by Kaitlin Milliken
Reflecting on my childhood, I always remember family parties with fondness. My grandma had immigrated to the US in the 70s. Her six siblings followed along. Eventually her brother and sister had children. Then, those children had children. And, by the time I was born, our family was a large clan of Bay Area Filipinos with whom I passed every major occasion of my life.
My grandma had also successfully petitioned for her parents — my Nanay and Tatay — to immigrate to the US. I have very vague memories of our family’s matriarch and patriarch before their passing, but one sticks out vividly in my mind.
I was in early elementary school at another birthday party that an aunt was hosting at her house in San Jose, California. My Tatay offered his hand to me so I can honor him with mano po, a way to show elders respect. Instead of taking his hand and touching it to my forehead, I went in for a handshake. All American, business casual.
The grownups laughed at the time. I was American-born and didn’t know any better. Even at that young age, I felt like a cultural outsider in my own family. The customs my relatives participated in so fluidly seemed foreign to me. I speak in greater depth about my relationship with culture in the pilot episode of the BOSFilipinos Podcast, but, for so long, I felt as if I wasn’t Filipino enough.
What follows is a quick foray into overcoming that cultural imposter syndrome, and why celebrating Filipino American History Month is a crucial step in understanding my racial identity.
My extended family celebrating my mom’s 50th birthday and my dad’s retirement in 2019.
Recognizing the Filipino-Side of my Asian Heritage
I often wonder, why did I feel like a cultural interloper? For so long, I attributed that feeling to being mixed race. My dad is half-Japanese, half-generically-white.
Growing up, I was surrounded by people who were Filipino — both in my family and at my mostly-Asian elementary school. When I compared their lives to mine, nothing seemed to line up. My classmates ate sinigang for dinner, and we were more of a shake-and-bake chicken type of household.
Meanwhile, I had no Japanese relatives or friends to benchmark my experience with. My paternal grandmother had passed away, leaving our family without Japanese traditions. Instead of trying to fit in with my classmates, I “picked” to lean into the Japanese side of my identity. I spent my formative years watching anime and listening to early 2010s Jpop. (As an adult, I realize that neither of those things are great gauges of Japanese society and were not to be taken as gospel. But, we all make regrettable choices in our early teens.)
It was only after moving to college that I learned how deeply my Filipino identity had touched me. Most of my friends at Boston University came from White, All-American households. Many didn’t have the close-knit extended families that showed up for every birthday, Christmas, Superbowl, and three day weekend. Karaoke was something to be done at bars, not by drunk uncles singing “Danny Boy” in the living room on the Fourth of July.
Most importantly, I realized that my values stemmed from my Filipino-American upbringing. My grandma and mom always put other people before themselves. They showed their love through sacrifice and generosity. Whatever anyone needed, they provided without any hesitation. The way I express and understand love comes from their examples.
It was in my late teens that I realized that my cultural identity was not a binary, and I was just as Filipino as I was American or Japanese.
Me quarantined at my apartment in Boston, wearing earring from BRWNGRLZ, a Pinay-owned small business.
Embracing What I Know
After graduation, I moved to the East Coast for work, thousands of miles away from my family. I couldn't fly back for every occasion and often found myself homesick. In order to feel closer to them, I started to spend more time nurturing my Filipino-American identity.
I would call my grandma to ask her about where she grew up in metro-Manila, what it was like to go to nursing school in the Philippines, and about how she felt when she first stepped foot in California. My kitchen started to include staples like banana ketchup and fish sauce. Thanks to Google Translate, I was able to try my hand at making the siopao and empanadas so readily available in my hometown.
I also started to look for art that spoke to the Filipino-American experience — from books to film to music. Artists like Ruby Ibarra and Klassy spoke to the immigrant stories that I had been surrounded by in the Bay Area.
And, of course, I volunteered to make a podcast for BOSFilipinos as a way to connect and learn from Filipinos and Filipino-Americans in my new home.
Learning What I Don’t
Understanding what it means to be a Filipino-American has been a journey — one that I will continue for the rest of my life. At age 23, I am just beginning to understand the role that culture plays in how I see the world. I know getting in touch with my roots means more than drumming up some recipes in the kitchen and listening to my grandma’s stories of the motherland.
The next step of understanding my FilAm identity is learning about the history of both Filipino Americans and Filipinos living in the Philippines. It also involves recognizing that people from the Philippines do not have a monolithic culture. Each region has aspects that make it unique. There are also indigineous groups, like Igorots and Aetas, who face unique challenges often because of other Filipinos.
There’s lots of nuance that I don’t yet understand, and I have so much to learn about the complexities of being a Filipino-American. That’s why I’m grateful to have Filipino American History Month as a time to start reflecting. I also know that taking the time to understand history and myself is an attitude that I should carry each day — FAHM and beyond.