"A little away from Home"

"Sadie, never forget where you came from", these were the words of my mother, of course back then her English wasn't as fluent as my father's, but those words still sprung into my mind as clear as day. I'm sitting in my kitchen, staring at the boiling pot of chopped up pork, tomatoes, and onions on the stove under a dimly lit light. I took a long sigh and tried to get all my thoughts together. It seems a little harder cooking dinner, even though the smell of garlic and various spices filled the air. And my appetite wasn't as strong as before, actually it feels like my stomach is starting to sink. I just got a call from my cousin, we used to be very close, but now... I could barely understand the words he said. The call itself wasn't an emergency or anything major, we usually call each other maybe twice and three times a month... just to keep in touch. The conversation itself was just embarrassingly awkward, as I kept getting stuck on word after word that sounded less familiar as he kept speaking. I couldn't bring myself to stop and question what he was saying, my pride wouldn't allow it, I just nodded and hummed happy to at least hear his voice.

I immigrated to the U.S. when I was seven years old with my family, before that I lived in the Philippines and grew up accustomed there. Yet growing up here in the U.S. things were different than what I was familiar with. As a young child, it's easy to lose yourself in a twisted mix of trying to find your self-identity through your cultural identity and what other children defined as being the 'Norm'. Though I learned later in life, that any child from a 2nd or 3rd generation of migrant parents could relate to that feeling, back then I just felt so ashamed of my origins. I felt 'othered' throughout my adolescent years in a new place where I had once thought would welcome me and my family with open arms.

I hated not being able to learn as quick as the other children or having a decent conversation without fumbling through sentences or being asked about my accent. But the worst of it all would be when it came to food. More than English or Tagalog, her native tongue, food was her love language and she, more than anyone I know, spoke it so fluently that many people consider her a culinary expert. Every morning when I came downstairs for breakfast or after a long day at school, my mother cooked and packed me lunches, that she carefully made with 'all the love in the world', she would say. To me, her cooking filled me up with a certain joy that could only come from a mother. And yet, as you would expect, this was a time before cultural diversity was more accepted. I couldn't stand bringing it to school. I still remember the glares of disgust I was given when I brought leftovers or had a lingering smell of last night's dinner on me. I felt as though I was supposed to be ashamed of where I came from, how I looked and what I eat because no matter what I did I would get stares and teased for the smell of my homeland's cuisine. It's truly a traumatizing feeling to be outcasted by your peers for something you cannot totally control, such an experience would make your blood run cold.

With those countless everyday remarks, came an eager resolve to assimilate into American culture and a strong tenacity to rid myself of anything that might suggest I'm foreign, that included stopping myself from speaking Filipino or eating the dishes I held so dearly. My parents disagreed with my choice of cultural abandonment, as they both worked tirelessly to get us to where we are now. I remember the look my mother gave me when I first asked if she could start making me something else, like the food the other kids brought to lunch, she gave a soft smile and muttered an 'Okay'. To this day, I still wonder how much it pained her to hear that. I spent over a decade of trying to reinvent myself to fit the America's picture of 'Normal', I rewired my brain to think, speak, and write in English, burying Tagalog deep in the recesses of my brain. I didn’t think of that abandonment as a sense of Self-hate or an elaborate makeover, but as a means of establishing a new self that everyone would like, to push past that language barrier that I felt was holding me back.

Today, I'm married to a loving man with two kids of my own, a wonderful girl that reminded me of my younger self and a spunky little boy.

Now that I'm an adult, I can't help but remember what my mother said to me, and she's right. Slowly, it feels like more pieces that make up who I am are floating away. I've been told a couple of insignificant words shouldn't matter much, but to me, it meant that a world I once grew up in was steadily crumbling in a forgotten page in the back of my memories. It meant feeling alienated from a community that I, ironically, pushed further and further away. Most importantly, it meant losing my Filipina Identity and not being able to pass down the remnants of my culture to my children. Moreover, when it comes to family visits it becomes harder and harder communicating to my loved ones. I've missed out on meaningful conversations with my grandparents, taking a trip down memory lane with my father and having a heart to heart of all the things I wanted to say to my sweet mother. Each time I forget another word, experiencing more of the effects of First Language Attrition, it was like I was a becoming less Philippian by the day.

Does that... Make Sense?

Pulling back from my thoughts, I finished plating the table. Dinner tonight would be a home dish, a comfort food from my Childhood: Afritada.

Though I'm losing my mother tongue, I'm also fluent in the language that communicates to the heart and stomach. The smell of tenderly cooked pork graced the air. I sighed once more and took a seat at the table as my family ate with happy grins under a warm light that engulfed our entire dining room. My husband asked me questions left and right which of course inquired our kids to ask about my heritage and what was growing up like.

Coming to the realization that I was losing my native language, has had a major impact on my life. I've felt disconnected with my family’s culture and along with that of my family's struggles, while reconnecting to it has been quite the journey of its own. I shouldn’t be surprised that regaining it may require more time and effort than I anticipated. My story of linguistic barriers and identity is not only a case of being careful what you wish for but being better prepared for consequences that you were too busy fussing over the 'now' to see. For instance, feeling like a foreign stranger in a house filled with just family. The teenage me would have been overjoyed to hear this, but the middle-aged American mother regrets what might now be irreversible. Now I have begun to accept that coming from an immigrant culture especially as a woman of color, is a wonderful gift, not a setback or something to be ashamed of. It's a wonderful gift of knowing where you came from that not many get to have.

What keeps me going is to regain that connection to my loved ones and build one for my children... After all, while I may live with regret they have a choice, and I will happily give them that choice.