Back at Home and Nothing's the Same

Once I returned home from my first trip to Davao, I began noticing characteristics about my own family that were very familiar to the family I had stayed with for three weeks. I realized how close I was with my aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, etc. Every afternoon after school was spent playing with my 5 cousins and eating a dinner my aunt had prepared. Every holiday was spent at an aunt’s house or an uncle’s apartment, and every time someone was sick, upset, or sad about something, the entire family banded together to try to work it out. I had learned how important family was in the Philippines, but I had never completely realized how important MY family was to ME. I had been raised in that exact same tradition and had just always considered it “normal”.
After returning home, I found myself becoming very comfortable talking about my experiences with all of my Filipino friends. I started talking about how my mom was Filipina and I was proud to say it. However, there was one experience that I had the first 3 months after I got back that completely knocked the wind out of me. At the time, I was a very competitive basketball player. My parents wanted me to join this elite all-Asian league that was based out of San Jose. However, if you weren’t at least ¼ Asian, whether Pacific Islander, Chinese, Indian, etc., you couldn’t play on one of the teams. I met the bloodline requirement, so I went to try out. The second I walked into the gym, I felt fourty-some-odd eyes staring at me. I picked up a ball and started playing, and of course, I became increasingly uncomfortable once I realized all of the parents and players were looking at me because, well, I looked white and not Asian. The team was made up of 5 Chinese girls, 2 Japanese girls, 1 Tongan girl, and 2 Indian girls…and well…me, for the time being. Their parents had all chosen to marry a partner of the same racial background, so none of the girls were “mixed”. I practiced with them once, and that was the end of it. I remember the night the coaches called my parents and told them they couldn’t offer me a position on the team. When my dad asked why, the coach proceeded to tell him how all of the players’ parents had complained and didn’t believe I was Asian at all and said my mom didn’t even LOOK Filipina but Spanish. My dad threw the phone across the room, and my mom began to cry. That was the first time I ever really questioned whether or not I was truly Asian. Apparently, being “mixed” just wasn’t okay.