal self-discovery and its connection to my homeland. But I, too, have pride. Why should they have more right to label me without thinking about who they are? They are not any different from me. I grew up in America, and now they come and try to be American, too. I struggle everyday about who I am and the labels placed upon me. I may be "whitewashed," but I am no longer afraid to deny it because it's true. And yet the color of my skin constantly reminds me of my roots and family history and heritage, so I cannot deny that I am a person of color either. Not white, not Asian, but not in-between either. Unlike the other hypocritical Filipinos, I don't deny anything. But who's to say who is better than whom? All I know is that I have struggled with this since high school, and I will probably struggle with it for the rest of my life.

Paradox

I read this article and I'm puzzled. I first heard about the rape case when I read about it in the Japan Times back in June. A 19-year old woman was sexually assaulted in Okinawa by a U.S. serviceman. So many things went through my mind, from feminism, anger and hate for all men, sexist and cultural oppression, and international relations. As a woman, it sickens me when I hear and read about rape cases. It's violation, plain and simple. It's an act of violent aggression that cannot ever be justified. Unlike a murder case, the act of killing can be an act of unjustified rage, or it can be an act of self-defense. In a case that involves sex, the act is done by consent by two willing individuals. Rape is a violation of sexual rights and human rights. Raping a woman is the same as saying that a woman has no rights whatsoever. I immediately hated the man who could do such a thing, and I was even more disappointed when I learned that he was a U.S military serviceman, Lance Corporal Jose Torres of the Marines. 

There are many stereotypes of military personnel that describe them as having insatiable sexual needs. If you think about the history of military bases around the world, especially around Asia, prostitution rose where bases were founded: Philippines, Thailand, Singapore, and Japan. Areas like these only add to the stereotype of "horny sailors," and sexual interaction between individuals who have language barriers can be misinterpreted. Jose Torres did the opposite of breaking the "lusty military-man" stereotype; he only added to it. The residents of Okinawa already hate the presence of the military because of its long history of sexual assaults and other military accidents. Given these incidents, the relationship between the U.S. military and the Okinawans is highly sensitive, and Jose Torres only added more fuel to the fire. 

Many Americans are proud of the U.S. military. There are so many slogans about the pride of serving in the military. It advertises honor and perfection with its straight, clean cut image of soldiers. When I read about Jose Torres, I thought, "What a dishonor, what a disgrace." Not only that, he committed this act at a very crucial time: during the war on Iraq. Iraq and other non-supporters hate the U.S. and its military. They cry that American troops are evil. You think that American troops would watch their backs and watch their steps at a time like this, so that they don't make the U.S. look any worse than it is. American troops stationed out in foreign countries represent America, and it's the same for civilian travelers and tourists. When you step into another country, whether you want to or not, you represent your country and its culture. Someone is always going to ask about it. American troops are the same, but they have a heavier responsibility because they also represent the government. 

In the midst of war as the military is fighting Iraq, Jose Torres rapes a Japanese woman. Although it is the act of just one man, he represents the U.S. military and government, contributes to tarnishing stereotypes rather than maintaining a pristine image, violates a woman's human and sexual rights, breaks laws in another country... and people wonder why the U.S. is the most hated country in the world? Just because the U.S. is the most powerful country in the world does not mean its individual soldiers should exercise that power freely by breaking laws in foreign countries. It reeks of "imperialism" and cultural oppression. We hate the word "imperialism," but many people will read this as just that. What gives one man the right to rape a woman? Did it ever occur to him that he was breaking a law in another country? Did Jose Torres think that "I'm an American and I know my rights!" would bail him out of this? When you break a law in a foreign country, there is that strong possibility that you will be subject to that country's laws, no matter how much the U.S. might intervene. Did any one learn from Michael Fay's public caning in Singapore (and that was just for vandalism)? 

