When I told my American classmates that I was returning to my homeland, the Philippines, I received mixed reactions. The town I lived in was somewhat rural, the nearest mall being half an hour away (and that’s without any traffic at all). The only entertainment was the Friday-night high school football game in the fall. And foreigners, especially Asians like me, were a rare sight. Thus, it was only natural that my classmates wouldn’t know too many details about the outside world, much less the Philippines. In fact, one of the first questions asked of me when I made my announcement was: “So are you still going to go to school there?” The speaker was a girl who went to Europe at least once every year, and whom most would consider well-travelled.
Most Filipinos of the diaspora tend to congregate in big cities like New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles. But my father’s line of work called for him to work in small towns, and as a result, I spent five years getting to know the heart of average America, away from the hustle and bustle and melting-pot diversity that most Filipinos seem to equate with America. Throughout my stay I met common, everyday, average Americans, and by that I mean the sons and daughters of plumbers, teachers, truckers, cops, etc. This is a very far cry from the huge skyscrapers of New York, the artisans and culture of LA, the jet-setting CEOs, celebrities, etc. that Filipinos get to see on TV and in the movies.
So what did I learn?
First, let me explain that I left the Philippines when I was nine years old. Most of what I knew then about America was from watching TV and the movies. I expected that when we landed, we would live in a 3-story house in the suburbs with a neatly trimmed lawn and neighbors who would wave and smile every time we walked by. I expected that the kids at school would immediately love me, because they would consider me exotic and cool. I also expected that everyone in America would be white, with a white-collar job and celebrity good looks.
Reality was a departure from expectation. A few weeks after we landed, we moved into a small, 2-bedroom townhouse that was about half the size of the house we left behind in Parañaque. The neighborhood was divided between young families and university students, and there was the occasional old person who lived by themselves. Walking through the neighborhood was a lonely experience; there was no life on the streets at all. Our neighbors were friendly enough—with a “hi” or “hello” every now and then—but for the most part, one never heard from them. Inevitably, loneliness struck.
So I tried to make friends with the neighborhood kids, although there seemed to be none at first. Finally, I met a small boy named Damian a few years younger than me, who liked to play in the dirt. He spoke English with a Southern accent, and at first I had difficulty understanding him. Also, we didn’t seem to have the same interests, and we grew apart after a few weeks. Later, I found out his dad was a drug dealer who abused his mother, shattering my image of a wholesome America.
Fast-forward two years later: We had moved to the town I mentioned at the beginning of this piece. The town was pretty much divided between whites and African-Americans, and it wasn’t until then that I really started feeling out of place. The town was also somewhat poor: The locals were less cultured and educated, and there were stories like Damian’s. I went to school with boys who were amateur drug dealers and girls who became pregnant, and I heard some of their stories through the grapevine. You could say that I was hurled into the rawness of the real world when we moved there.
As I grew older, my naive image of America was shattered bit by bit. It was in America where I began to see hopelessness and poverty. I don’t mean to criticize my countrymen, but most of the time here, when the rich or middle-class see someone sleeping on the street, or a child begging for food or money, they will ignore them or give a small amount of money and then move on with their lives. Sure, there are those programs like “Reel Time,” but how many of us actually take time to find out the stories of poor people? I won’t lie, when I was growing up here, I never really took the time to do that either.
In my five years in America, I learned and grew a lot. Mind you, I’m not trying to imply that everyone in America is a product of a broken home. There are stories like that everywhere in the world. But during my five years there, I started to wonder. I remembered how so many Filipino kids had dreams of going abroad when they grew up, and I asked myself, Why? Did we not appreciate our own cultural heritage? Did we not see the potential in our own country?
But despite everything I’ve said, I was adamant when I found out we were returning to the Philippines. Moving is always hard, especially when you’ve made so many good friends. The reason for our moving back was also not glamorous: The recession had hit my father’s work. After very sad goodbyes to my friends and a few relatives, I reluctantly moved back to Manila.
Many people felt sorry for me when I left. Most of them thought my family would fall into abject poverty as soon as we landed, as that was all they knew of the Philippines. Some of them even thought that we didn’t have Internet in our country. Some encouraged us to keep trying to stay in America by any means necessary.
Maybe it’s just me, but Manila and the rest of the Philippines have sure grown a lot since I left. There was a lot of rediscovery, but I was discovering new things, too, because I now had a new perspective. Many people told me to expect homelessness and hardship, but instead I was greeted by miles and miles of malls. Many people also told me that Manila was too crowded, but what I saw amid the hustle and bustle was life. It was a refreshing departure from the stillness and stagnancy of the quaint small town I lived in.
Another thing I noticed was a surge in nationalism. When I first left, I saw that a lot of people still had a destructive colonial mentality. Before, Filipinos were not proud to be Filipino and willingly put themselves down in favor of foreigners. I also knew many people who belittled our country and dismissed it as hopeless, flocking and sucking up to developed nations. Perhaps it was the aftermath of P-Noy’s election or some other thing that happened when I was gone, but all that seemed to have more or less disappeared when I returned.
It’s not like we don’t have good reason to be proud. Amid the economic crisis in Europe and America, our country’s economy has weathered the storm and has been growing and growing each year. Foreign businesses are finally recognizing our brilliant work ethic, our great English skills, and our versatility, and are starting to invest in our country. As a young Filipino, I can’t help but feel hope for the future.
Pancho Dizon, 15, is home-schooled. He wrote in a note: “Despite my ever-changing interests, I’ve always envisioned myself as having writing as a part of my work, and I don’t think I want anything else. When I grow up, I want to be a travel writer or a journalist.”