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“Home” is a tricky word to me. While I’m no globe trotter, I’ve been quite a bit around the world. Unbeknownst to many, my true country of origin isn’t the United States of America, but rather a small island in the Philippines known as Cebu.
In the corner of my room lies a picture of Manny Pacquiao and two Post-Its. Hung neatly on my bookshelf is a Philippine flag that I got on my most recent trip to the motherland. One Post-It reads, “Para sa yo ang laban na to,” and the other, “Do it for all those who don’t have the chance to.”
It’s a bit dramatic for the room of a sixteen-year-old girl, I know. But I maintain my internal battle to remember my Filipino roots persistently because I never want to forget, nor do I want to ever become lackadaisical in my efforts to achieve the American dream. To forget the Philippines is to forget the world that has forged such large parts of my identity—even if most of the home I have built with my family is in the United States.
Still, I return to the Philippines every so often and am reminded of the simultaneous pain and pride of being an immigrant. I am torn between two homes, both all the more different than the other. Los Angeles, California is the peak of first world living, care-free in its natural state and buried by the glitz and glamour of Hollywood and heavy tourist-populated attractions. Cebu, on the other hand, struggles to keep up with the rest of the modern and developed world. Its comfort resides in the fact that ballads from the 80s and 90s dominate the radio waves, and many of the places that set the scene for my childhood still stand today. There’s a certain kind of overwhelming sense of belonging that comes with the Philippines. Hearing my native tongue spoken by people who look like me is a feeling that goes beyond whatever my passport says under “nationality”. It’s in my blood, despite what my papers say.
Yet I am incredibly aware of the privileges and opportunities that America has given me, but I keep my Filipino habits with me no matter where I am. It’s the reason why I was able to compete in the Global Round of the World Scholar’s Cup in Prague, representing the earnest hopefulness of the United States whilst carrying the whole-hearted spirit of the Philippines within me.
As a first time traveler in Europe, the realization that I had qualified for such a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity didn’t quite hit me until I looked out the window ten minutes before landing to see red roofs and dreamy green pastures.
Prague is indescribable in more ways than one—and many writers (like myself) can only attempt to capture its essence.
Straight from a fairytale storybook, Prague is a city one needs to experience themselves to truly believe the wonder it holds. The peak of a European dream, Prague speaks for itself in its mixture of classic near-perfectly preserved European architecture ranging from baroque to neoclassic.
With the main reason of my trip being the World Scholar’s Cup Global Round, I didn’t get to experience all of Prague as much as I wanted to. In truth, the most memorable aspects of my time in Prague stems from the people I met.
Hailing from different parts of the world and every continent, over twenty countries participated in the Prague round, coming together in a glorious celebration of culture and the academic achievements of students internationally.
Donning a bold head of dyed pink hair and an insanely cool septum ring, the first person I became friends with had flown about three hours to Prague from Izmir, Turkey. Sporting a Wu-Tang Clan shirt and a leather blazer, Duru and I bonded over our connection to our cultures and compared our “normals”, both equally fascinated by the immense difference a few thousand miles can make.
Sent on a scavenger hunt through Prague’s Old Town with a random group of student scholars by the WSC team, I suddenly found myself inside a KFC, a stark contrast from the European surroundings I was busy admiring.
Hungry and drenched from the rain, I ordered a soda, fries, and some chicken strips without much thought.
It was then I found myself surrounded by a team of students from Israel, Kenya, and Turkey, all intrigued by the fact that I had come from flashy Los Angeles. I was bombarded with questions, all of which seemed to be based on American stereotypes and cliches from the movies.
“I think America teaches you to be gay. Am I right?”
“Does everyone in America go to therapy?”
“Do you guys really have school dances?”
I then heard a girl sweetly and quietly ask:
“I’ve never had KFC before, what does it taste like?”
I pulled a seat out for the inquirer, Lily from Kenya, to share with her a bite of America. She went for the chicken and soda first.
I went back to order another set of chicken strips and fries, deeply aware of how clueless I was about America when I immigrated at the age of five.
Lily thanked me profusely for the food and walked through the cloudy streets with me admiring the designer boutiques, confiding in me that she wanted to go into fashion when she was older.
Noticing how wet I was from my lack of preparation for the gloomy weather, Alice from Israel reached over to share her umbrella with me, Lily, and Duru.
Like an angel sent from above, Alice slipped into our conversation sharing her worries about the upcoming competition, but mostly of her relief for a break from studying.
“For my school in Israel, this is everything. We study everyday after school for six hours and extend into the weekend—so it’s six days a week of studying. It’s intense. I’m just glad I get to rest for now before we start the competition tomorrow.”
I felt sympathy overcome me. I had complained about the hours of studying before, but I had never exhausted myself to that extent. I had time for the normal teenage girl acts of rebellion. I had to time to be myself before I drowned myself in my books.
I was already aware of how lucky I was to escape the strife of the Philippines, and I am thankful everyday for the United States. But I hadn’t realized this desire for the American dream was echoed across the world. To them, my life was a movie. It was their goal.
The day after the scavenger hunt I put on a Filipiana and unfolded the Philippine flag I had stashed in my backpack to attend the WSC’s cultural fair. The embarrassment of sticking out from my American friends who were wearing matching stars and stripes overalls and hats melted away.
I made my way to the Turkish booth to see Duru. Distracted by the crowds of people of different creeds and races, I dropped my flag. In my desperate attempts to recover it, I was crawling on the carpeted floor of the venue and trying my best to grab it from beneath the feet of people who were too busy to notice the tiny Filipino girl grasping for her flag. I saw the flag slip away, and was ready to accept defeat.
Without warning, I felt someone tap my shoulder.
I turned around to see Duru smiling and triumphantly holding my Philippine flag.
“No one’s flag should be stepped on. We must treat each others’ with dignity and respect.”
I rose up with renewed pride that Duru instilled in me. Like everyone else I met, I don’t do this for the promise of my own glory. It’s for those who don’t have the chance to.
Para sa Pilipinas.
Photo Credits: Katareena Roska
