Culture

Experiencing the Asian Hierarchy Firsthand in a Korean Hagwon

A Korean Hagwon, in my experience, is a private English school for Korean students. My Hagwon, which I’ll refrain from naming, runs as an English pre-school and kindergarten in the morning where three to six year old students had English lessons from 9am to 3pm.

I spent the earlier part of this year teaching at a Hagwon. As a Fil-Am stepping into this radically different culture, I was eager to learn and be inspired from this new career path. I can honestly say I learned and was very inspired, but not at all in the frame I was expecting. I left after only four months.

My students and I at the Korean National History Museum when I was a teacher in Seoul.

Have you heard of the Asian Hierarchy? It was explained to me as a sort of racist Asian caste system where light-skinned Asians from growing Asian economies were ranked amongst the top and darker-skinned Asians were at the bottom. It was discussed in passing when I was in college among other Asian-Americans, and I laughed off. I sort of forgot about it until I landed in Korea and was confronted with it on my first day of school.

The night before, I was greeted by other foreign teachers who worked at the school. They were from all parts of the United States, as well as Canada. After helping me into my hotel room, one of them bluntly said to me:

“You don’t look like Jessica Alba.”

Confused, I responded:

“Yeah, Sorry….What?”

“The supervisors at the school said you look just like Jessica Alba.”

“Oh… yeah. I don’t look like Jessica Alba.”

“It’s funny how the supervisors view Caucasian faces. They didn’t even mention you were Asian.”

The next day my appearance was again addressed by a Filipina from Southern California. She pulled me aside and asked me:

”What are you?”

I am no stranger to this question so I knew exactly what she was talking about. I went to my auto-generated response of “I’m half-Filipino, part Mexican and White.”

“Yeah, I thought so. We have another Filipino at the school!”

She excitedly high-fived me. I smiled at having found an ally on my first day of school, until she added:

“Don’t tell the school, the parents don’t necessarily want Filipino teachers.”

She went on to explain to me that Filipinos in South Korea were ranked lower socially. Because of poverty and the cost of education in the Philippines, many Filipino immigrants in Korea turned to one of two professions: child care (nannying) or prostitution. Because of this, Filipino women were seen as second-class and unfit to teach the uber-rich students at my Hagwon. I immediately recalled the concept of Asian Hierarchy, but was horrified at seeing it in action. For fear of getting fired and just wanting them to like me, I kept my ethnicity under wraps. I knew this was not a safe space for me when one of my fellow white teachers from the United States threatened to tell my student’s parents that I was Filipino in order to get me fired. Korea was a hotbed for competitiveness and sometimes came out in really ugly ways. A week later, I booked my plane ticket back to California.

Culture vs. Identity

After leaving Korea, I’ve had time to reflect on this experience and while other things contributed to my leaving early, I couldn’t let this rest. My small taste at discrimination had me running home to my mommy. To me, it wasn’t worth it to risk my self-worth, sanity and pride by subjecting myself to a constant fear of being fired. It also wasn’t worth it to hide my family, heritage and in essence who I am. This was not my first encounter with a bully who chose my ethnicity as his or her weapon. But it was the first time that this bully had society on her side. A couple months later, I’ve been able to reflect and break down how this system of racial oppression still exists in South Korea, and Asia as a whole.

It’s easy to walk away from a bad experience in a foreign country and blame it on the culture for their backward uncivilized people and just embrace a Go America! Rah! Rah! Rah! attitude.  Not only is that lazy, but it’s largely incorrect and leaves room for bigotry. It has been used to rationalize imperialism and genocide in all parts of the world. So like a good liberal arts graduate, I put my experience in a global and historical perspective.

South Korean teenagers starts taking their scholastic aptitude tests for college entrance exams in the 5th grade.

Korea in Historical Context

In the 1950s, The United States was engaged in the Cold War. We hear a lot about how this impacted the people at home, but the only images from abroad are of children in crossfire with their clothes burning off. This did contribute to the unsuccessful wars in Vietnam and Korea, but what’s rarely depicted are the lasting effects of the war today.

After leaving Korea divided into two countries, the United States declared the war a win, but not without setting up various military bases in around in South Korea. The U.S military presence is still very prevalent in Seoul, with the United States Army Garrison Yongsan military base located in Itaewon, which is at the heart of the city. Not far up the road, you’ll see Hooker Hill with large window displays of Filipino and Korean women. Not long after U.S wartime presence in Seoul, you began seeing a widespread adaptation of Western culture. Adaptation and idolization to the point where today, Korean men and women alike get eye reconstruction, nose jobs, and skin bleaching to appear more white.

