Learning Race - A Response

While reading Dalton Conley's Universal Freckle, I related to several of his ideas. As I age, mature and interact more and more with the society to which I'm connected with, I begin to realize how much of a minority I truly am. For starters, if I were in the author's classroom and asked to describe four of five attributes about myself, I would generally start off by calling myself a gay, Filipino-Canadian male. I suppose this is the lens that dominantly influences my life. Of course, it hasn't always been like this.

I agree with Dalton Conley when he says that "Race as we adults know it is something that has to be taught to us by parents, teachers and society more generally" (31). This reminded me of a story from when I was a child. My aunt was telling my mom how younger cousin Michael was talking with his classmates and they said "I'm white, what are you?" Michael, who thought of himself to be just like his friends, replied "I'm white too." As his friends laughed at him, he quickly learned that he was not white. At that point, my aunt figured it was time to do some explaining. He went from being completely innocent and equal, and was taught that he is something "different".

Another concept that Conley brings up is the fact that ethnicity can be chosen, but race is a master status that cannot be concealed (37). This is something that became clear to me while I spent ten months backpacking through parts of Asia. Each country that I went through the locals would shout out at me, guessing which country I came from. "Koni-chi-wa!", "You are China man?" and "Hello Korea!" are only some of the comments that I would receive. As well, they would often speak to me in their native language and when I would tell them that I didn't speak their language they'd ask where I'm from. When I'd say "Canada", this look of confusion embraced their face. "But, you are same as me…" they'd reply as they pointed to their brown skin. I'd generally respond by saying, "Yes, because my parents were born in the Philippines." This would generally create more confusion, probably because half of time they didn't know anything about the Philippines, or perhaps they generally associate Canadians with being a nation of white people. The point is, I cannot escape the color of my skin. No matter where I go, I will always be an Asian man.

On the other hand, it wasn't hard for me to figure out that I could change my ethnicity to my advantage. I met this first generation Korean-American (Mike) who would receive the same comments from the locals. As we were walking down a street, we inevitably got stopped and asked what we were. As usual, I tried to explain my situation which caused the Lao man to stop and contemplate. He then looked at Mike who quickly responded "I'm Japanese." The man from Laos, satisfied, smiled and quickly went on his way. From that point on, if I chose to, I would be able to "pass" as a local or another ethnicity, given the different situations. For example, in Cambodia, since I was able to speak a little Khmer, there were a couple of times when I received a cheaper price at the markets than the obvious white-skinned tourists.

Dalton Conley also states that "it is acceptable for whites to appropriate African-American culture, but "it is unacceptable if the situation is reversed (28). In comparison, I find that there are many people who are discriminatory to Asian immigrants, yet will borrow from their culture. This concept is something that bothers me and I see it in our society quite frequently. They feel that these immigrants are inferior because they are not proficient at English and do not know our culture's norms. Yet, you will often find the exact same people sitting in a Japanese/Thai/Chinese restaurant exclaiming how they love ethnic food! And sometimes as they sit, they will remark at the slow service and/or the odd business practices. At this point I will confess that I have done this myself to a certain degree and it is how I know that it is done. I now realize what an ethnocentric train of thought it is! These people don't realize that these immigrants (and possible refugees) are actually humans as well. They have packed up their whole life to perhaps try and escape an impoverished country, earn some money and send it home to their remaining family who could not afford or qualify to migrate. All the while, these struggling immigrants are trying to learn a completely new lifestyle, not to mention a whole new language. You would think that people would be more accepting and helpful to these individuals, but instead they are the ones that create the obstacles.

It's funny how my perspective has indeed changed over the years. As children, my siblings and I used to make fun at my parents because they would always point out other Filipinos they'd see passing by. "What does it matter if they're Filipino? Oh look, there's a stop a sign, there's a tree" are the comment's we'd snicker, as if seeing a fellow Filipino was as trivial as seeing an everyday object. However, now that I've grown, I will often do the same thing, as well as point out other gays and lesbians that I see in public, and I realize that it’s a way to comfort myself, to have a sense of solidarity, a way to say "Hey, I'm not alone in this world."

Spreading Ashes and Hugging Photographs

Hooray, classes are over, I've got four, hopefully easy, finals to write and then summer! I'll be moving into an apartment with Jeremy in May. Right downtown, a 10 minute walk to work, so it looks like it'll be an exciting and relaxing summer for us. Happy Easter Everyone...

Ten years ago, Vince, an old childhood friend, had a brother commit suicide. It was done in the garage with the car running, Ryan’s suicide that is. There was no note and like with most deaths, no explanation.