Japanese prosecutors are out to get Torres, and as much as I would love to see him get tried in the hands of the Japanese justice system, I don't fully trust the hypocrisy of the Japanese justice system. Japanese society is still primitive with its male dominant ideas. Sexual assaults are blamed primarily on the victim and the suspect serves only a light punishment that most victims describe as nothing more than a "slap on the wrist." If a Japanese man were to rape a Japanese woman, you never hear much about it because the victim is told that it was her fault. She is persuaded not to press charges and that she will learn to cope and move on with her life. As for their assailant, a light sentence and a pep talk. The Japanese are inconsistent when handling their own sexual assault cases that I find it hypocritical of them to suddenly want to prosecute Jose Torres with full force. I do hope that he will be discharged him from the military (without honor), and that he serves time in prison--whether in an American one or a Japanese one. All the better if it were a Japanese prison, so he will know how his rights have been violated. 

Read: Okinawa Nights

Military Misogyny 

Women Demand End to Military Violence 

US Troops in Okinawa 

Tons more of articles on Google.com, keywords: Okinawa, sexual assualts, U.S. military

Filipina Heart, My A$$!

While working on this blog last night, the advertisement above my site caught my attention with this link: Filipina Heart. I thought, "Cool! A Filipino site!" So I clicked on the link, and I was almost offended. I did not think that mail order bride services still existed today, but maybe I'm that naive. 

Why did this site offend me? Two reasons: one--I am a bit of a feminist, and two--the site perpetuates stereotypes. First of all, the feminist inside of me screamed out, "Women are not possessions!" Although these women are not being bought or sold, per se, the site offers unfair services to men. Since this is a mail-order bride service, the men are not from the Philippines. Why would a Filipino man pay to meet Filipina women, you know? The men have to pay for using Filipina Heart's services, such as obtaining addresses of the women they are interested in. If they would like to meet the women, it's money out of their pocket to obtain immigration papers, such as visas, and possibly the plane ticket itself. This can get expensive, and the only men who would be willing to pay the financial costs and go through the legal paperwork often come from rich countries, such as the U.S. 

The fact that the women don't have to pay for using Filipina Heart's services perpetuates the "gold-digger" stereotype. In many third world/developing countries, people are desperate to leave their country for better opportunities. Filipino citizens are no different from other poor Asian countries, but the Philippines is a special case because of their connection to the United States. The U.S. acquired the Philippines in 1898 after the Spanish-American War and it became U.S. territory. The U.S. military built their bases and prostitution rose, giving birth to many stereotypes about vigorous Filipinas behind closed doors. And it was the military men in early 1940s that started stereotyping Filipina women as submissive and loyal--a stereotype that is still prevalent today about many Asian women, not just Filipinos. Here is a sample of Filipina Heart's generalization about its women using that very stereotype:

Why choose a Filipina? Women from the Philippines are noted for their beauty, grace, charm and loyalty. With their sweet nature and shy smiles, Filipina's posses an inner beauty that most men find irresistible. Filipinas are by their nature family-orientated, resourceful and devoted. What's more, English is one of the official languages of the Philippines, so communication is straight forward, and as the majority of Filipinas are Christian, cultural compatibility is easier than some other Asian countries.

I can give you socioeconomic reasons for why Filipina women are this way. The family structure in third-world countries is traditional with male dominance and female submissiveness. It's not surprising to find women in abusive relationships, or to be surrounded by husbands, brothers, or fathers with Filipino machismo running through their veins. Sweet nature and shy smiles, my ass! It's fear, and it's a catch-22. This same fear is what keeps them at home. 

For those who are already married, let's face the reality that the Philippines is a poor country. Even if these women decided that they could leave, where would they go? They've got kids, no job, no money, therefore, they are "devoted." Filipina women--whether they were prostitutes or not--found it easy to leave the Philippines if they married a man from the military, giving rise to the "gold-digger" stereotype. I realize that the owners of the company have decided that the men have to pay for their services, and that indirectly makes the women look like gold-diggers. But I've looked through the ads and some of these women are well-educated with Bachelor degrees or students working towards a degree. They must have decent-paying jobs. So why don't they pay? Even if it is a mail-order bride service and they are the ones being "bought," if they can't afford the plane ticket or the visa, they can at least shell out some money for the international on-line service if they can pay for college. That's a pittance compared to what the men have to pay. 

