The Cash n’ Carry nation

Growing up in a multicultural school can be tough. I was six when I was transferred to an Osh-Kosh grade school near my house where it seemed that the whole UN summit was being formed. The place was abuzz with a hodgepodge of accents like Brit, American, Greek, Australian... you name it, they had it. I added to the list my Visayan accent (thanks to Lolo). Even the Pinoy kids who stripped off their Esprits were spitting images of the Philippine history diorama figurines at the Ayala Museum, but they too were bleached to a slang.

Admittedly, I am not one of those Filipinos whom the CCP and golden award giving bodies give out awards to every year. Yet despite my fantasy of buying out Mattel so that I could have all the Barbies, I was distinctly Pinoy. I credit my childhood nocturnal habits to my grandfather who was a patriot and saw it fit to include bedtime stories on Philippine history with emphasis on martial law. Unfortunately, I was the product of what followed after martial law, the relaunching of ABS-CBN. I loved Regal Drama Presents... as in grover, as Regal baby Ruffa would always say. I wanted to be sisters with Lot Lot and take Aiza to the playground and introduce her to my imaginary friends. I wanted Maricel to beat the crap out of every rich bitch that came between her and her James Cooper, and I wanted badly for Richard Gomez to end up with the protagonist with the long hair (it seems every protagonist had long hair then except maybe for a few like Maricel Soriano – the contravida always had this horrendous bob, like an odd apple cut... no sympathy there).

So what was so patriotic there? Well, imagine being in a school where you were baduy for liking these things. As a kid you tend to flock with the majority and pine for the likes of Patrick Swayze and Tom Cruise. Yet, I loved my Filipino movie idols then and I continue to do so today. Early on I realized that the adulation for local produce has never been the dernier cri of the so-called chic. I would bring tuyo to school which my blonde non-friends would crinkle their noses at and make fun of me while I ate my tasty meal (more tasty than peanut butter and jelly... a sad combo of lunch and dessert). I was six, with no fashion sense, yet I knew that in the sea of these foreigners and white-washed Pinoys, I was a Filipino in every way.

It’s easy not be proud to be part of this race especially now. The government is a farce of nature, with a cabinet that has more backstabbing episodes than the whole run of Dynasty. Presidentiables have the credibility of used cars salesmen. Political parties that have no ideology (well, maybe it’s stated in the fine print), but have lots of monetary interests on the rise.

We send old men to the little leagues. Send Pinays with American twangs to represent our country in beauty pageants. We have gross celebrities airing their dirty laundry in public. We have foreigners endorsing local products thus confusing us on what we should really look like. We are told that if we bleach our skin we’ll bag that cutie. We listen to Chinese songs that we don’t understand.

I love what the west has to offer no doubt about that. From the Sundance flicks over the Diana Zubiri crimes of celluloid, to the sophisticated strummings of Dido over Mr. Suave (though it is growing on me), to the real American Idol over that local pathetic rip-off. Early on, I realized what it meant to be a real Filipino in the UN playground.

It’s not about slamming imported goods or tunes, this kind of cultural barter has been going on since the galleon trade. It’s not about not speaking English either. It’s not about attending every revolution so we can oust another president. It’s not about making a petition to kick out some important people so our stock market can take a long dive to the abyss of worthlessness again. It’s not about marrying your kind because hey, those foreigners can be cute! Being a Filipino has nothing to do with what’s happening now. It’s embracing the culture that you have in a way you can wholly relate to. It’s being comfortable being a Filipino. Going to the States and asking where the bathroom is without affecting a sort of crooked slang. Eating dinuguan without apologies. Not forgetting how much I love Dahil Mahal na Mahal Kita with Claudine, Diether and the late Rico. Not forgetting what a great singer Lani Misalucha is and how she can kick Mariah’s neurotic ass anyday! How I can laugh at Pinoy toilet humor harder than South Park antics. Some people have their vast knowledge of indigenous tribes to enrich this love. Some have retained old Filipino traditions pristinely. I have my own way of loving my being Pinoy, though less sophisticated in nature admittedly.

When I was living in New York I lived in this snooty building. The doorman was Pinoy and we would talk about how even in such modern times racism still exists. I was once asked whether Filipinos live in trees. Well, I lived in a street called Flame Tree but I hardly think that qualifies. Another asked me why I spoke such good English. I just told him to fuck off.

Plus all this bowing to the gods of baduywood is kind of delilah really. I mean look at the presidential dinner at Malacañang for Hollywood washups like Lou Diamond Philips and Tia Carrere who probably don’t even have access to the SoHo House in Chelsea and have not seen the hand at Bungalow 8. Just because they have some Pinoy blood but can’t even cuss in Tagalog ,they still are honored. Being Pinoy is knowing you are one. Do you think these two consider themselves Filipinos when they write their resumes? Part of a myriad of the slashes of nationalities to add exotic flair perhaps.

To be proud of being Filipino is knowing what one is by one’s own definition. It’s appreciating, loving and sometimes being defiant about what you have picked up along the way. There is no formula nor edict that makes your appreciation for your own nationality any better than anyone else’s.

But it has to be genuine. I once met a foreigner who, after moving from one place to another his whole life and not living anywhere permanently for more than three years, found himself nestled in our country. He asked me why everyone wanted to be somewhere else but here, someone else but Filipino. He genuinely loved it here and he even had the time to hate it (15 years and counting), but did not. Unlike many, he picked up some pieces from our culture and made them his own.

We are born into this culture and race. Confusion only happens when we refuse to accept. Though one may say that now that our country is at its knees with delilah, we must unite as a nation. Good or bad times, you have to accept and embrace being a Pinoy in any way you possibly can.