You can say what you want

In the middle of reading through this thread on how to show Filipino pride, I found myself uneasy. At first I thought it might just be the odd disturbing comment (suggestions like posing with the peace sign and squinty eyes, which I hope was meant as a joke and will not be taken seriously) that was causing my queasiness, but I soon realized what was wrong. Every ten comments or so, someone would say something like "rephrase the question in Filipino," or "Managalog tayo." Suddenly it struck me as strange that I was writing about love for country - in English. I was so disturbed I had to stop for a while and over-analyze the situation. Memories of my unhappy childhood entered my mind, and then, in a moment of clarity I decided there was no problem. I told myself that I don't need to speak the language to show my fealty, or any other aspect of my nationality. Being Filipino is so much more than speech. I'm not saying it's not important. It's very important, and if we were to have an educational system similar to the one in Malaysia, our language scholars would probably be very happy. On the other hand, our call center industry would not be as, what's the word? Booming. I am in no way opposed to the Filipino language, but I don't think speaking Filipino is a simple method of showing Pinoy pride. First of all, the word itself is derived from another language, just like the Panatang Makabayan. Second, Filipino is not the only local language we have, not to mention the dialects. If there is a single characteristic definitive of our nationality, language isn't it. I must admit, however, that I think in English. This is the result of being raised in a house where no one speaks any other language, at least not to each other. It is such that when one of us says something in Tagalog, it sounds surreal. I know that many people would have plenty of negative things to say about this, but here is my defense. My parents agreed that we would learn English at home, because they figured Tagalog would be easily picked up at school. While I recall being laughed at by my school mates and excluded from games, I don't regret my parents' decision. Sure, I got ostracized, but I eventually got the hang of speaking in Tagalog, especially after my Grade 1 teacher, Ms. Cariaga, took me aside and told me I would have to learn, or else. Nothing like a gently delivered threat from an idolized teacher to strike fear into a five year-old’s heart. My parents reasoned that English is harder to learn in school, because to master a language, you have to be in an environment which requires its use. Pretty straightforward, isn't it? It wasn't like we had fees at home for speaking in Filipino, it's just that English was what came naturally for us. We had those in school, in certain subjects. Having to pay 25 cents for every Filipino word, now, that was wrong, I thought. What was common in my parents' decision and the school's questionable policy was the well-meaning goal, which was to produce fluent speakers of the English language. And why not? Even the most rabid pro-Filipino activist cannot deny the fact that knowing how to speak proper English is an advantage. Job advertisements show just how much of an edge this is. I think if it helps you improve, it's worth working for. On the other hand, it goes without saying that your native language shouldn't be abandoned. Still, nationalism goes beyond the words you use. No matter what language, if what you say has no meaning, then you may as well just shut up completely. While we were raised speaking in English, we were also raised in an extended (and constant) classroom. No matter where we went, we had a running commentary. Whether we were crossing the street or riding the jeepney (which cost Php1 at the time), we were treated to a highly informational informal lecture on society and philanthropy. This is what happens when your parents are teachers. My childhood memories are sorely lacking when it comes to street games, but they are rich with field trips to Pasig River and Smokey Mountain (Riding in a garbage truck was one of the highlights of my life, no kidding. Unfortunately, it cannot be said that my mother shared my enthusiasm, as she was in charge of the laundry department at the time). We were brought up with a mission to be useful citizens — worthy occupants of the small (but beautiful) space our overpopulated country affords us. The idea is not to be proud of your country, but to be someone your country can be proud of. It's safe to say we do this, each in our own ways, however strange, or, forgive the word, foreign, they may seem. Although I did get the hang of speaking in Filipino, I never mastered the language, and I still get laughed at occasionally for awkward phrasing and misused words, but it isn't for lack of trying. In high school, when we were required to read Noli Mi Tangere, El Filibusterismo, and Mga Ibong Mandaragit, I made a pact with myself to resist the temptation of the comic strip versions. I am proud to say that I read those books from cover to cover, and understood most of them. When I was applying for admission into the Creative Writing program, a former professor told me to try Malikhaing Pagsulat, instead. For a moment, I was tempted, but I realized it would be foolhardy. The point of art is expression, and to force myself to write in a language other than the language in which my ideas are formed would defeat the purpose. After all, doesn't a lot get lost in translation? Speaking (and thinking, and writing) in English doesn't make me less Filipino. I could even argue that the true Filipino is marked by an extraordinary ability to relate harmoniously with others, and my language skills enable me to do this in international situations. That could, of course, be taking it a bit too far. It's a continuing effort, this language mastery, and I consciously strive to learn as much in both languages. Still, I am more at home with English, but that doesn't mean I don't love my country. This may read like an overly defensive obligatory EDSA post, but it isn't. I wasn't there, not wholly, since at the time I was just three months in the making, but my parents were there. They were there, in front of the tanks, among the thousands of people who wanted to be free. So here we are, 24 years later. What are we doing with our freedom? Which begs the question, are we really free?