In catholic-Filipino culture, which is what my friend and I are, prayers take place for nine days in a row after the death of a loved one. In these nine days, with the funeral and memorial service included, I witnessed and experienced many things. Since then, I have seen and practiced these things myself from time to time. These “things” of which I speak shall be described from here on.

I. As I was driving to the prayers at Vince’s house one evening, I was grief-stricken and thinking about Ryan. I began to speak aloud as if he were present with me in the car, asking him to give me a signal so I would know that he is better off wherever he may be. As I did this, the radio was quietly playing Whitney Houston’s I Believe in You and Me. Then, unexpectedly it became quite loud as if the volume had been cranked to high. The numbers on the clock illuminated itself much more than usual to a bright green! Within the two seconds of this phenomenon, Whitney Houston, at the top of her lungs sang the lyrics, “I believe in miracles!” I was astonished. Afterwards, my clock no longer displayed the time and the volume returned to normal. I later discovered that I had merely blown a fuse.

II. One evening at the funeral parlor, Vince, alone in the chapel, stood over his dead brother’s body and began speaking to it. I do not know what words were spoken because I was peering in through the doorway. Vince took off his old, torn, and dirty baseball cap that he had owned and cherished for years, he looked at it one last time and then placed it by the body’s side. It will stay there forever.

III. The day of Ryan’s burial I sat and watched his uncle stroke the body’s hair while he sobbed and cried out repeatedly, “Ryan… Ryan… Ryan”.

IV. A couple of years ago, I had met Melanie, a backpacker I encountered while traveling through India. She kept a small canister of her stepfather Gary’s ashes within her rucksack. It was her intention to spread the ashes on the earth, in front of beautiful locations throughout Asia. Melanie, unlike myself, did not believe in a god, or a heaven, or really had any concept of life after death. In fact, she had no idea what had happened to her stepfather once he died. It was an honor to be with her three of the five times that she practiced her ritual. Once she would open the canister she would begin speaking to the black, gritty ashes, as if the ashes were Gary himself. She would go on to explain to the black dust that “this is where you’ll be for the rest of your days, in front of the (Himalayan mountains, Taj Mahal, Ganges river, Great Wall of China, Angkor Wat).” Then, as she would spread the ashes, she would tear up, say her goodbyes and wish him well.

V. Every November first is a national holiday called “All Saints Day” in the Philippines. This day consists of all Filipinos throughout the country going to the cemetery to visit with their loved ones who have passed away. Not only will they bring themselves, but they will bring sleeping bags, tents, candles, playing cards, chairs, bamboo mats to sit on, and food, lots of food that is cooked the previous day, and bowls, plates and cutlery. Their “visit” will last close to twenty-four hours, consisting of prayers, celebrations, talking to the headstone with a candle lit by its side, and just everyday conversation with the other relatives whom have all gathered. To the outsider, it would appear as though they are just camping out at the cemetery and speaking to cement.

VI. My grandmother passed away two years and six days ago from today. Also, February 10, 2006 would have been her eighty-eighth birthday. In recognition of that day, I purchased her a birthday gift; some flowers, and I placed them by her picture inside my house. As I looked at the picture I began speaking to it, this piece of colored paper, entrapped within glass and a wooden frame. “Happy birthday Lola” I said, “I miss and love you. I can’t believe how long it’s been.” I then went on to pick up the picture frame and hugged it, hoping that it would return my hug and provide me with warmth, as grandmothers do. Tears began to fall from my eyes and saliva from my mouth.

I will never know if Ryan communicated with me that evening inside my car, as I reached out to him through thought and voice. I do not know if Ryan will wear Vince’s hat in heaven, or wherever he might be right now. And, I do not know what function his uncle had performed as he stroked Ryan’s hair and called out his name.
Is Melanie’s stepfather now only the gritty ashes which are embedded at five different sites throughout Asia, staring at great landmarks? Why would Melanie speak to black dust in such an intimate fashion? As well, what is the point of so many Filipinos crowding around a cemetery plot for hours upon hours, talking to a cement headstone while having a picnic?

I realize that my grandmother was not able to smell the flowers I bought for her birthday, nor was she able to wrap her arms around me like she so fondly used to when I was young. So what is the point in performing such odd acts to dead, inanimate objects? I do not think that we truly believe we are speaking to the actual person, nor does their soul possess their lifeless body, photograph, ashes or headstone. However, we are creating meaning for ourselves. It is a way to comfort our own emotions, our own heart which still beats. There is no other way for us to communicate with a being we once laughed, loved, and shared with, so we continue to do so in our own unique ways. We make up our own explanations to the mysteries of death and believe them to be true.

I choose to believe that Ryan did indeed send me a signal that evening when the fuse had blown in my car while I spoke to him. Furthermore, when I hugged a colored photograph of my grandmother on her would-be birthday, I cried because I felt her warmth.