As the Korean economy sought to reconstruct, they searched for models for their education system, for they embody the fact that a good education leads to higher economic productivity and advancement. This is when the United States had already begun putting more pressure on scholastic aptitude tests and initially studies showed that they were a good motivation for growth (today that is not the case.) This influenced Koreas education model greatly, which resulted in increased school day length, more lessons, and a huge push for English aptitude financed by the Korean government. As a result, there was an increase in U.S presence in the form of U.S teachers and recent college grads -- they seek to obtain that magical living abroad experience, but with little background in education or Korean culture, and I was one of them.

As a result, the idealized American face is what has been sought after and thus gave birth to the Asian Hierarchy. Filipinos rank low on this because of our naturally dark skin, lack of a pointy nose, and seeming low economic rank. Capitalist and Western cultures have created a belief that appearance indicates status, therefore, appearing more wealthy or more white, in this sense, makes you more valuable. And in order to be more valuable, one has to be less valuable than you. This value system has created a hyper-competitive race to what Korean culture sees as perfection, therefore explaining why plastic surgery is quite common, as well as stress-related suicides. We see this trend occurring in other developed Asian countries as well, such as Singapore, Taiwan and Japan.

No, it is not right that I had to hide my identity in order to keep a job, nor that I was chased away because my ancestors are brown. However, I am glad that I had the privilege and agency to leave. My experience is only the tip of the iceberg; it is one of many, similar to those of other Filipinos living in South Korea. It isn’t just an isolated occurrence in another part of the world, but rather, a construct that has inadvertently been created and adapted from U.S. culture. It is an occurrence that I hope other Fil-Ams and Pilipinos can learn from.

Photo credit: Zimbo

Let Me Guess, Nursing?: Addressing the Pilipino Stereotype through the Eyes of an English Major

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"Let me guess. Nursing?"

Whether from the lips of family friends or relatives, I have heard this question and every variation of it. I bear the question with no scorn. My face does not flare up in offense, my voice does not become needles ready to deflate their hopes. In fact, with playful amusement, I expect the question. But, I can’t say they exactly expect my answer.

“Actually, I’m an English major.”

A few listeners accept it, embracing the potential of this unfamiliar path. The vast majority, though, cannot understand. Some try to hide their confusion. Others are not so delicate. The wide eyes brimmed with concern, the smirks laced with disapproval and – my personal favorite – the blunt, slightly outraged “But, WHY?”s. There are moments when conversations like these make me upset, but on most occasions I know where they are coming from.

I am twenty years old. I’m in college, working towards a degree to secure myself a future. These descriptions can be applied to anyone. They don’t indicate a pressure to enter any specific profession, that is, until I add one detail: I'm Pilipino. And immediately, the hues of the words change and my destiny becomes predetermined. My mother is a nurse manager, my father a hospital lab technologist. Both have dedicated their careers to medicine. And most of my titas and titos? Many of my older cousins? A majority of my Pilipino friends? They have chosen the same path. I know what expectations my race affords me, the footsteps each of my family members longs for me to follow in. So when I reveal that I am not pursuing medicine, I cannot blame the on-lookers and eavesdroppers for their puzzled glances.

Pilipino Nurses in the United States

If my experience as a Pilipina English major is not proof enough that most Pilipinos become nurses, I pose to you a challenge. Walk into any hospital, emergency room or medical lab and tell me that a handful or two of the staff is not from the Philippines or of Pilipino descent. It will be a challenge, I can almost assure you. But why is this? Why do Pilipinos seem to dominate the world of medicine in America? This trend is nothing new, actually. It dates back to 1903, when the Pensionado Act sent Pilipino nurses to the U.S. as government-funded scholars to remedy the deficit of healthcare professionals in the States. Four decades later, the Exchange Visitors Program of 1948 welcomed another wave of nurses from the Philippines. And only 17 years later, the liberalization of U.S. immigration laws allowed nurses to travel from the motherland to the States on tourist visas and adjust their status upon arrival. For the Pilipino, then, nursing has been more than just a noteworthy profession but a chance to come to the United States, to start anew while providing for their families back home.

Filipino nurses being inducted as new certified health workers in Pasay City, south of Manila, Philippines, 14 March 2011.

