Growing Up A Pilipina Military Brat

I grew up a military brat. My father, a naval officer, was stationed in different areas of the country throughout my childhood. I moved around a lot, meaning new schools, new friends and, in my case, an ever-changing understanding of my Fil-Am identity. Growing up in San Diego, I was surrounded by a majority Fil-Am community. According to a study, there were 144,234 Pilipinos in San Diego County in 2009. That is over 44% of the entire Asian population in San Diego, CA. Needless to say, my experience in SD wasn’t any different. I went to church with Pilipinos. I went to an arts academy with Pilipinos. I joined a traditional dance troupe with Pilipinos. Looking back, I didn't realize that I was part of both the minority in the larger US population, as well as the military brat subculture.

My father was later stationed in Pensacola, FL; thus began the big move to the Gulf Coast. This was a complete culture shock for me; there were only a handful of Fil-Ams with whom I went to school in Pensacola. I did well in school, and suddenly was referred to as an Asian nerd. I was hurt by this label; where I came from in San Diego, I had always been on par with the "norm." I also felt alienated from by childhood friends back in California. I began to distance myself from friends in San Diego when an old pal called me “whitewashed,” having learned that I made friends with my Caucasian and African American classmates. That’s when I realized that racism within the Fil-Am community was just as present as the hostility we receive from beyond our own ethnic group.

I started high school in Virginia Beach, as my dad received orders to work in Norfolk, VA. Here, there were many Fil-Ams at the school, but I found it even more difficult to join the community. Many of my peers had grown up together; they had lifestyles and inside jokes I did not know how to be a part of it all. So, I sought out other circles of friends. I found a safe haven with the field hockey team, golf team, literary art magazine and friends I made in my classes. I shied away from Fil-Ams simply because I felt out of place. It wasn’t until college that I joined a Fil-Am student group, rejoining a social circle of other Fil-Ams. I was more mature and interested in learning about the culture. I wanted to be engaged in the global community of the Philippine diaspora.

I was fortunate enough to attend one elementary school, one middle school and one high school before going off to college. My brothers and sister were not so lucky; they’ve attended several different schools just because of my dad’s orders to other ships and naval bases. But, don’t get me wrong: I am extremely grateful that my father joined the US Navy in order to ensure a better life for me and my family. He met my mother in the States, and has since become quite a successful officer in the military. My parents have made many sacrifices to give my siblings opportunities in the US. For that, I am truly blessed.

We military brats may seem to have the best of both worlds. Starting fresh and making new friends can be exhilarating. We learn to be worldly individuals. However, this process can also be quite challenging when you’re a kid. We have a hard time keeping friends after moving away, and can find ourselves in a pool of jealousy when we encounter people who have lived in the same house for most of their lives.

Being a Pilipina military brat has taught me to be adaptive. The brat subculture has taught me to be flexible and open to change. It can be challenging, but it is also a blessing. To all other military brats, I wish you stability and love within a welcoming community. You are certainly not alone.

Photo Credit: Stephen Salpukas

My Fil-Am Identity Abroad: "You Look Like Thai People"

When I introduce myself to my students, teachers, administrators and important guests here at the school where I'm teaching in Thailand, the conversation, without fail, proceeds in the following manner:

“Chan chuu Ryann. Pen khon American,” I say. Translation: My name is Ryann. I’m American.

I am usually faced by blank stares of confusion.

“Meh ka Paw maa jaak prathet Philippine, ” I add, just to clarify why I have black hair and dark skin. Translation: My mother and father come from the Philippines.

“You look like Thai people,” they offer.

I have mixed feelings when I hear this response. I am flattered to know that I have been able to blend into the northwest Thai/hill tribe culture I’ve been thrust into. However, I am certainly not “Thai people.” I’m Pilipino American. Thus, I am also internally disappointed that my heritage and nationality aren’t as obvious to those around me.

As Fil-Ams, we are at an interesting identity crossroads. We are too American to be Pilipino. We are too Pilipino to be American. We moved from the Philippines. We grew up in the States. Or, we were born in the States, and have yet to dig our feet into Philippine soil.

