Identity Crisis
While surfing my favorite sites today, I came across this:
http://io9.com/5958919/read-ken-lius-amazing-story-that-swept-the-hugo-nebula-and-world-fantasy-awards?utm_campaign=socialflow_io9_facebook&utm_source=io9_facebook&utm_medium=socialflow
Go read this story. It’s short, will probably take about 10-20 minutes tops. The rest of this entry may make sense, but will probably make more sense if you read this first.
My daughter came up to me the other day after dance class.
“Mommy, why am I brown?”
I smiled at her and took her up into my arms. “Because I’m brown, bubbump. “
“But why are you brown?”
“Because I’m Filipino. You’re half-filipino, so you’re not as brown as I am, but you’re still brown.”
“But I don’t want to be Filipino. I’m Irish.”
“Sweetheart,” I said, “You’re half-Irish and half-Filipino.”
“But I don’t want to be brown, I’m Irish, not Filipino.” And she hopped off my lap and ran into the backyard to her daddy, who was cluelessly relaxing in his hammock.
I can’t tell you how much it hurt me she would not want to be part of me. I mean I know she’s at the age where ethnicity isn’t a big deal and most kids are nice to anyone nice to them. But to hear those words come from her lips made me take a step back to when I was a bit older than her.
I wasn’t openly harassed or discriminated against because of my race when I was younger. But I do remember the funny looks I would get when we’d all sit down for lunch and I’d have a pandesal with peanut butter and jelly, or with spam and cheese and the rest of the kids would have their mushy, white bread sandwiches. I remember being embarrassed when the “cool kids” would point at my lunch and make those sneaky, snide comments. It hurt to the point I started asking my mother if I could buy lunch, just to avoid those stares.
I remember going to the Philippines for the first time and falling in love with everything about it. I loved being a Filipino-American, loved trying to learn the language, loved how my cousins dressed, talked, looked, everything. When we came back with suitcases full of custom made fashions and more goodies than a kid could carry (easily) I couldn’t’ wait to show my friends how cool I was, how fabulous being Filipino was.
They ended up insulting me, saying my clothes were weird, my food was weird, and I was weird for being proud of all of it. It was then I decided I’m an American; in public I have to start doing things the American way. And for the most part I did. I begged my parents for Jordache jeans, even though my tailored ones fit perfectly. I begged for high heeled shoes, even though I had beautifully carved sandals in my closet. In other words, I wanted to be an American girl.
Then came the day my friends and I discovered makeup. All the cool girls used makeup, so we had to as well. I remember sneaking into my mother’s rooms and squirreling away her tiny blue eyeshadow compact from Avon. There were other colors she had, but all the American girls wore blue eyeshadow, so I had to wear blue. My friends and I would lock ourselves in my bedroom and cake on eyeshadow and ruby red lipstick and they’d laugh at me because my skin tone was so dark, the lipstick would make me look like a clown. I realized I’d never wear the colors my friends wore because they all had the perfect alabaster pale skin, blue eyes and light hair I’d wished for.
It made me hate being brown.
Then one day, after my friends left, I noticed one of them left their coverstick behind. It was pale, called “ivory” and almost brand new. I remember swirling up the stick and swiping a streak across my cheek. And another. And another. And soon, I covered most of my face with this pale greasestick that made me the same color as my friends. I looked around for some powder to set it with, but only had baby powder left from my little brother. But I shook some on a powder puff and dusted it across my face.
I remember looking at myself in the mirror and feeling disgusted. Not because of the crap on my face, but because my hair was too dark to go with my new skintone. So I took the powder and started dusting it through my hair, hoping by some miracle it would turn it blonde like all my friends. All I succeeded in doing was turning my hair gray and choking myself out of my own bedroom in a cloud of talc.
I went into the bathroom to catch my breath and got another look at myself in the mirror. I never felt so stupid in my entire life. I didn’t look anything like my friends, I was a wannabe covered in powder in greasepaint. I’d never be white, I’d never be an American girl. I’d always be this dumb brown Filipino. I think that’s where my self-esteem issues started, and part of why I was suicidal in Junior High School. I was different, and there was nothing I could do about it.
It took several years to get over that and realize I am an American girl and being an American of Filipino descent isn’t a bad thing to be. I’ve re-learned how to be proud of my heritage, to the point of proudly declaring how ‘FOBulous’ I am. And I’m trying to instill that pride into my daughter.
So it tore me up when she looked at me with her innocent eyes and told me with all the sincerity a four-year-old could muster, “I don’t want to be brown. I’m Irish.”
It hurts when your child rejects the same part of you that took so long to come to terms with. I remind myself daily that she’s only four; that her self-image will change from day to day; that her friends will only affect her as much as she lets them. And most of all, I remind myself that I am her first teacher, I am her first role model and that I went through the same types of identity crises she will.
