Noypi

It took 8,000 miles across the globe for me to realize how privileged I am for being born a Filipino. Despite the new perspective I acquired as a citizen of another country, I retained a fondness for my Cebuano roots. Even though I don’t consider myself better than my Russian, Dominican, Georgian, Jamaican, Trinidadian, Brazilian, Haitian, American, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Israeli friends and colleagues, I think we, Filipinos in general and Cebuanos in particular, have a uniqueness that we can be proud of.

Many say that Filipinos are hardworking; but so are the Mexicans that I know. Some of them even more so. Our openness to other cultures and our desire to assimiliate are commendable, but so are a lot of Indian immigrants. We are family oriented, quick learners, good followers, law abiding, hospitable, generous, and kind; but the Ethiopian girl I sing with in the church choir is also all those and more. So what is the best thing about being a Filipino that other people can’t claim?

For one, we can call the Philippines home. After years of being away I still call it that. I was born amidst its chaos, the systemic corruption, and its dirty politics. But I grew up immersed in its charm. It is a beautiful country; others are perhaps more stunning (here’s looking at you, NZ, Japan, and Iceland); but the Philippines has a special character that captures the imagination. Is it the rugged majesty of its mountains, the starry nights, the often unexplored caves and beaches, or the seeming randomness of its cities? I don’t know the answer to that. I do know that I still dream about the places of my childhood; and all of them are associated with happy thoughts.

Another is the food that we Filipinos enjoy. Or at least, our versions of the different cuisines that people enjoy around the world. I have yet to try roasted pork prepared in another country that could come close to Cebu lechon. And being a dessert fanatic, where else can you have budbod kabog (steamed millet cakes) as good as in Cebu, or bibingka (rice cakes) as good as Balamban’s, or the calamay in Bohol. My mouth is watering just thinking about them!

But the language may be the best about being a Filipino. English sounds intelligent. French sounds fancy and sophisticated. Spanish sounds delicious, Italian sweet and romantic, Russian strong and feisty. But Tagalog sounds like home and Cebuano like hot champorado (chocolate rice porridge) on a rainy night. 

I grieve when I learn of children not knowing how to speak our language. [And they live in the Philippines!] I am not judging their upbringing or their ability to retain several languages at the same time, but I can’t help but be saddened by it. Why are we rejecting what we have in favor of what we think would make us look favorable to the rest of the world? Why can’t we be as proud of our language as the French are?

In four weeks, I will be visiting home again and I can’t wait to stand in the middle of a busy intersection and hear:

“Hoy!” (Hey!)

“Ngano ka?” (I couldn’t find an English equivalent that would capture the emotion associated with this expression.)

“Haskang!” (**)

December can’t come soon enough!

Dreaming of home. Always.