What does it even mean to be “Pilipino”? How can we understand our Fil-Am identity, especially while abroad? Sometimes, I despise this question. I hate the cliché answers that I come up with. Yes, I do love pan de sal, Kodakan, and a victorious round of mahjong. But there are other facts surrounding my identity that percolate in my mind. I am guilty that I never learned to speak Tagalog. I am ashamed that I’ve only been to the Philippines on two occasions, both of which were not long enough to feel like I belonged there. Am I truly Pilipino?

On some occasions, I’ve even found myself too afraid to introduce myself as an American. Overseas, Americans are perceived as ignorant, lazy and obnoxious individuals. And being in Northwest Thailand over the past six months, I’ve been criticized simply based on the fact that I’m American. I’ve heard the excuse that I don’t understand Thai culture enough to appreciate and value it, as I come from the States. I’m offended by this assumption, because I come from a Pilipino household and culture that certainly values family and religious faith, just like here in Thailand. I’ve been told that my reactions and comments are attributed to me being from the Land of the Free; the fact that I’m a college graduate with an array of experience under my belt is not even considered. All of these insensitive assumptions are unfair, but to take another persons’ criticism to heart would only prove that I’m accepting their claims.

Whether or not this is an identity crisis, I know one thing to be certain: I am a resilient and driven Fil-Am in the global society. Fil-Ams are unique, and crucial, to the larger Pilipino community. We should embrace the various facets that make up who we are, not fear them.

Sinigang for the Soul

Tonight, I find myself in northwest Thailand, in the remote and mountainous province of Mae Hong Son. I’ve been here for six months, as I’m completing a teaching fellowship for Global Playground. I teach English at a middle and high school, which serves 1,200 students from this district and nearby villages. As a proud Pilipina, I am faced with a predicament. The closest Pilipino restaurant is in Chiang Mai (about six hours away from my village), and it is only open for part of the year. Last July, Tita Ann (the owner) and I, shared a brief conversation over the phone, as I was trying to satiate my Pilipino food cravings. Her Chiang Mai restaurant was closed, and she had relocated to Bangkok to run her other restaurant. Naturally, this would happen to a young lady deprived of all Pilipino dishes and dessert. During times like these (hunger, severe stress, intense homesickness and the like), I find myself craving "Sinigang sa sampalok." This delicious and savory soup, flavored by tamarind, onion and kamatis (tomato), is my personal comfort food. Unfortunately, Thai cuisine is known for its chili peppers, sugar, palm sugar, peanuts and fish sauce. Here in the village, my meals consist of noodles, rice, eggs, vegetables, tofu, chicken and pork. Not much variety, since I cannot tolerate spicy dishes.

It was about a month after I had moved to the village that homesickness began to take its toll. I missed my family; before my fellowship, I never went more than two months without seeing them. One day, another teacher at my school flat-out asked me.

“Are you homesick?”, she said bluntly.

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation.

“I’m going to Mae Sariang this weekend to visit my daughter. Do you want to come?” she asked.

I kindly accepted, and that weekend, we drove to her mother-in-law’s home to visit her one-year-old daughter. We went around the neighborhood (i.e. homes scattered among the rice fields), lounged to the sound of the rainfall (it was rainy season at the time), and ate northern Thai food. It is said that northern Thai food is not as spicy as the dishes found throughout the rest of Thailand, though I have to disagree on that. Everything is too spicy for this foreigner.

After one of my naps on the padded mat set up by the TV, I stumbled over to the table. The family had prepared a variety of dishes, and I spotted one that seemed almost too familiar. It was a soup with supple chunks of pork, leafy greens and onions. I doubted it for a mere second, before taking a spoonful and slowly tasting it. It had a sour tinge to it, and in an instant, I smiled. It tasted just like sinigang. I learned that it was called "Pha kaa jaaw," a dish from Chinese influence, also made with tamarind. Now, I can order the dish at restaurants; the cook here at the school also prepares it every now and then, after she learned it was my favorite.

I accepted the teacher’s invitation, and every invitation to join other teachers and staff after that. One of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever heard was, “Always accept an offer.” I’d like to add that you should, at the minimum, consider every offer before you decline it. It may lead you to the "sinigang" you're craving.