Unlike old traditional mail-order bride services of yore, these women are not recruited. The feminist inside of me believes that this service should be fair and equal to both men and women. If women willingly sign up to use the service just like men, then they should pay for it just like men. The fact that Filipina Heart's owners have decided that only the men have to pay makes me suspicious of the owners' intentions. The owners of Filipina Heart are an Asian-Western couple, so they say. That's great, but it makes me wonder why they specialize in mail-order brides. If they had met through a regular on-line dating/personals service, like Yahoo! Personals, I'm assuming they wanted to start a matchmaking service to advocate that on-line dating is successful. If that were the case, they would have had equal services for both men and women to open up the field a little wider, like having Filipino men post ads, too. I'm sure that all on-line dating services like to hear that the people who used their services ended up in marriage. It's a success story that any service would proudly advertise, but marriage is not the ultimate end-goal. Yahoo! Personals encourages friendships, pen pals, and dating. If there was a fee for subscribing, it's equal that both men and women pay for it if they are interested in it. 

With Filipina Heart, the end-goal is marriage, and since it's the men who shell out the cash, it makes me think that Filipina Heart is merely a service to help Filipina women get out of the Philippines. The men pay a fee, and this obviously goes to the owners (part income, part website maintenance, I'm sure). The marriage aspect guarantees that the Filipina women will leave their poor country behind them, and that the men who sponsor them out of the Philippines are usually financially stable. For the men, it would appear that they are getting a "perfect" bride who is submissive and loyal. And vigorous. If any man is interested in using their services, I should give fair warning about a Filipina woman's loyalty. After you marry her, she'll start asking you to sponsor her family to come over. That's extra $$$ to get her mother, father, give or take a couple siblings to come to the United States or wherever you live. If not, both of you will be sending money to her family. Also, like adopting children from poor countries, you want to make sure that your new bride is healthy and free of disease, and that she gets the proper immunizations upon arrival. That's right, "upon arrival;" poor people can't always afford regular doctor check-ups. 

Anyway, I'm a bit sick of this right now. I need to forget the sadness of my country's situation. Not that I take this mail-order bride thing lightly. Quite the opposite. I do think about poverty every once in a while because my mother has lots of stories about it. I am Filipina, but I was raised in the United States. My parents met in this country after they had immigrated from the Philippines. No mail-order bride services. They met the traditional way: bumping into each other, and falling desperately attracted to each other's Filipino wiles and common interests in ampalaya recipes. Maybe I take it for granted that I live in a country that is rich, and I don't know how desperate I would be either if I were living in the Philippines today. While writing this, I realize the good fortune I have. I have the luxury of making choices and of having numerous options that I can choose from if I want to improve my life, and not one of them involves getting married to fulfill a financial need. I do feel sorry for some of these women. Their option is to find a way out of poverty first by "selling" themselves.

Nuances of an Accent

This past Thursday, my parents and I drove up to Los Angeles to visit my sister in college. She was going to present her senior project to a committee of advisors and fellow students. Guests were welcome, so my family and I drove to see her. When we arrived, my sister was dressed in her sharpest suit. She looked very professional and confident. We sat down while her group rehearsed the last minute details of their speeches and refined the timing with their Power Point presentation. Her entire group consisted of fellow Asian students: a Chinese girl, Vietnamese guy, a Chinese girl raised in the Philippines and spoke with a Tagalog accent, and my sister the Filipina. 

While each member of my sister's group went up to present, their accents were noticeable, but the English was not difficult to understand. What I found most fascinating was my sister's speech--not the content of her presentation, but the way her voice sounded. Please excuse me while I go off on a tangent here, but my sister's presentation reminded me of an incident that happened approximately three years ago....

A friend of mine was driving me home, and while passing through the community that preceded my neighborhood, my friend asked me, "What are some good Filipino restaurants around here?" 

With excitement, I replied, "Oh, there are some good restaurants around here. If you go to that one, they have really good pancit. There's two shops on Eighth Street. One has really good lumpia, and the other sells baked goods like pan de sal, hopya, and --" 

"Stop it!" he sounded disgusted, but he was laughing. 

"What?" I didn't understand why he sounded so... "ugh." 

"You have an accent." 

"No, I don't. Do I?" The concept of me having an accent was impossible. 