The Road Less Traveled By

Because of this history, nursing, for many Pilipinos, is synonymous with the sweet aromas of opportunity, familial prosperity and a passion to help others. So, it is no wonder why lab coats hang from our laundry lines and stethoscopes hide in our parents’ closets. Nursing is a road that a century’s worth of Pilipino men and women have walked and whose descendants continue to walk today. So where does that leave me? Where does that leave others like me whose ragged edges do not fit into the precut spaces of this “become a nurse” plan?

It is a common misconception among older Pilipinos to think that success can only be achieved in the medical field, while most other pursuits lack security. They don’t realize that an English degree is the leading degree in communications, business and international affairs. They tend to ignore that most liberal arts degree-holders possess skills in critical thinking, creativity, problem solving, and written and oral communication, abilities employers hunger for. Not to mention, those who have made strides in the Pilipino community using a pen and not a syringe - names such as Luis Francia, author of Eye of the Fish: A Personal Archipelago, Jose Vargas, journalist, filmmaker and founder of Define America, and Sarah Gambito, a published poet and winner of the Barnes & Nobles Writer for Writer Award. The options are endless, yet many traditional Pilipinos forget this. Therefore, it is the mission of Pilipino non-nurses to rebut the sneers and smirks of this skeptical older generation. Not with snide remarks or rolling eyes, but with passion and triumph. And as the amount of Pilipinos pursuing other interests grow, our predecessors will learn that we do not have be in a hospital to know the meaning of success, that “the road less traveled by” is one worthy of exploration and respect.

"I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two road diverged in a wood and I- I took the road less traveled by And that has made all the difference"

The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost

Photo Credit: Yahoo Philippines News

Filipino Pride: Casting Aside an Identity Crisis Amidst a Super Typhoon

Posted with permission from abejARTES:blog. By Jessica Abejar, guest contributor

When news of Super Typhoon Haiyan (Yolanda) hit the Philippines this past weekend, I was completely devastated. But instead of being wrapped up in the sadness at the fact that the strongest storm in recorded history just hit the place my parents once called home, I was faced with my own crisis, a crisis that in retrospect seems completely trivial, insensitive, and utterly selfish. I wanted to share my sadness and send my prayers via Facebook, but I hesitated, wondering if I was Filipino enough to do so.

Oh boy ... here we go again.

Super Typhoon Haiyan (Yolanda).

I thought I was done with this. I thought I was done justifying my sense of Filipino pride to, well, other Filipinos. And most importantly, I thought I was done with showcasing that on Facebook!

These crises have happened before. The chance to what felt like trying to one-up one another in showing the most pride for our country. But whenever I had my chances, I would coward in shame. I never felt Filipino enough. Then I would start wondering why I never had pride in a province (I guess because my parents are from Manila) or why I don't know the language (I do call my parents "Nanay" and "Tatay") or why I'm not so into joining Filipino organizations as I should be (but I volunteer as a youth coordinator at a Filipino chapel). Then I would fiercely defend these thoughts (just as I did) with claims of knowing all these traditional dances (and owning some fabulous costumes), eating Filipino food (Nanay's is the best!), and dancing in the Philippine Independence Day Parade (TWICE! The first time was before I even had any identity crisis!).

Just as I say in my poem "I Am, ver2.1," why should that even be a question? Why would I even think of something like that amidst sheer disaster? Whether or not I am "proud enough" of being Filipino, whether or not I am even "Filipino enough," can I not share in the sadness of what is happening to thousands of innocent lives? Can I not be concerned for family and friends living there? Can I not feel for my father and the heartache he has as he watches news of the destruction of the town in Leyte where my grandparents had grown up in? Can I not pray for them?

The thing is I can. And I should. Because I am human, but also because I am Filipino. A comment left on a CNN update has been making the rounds of the Internet, which to me perfectly describes why I am so proud of being Filipino:

Time to get to the know the hardy Filipino people...unbelievably resilient, long suffering, good natured, uber friendly, loyal, ingenius, and a bunch of survivors.

At the end of the day the Filipinos will just shake off the dirt from their clothes and thongs and go about their business...and SMILE. They do not complain much, they will bear as long as they can.

Maybe this is why they were given the "privilege" of bearing the burden of the strongest typhoon ever recorded.

The indomitable human spirit at its finest.