I just hope I’m up to the job.
http://io9.com/5958919/read-ken-lius-amazing-story-that-swept-the-hugo-nebula-and-world-fantasy-awards?utm_campaign=socialflow_io9_facebook&utm_source=io9_facebook&utm_medium=socialflow
Go read this story. It’s short, will probably take about 10-20 minutes tops. The rest of this entry may make sense, but will probably make more sense if you read this first.
My daughter came up to me the other day after dance class.
“Mommy, why am I brown?”
I smiled at her and took her up into my arms. “Because I’m brown, bubbump. “
“But why are you brown?”
“Because I’m Filipino. You’re half-filipino, so you’re not as brown as I am, but you’re still brown.”
“But I don’t want to be Filipino. I’m Irish.”
“Sweetheart,” I said, “You’re half-Irish and half-Filipino.”
“But I don’t want to be brown, I’m Irish, not Filipino.” And she hopped off my lap and ran into the backyard to her daddy, who was cluelessly relaxing in his hammock.
I can’t tell you how much it hurt me she would not want to be part of me. I mean I know she’s at the age where ethnicity isn’t a big deal and most kids are nice to anyone nice to them. But to hear those words come from her lips made me take a step back to when I was a bit older than her.
I wasn’t openly harassed or discriminated against because of my race when I was younger. But I do remember the funny looks I would get when we’d all sit down for lunch and I’d have a pandesal with peanut butter and jelly, or with spam and cheese and the rest of the kids would have their mushy, white bread sandwiches. I remember being embarrassed when the “cool kids” would point at my lunch and make those sneaky, snide comments. It hurt to the point I started asking my mother if I could buy lunch, just to avoid those stares.
I remember going to the Philippines for the first time and falling in love with everything about it. I loved being a Filipino-American, loved trying to learn the language, loved how my cousins dressed, talked, looked, everything. When we came back with suitcases full of custom made fashions and more goodies than a kid could carry (easily) I couldn’t’ wait to show my friends how cool I was, how fabulous being Filipino was.
They ended up insulting me, saying my clothes were weird, my food was weird, and I was weird for being proud of all of it. It was then I decided I’m an American; in public I have to start doing things the American way. And for the most part I did. I begged my parents for Jordache jeans, even though my tailored ones fit perfectly. I begged for high heeled shoes, even though I had beautifully carved sandals in my closet. In other words, I wanted to be an American girl.
Then came the day my friends and I discovered makeup. All the cool girls used makeup, so we had to as well. I remember sneaking into my mother’s rooms and squirreling away her tiny blue eyeshadow compact from Avon. There were other colors she had, but all the American girls wore blue eyeshadow, so I had to wear blue. My friends and I would lock ourselves in my bedroom and cake on eyeshadow and ruby red lipstick and they’d laugh at me because my skin tone was so dark, the lipstick would make me look like a clown. I realized I’d never wear the colors my friends wore because they all had the perfect alabaster pale skin, blue eyes and light hair I’d wished for.
It made me hate being brown.
Then one day, after my friends left, I noticed one of them left their coverstick behind. It was pale, called “ivory” and almost brand new. I remember swirling up the stick and swiping a streak across my cheek. And another. And another. And soon, I covered most of my face with this pale greasestick that made me the same color as my friends. I looked around for some powder to set it with, but only had baby powder left from my little brother. But I shook some on a powder puff and dusted it across my face.
I remember looking at myself in the mirror and feeling disgusted. Not because of the crap on my face, but because my hair was too dark to go with my new skintone. So I took the powder and started dusting it through my hair, hoping by some miracle it would turn it blonde like all my friends. All I succeeded in doing was turning my hair gray and choking myself out of my own bedroom in a cloud of talc.
I went into the bathroom to catch my breath and got another look at myself in the mirror. I never felt so stupid in my entire life. I didn’t look anything like my friends, I was a wannabe covered in powder in greasepaint. I’d never be white, I’d never be an American girl. I’d always be this dumb brown Filipino. I think that’s where my self-esteem issues started, and part of why I was suicidal in Junior High School. I was different, and there was nothing I could do about it.
It took several years to get over that and realize I am an American girl and being an American of Filipino descent isn’t a bad thing to be. I’ve re-learned how to be proud of my heritage, to the point of proudly declaring how ‘FOBulous’ I am. And I’m trying to instill that pride into my daughter.
So it tore me up when she looked at me with her innocent eyes and told me with all the sincerity a four-year-old could muster, “I don’t want to be brown. I’m Irish.”
It hurts when your child rejects the same part of you that took so long to come to terms with. I remind myself daily that she’s only four; that her self-image will change from day to day; that her friends will only affect her as much as she lets them. And most of all, I remind myself that I am her first teacher, I am her first role model and that I went through the same types of identity crises she will.
I just hope I’m up to the job.