Musing from my Madrid rooftop

Yesterday, June 30, was Filipino-Spanish Friendship Day in the Philippines. Not that I usually know or pay attention to many of these things, except that a friend felt it was relevant (since I was in Madrid) and forwarded a Facebook post about it to me. I light-heartedly vowed to celebrate it with churros con chocolate from the popular Chocolateria San Gines in Madrid (I was going to have it anyway but this ensured I would get it sooner rather than later).

As I enjoyed my churros later that evening (more like midnight but that's just Madrid), I told Hubby this was my way of celebrating Fil-Spanish Friendship Day. He replied "But you're not Filipino, and you're not even Spanish either." I sat there momentarily speechless. Ouch, but there was truth to his statement. "So what am I then?", I asked a bit disappointed and no longer sure of the answer.

"So what am I then?"... this question has plagued me on more than just this occasion.

Several years back, while holidaying in Fiji, part of the 'show' at the resort was to see where the different guests were from. Naturally, we went to the front when "Australia" was called out...and there we were - my sunburnt, dark-skinned family even darker than normal from days in the Fijian sun - standing amongst other Caucasian Australians with their equally Aussie accents. I felt out of place. To make it worse, the host went on to 'lecture' the audience about heritage...and that where we are from is not where we live, but it's who we are...our identity.

Was he referring to us - the family that clearly looked out of sync? Should we have said we were from the Philippines? Would that have been more acceptable?

Just a bit of background...
I was born and spent most of my school years in the Philippines - except the first 4 years of school which I spent in a British school in Bangkok, Thailand while my father was on assignment. Both parents are of Filipino-Spanish descent, and both spoke Spanish to each other and my grandmother around the house, as well as to other relatives. Neither obtained a Spanish passport nor was there a desire to as I distinctly recall my father's words at the dinner table when the topic came up: "I was born and raised a Filipino. What's the point?"

English is the first language I can recall, learning Filipino (Tagalog) upon our return to Manila towards the end of Year 3. By Year 5 the Special Filipino classes ended and I was integrated into normal classes. By high school I was fully literate in written/verbal Tagalog, speaking  it better than my brothers...mainly because I hung around Tagalog-speaking friends and the maids. I could understand my parents' Spanish conversations - to some extent. Up until last year, in my early 40s, I had never been to Spain. 

Straight after University, at the ripe old age of 21, I migrated to Australia to begin my working life. Except for a brief 2-year stint returning to the Philippines to experience working there (and getting married to Hubby who is also coincidentally of Filipino-Spanish descent while there), I have remained in Australia ever since. 

Now 20 years later on holiday in Madrid, I was pondering the point Hubby made over our midnight churros. As we got back to the comforts of our rented Madrid apartment I came across this timely blog post from Carlos Celdran to commemorate the Fil-Spanish Friendship Day.

http://carlosceldran.tumblr.com/post/90313348225/its-the-hacienda-world-as-we-know-it-the-decline-of

It is as relevant, if not more, to me today than when he wrote it 8 years ago. After all, who would be better-placed to nail it on the head? Not only is Carlos of Filipino-Spanish descent from a prominent Filipino family himself, but he has also established himself as a sought-after, albeit controversial, tour guide (aka historian) around the Spanish walled city of Intramuros in Manila. So he knows all too well the very society and history he talks about. While I have never been (and am still not) comfortable being associated with or as the 'coño kid' variety he describes, it has put into context many of the comments experienced throughout my childhood to today. Comments like 'Mestiza ka kasi' (Because you're 'mestiza'); 'Ay, Pilipina ka pala?' (Oh, you're Filipino?); 'You don't look/sound Filipino/Australian'.

It is little wonder then that I took it as a compliment (relief?) when a shop keeper in a little Andalucian village in rural Spain chose to speak in Spanish because she assumed I was a local - she switched to fluent English with a British accent when I told her 'No ablo Español' (I don't speak Spanish). And when our tour guide told me the same thing while visiting a Favela in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Finally, somewhere in the world I looked like a local. Finally, somewhere in the world I was being told I looked like I belonged - as long as I didn't open my mouth to speak, of course. I was still a fraud.

Travel undoubtedly teaches you many things about people and the world, but probably more important is what it teaches (or un-teaches) you about yourself.

With the question "What am I?" ringing in my thoughts as I continue to ponder the question from our Madrid rooftop, this line from Carlos' blog post hit home:

"Could it be that the Spanish mestizo, who never felt neither at home in the Philippine archipelago nor in the Iberian peninsula, could be cursed to roam the world never to find his stead?"

Except of course now I might just take that as an excuse to keep roaming...