Lost
(Pre-script: I have nothing against any foreign country or race. This is simply about how I lost a chance in life.)
“No Filipino! Nobody in my family likes you—not my brother, not my sister. They said no, I can’t be married to a Filipino.”
At that moment, I felt every Filipino cell in my body scream. I was a victim of racism, caught in a struggle that was neither violent nor crimson but still painful.
In a moment of weakness, within a week of our breakup, I called R in Kentucky on his mobile phone. Because of the pain from my kidney infection and the nausea caused by my medication, I had given up and called the man who used to be my source of strength during such times. He is a N****i.
I told him that I was having nightmares, that the pain felt new to me and that I didn’t feel like my medicines were helping, given all the side-effects. I was careful to avoid talking about our breakup.
“I caused all your suffering,” R said out of nowhere.
“Like how did you cause my infection?” I demanded.
“Well, you know,” implying that being dumped was the cause of all my pain no matter what the doctors said.
Great, I didn’t want to start it but since we’re here… A fight ensued.
“I made that decision thinking about you, M. That I cannot make you happy.”
I argued. He argued back.
“You went away to Kentucky,” I told him
“You fought for a friend instead of me,” he shot back.
He argued that our relationship wouldn’t work. I told him he didn’t give it a chance to work. He said he couldn’t make me happy. I told him to stop his it’s-not-you-it’s-me argument.
I said it was wrong to say that he dumped me for my sake; it was all for himself.
“You didn’t even try to talk to your family about a foreigner girlfriend,” I reminded him. “Doesn’t your brother have a foreigner wife? He loves her and they are happy. I am willing to go to N**** to be with you.”
Then it came out. “They said no Filipino,” he admitted.
“Because I am foreigner?”
“No. They don’t want a Filipino. All of them, they don’t like you. They know about you. My sister knew even before I came to Sacramento. I don’t know how. They all don’t like you.”
Because I am a Filipino. Any foreigner, but no Filipino.
I remembered the moments I interacted with his brothers in Skype. How nice and pleasant they seemed to me. I was happy to think there might be a chance for our relationship. I thought glumly, “So they never really liked me, huh?” I had been duped all along.
I have been loyal. If he argues that once I wasn’t, that’s only because he was jealous about a former friend and I defended that friend. It was wrong, maybe. But I never cheated on him. Neither did I look at another guy even if I was in California and he was in Kentucky.
How he could have listened to other people say that Filipinos are players, I don’t know. I do know some players, but I also know some who are not. Some of those players were indeed Filipinos, but many were not. There are players everywhere. I just got unlucky that the whole clan chose to judge my race before knowing me.
I may be Filipino, but I am also me. If I wanted to cheat, then I would have done so a long time ago. He thinks it’s because I don’t have anyone around.
I am a 29 years old and I can say I am fairly attractive. If I want to sleep around, I can.
But I didn’t.
I respect N****i culture and am very fond of my N****i friends. They are a treasure and I know there’s a bond between us that will never be broken.
I saw the challenges that he and I were going to encounter when we started this. I asked him a lot of questions—about his parents and their practices. He told me he had the coolest parents in the world and that we would be all right.
He proposed time and time again, and the only thing stopping me from saying yes was my pending immigration application.
We weren’t okay when our culture clashed but I never saw that as something that could not be healed by explanation and patience. I needed to be reasoned with and I started asking him if doing this or that was acceptable or not.
Maybe it was the embarrassment of having a Filipino girlfriend that finally caused him to give up. Being scolded and reprimanded by his own family over what they considered a shameful girlfriend.
The whole clan was against a girl they never knew. I couldn’t fight a whole clan. He wouldn’t vouch for me and assure them I didn’t sleep around.
Maybe he just didn’t love me at all. Maybe he just got tired of a girlfriend that’s so different and argued too much. Maybe it’s a lot of things.
But nasty things were still said. Filipinos are not welcome.
I loved him, and I still do. He is the love of my life. Someone I know I will not be able to replace. Not soon. Maybe not this year, maybe not this decade, maybe not forever.
I am a Filipino. But being Filipino has cost me.
No, scratch that. Racism cost me. Racism cost me my life and my chance for happiness.
Meema Esguerra, 29, is a senior software engineer working in Foster City, California.