"Yes. When you say Filipino words, like lumpia and pancit." He said the words without an accent, with elongated vowels and without the fluency of dipthongs. 

"Lumpia and pancit," I repeated. 

"You have an accent. Lumpia and pancit," he repeated as though I were to imitate him. 

"Lumpia and pancit," I repeated again. 

"See!" he exclaimed. 

I heard no difference, but he had. He said that there was a slight change of accent from English to Tagalog when I included foreign words in my speech. Since then, that incident has made me self-conscious of when I spoke. Not only that, I became more aware of accents--even amongst fluent English speakers. In the past years since that time, I've attuned myself to listen to the way people talk, and if I heard even the slightest difference in cadence, or even the way people talk in general, I ask where they are from. Most times I have been able to guess that they were not from California, or if they were from Northern California, from the east coast, or from the south. One time, I insisted that a co-worker had a southern accent. He told me was raised in Berkeley, in Northern California. I insisted that he had a southern accent or at least influenced by someone who spoke with a southern accent. He then revealed that his parents were from Georgia. 

Anyway... Now, back to my sister's presentation. My sister speaks perfect English. English was our first language growing up. In the house, with friends or family, English isn't spoken with an accent, not like a recent immigrant who arrived and has a noticeable thick accent. But when my sister stepped up the podium to present her section of the presentation, it was like listening to a different person. Her regular English appeared to turn up a notch to even straighter English. It was like professional English; she sounded like... a "white person." After she presented, she sat back down with her group. 

After all the presentations were finished, she came back to us and we talk a little about where to eat lunch. Her English went back down to the comfortable English... the English that is fading away from Tagalog influences, but never really was. Maybe the only thing that I heard was the difference between comfortable English used at home versus the professional English that is used in conference rooms. But it was like listening to someone who spoke with an accent suddenly erase it. 

Given that I live in a community with Spanish and Tagalog speakers, whenever I say foreign words, I naturally switch to their respective accents. I always thought that language was unique because of its sound. When another friend said that I had a beautiful accent when I tried to learn Japanese, I was flattered. I'll never be a native speaker of any foreign language, but I want to at least sound like one.

Gaikoku-jin desu (I Am A Foreigner)

Yesterday, I went up to Los Angeles with my sister (with nostalgic thoughts of my previous LA accident) to drop my other sister off at her university. The three of us made a stop at Little Tokyo to do some Japanese shopping. I haven’t bought Japanese music in a while, so my biggest splurge of the day were two Japanese rock CD’s and a DVD, which can only played in Region 2 (for you knowledgeable DVD buffs). Don’t ask me why I bought the latter. I was planning to send a DVD player with region 2 encoding back home to my parents when I go to Japan. 

As I sat down to open the DVD case and look at the DVD, it suddenly dawned on me that I would be in Japan approximately two and a half months from now. I closed the case and looked around me—there was a cute Japanese discount store in front of me with all the knickknacks in the world you can find to make your living more functional; behind me to my left was a Japanese gift shop with traditional Asian-fancy house ware and plants; to my direct left was a Japanese grocery store which sold Japanese and English products; to my right, a Japanese bakery flanked a tiny Japanese ice cream shop, which stood next to an Italian boutique (Japanese like Western culture, I guess), and directly behind me was the Japanese bookstore with a little music section in its corner. 

All this was in the middle of downtown LA, where there was still the comfort of finding every Japanese sign with English translations under them. The people who strolled by were mostly Japanese. A small few were of Caucasian or of non-Japanese-yet-still-Asian backgrounds. The clerks of most shops spoke in Japanese to their customers. Although they could easily switch to English when I approached them, their ease from their first language to another in a shopping center where their primary language is dominant made me feel quite the tourist and a bit of place. I sat on bench looking at these things around me, while listening to Japanese whispers and conversations that lingered in the background: “… sou desu ka… hontou ni desu ka…Sore wa …Megumi-san wa ikkei desu…” etc. I tried to imagine all this without the comfort of falling back on my first language, which was good ol’ English, and I realized that I need to start practicing my Japanese again because Nihon-go wo sukoshi wakarimasu. Nihon-jin wa Eigo wo wakarimasen. (Translation: I understand little Japanese. Japanese people don’t understand English.) I need to brush up on the kanji, too. New Year’s Resolution #3: learn enough Japanese to get by in a market place.

