Lola Scholarship

I have always paid meticulous attention to the appearance of my hands. Skin that remains smooth and unmarred with fingernails perfectly intact. They were a testament to my ancestors’ resilience and unyielding pursuit of a better life. There is a sharp contrast between my hands and my grandmother’s aged hands which showed wear and tear from fifteen years of farm work, my aunt’s hands which had worked tirelessly making leather whilst living as a migrant worker, and my mother’s hands that aged ten years faster than herself from working over twenty years in warehouses. Etched into these hands is a story of sacrifice that shaped my life to never have to endure the same. As the granddaughter of cherry and grape pickers and cannery workers and the daughter of immigrants from the rural Ilocos region of the Philippines, I am proud to call myself a first-generation Pilipinx-American born and raised in the California Central Valley’s city of Stockton. Unbeknownst to myself at the time of growing up with these identities, public health was deeply embedded into my life. On the other hand, what I was indeed aware of was that pursuing higher education was the key to breaking the generational chain of enduring arduous labor. Stockton was never a picturesque sight, but it was still home. Instead, the city’s backdrop was painted with smoke arising from the giant cargo ships docked at the port, fields of crops lined the town’s perimeter, and gunshots echoed the night skies. However, nestled beneath it all was a vibrant Filipino-American community with my family among them. Once home to the largest Filipino population outside of the Philippines, Stockton houses the historic Little Manila site. What is left of the historic Little Manila site are demolished buildings and a freeway built over the houses of the bustling community that was displaced. I recalled learning about this history that took place in the heart of my hometown as a setting for progressive change. The windows that once held signs indicating “Positively no Filipinos allowed” still stand and I can walk the same streets Larry Itliong and others from the Farm Labor Movement once did. I came to understand the importance of where I grew up to the entirety of Filipino-American history. To see the negligence of this historic district drove me towards the fight for social justice. “Isang Bagsak” is what they say — if one falls in our community, we all fall. What else I can piece together from my memories growing up were hospital bedsides, care home waiting areas, and accompanying my older relatives at doctor appointments. It appeared that decades of agricultural and factory work coupled with the health disparities present among Filipino-Americans had rapidly caught up to the health of my family members. Therefore for myself, there was never a doubt about pursuing a future career in healthcare. It wasn’t until I found myself sitting on my living room floor, celebrating my 18th birthday during the initial COVID-19 stay-at-home order by opening college decision emails that the prospect of such a future became a more tangible reality. My acceptance to the University of California, Berkeley was a reminder of the privilege I held as one of the first members of my family to attend an American four-year university, let alone a world-renowned institution. However, my world came to a staggering halt in 2021 when COVID-19 took the life of my aunt and her partner. They had become a part of the morbid statistic in which a quarter of deaths among all nurses in the United States were of Filipino-American nurses. Then five months later, I was left to grapple with the news that my father suffered from a heart attack. I witnessed him fall into yet again another statistic of Filipino-Americans disproportionately affected by heart disease. Witnessing the unsettling statistics of the Filipino-American community ignited another profound sense of determination in me. I now aimed to study the methods of analyzing health disparities to contribute to research rooted in catalyzing transformative change. Post graduating with my Bachelor’s in Public Health, I returned back to Little Manila and the non-profit that was started to preserve its history. I began working under their health equity program, giving back to my community by providing health education and resources, and becoming an advocate for the community that inspired me from the very beginning. As the product of generations of struggle, sacrifice, and triumph, my identity and experiences have molded the opportunity that stands before me today—the privilege to be the first person in my family to attend graduate school. I have chosen to pursue a Master’s in Public Health (MPH) in Epidemiology with the goal of becoming a research epidemiologist because I aspire to represent underserved communities in healthcare policy reform and epidemiologic studies to foster intentional progress in these communities. I have had the honor of being accepted into an MPH program that allows me to bridge my identity, history, personal experiences, and future aspirations together. Growing up as a Pilipinx-American has ingrained into myself the values of social justice and transformative impact, empowering me to dedicate my education and prospective career to work that contributes to dismantling systemic barriers to health. These hands, engraved with a history of labor and relentless endeavors, not only tell my story as a Pilipinx-American and how my identity has shaped me to pursue a career focused on achieving equitable health, but come together with every “Isang Bagsak.”

