My name is Angelica. I am 20 years old. And I struggle with being Asian American.
Let me start from the beginning. I am a first-generation American. My parents immigrated from the Philippines to the United States in the 1990’s. They settled in Ohio, where I was born in a small town. Eventually, we moved to an even smaller town in the boot-heel of Missouri. It was just my parents, my ama (grandmother in Chinese), and me. My parents both have thick, Filipino accents. They spoke fast and they spoke loud. I didn’t think much of it as a child, but as I grew older, I became hyper-aware that I was not like the rest of my peers.
I’ve always struggled with being Asian American. I’ve never felt white enough for my American friends, but at the same time, I’ve never felt Filipino enough for my family. I can’t speak the native language, but I can understand it– a common problem for plenty of Asian Americans. It always felt as if I was trapped. So I did what I thought was right: I pushed down my culture and tried my best to blend in with my fair-skinned friends.
Once I started high school, the pressure to fit in grew even more. I dyed the ends of my hair a different color to match my friends with blonde hair. I piled on coats of mascara, bought Jack Rogers sandals, and went to Starbucks every other day. My friends would joke around and tell me, “You’re even more white than I am!” During the warmer months, people would hold their arm next to mine and say, “I’m almost as dark as you!”
These comments always left me feeling extremely confused. I would go home, look in the mirror and ask myself the same questions: Who am I exactly? Who am I to my friends? To my family? I was trying to be more American, but the comments I would get made me angry. I wasn’t white. Why were people telling me I was? On the flip side, my Tita’s (TEE-tas) and Tito’s (TEE-toes), what Filipinos call adult women and men, would lightheartedly tease me for being too American. But I didn’t feel as if I was American at all… but I wasn’t Filipino either. I was left feeling lost and empty.
I remember I was on vacation with my family a few years ago. We were in the elevator with an American family. My parents were talking to each other about the day ahead in rapid Tagalog (the national Filipino language).
The mother of the other family caught my eye, and very loudly and slowly she asked me, “Oh, where are you from?”
I blinked at her and responded, “We’re from Missouri.”
The woman laughed and leaning in she asked again, “No, I mean where are you really from?”
At that moment, I knew what she was asking. She was asking my origin.
“My parents are from the Philippines. I was born in Ohio though.” And as soon as I said that, the interest in her eyes vanished.
“Oh, so you’re not foreign then,” she stated, shaking her head as she walked out of the elevator.
I will always remember that incident. I knew the woman meant well and that she had good intentions, but her question still left me frazzled. It was another reminder that I was still not enough for either race.
I’ve been searching for an answer to who I am for a long time. Since arriving at SLU, I have been able to really explore my culture and heritage more. I found friends who were also first-generation Americans, and we have been able to vent about our frustration at not being enough for either side.
Now I can say I am proud of who I am and where my parents come from. Filipinos have a lot of pride in where they come from and who they are. I am proud to say I am Asian American. I wouldn’t want to have it any other way. I am still learning to embrace who I am and where I come from. It’s still hard, but I’ve realized that I can just be who I want to be. Angelica. Asian. American. And most of all? Me.