Heritage flakes

by RAF KATIGBAK

When Catherine P’s sexagenarian Polish aunt found out her niece’s new boyfriend was divorced, she immediately knew there was a problem. Not because divorced men have bad track records when it comes to love and are never to be trusted, but more precisely because his ex-wife was Filipino, and, as her aunt was quick to point out, “Nobody divorces a Filipino woman—they’re the best wives you can find.”

It turned out her suspicions were correct and the guy was a class-A con artist who had swindled his way into a luxury apartment rent-free for a year under the pretense of “renovating it” and was currently two-timing Catherine P with several other girls in five other cities on the East Coast. After recounting her sordid story of betrayal over dinner the other night, Catherine P asked me in all seriousness, “Hey, you’re Filipino, why is it that Filipino women make the best wives?”

For a moment, I was at a loss. “Well, I guess they’re really nurturing and wonderful care-givers...” I replied. “Wait a second, is that racist? Maybe. Then again, my mom does rule, and yes, I know a shitload of Filipinos who have come over to join the field of nursing and nanniness...”

Positive stereotyping is weird. On the one hand, it’s stupid to reduce ethnic make-ups to single traits like “African Americans are good at sports,” “Scottish people can hold their liquor” and “White people smell like milk,” but what happens if, as an ethnic minority, it actually works in your favour? Is it okay to assume that role? If the shoe fits, should we not wear it?

In high school, I learned that, as an Asian, I could do no wrong. I was expected to succeed. So high were these assumptions, in fact, that when I didn’t excel in math and science, my teachers would actually wonder what they had done wrong. When I would talk shit with my white friend at the back of the class, he would always get in trouble for bothering me, and never vice versa.

Was I expected to know how to use chopsticks and remember the title of every Bruce Lee film in chronological order? Yes. Actually, I did. Even though Filipinos don’t use chopsticks and the only thing I had in common with Bruce Lee was a bad bowl-cut and a penchant for high-pitched squealing. Perhaps I watched so many Bruce Lee films remembering particular lines and scenes by heart because he was the only role model I grew up with in the predominantly white West Island (except that Wok With Yan guy who admittedly didn’t carry much street cred on the playground).

Was I pissed that people assumed that I knew kung fu? Not really. Actually, I thought it was kind of cool. For better or worse, these assumptions helped me move closer to defining an identity. It brought me a few steps closer to making sense of a world that seemed extremely alienating.

Sure, there are times when I wish that people didn’t remind me that I was different. Recently, when an X-ray operator at the security check-in at Trudeau Airport called me Jackie Chan, I was at first, appalled. “How dare you reduce me to a mere pop culture film caricature?” Then I thought, “Wait a sec, I love Jackie Chan! He so funny!”

If you didn’t know, last week marked the end of Asian Heritage month and the subject of stereotypes has been coming up in many of my conversations as of late. Of course not all Scottish people are drunks and not all African Americans can play basketball. Am I an asshole if I had to pick either one of those over the other for my team in a basketball game or a drinking competition? Maybe. But in some ways, cultural stereotypes help us understand the world we live in—to ignore their existence would be dumb.

Do I cringe when fellow Filipinos describe our race as the “black people of Asia” because we can sing, dance, play sports and are way better DJs than the rest of Asia? Maybe a little. Am I actually pissed off that I am a better singer, dancer, athlete and DJ than my other friends? Heck no.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca