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19 Brown in Faded Blue Genes Janet Miñano My search for an Asian identity in America has been a long process. I have searched through books. I’ve read prehistory chapters on the inhabitants of the islands before they were known as the Philippines. I’ve bought tapes on how to speak Tagalog, the national language. I know how to carry a basic conversation. I have watched movies in Tagalog in order to observe the customs , formal wear, and people so that I could identify with people of my likeness . I search because I feel a need to ‹ll a void. The need to ‹nd out more about who I am began in college. I enrolled in a speech class and was given a sheet of paper with a special assignment: to explain who and what you are, and how your background has affected you. My professor went on to say that he saw all kinds of people in class and that we were all different. He would be looking for an interesting speech from each of us for our ‹rst grade that semester. “You!” he said, pointing at me. “What is your background?” I told him I was Filipino. “Well, then, that will be a fascinating speech,” he said. “I don’t know too much about the Filipino Americans. What a great lesson we shall have!” I stared at my paper. I didn’t know too much either. Suddenly, I felt as tall as the twelve-point font. I did not really know what it meant to be Filipino. When I was born I lived in the heart of a multicultural Chicago neighborhood . The adults and kids were all kinds of colors and ethnic backgrounds. The neighbors on the left of our house were black, and the neighbors to our right side were Filipino. I had three best friends: One was an Indian, another Puerto Rican, and another Chinese. It seemed as if you could ‹nd any culture from any continent on or around my block. Color did not matter until I moved forty-‹ve minutes away from the city to an all-white neighborhood called Schaumburg. I leaned against my grade school’s brick wall during recess. I didn’t like some of my peers because of the comments they made toward me on the bus. A boy in my class called me an Indian. “But that can’t be right because she doesn’t smell like curry.” Another kid said that I had chinky eyes. I resented my classmates and my Asian features. I never looked at myself as being different from other children because of my upbringing and surroundings. The people who lived around my family accepted and respected all kinds of people . Fortunately, I moved again in high school. At Jacobs High, I was known as the Hawaiian Beauty and Caramel Princess. My peers were mostly Caucasians with very few minorities: one international kid and me. I became popular because I was different. My long black hair and tan skin caught attention. I would tell my friends that I’m not Hawaiian. I am a Filipino. “Same difference, Orientals are Oriental,” someone would say. I just shrugged it off. There was no use in pulling out a history text and geography map to explain the distinct differences between Koreans, Chinese, Malaysians, Filipinos, and so on. If it was not taught in American history class, it was of no signi‹cance. “Who the hell cares?” was the overall attitude. Most Asians seem to deal with that. I just ignored the comments. After all, Asian is Asian. That was my thinking at the time. I had a temporary feeling of being part of the crowd, or a crowd. Finally, acceptance , I thought . . . Then, we moved to Georgia. I dated a Southern Caucasian. He seemed open-minded. His family wasn’t, particularly his mom. He told me that his mother hated people of other races, such as blacks and Hispanics. It was “okay” though, because I didn’t ‹t into either category. I cocked my head at that comment. “They’ll like you, the way I do,” he said. I’m great with parents—I thought. But his earlier statements made me feel anxious before I met them. When I ‹nally arrived at his house, his mother looked me up and down twice. I began to feel insecure. She was glaring at me with pursed lips. I stood in the hallway and looked down at cherry-wood...

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