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Discovering Filipina self at Grinnell

Columnist Erin Sinogba explains her ethnic identity by tracing her varied roots in Korea, Grenada and the Philippines

by Erin Sinogba

Here in the U.S., everything needs to be qualified. You aren’t anything without stating your age, sex, gender, race, ethnicity, major, occupation, or religion.

During orientation as a first year, we learned how to appreciate Korean-Americans, Chinese-Americans, African-Americans, German-Americans, Native Americans, and Indian-Americans. In my case, it was about being non-American.

Now, obviously, I don’t need to attend Grinnell or even live in the U.S. to figure out that I’m not American.

Non-Americanness permeates every aspect of my life here. My first steps on U.S. territory relegates me to a line at the far end of customs, where my fingerprints and a haggard trans-Pacific mug shot are taken to make sure they can identify me if I decide to bomb someone.

Every year, I am haunted by terms like I-20 and I-94 (not U.S. interstates), SEVIS and OPT. On a less legal note, I am part of groups like the International Student Organization, where they encourage me to display my culture by participating in International Dress Day, adding to the diversity of flavors at the Food Bazaar, and singing at the Talent Show.

Even on an individual scale, people remark at my curious, unpronounceable surname, asking where I am from. I naturally respond by saying, “The Philippines.”

Yes, I am Filipina (with an –a, the feminine form). I know this from the shortness of my height, my kayumanggi brown skin, and the way I talk in a sing-song voice and pronounce dude as “Dood!”

I now also know this from the language I speak with only one other person on this campus and from the feelings of nationalism after listening to a song about a dad leaving his son to work abroad. The funny part is, I didn’t give a shit about any of this until I got here.

You see, I didn’t always grow up in the Philippines. I was born in South Korea and lived there until I was five.

I didn’t learn Tagalog until after that and even then was looked upon as a foreigner at my elementary school in the Philippines because I didn’t know how to play Chinese jumprope or to speak everyone’s slang.

Then my family relocated to the beautiful island of Grenada when I was seven and lived there until I was eleven.

During these formative years, in what Jamaica Kincaid would call “a small place”, I remained tight with my exclusive group of friends, who were mostly foreigners — the children of ambassadors, businessmen, NGO directors, and even families who just happened to be sailing by (literally).

My family made an effort to be friends with the few Filipinos to magically appear on the island, who were made up of a driver, a nanny, the wives of Ghanaian and Canadian nationals and a bunch of cooks.

Honestly, I didn’t always enjoy hanging out with them. There was nothing wrong with our Filipino friends -- on the contrary, some were pretty awesome.

I just hated the way that we always had to stick to our little Filipino bubble. I hated being reminded that I was still Filipino.

Mind you, this had nothing to do with Filipino-ness itself at all. After living outside of the Philippines for so long and after having friends my age who were a large mix of nationalities, I really had no idea what being Filipino was supposed to mean.

Additionally, there were very few instances at that point where my nationality was set in opposition to others.

It was never about how I was Filipino, while Alicia was English, Sarah was Scottish and Gita was Trinidadian-Curaçaoan.

It wasn’t even about how I was born in Korea, while Alicia was born in Oman and Gita lived in Canada for a really long time.

We knew all of these things and even talked about them at contrived school events like International Day, but it was never truly an issue. We were just four friends who somehow ended up together in a little school on an island far away. No papers or passports involved.

I returned to the Philippines when I was eleven and my dad gave me the gift of putting me in another international school, where my cultural construct remained.

I met wonderful people who shared this with me, even other Filipino nationals who did not feel or “act” Filipino. It was nice to know that I was not alone, especially when faced with criticism from others for not being Filipino enough.

Looking back, it was as if my environment could have been placed anywhere and the outcome would have been the same.

There was no sense of strict separation by nationality and whatever differences we did acknowledge were embraced with a grain of political incorrectness.

Wearing baggy jeans and a FuBu sweatshirt in 30 degree celsius weather while talking loudly with your Cali twang? That’s a balikbayan for you!

Of course, I only think back on it this way now, after a few years in Grinnell. I didn’t know what political correctness even meant until issues of what made appropriate satire after the GUM fiasco came up.

I didn’t know there was a difference between race and ethnicity until my first few Anthropology classes. And I certainly did not know that I would eventually accept and embrace my Filipino-ness, both legally and internally.

Yes, after years of feeling nationality-less, I can safely and proudly say I am Filipina. Despite the mix of cultures that influence me here in the U.S., being Filipina is what I hold on to and remember consistently.

However, like the American, I will not hesitate to qualify it with my history. After all, it is the way of life to make sure you have an identity.

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