Learning from ‘My Namesake’ in the land of ‘tinapa’ and chopsticks

This Week’s Winner
The author is a 16-year-old high school student of an exclusive girls school in Greenhills. She is pure Chinese, but ironically can barely speak Chinese nor appreciate Chinese culture.

Being a student leader, she is active in school organizations such as the student council. Her hobbies include reading romance novels, listening to music and hanging out with friends.

Being a pure-bred Chinese and living in Manila for the past 16 years of my life, I have always adored the smell of tinapa from the kitchen. It is widely known among Filipinos that tinapang bangus is a delicacy eaten with chopped tomatoes, onions and salted eggs, its flavor leveled out by the bland taste of plain white rice. The pure Chinese that I am, I should be fond of Chinese food which is full of flavors and spices, such as the sumptuous birthday noodles, salted crab, steamed fish, sweet and sour pork, and the dim sum medley; but I am not. My preference for food, because of the culture I have grown up with, is for Filipino dishes. In this way, I have proven to myself that despite my small stature, yellowish skin, chinky eyes and straight hair, I am Filipino.

My selection of music, too, suggests where I truly belong. Though I am accustomed to hearing music from the late Teresa Teng, Jimmy Chou and the once famous F4, I still prefer the sounds of Moonstar 88, MYMP, Sugarfree, and Parokya ni Edgar to those previously mentioned. No offense to these artists who are my "countrymen" back in China or Taiwan, but their lyrics don’t seem to penetrate into my psyche the way OPM songs do. Listening to Chinese music leaves me a "chalky" feeling inside, unsure of whether I should sit down and suffer or leave for good. It seems, too, that I am acting in the same way a Filipino will when exposed to such music. This aspect, too, proves that beneath my Mongolian features, I embody in every single particle of me my being Filipino. In other words, I am in the midst of a cultural conflict.

This is the case opened by New York Times bestselling author Jhumpa Lahiri as she writes The Namesake, a story mainly based on conflict about one’s cultural identity. The novel starts as Ashoke and Ashima Ganguli, a couple wed by arrangement in Calcutta, India, travels to the United States to start a family. They give birth to two children, namely Gogol and Sonia Ganguli, the former named after renowned Russian novelist Nikolai Gogol. The story focuses on Gogol from his birth up to his adulthood, where he truly faces a question of his identity. Born and raised in America, Gogol most probably preferred burgers and fries to pots of curry and hot sauce. He preferred listening to the Beatles to watching Indian films. Every trip to their hometown Calcutta he detested; he preferred going to school where his friends are. Even his name, Gogol he terribly disliked; he wished for something else, something American. As a result, he changed his name from Gogol to Nikhil, shortened to Nick. He grew up to be a normal American teenager, entering Yale for college, smoking pot with his friends, and meeting new people in parties. He even had affairs with American girls, forgetting his being Indian. As years went by, he met a lot of women, most of whom he dated but somehow turning him down in the end. In the end, Gogol settled with an Indian girl named Moushumi, who, like him, was raised in the United States. His marriage with this woman seemed peaceful and steady at first; however, Gogol found out that his wife had an affair with a man in her past, named Dimitri. Knowing about his chronic misfortune with women, Gogol returned home to where his mother, Ashima lived, and most likely also lived the rest of his life with her.

The Namesake is a truly well written book by Jhumpa Lahiri, for despite its being fictional, it still seems tangential to events occurring in reality. The way it was written, it may have occurred in the past. Many others in the United States and in other parts of the world may have experienced the feeling of belonging nowhere, or being alienated from society because of their races and distinct cultures. Conflict within oneself about what should or should not be followed in terms of rituals and religious practices arises, when one is part of a group of "misplaced" people. My food and music preference represent the superficial part of my difficulty in being Chinese, and at the same time living in a non-Chinese community.

Since my childhood and up to my teenage years, my cousins and I have somehow irked our parents and grandparents because of our ignorance of Chinese culture. In their presence, we would speak either in English, Tagalog, or even Taglish, mindless of the multitude of Fookien syllables uttered to us. When my parents ask me, "Robyn ah, di tsia lo ba?" (Robyn, have you eaten), I reply, "Hindi pa. Hindi pa kasi luto eh…" As I blurt out my reply to them, I see their faces slightly contort, as if they have seen a glimpse of the movie The Exorcism of Emily Rose. During burial ceremonies and haha popi (honoring of ancestors), my puzzled face would seem like my being is in a round of Jeopardy with my fellow contestants answering every question sharply and with utter aplomb. I, as if I were a novice in my dance class, would slowly kneel down the small leather cushion, shakily grabbing a stick or two of red, pungent incense, and prostrate to the ground three times. Acting like a foreigner in my own native culture, I have disappointed my old folks in some ways.

I cannot help being indifferent to my Chinese culture despite my Chinese blood, just as Gogol Ganguli was to being an Indian from Calcutta. I cannot help being Filipino in almost every way, since I have spent most of my life in this country. Like Gogol’s attitude towards the United States, I regard the Philippines as my home and my motherland. My teachers in school, who never failed to give us the knowledge that we should master, are mostly Filipinos. My first language, too, as stated, is no other than Tagalog.

Being Filipino in heart and mind is truly something to be proud of, seeing the exemplary achievements of our fellow countrymen in recent years. However, seeing my features, people may think that something is wrong. Some may think of me as an alien performing household chores, or a dog meowing sheepily in the middle of the road.

Really, where do I belong?

Although it is somewhat difficult to accept, the new breed of Chinese youth here in the Philippines has somewhat assimilated with cultures of the West, and of the Philippines. This generation is what I call the Chinoy, a unique blend of both completely disparate backgrounds. I belong to the harmonious amalgamation of Chinese-Filipino culture, and in a community where people of either tradition respect one another, and make themselves feel at home.