Taking the G out of “Ghetto”

Just finished inputting grades. I can now breathe a sigh of relief. Life is normal again. At least I didn’t stress out as much as I did the first time. It feels like I’ve just sharpened a new organizational skill; I hope I can perfect it by the time the semester is over. 

Some of my students stayed after school with me to turn in late work. As they conversed casually and worked in my classroom, I watched two students in particular. Every time I see them, it looks as though I’m watching two people who are trying too hard to be cool. But for me, I take it almost as a personal insult. These two students try to act like teenagers from... How do I make you readers understand? 

Where I come from, when a person says “ghetto,” it means a variety of things, from poor to cheap to gangster culture. I went to a high school where two dead bodies were dumped on the lawn, where gangsters once ruled the streets in the 1960s, and my old high school is still trying to recover from its gangster affiliation. The police station was right down the street, and when two girls got into a fight, a chopper was called to hover over campus. Drugs were common, a track star was shot, a member from the band was raped, and a student was caught having sex in the library. I’m not saying that my high school was extremely out of control, but when a person says “ghetto,” my high school was the crème de la crème. Although I was a good student, I grew up in an environment that exposed me to violence and stereotypes. I’m not an expert on what “ghetto” culture is like, but I have a pretty good idea. 

Flash forward: I am now a teacher. I teach in a school whose culture is different from mine. Although there are gangsters in the school, they are not as big a problem as the ones from my alma mater. But when a person says “ghetto,” the high school where I teach is not even close. This school is more of a “skater” population, where students tote their skateboards; biking is also a popular sport. This high school is vastly different from my mine. When I say “ghetto,” they think it means, “Ew! Gross!” 

Where am I headed with all this? As I watched the two students after school, trying to be cool, I found it insulting that they were trying to act like they were from the ghetto, with their so-called gangster accent, calling me “dawg”—I’m a teacher (you don’t call me “dawg,” you little snots!). I don’t find it entertaining or even cool that students try to aspire to something that society finds as a menace. Not to mention, because I went to a ghetto high school, I’m sympathetic to the students who are constantly stereotyped and disadvantaged because of labels. From what I’ve seen, anyone who has been in the ghetto, it’s all about survival and trying to break from that label. The two students who were in my class today don’t know what that’s like. I found their behaviors to be mocking to another group of students. When anyone says “ghetto” around me, especially if they attend the school where I teach now, I have an urge to ask them, “Do you know what that’s even like?” I doubt they even do.

Asian Communities…whatever.

I can’t help roll my eyes whenever I see sites that collectively join other sites into a “community.” While surfing the net, I came upon an article my sister emailed me, and two sites—Generation Rice and Rice Bowl. Why does rice have to be the universal symbol for Asians? Why does an Asian online community even exist? 

In the past, personal websites have always tried to maintain some semblance of uniqueness, but that doesn’t happen when they’re all lumped into one category, no matter how great their individual website looks. As for that article, why do we have to have a Little Manila? Doesn’t the fact a large Filipino community living in an area already constitute a valid Filipino community? Is an official title really all that necessary? A community establishes itself by its citizens, not its name. Filipinos have their own place already. Enough said. 

I remember a time when people hated being categorized. Now they want to fall under a category if it means establishing an identity through a community with which they can be associated. As for me, I’m under the blog community. Anonymity is my identity. Stress is the drive. Cynicism is the muse. Egoism is the inspiration. I am my own category.

Role Model Minority

The past couple of days have been a whirlwind. Yours truly is going to be a teacher after all. I got a near-desperate call from a high school principal last week, and we set up an interview on the first day of school. I don’t blame the school for the last minute detail work of recruitment; if anything, it’s the district to blame. It’s a fairly unorganized way to run schools—don’t hire until numbers come in. What is that quote? “Your procrastination does not mean my emergency,” or something or other. But since this is my first job, I’m on a crunch to make lesson plans and arrange something for the first couple of weeks. It’s now my emergency. 