- comment by "dudesk001" left on this CNN.com article

I love the rich history of our most wonderful characteristics, of how Filipinos became who they became, amidst destruction, turmoil, and corruption. I love how that spirit runs through my veins and that I can take these with me wherever I go, whatever place I call home. I love how it perfectly balances out with my New York personality. And I love taking pride in all of this. To be a descendent of these people. To inherit their strength, their faith, their humility, and their kindness. That I am so very proud of.

So maybe there is no need for me to let an identity crisis stop me from posting a Facebook status of my concern ... besides there are other ways to show I care. God knows- I share in your pain, kababayan. The Philippines and its beautiful people will always have a place in my heart.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-J6dnUX9uaw&feature=youtu.be

Currently, I am working on putting together a benefit show to raise funds for relief efforts. Please check back here for more info or e-mail me at abejartes@gmail.com. In the meantime, HuffPost has gathered a list of organizations who are quickly mobilizing and deploying disaster relief efforts here. And of course, please continue to pray for our families, friends, and kababayan.

Photo credit: Washington Post/NOAA

Traditional Dance In the Hands of Fil-Am College Clubs

The author, far left, in 2008 with her Townsend Harris High School tinikling dance group Flip 'N Funky Fresh.

“Culture and the arts are potent forces in national development. With its colors and contrasts, our cultural heritage unifies our race, and gives it a national identity that lends pride and dignity to every Filipino” – Corazon Aquino, 1991

1, 2, 3! 1, 2, 3! The clicking sound of bamboo sticks slapping against each other for tinikling is an all too familiar rhythm. That dance is, after all, the quintessential introduction to Pilipino culture taught to kids in community youth groups, adapted for high school international nights, and ubiquitous in cultural productions by university Pilipino clubs.

The first time I learned the dance, I was 13. I eagerly joined a group performing tinikling at my church as an earnest attempt to connect with my heritage. Naturally, we used PVC pipes in lieu of bamboo, wore white tees and denim shorts instead of native garb, and choreographed our traditional dance to none other than Destiny’s Child’s “Lose My Breath” and Ne-Yo’s “Stay With Me.” Body rolls were involved. At the time, it felt like a worthy homage.

Fortunately, I’ve since discovered the rich offering of folk dances beyond tinikling: the graceful balancing act pandanggo sa ilaw, the flirtatious hat duet subli, the masculine coconut dance maglalatik, the stoic, haunting janggay, the regal singkil, and countless others.

Every year, I see Pilipino clubs at universities put on innumerable showcases of our native culture in dance competitions, pageants, and Philippine cultural nights (PCNs, or “barrios” as some call them.) A hodgepodge of interpretations of “traditional” dance appear on stage, from meticulously rehearsed, authentic displays to barely recognizable, loosely-interpreted traditional dance: pandanggo sa ilaw performed with flashlights, maglalatik fused with step dancing, and tinikling liberally peppered with breakdancing.

For every crew I see striving to do traditional dance justice, there is another itching to reinvent, break out, ditch, even, the antiquated choreography. A “cultural” portion is often pegged as a requirement for qualification, and you can’t help but see traditional dance turn more into an obligation than a genuine homage. I've seen some clubs give all of thirty seconds of their seven minute set to a hastily put together folk dance.

NYU's International Filipino Association performing singkil at the Battle of the Barrios 2010 competition.

Why do we even bother to “be cultural” and learn traditional dance? What is the value of portraying them accurately or not? In The Day the Dancers Stayed: Performing in the Filipino/American Diaspora, Theodore S. Gonzalves explains that second generation Fil-Ams use traditional dance to reconcile the conflict of in-betweenness. After growing up Americanized, PCNs are an alluring effort for identity-seeking young adults to reclaim ethnicity.

Dance, after all, is a universal language and educator. Even if a Fil-Am doesn’t know Tagalog, which is a common case for many young Fil-Ams today, repeating the steps of our ancestors offers that connection to heritage that students who join Pilipino organizations seek. However, the experience can seem second-hand and diluted after learning from YouTube clips that learned from YouTube clips that learned from dance troupe’s YouTube clips.

The Bayanihan Philippine Dance Company that started in the 1950s is one of those authorities–their singkil video alone has 300,000 views and counting. The company, which tours internationally and even inspired its own national day in the Philippines (May 27), popularized folk dance as we know it. To a fresh eye, the elaborate presentation, trained facial expressions, and detailed costumes look as traditional as it gets. What we don’t realize, however, is that even Bayanihan’s presentation of traditional dance is skewed. Barbara S. Gaerlan, author of “In the Court of the Sultan,” claims that Bayanihan’s singkil dance in fact shows an orientalist portrayal of Muslims featuring over sensualized females, costumes borrowing from Arabia, and bare-chested males in a way typically offensive in Muslim culture.

