Most of you guys have yet to meet me. You should have by now were it not for my colossal screw up two weeks ago. I was however, and still am, very excited to meet you. So perhaps a little introduction is in order…
I grew up watching my town take on the painfully neon, Menudo loving, electro-rock, legwarmer-shoulder pad-side pony tail- wearing facade of the 80s. I watched as parachute pants, Boyz II Men, and the “undercut” became hits in the 90s. Then in, the summer of 1997, my family and I moved to California.
Don’t confuse the preceding paragraph for nostalgia. It isn’t. Personally, I couldn’t stand the 80s, and the 90s were not that much better (ok, fashion was MUCH better). The point I’m trying to make is that to grow up in the Philippines, and Manila in particular, is to grow up in a place that consumes the culture of America like no other place in the world. One may argue of course that a country such as Japan is a more “voracious” consumer, and that may be true. But our mother country has a unique history with the one we are presently living in, a history that has forever changed the way we think about ourselves, the way we think about being Filipino and being Filipino-American. For many of us, at least in my generation, we were “American” long before we ever made it to these shores. In my youth, we wanted to be bearers of American culture, wanted to wear it on our bodies, fill our ears with its sounds and our heads with its ideas, and it is as though, we’d borrowed someone else’s – another people’s eyes – to look at ourselves. In school, we were instructed in English, and many of us spoke it flawlessly, and the better you could speak it, the more you sounded like the men and women in the movies, the more proficient you were with its slang expressions, the more attractive you became to the opposite sex (in my day, it added to what was called your “pogi points”).
But when I moved here at the age of 18, something happened. Suddenly, I was (to borrow the novel’s title), a “stranger in a strange land,” an alien. Being a teenager fresh out of high school can be tough enough, as most of you must know. But to suddenly find oneself in a place not your own, surrounded by people so seemingly very different from you, at a time in one’s life when one naturally asks questions such as “Who am I?” and “What do I want to do in life?” the whole affair can simply be overwhelming. It seemed to me that at that time I could either do my best to adapt and assimilate, or do my best to find safety and security in as many Filipino enclaves as I possibly could. I suppose in the end, I did neither. Or perhaps, I did a little bit of both to some degree or another. What I most certainly did however (and now, I’m not quite sure why) was look back. I looked back at who I’d been in the seventeen years prior, and really, struggled to form a clear picture in my mind of who that person was. There were no quick and easy answers. But the very journey, the seeking, was enough to provide some sort of definition, the way silhouettes betray form but not detail, shape but not color. And suddenly, in the strangest of twists, in true poignant irony, I felt more Filipino here thousands of miles away from home than I ever did growing up in #40 Catanduanes street in Quezon City. Life is funny.
Currently, I’m completing my MA thesis in English. It’s a collection of short stories that embodies a particular discourse of negotiation in which I try to apprehend a life, a culture that is both lost and ever present (at least within myself). These stories may be perceived as a means of coming to terms with what was lost in the process of migration and an effort to reconstruct a place, a home through writing. They proceed out of my struggle to re-engage a world that was (and always will be) mine, but one that I took for granted even as I inhabited it.
When I first started writing, I can’t say I had a community that I felt could understand where I was coming from as a writer (though I must admit that being somewhat of a hermit did not help). My writing peers, many of whom are dear friends, could mostly just discuss the aesthetic or theoretical aspects of writing, and that’s fine. Their help to me in that regard has been invaluable. But they didn’t, and well, I suppose really couldn’t, share in my concerns, my issues as a Filipino or as an immigrant. This is why I feel this project is so important. Yes, having published work in a smartly assembled magazine is nice of course. But more important than that is the real work of beginning conversation. A magazine isn’t so much an artifact as it is a “venue,” a place, an entry point, and a possible locus of a multitude of discourses on identity and politics, on identity and art, etc… We aren’t so much showcasing talent as we are building community, a community not just connected by ethnic ties but a community of the mind and spirit, of ideas and ethos.
Ok, this entry has gone on a little too long and perhaps gotten a little out of hand. Sorry. I just want to let you know that I think you guys are awesome for putting this project together and that I’m happy to help in any way I can. I’m eager to begin this conversation with each of you.
Paolo