Staring is taboo

Omniscient, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

The longer I live in the United States, the more foreign I feel around Filipinos.

I marked the silver anniversary of my immigration this past summer. At this point I’ve lived in California more than half my life. People from here don’t ask me, “Where are you from?” as often as they did in the early years. What hasn’t changed is the way some Filipinos react when they see me for the first time: they stare. Openly and unrelentingly, as if they were seeing me in a line-up from behind a two-way mirror.

They want to know if I’m a fellow Filipino. Unable to conclude this from my accent or perhaps the lack thereof, and hesitant to ask me outright, they resort to sizing up my features. I’ve been greeted in Niponggo by the Japanese and optimistically proclaimed Korean by a Korean. The Vietnamese ladies at the nail salon usually ask if I’m Chinese. The Chinese are extra nice to me at their restaurants. I must remind them of their eccentric aunt.

But my countrymen and women, they stare. More so the women. That’s how I know they’re Filipino. In trying to identify me, they give themselves away. We’re not talking about the adoring gaze that your dog bestows upon you post-Kibbles. I am reminded of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, in which pod people point and scream to “out” those unlike them.

Staring is taboo in most Western cultures except in Hollywood, which has its own culture the way the Vatican is a country within a city. If we lived in Hollywood, for which I thank God we do not, I am certain none of the attention would be wasted on me. Unless they were casting for the mother of Catherine Zeta-Jones, whom I somewhat resemble if my brother-in-law were to be believed.

A former colleague who expatriated to Japan encountered the opposite phenomenon: the natives’ aversion to looking him in the eye, even during conversation, rendered him an invisible, unwelcome stranger. He rationalized that in a society as compactly quartered and politely ordered as Japan’s, the last bastion of personal space is visual. Sardined in a bullet train, one must compensate for the pressing of flesh against flesh with sustained look-aways.

I feel it behooves us to retain identifying behaviors that would preserve our heritage in this diverse land. We can be mini versions of Vatican City. Thus, I am preparing to engage in staring, and not only dabble, but be downright adept at it.

Apart or a part? Are you a soloist or orchestra player?

Fruit, originally uploaded by scrollwork.

Are we better as part of something bigger than us, or do we hit our peak potential only when we tune in to what makes us unique? Do we bear more fruit—or sweeter fruit—on our own or on demand?

I was getting ready to send out a Friday wind-down greeting on Facebook. The message would have encouraged friends and family to put down the workday yoke, take off the company mask and spend time being only who they choose to be as individuals. Easy for me to say; I've been self-employed for a year.

Would the transition be at great cost? Would it make their Monday mornings suck even worse? Is it all that bad being part of a machine that works, given the stability and benefits?

I chafe at the good-soldier expectations that come with employment but look around my house and see everyday examples that more can be accomplished as a part of a whole—even as a mediocre part: one light in my outdated chandelier; one blade on the ceiling fan; one leg on the table.

When I post status updates as a dance teacher, the key message is, "Join us!" The implication being that life, meaning yours, is lacking if you don't learn to cha-cha with us. I position our dance studio as something you need to make your life richer, to color the corporate grays away.

When I post a link to this blog, the message is "Come away with me." Turn your back on the blur and static, and focus on this one thought of mine, how it affects you, what thoughts it might provoke.

For a loner, I'm such a joiner. For a joiner, I'm a loner. I am an intensely private introvert who has built a career that hinges on incessant public contact. I am a regular contributor of photos to flickr.com who has yet to join a flickr group even when I know that it will spur me to create with even more passion. I am the youngest of six who lives 8,000 miles of ocean away from siblings, has visited once in 25 years, and has never wished I had a twin. But I devour the substitute memories contained in my sister's Facebook album collages!

I am a believer in the Christian faith, embracing the definition of sanctified as "set apart from the world," yet intrigued by the Buddhist perspective of everyone and everything being one and indistinct. The latter viewpoint draws me in with its take on suffering, conflict and oppression: if ego is a fictional construct, conflict with another is conflict with ourselves. Why fight? Being oppressed (by bosses, road rage drivers, rude customer "service" clerks) is less a personal affront, because even the oppressors suffer—from their own diminished status as human beings lacking in compassion.

I am a Filipino ex-pat who has by choice acculturated apart from the immigrant community, but has of late realized that my privilege as a bicultural person comes with the duty to voice the experience to validate the experience of others.

I am the patient nibbler of pomegranate and atis, with seeds that must be teased apart but flesh that my mouth can only appreciate en masse.

Speak the truth in love

A friend of a friend shared on Facebook the other day, "One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter."

My friend then quoted Henry Vandyke: “Tact is the unsaid part of what you think; its opposite, the unthought part of what you say.”

Expressing ourselves triggers vulnerability. There could be good or bad consequences for both us and the ones who hear our words. I once heard a simple, memorable, and sensible gauge for deciding whether to say something or not. I wrote about it
here. We ask ourselves, "Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?" If it meets all three conditions, then we may say it.

But what if it's true and necessary, but unpleasant? I thank God I'm not the boss who has to take employees aside and tell them they need a breath mint. Or the cop/minister/doctor who has to let a family know their loved one is a fatality.

In our ordinary lives, the unpleasant truth is more likely to be that someone is driving us crazy. I'm so lousy at lying I don't even bother. I haven't been a big fan of white lies, either, but I've managed a clear distinction in my head between hypocrisy and civility. Even if I can't stand the sight and sound of you, if we have to work together, you can always rely on my professional courtesy toward you — no matter how big of a jerk you're behaving toward me. Once that working relationship is over, though, you won't see me initiating or reciprocating any social interaction. My silence will say what was left unsaid. (Hear that, former co-worker? former boss?)

I wish I could be as unambiguous with the friends I've de-friended over the years. I stopped all contact with the first one because she was the kind of flaky we're all supposed to outgrow; the second for her undeserved sense of entitlement (to my resources, time and undivided attention); the third for unrelenting, clueless self-centeredness; the fourth for crying over the smallest thing, thus turning the office into a daycare circus; and the fifth (and last, I hope) for being a staggering, obnoxious drunk at a party while expecting me to babysit her.

I haven't begun to figure out if there might have been any way to speak the truth kindly to any of the aforementioned. As relaxed as I usually am about friendship, my standards exclude the flaky, the leeches, and the heavy baggages who don't even try to control their emotions or addictions. If you come up with a loving way to say that to a person, you know where to find me.