Still, the dramatization of the dances are undoubtedly entertaining. Perhaps this is what it boils down to. When we are showcasing our culture to an audience of outsiders, who wouldn’t want to amp up theatricality?

I brought up this dichotomy of accurate traditional dance versus reintepretation to Dr. Kevin Nadal recently, and he challenged me with a thought: Isn’t dance about art?

Art is meant to change, be open to interpretation, and molded in personal experience. If that means tapping your cultural side by infusing tinikling with the latest hit on Z100...by all means, bump that track and bring out the bamboo sticks.

Photo credit: Don Gutierrez

This Is How You Sing In Kapampangan: Pilipino Identity In American Context

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Carrying itself over car horns and rowdy high schoolers was a voice singing an old Pilipino love song in the middle of 5th Ave. I slowed down my hurried steps to meet an elderly Pilipina woman with pink drawn on eyebrows, sitting on the side walk and holding a sign that said, “Homeless, anything helps. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

The song ended abruptly and I heard her call out, “Ai!! Pilipina!”

I’d been caught staring.

I smiled and walked over, eager to hear my kababayan’s story.

I learned that Pilipina, in her early sixties, was diagnosed with breast cancer nearly a decade ago, with no family in the States except for a friend who took care of her through the duration of her illness. The cancer not only forced her to stay in America - isolating her from her family in the Philippines - but it also depleted her bank accounts entirely.

Now homeless, she waits on the street corners with a coin cup and rosary in hand, hoping to collect enough money for international calling cards and motel stay fees. She refuses to stay at homeless shelters where she had previously been robbed while she slept.

She told me this all very casually. Despite what happened to her, she insisted that God’s blessings outweighed whatever setback she had and all she needed was the friendship she kept for over 30 years. There was no doubt in her strength or her realness.  And after we exchanged names and parted ways, I heard her sing my favorite Kundiman.

I felt blessed to have met this woman who dropped tea, truth and perspective on my busy mind.

We are animals of context – if we have no one to compare one context to another, we have no idea who we are. I didn’t realize the gravity of keeping out of one singular context (be it singular in setting, type of people, location, etc) until I met this woman and was confronted with the stark contrast between Pilipino and American perspectives.

It’s not uncommon to meet a Pilipino with such humble positivity. Whenever I go to the Philippines, I’m both touched and envious when I see my family and their friends together. The feeling and atmosphere is distinctive and their approach to life’s daily troubles is one that I wish that my fellow Americans and I could adapt. More often than not, I see my peers react with nervous breakdowns, endless sub-tweets, burned bridges and bad decision after bad decision.

For now, I’m not going to look at their specific difficulties and just look at the way my family in the Philippines handles everything. For one thing, they are constantly aware that an excellent life is happening whether they are present for it or not – and every time they choose to be involved in it, to actively participate in an excellent life. If they feel like singing, they call everyone in the neighborhood to come over and sing with them over San Miguels and Marlboros. If they want to learn how to dance, again, they call every single person they know to come over and watch Mariel Martin's YouTube channel for hours until they get her "Heartbeat" choreo down pat.

And part of this decision to participate is being fully aware of what their problems are. They don’t try to intellectualize or find an existential meaning behind daily stresses. They all have a “I know what I know and that’s all there is to know” attitude, a branch of the controversial “Bahala Na” mentality - and it seems to be working for my family.

Truth of the matter is, we’re surrounded by people going through the same problems we are. The difference between Americans and Pilipinos, though, is that Pilipinos (at least the ones that I've met - I know this can't be said for everyone) are open about it—a family is getting through these troubles as oppose to an isolated individual. Friends are turned into family, and aren’t used as distractions from problems but instead they help get through them.

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So with that, I implore you all to take a lesson from our kababayan and stop worrying about what’s polite. Stop keeping your ambitions, talents and troubles to yourself. Stop treating your friends and family as excuses for your unhappiness, unproductiveness, and inability to attain your goals. Stop wasting your time creating distances that aren’t there. Because an excellent life is happening, and a family is there waiting for you.

Photo credit: Josh Cole