Anyway, at least this situation has completely wiped out one issue that constantly burned my mind: hiring based on race. I was hesitant about going into the teaching field if recruiters saw my skin color as beneficial for their staff quota. I was automatically labeled as “affirmative action candidate” in one interview. What did that mean? Oh, yeah! It means I get special privileges because I’m a minority. This angered me. So what if I’m Asian? Does that mean I have more merit to being an English teacher than an English teacher who was Caucasian, or African-American, or Hispanic? Does that mean I’m a better role model for students—who for the most part at this school—will mostly be Hispanic and Caucasian? 

As one interviewer put it: it’s “beneficial for the kids.” In what way, may I ask? I walk into a classroom, and I do get a couple of shocked faces because they’ve never seen an English teacher who wasn’t “white.” But it’s only a momentary surprise. It wears off by the third day. From them on, I’m just another English teacher. Does the administration think that I’m going to impart knowledge different from that of a Caucasian teacher? Sorry to burst their bubble, but I was educated in an American high school. I pretty much learned the same canon of American literature that most English teachers around the country have learned. I’m just there to provide a different experience—literature taught by a “minority.” 

And who says that I’ll be a role model? Whether I’m a role model or not is entirely up to the students. If they like me enough and believe in my philosophy of learning that they find me inspiring, then I guess I’m a role model. But isn’t that true of any teacher? Ask anyone about who their role model was, or who their favorite teacher was, or even a life-changing mentor, and they will probably only remember ONE. ONE out of the numerous teachers they’ve had during elementary, high school, or even college years. They’ll only remember one. Now who says I’m going to be a guaranteed role model for a student when they have so many to choose from? It’s not even guaranteed that an Asian student will find me as a role model just because I’m Asian. If anyone is curious, I have two teachers who will forever be ingrained in my memory: my high school AP English teacher who is Caucasian, and my fifth grade elementary teacher who is Japanese (the best of both worlds, if you ask me). They both have similar teaching philosophies, and they both encouraged me to improve my reading and writing. Race had nothing to do with it. My fifth grade teacher and I weren’t even the same kind of Asian. I am Filipino. Historically, Japanese and Filipinos did not get along. It obviously didn’t apply to us. He was my teacher, and he was concerned about my reading, not my race. 

Although I do believe that there is an obvious power structure within the education system, it’s this same educational institution that taught me hard work does pay off; it's this same educational institution that has bestowed upon me all opportunities to get to college. In my experience, equal opportunity existed. Sure, my parents were immigrants, but I’m not the first in my generation to go to college—foreign or domestic. Sure, my people were oppressed—in my native homeland as well as here in the United States—but I have never been looked down upon because of my skin color, nor have I ever felt treated as a second-class citizen. 

Until now.

Although my ethnicity has defined a significant part of my life, it is only through a personal nature in connection with my identity and culture. Through my culture I have learned to respect all cultures and races. As for embracing American ideals, my ethnicity played a very small part. I don’t need to be reminded that my people are considered a minority group. What does that have to do with me? I never felt like a minority until someone mentions the word “minority.” It’s a word that conjures up a history with which I am barely associated. It makes me feel like the “OTHER” in a list of ethnic categories. It’s a word that makes me feel less than who I am. 

I embraced my ethnic background for the mere fact that it makes me different and unique, but I think this only to myself. I like walking into the English department to discover that I’m the only Asian amongst the Caucasians; I can be spotted easily for my black hair in a sea of blondes and brunettes; and I’m the only one in the lunch room with a bowl of rice every day as everyone else converses over sandwiches and pasta; but I’m not going to be the token Asian for the department. I’m not a representative for all the Asians or other ethnic groups on staff. I’m not a “model immigrant” to inspire others to do as I have done. To each, his own. 

* * * 

So, that was the fiery issue on my mind before I even applied to any district. At least at this school where I was hired, it wasn’t a question of race. I never even filled out an application until they told me that I got the job. They had never seen me until the day of the interview. Time was a factor, they saw my credentials and qualifications, and they hired me because they seemed desperate. Do I like the fact that I was hired out of desperation? That’s another question to ponder, but at least I know it wasn’t on account of my skin color.