What Am I?

Filipina American, homegrown in the Bay Area where the clouds are made of steam from rice cookers, and thunder from the claps of tsinelas 
As I was growing up my tongue learned to split itself into two- one asked for you to pass the sinigang, and the other for the French fries 
Eventually they molded themselves into one, and I’m known now to visit mama’s house on Sunday and say “Kuya, you’re hella bastos!” 
My ears were never confused and my mind never missed a beat when I switched codes, switched identities
I went back and forth between butterfly sleeves and denim jeans 
But soon enough people started to ask me what I “was” - as in, “What kind of Asian are you?” Well, let me tell you what kind of Asian I am

My family has ancestral roots all the way from New Zealand, but because ancient people of Oceania were such good navigators, I stand before you today as full Filipina 
My brown skin, brown eyes, and black hair all start to feel heavy whenever someone asks me what kind of Asian I am 
As if I’m supposed to answer that my almond eyes don’t make me see math problems better than you and my brown hands still hold the steering wheel the same way you do
In my blood runs the bravery of generations that struggled throughout hundreds of years of different colonizations- people want to boil me down into a combination of “Spanish and Chinese” because it’s easier for them
Well I’m tired of people trying to dissect my heritage in ways that are only convenient to them

I’m the kind of Asian that is fluent in my parents’ native tongue because every time I speak it, the words wrap around me in the air and form roots connecting me to an archipelago in Southeast Asia 
I’m the kind of Asian that called white people “Regulars” in kindergarten because somehow I had gotten the sense that people like me were never part of the majority- it sounds kinda funny but looking back, I remember wondering why no one on TV ever looked like me, why I could never find girls like me in the magazines
I’m the kind of Asian that doesn’t feel Filipino “enough” even though I speak the language fluently and spent the majority of my life studying the movements and dance of the people that came before me 
I’m the kind of Asian who is only just now barely being recognized in the media- you’d think our faces would look more familiar, I mean, we used to be a colony of America 
I’m the kind of Asian whose only paragraph in school textbooks is the one about Magellan because apparently the Philippine American war isn’t really worth a mention 
I’m the kind of Asian forced to do my own research on our history because my school never made it a priority to teach its majority of Asian students about their cultures 
I’m the kind of Asian who is tired of sitting in silence, watching our pasts get erased and replaced with stereotypes and postcards and tourism 
I’m the kind of Asian that wants my nieces and nephews to value their skin, their eyes, their traditions, their languages, and their culture because there are eraser marks all over our history books- there are eraser marks all over us

We are not your first draft of a colonial essay you wish you could rewrite
We are an unending novel written in blood, sweat, and tears
We are a symphony of oral traditions, passing down values and ideals every time we mano to our elders
So, what kind of Asian am I?

Filipina American, born and raised in the Bay with a heartbeat that reaches oceans away 
Brown skin, brown eyes, black hair, and a tongue that is quick to change its nature whenever it needs to 
You can still catch me at mama’s house on Sundays, calling out to my nephews “Nanong, kain na!” and still telling my Kuya he’s being “hella bastos”
Taglish slips off of my tongue like second nature- I form sentences around my bloodline, wrapping English words around my butterfly sleeves because that’s where I always keep my heart