By Julie Alati-it

My name is Julie Alati-it. I am a second-generation Filipinx* Mama of two children, living on Treaty 7 territory. Both of my kids were born in Mohkinstsis, or what is known as Calgary. We are privileged and grateful that both kids have lived in the same neighbourhood since they were born, and that we have strong community relationships with our neighbours. 

My perception of my physical appearance is that I look Pinay. To me, this means that I have black hair and dark brown, almond-shaped eyes; my nose is flat, and my skin is the colour of brown sugar. At first glance, my kids look different from each other. One has paler skin, and the other is darker, but they both have the same dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and flat noses, like mine.

This story is based on my experience of mothering two kids in the diasporic Filipino-Canadian community. One of the places we frequent is the Calgary Public Library, a wonderful place that our family enjoys visiting. During one of those visits, I was approached by a Filipina woman in the play area. 

She asked me bluntly, “I was going to ask if you’re Filipino.” 

I responded,  “Yes, I am.” 

And her response: “Oh, shoot!” 

This unexpected encounter caught me off guard. In the past, these kinds of questions resonated in my body as a fight-or-flight response. As a result, I am now hyper-aware of my body’s reactions, and the amount of energy it takes to actively choose not to act on these instincts. It is exhausting.

I paused to listen carefully. At that point, I started to get a little anxious, wondering, is there something I should be aware of? I took a moment to remind myself that I can choose how to react. I immediately looked around to see how far away I was from my kids; I sensed that they were watching carefully, and I felt my entire body go still. This kind of interaction evokes a hypervigilance within myself that I am not fond of, but know all too well. 

She continued, “You don’t look like you are Filipina. Are you half?” I could feel my mouth dropping open and my eyes widening in response. I sharply drew in a breath and paused again to answer. I noticed that she was watching me hand a book to one of my kids as they passed by, and my son was looking wide-eyed back at us, obviously listening to everything. 

After a second, I answered with a cautious smile, “No, both of my parents are from the Philippines. And you?” She smiled back and said, “Oh, yes, me too.” As she walked away, I felt myself exhale, and I met my kids’ searching eyes with a reassuring smile. 

Later that day, my kids asked me what we were talking about. It’s become our practice to unpack or process these kinds of topics together at home, where they can ask all of their questions, and I can think about how to explain. This helps me as much as it helps them. During these conversations, I encourage them to describe their feelings and take the opportunity to sit in the moment with them. It would be easier to brush these moments aside and think nothing of them; however, we continue to experience this kind of othering, specifically from our kababayan, which brings up all kinds of feelings and questions for all of us. 

The sting of being openly called out by kapwa as not belonging, based solely on my looks, still burns. I used to dream of an escape, desperate to be removed from the emerging feelings of inadequacy and shame. Now, the burn of those comments bolsters my armour, and instead of escaping, I use it to prepare myself to face these uncomfortable feelings with my kids.

I took a deep breath and started to explain that sometimes, the Filipinx/o/a folks that we encounter are confused by what we may look like to them. Some even feel compelled to tell us when we look slightly different from what they expect in their experience. (Why does this kind of interaction disturb me? It’s as if we are entangled by kapwa in the diaspora, instinctually grasping for anything familiar. But at the same time, we are not a monolith. Within the diaspora, our experiences are very different.) After our discussion, they seemed satisfied to know that the conversation was not about us or me, but something that the other person needed to resolve for themself. 

These unpleasant interactions bring questions to mind: How do we explain and show our kids that their appearance does not determine their identity? Why are we policed by other Filipinx/o/a/s about our appearance? So, what does Filipinx/o/a look like? At what point do we look Filipinx/o/a enough? My heart breaks knowing that as their mother I cannot protect them from this. I can only assist in equipping their armour with empathy, understanding, and critical thinking. My intention is to change the narrative for my kids; I want my kids to know that they are enough just as they are. 

I chose to name this column Inang Hinahabi, which translates to mother woven in Tagalog. The premise of this column is to consider the ways we understand the world by weaving together the narrative threads of motherhood and life in the diaspora, to create a new tapestry of meaning for myself and my children. Much like the act of weaving, the intention behind this space is to gather disparate thoughts, ideas, and emotions and turn them into something new, and to generate broader conversation, dialogue, connection, and understanding within our community about how we choose to live our lives in the diaspora.

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*Filipinx is a gender-neutral term used in the diaspora. My use of this term acknowledges that, although we may share the same heritage and blood, my experiences are very different in the diaspora than in the homeland. 

Why Filipinos may never agree on using the term “Filipinx” — One Down