I am Chinese-Filipino. But for as long as I can remember, my mom has always insisted that we are Chinese. My mom says this with a lot of pride, and when I was younger I didn’t know any better so I just nodded and agreed. It really wasn’t until a few years ago that I realized that I was not Chinese as my mom had always told us.

Sure, ethnically, I am more Chinese than Filipino. My dad is full Chinese and my mom is half Filipino, half Chinese. If you do the math, I guess you could say that I’m 75% Chinese and only 25% Filipino. But I was born in the Philippines. I was raised there for the first four years of my life. Both my parents were born and raised there. My family speaks Visaya (a Filipino dialect) and not Chinese. In fact, my parents can barely even remember the Chinese they learned in high school. Speaking with people both from Filipino and Chinese backgrounds, I feel more culturally aligned with my Filipino heritage.

But my mom still denies that we are Filipino. It’s both maddening and infuriating to hear her say this. Why deny it? Why pretend that Filipino blood doesn’t flow through our veins?

But as my eyes continue to open as I grow older, I realize that this is a part of the Filipino culture… this self-hatred, not really hate for ourselves, but hate for our own people. It’s racism of the worst kind. For years now, I have tried to understand it. Why? Why bring each other down? Why tear each other apart? What our people and our country need most, especially now that we are independent, is solidarity, respect and love for one another as people who share a rich culture and a history of brutal captivity.

The new generation is different. The new generation of Filipinos are breaking away from this self-hatred and I see a renewed curiosity in discovering who we are as a people. Through this curiosity, I see strong, young Filipino communities forming, and I am happy to be part of it.

I am proud to be Filipino.

Last summer, Christine recommended a book called When the Elephants Dance by Tess Uriza Holthe. It’s about a family living through the terrors of World War II and the Japanese occupation of the Philippines. My mom has often recounted stories of that period… how her family hid in the jungles from the Japanese soldiers. How they were discovered by the soldiers and only managed to survive because her dad, my grandfather, could communicate with them by writing in chinese characters. She talked of how my grandmother feared for the safety of my two eldest aunts, who back then were mere toddlers. She would watch as the soldiers threw them up in the air and prayed to God that they would not be pierced by the soldier’s bayonets as they fell back down.

I highly recommend When the Elephants Dance. Reading it has really brought new insight to our culture and the Filipino struggle for independence. Holthe really brings the stories to life, weaving horrific stories of the war with fantastic, mythical tales. I reveled in the familiarity of the words, the gestures, the traditions, the food. My heart aches to learn more about our history and culture.

If you do end up reading When the Elephants Dance, I’d be interested to hear what you think =) Really, give it a shot. I promise you, you won’t regret it.