by RAF KATIGBAK

I may have been born to Filipino parents, but I grew up a banana. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. In fact, I had only heard the term—used to describe a North American of Asian decent who has become fully immersed in Western culture (hence the yellow-on-the-outside-white-on-the-inside allusion)—in my early adulthood, from my sister in Toronto.

“You realize we’re all basically bananas,” she said matter-of-factly. At the time I was indignant; who was she to slap this label on me? I am a human being, not a fruit, I thought. If you prick me do I not bleed? If you slice me up and put me on your breakfast cereal do I not actually make it worse? Am I not more than just a fruit that’s high in potassium and an excellent source of Vitamin B6?

Several years later, I have come to realize that she was on to something. My cultural references are Canadian, my language is Canadian (eh), my traditions and holidays are Canadian. In fact, aside from an unhealthy fondness for giant robots and a propensity to monosodium glutamate (growing up, it came in a shaker labelled “Accent,” and I would consume the stuff like crack), I pretty much grew up a white guy. But that’s okay, because growing up white has its advantages, and that’s exactly the way my mother planned it.

In May of 1975, determined to give her children the kind of opportunities not available in her native Manila, my mother Carmen picked up and moved her family to the Montreal suburb of Dollard-des-Ormeaux (her initial plan to take us to London to train us as an organized gang of pocket-picking street urchins fell through when she realized that it was no longer Victorian England).

Being the first Asian family to move into a then-all-white neighbourhood may have been hard for some families, but my mother had an easy solution to integration: don’t integrate. Having seven kids to feed, clothe and make sure they didn’t stick scissors in their retinas or eat marbles has its advantages and disadvantages. My parents were too busy raising seven children to join any community alliance like the Lion’s Club or Rotary Club or any other esoteric suburban cult.

But that’s okay, they weren’t the type anyway. Besides, being a family with seven children, you didn’t really need to have too many outside friends, since there was always someone that would be your playmate, help with shopping, cooking, cleaning and babysitting. Indeed, I have fond memories of frolicking with my siblings for hours on end in nearby forests like some kind of slanty-eyed Von Trapp family on a Sunday outing (without the whole threat-of-Nazi-abduction thing).

Like most children of the ’80s, television also played its part in child rearing. Growing up Asian in the West Island, there were few options for role models; that is perhaps why I’m a Bruce Lee freak and would devour his cinematic oeuvre like fried rice. His cool, calm, demeanour, combined with deadly grace, made him more collected than Yip from Degrassi, and way more fun to watch than that Wok With Yan guy (although I retain a fondness for punny cooking aprons).

But even then, my Asian heritage was largely ignored. I ate food like chicken adobo or pancit (which I thought everybody ate) and was never enrolled in Filipino school. In fact, in my awkward adolescence, I wanted to change my name to something like John or Mark or Matthew, or any other apostle for that matter (except maybe Judas, which has a bad mouth-feel).

As you must know, May is Asian Heritage month and like most first generation Asian-Canadian, I have grown to want to reclaim my heritage. So, in solidarity with my Filipino brothers and sisters around the world, I have sworn to do the following five things:

1) Renounce the pronunciation of “F”s and “V”s (substituting “B”s and “P”s instead)

2) Eat more blood stew

3) Learn that bamboo dance (similar to that African “shieldance”)

4) Expand my knowledge of Tagalog beyond the expletives

5) Learn how to become a better scratch DJ.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca

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