No, not Puerto Rican, not black, not even Chinese. Filipino, or rather Filipina, if you please. In the late 70ÿs through the mid-80ÿs, children in suburban New Jersey had no idea what to make of someone identifying herself as ¬Filipino.ÿ Many thought that the Philippines was a city in Puerto Rico. Others would see the pancit my mother had prepared for my lunch and squint their eyes into thin slits, repeating, ¬Chinky eyes. Ching-chong. Ching-chong.ÿ Still others, trapped in the playpen of false dichotomies, came to the conclusion that since I was definitely not white, I must be black ¬like Gordon on Sesame Street.ÿ

Being brown also meant being asexualized. In the sixth grade world of Love Connection, everyone was matched up in the infamous list of couples. The list would surreptitiously slip from desk to desk until the teacher would casually walk up to some unfortunate childÿs desk and snatch it up, only to be thrown into her drawer--the abyss that became the permanent resting place of many a note, straw (a.k.a. super-spitball launcher), and noisy whatchamacallit. One would eagerly peek at the list in order to find out whether s/he were destined to be matched with a cute catch or some prankster dud. The only names omitted from the list were those of the gross boys who were still stigmatized from their 1st & 2nd grade penchant for glue-eating and nosepicking, and of course, mine. It was not until a boy ¬like meÿ moved into our town that I had a match as well. His parents came from ¬Philippines, Puerto Rico,ÿ just like mine.

Amidst the name-calling and the wait for Archipelago Ken to complement my Pacific Princess Barbie, one thing was made completely clear: I was different. That difference was often a source of sadness and alienation that I could not really comprehend. I dressed like the other children. I played the same games. I lead the Pledge of Allegiance at the beginning of school. However, being an outsider inspired me to strive for success in all of my endeavors. My immigrant parentsÿ legacy of hard work and struggle taught me that being Filipina in white America meant that I had to overcome labels, confining stereotypes, and prejudice if I wanted to achieve my potential and pursue my passions. Fortunately, my familyÿs financial stability afforded me the opportunities to do just that. The difference empowered me to become the consummate athlete, student, and leader. Perhaps I got things baliktad, but for me the solution was simple: if I could not join them, Iÿd beat them. Although this strategy would not be a productive approach to completely embrace for the rest of my life, it did help me navigate through the complexities of childhood, when societal acceptance often lays the groundwork for self-esteem and self-worth.

Fastforward Several Years Aheadz By the late 80s and early 90s, Filipinos had become a more recognized population of immigrants in the United States. As the populace of immigrants from the Philippines grew to include more non-health professionals, and as images of the 1986 People Power revolution were suffused all over mainstream media, Filipinos and Filipino Americans gained a distinct identity. I was no longer Chinese or Puerto Rican. I became Filipina American.

In contrast to the relative sexual obscurity I experienced in childhood, my passage into womanhood was filled with many an unwelcome innuendo as invitations to be someoneÿs ¬China Girl,ÿ ¬Miss Saigon,ÿ or ¬Suzy Wong,ÿ were often crudely extended in my direction. Sometimes, these insults are followed or replaced with inane descriptions of an ¬ex-girlfriend who is Filipino,ÿ or allusions to ¬some good times at Olongapo.ÿ I have been described as an Asian Barbie because of my ¬silky hair.ÿ A more common and more subtle approach is the scenario in which the man asks ¬Where are you from?ÿ and with a sparkle in his eyes (and the rolling of mine), declares that he ¬can guess,ÿ and the litany begins:

Annoying Inquisitor: Hawaii. (He pictures me in a hula skirt.)
Annoyed Me: No. (If itÿs gone this far, Iÿm either too tired to set him straight or in a situation where I fear that my physical safety may be compromised.)
Annoying Inquisitor: Vietnam. (Pick a scene from a Scorcese movie.)
Annoyed Me: No.
Annoying Inquisitor: Philippines?
Annoyed Me: No.
Annoying Inquisitor: Hmmm. Where are you from?
Annoyed Me: New Jersey.
Annoying Inquisitor: No. I mean where were you born?
Annoyed Me: Newark. (With that, hopefully the elevator doors open or the train has reached my destination or Eartha Kittÿs voice is heard, signaling me to pay my cab fare and get out.)

I often assume that the more sexualized comments come from a desire to either relive earlier militarized sexual adventures or explore the fantasy of an Asian Lolita with exotic charms. However, conversations such as the above dialogue serve as constant reminders that although I was born and raised in the United States, the inescapable physical appearance of my hair, face, and skin color will always be adequate criteria to cast me as an ¬otherÿ to be scrutinized, objectified, sexualized, and marginalized in my ¬homeÿ country. It is the sentiment that was pithily communicated on MSNBCÿs Olympics coverage website page, which touted Lipinskiÿs gold medal triumph as ¬American Beats Out Kwan.ÿ This conflation of nationality with ethnicity in effect pushes me into the margins and undermines my ability to become a member in structures of dominance (not domination); I become a guest in my own country, and as such have limited access to privileges that full membership confers (Read: the upper echelons of corporate America, the cirrus clouds that hover above the glass ceiling, etc.).

Throughout childhood and adolescence, I dealt with my feelings of difference and inadequacy by utilizing the gifts bestowed by my education and class to fashion myself into a stronger, knowledgeable, and thinking Filipina American. As an adult, organizations such as GABNet provide me with opportunities to apply gifts given and abilities discovered to empower both my Filipina sisters and my Filipina American sisters. Pacific Princess Barbie? I donÿt think so.