My identity as a mixed-race, first-generation Filipina-American often leaves me feeling like a chameleon that code-switches between the cultures. Being “mestiza” comes with a profound sense of context that allows me to see the duality in the world, my community, and everything that I do. But it also can be somewhat confusing to be Filipina-American due to the many complexities that come with our culture. Geography, religion, language and education are just some of the factors that contribute to each person’s individual “Filipino-ness,” but lacking one aspect does not make someone less Filipino, nor does having more aspects make someone “more” Filipino. That lesson is one that I’ve spent my entire life trying to understand and accept about myself. We are not a monolith and having particular experiences does not make one more or less Filipino than another. As a people, Filipinos contain multitudes and although we try to fit into societal boxes, we are too unique and ubiquitous to be generalized and boiled down to stereotypes. I feel a constant push/pull between my Filipino and American sides, as many of my mixed-race mestizo/a friends can attest to. However, there is an intense beauty that comes with the duality of my experience, and over the years I have grown closer to my Filipino heritage and have made more of an effort to seek out knowledge about my homeland and our people. My Lola, Nanay Helen as we called her, grew up in a small town outside of Manila and is the true definition of resilience and strength. As a child, she experienced unimaginable trauma that is unfortunately very much a part of the Filipino experience. During Japan’s attack on the Philippines during World War II, at the age of eight years old, she lost both her parents and younger brother in a brutal attack. My Nanay, the oldest of the three surviving daughters, was bestowed the unbearable weight of being responsible for her younger sisters. They were passed on to a family friend who tricked Nanay into signing away her family’s money. Nanay and her sisters became servants and received less than a middle school education. She married my Tatay at a young age, and he was not the kindest. He was an abusive alcoholic but her resilience helped her endure the abuse and raise five boys and one daughter - my mother. Nanay was a true matriarch that everyone looked to for guidance. Her resilience and strength were important attributes that she passed on to all of her kin. Because my mom was the only girl, her daughters, myself and my younger sister, were the lights of Nanay’s life. And she was the light of ours. Growing up, Nanay was my best friend. I struggled with relating to other children because, like Nanay, my mother ended up with an abusive alcoholic. Keeping my home life a secret was terribly stressful so I sought comfort with Nanay. She would tell me stories about the Philippines and my cousins there; how if we went there, we’d be “artistas” and famous! We watched her favorite game shows, she would paint my nails and play Barbies with me. The joy that she exuded was something that I only began to value into my adulthood. Because her childhood was ripped away from her, the time we spent together was a way for her to make up for lost years. She spoke to us mainly in Tagalog and when I was younger I was able to converse with her. But when I entered school, it was emphasized that we should only speak English and I eventually lost my ability to speak Tagalog. Fortunately, I’m still able to understand and am actively trying to relearn my mother tongue. A lot of my Filipino friends don’t posses the ability to speak the language either, which is an interesting by-product of being Filipino American. We are so proud to say that we’re Filipino, but embarrassed to admit that we can’t speak the language because we were conditioned to assimilate and become “American.” The short time I spent with my Nanay was truly formative. She was sick when I was growing up but her health became a larger issue when I was around the same age that she was when she lost her parents. She was diagnosed with Colon, then Cervix cancer and her health rapidly declined during her last few years. During that time, I followed in Nanay’s footsteps and began to take on a caregiver role at a young age. I helped my mom, who was working full-time, raising two kids and an alcoholic partner, care for her dying mother. Nanay became frail and weak but always maintained her spirit. During the first few months of 8th Grade, she passed away. I spent 13 short years with her and in those years, she laid the foundation that helped shape my identity as a Filipina-American and as a woman. My Nanay has been gone for longer than she was part of my life. But the things she taught me, her strength and resilience, have stayed with me and will continue to do so for the rest of my life. I feel her in everything that I do, in the conversations and laughter shared with my mom and sister when we talk about how funny she was. Nanay taught me to be proud of my roots and to never forget where I came from. She taught me to always lead with kindness and compassion no matter what. She showed me how to be a respectable, kind, funny, gracious Filipina woman and to always put others before myself. While this trait can have it’s negative consequences, the core of that lesson is one that I hang onto. Family, friends, and community are important connections that need to be watered and maintained, which I learned from her. She remained extremely close to her sisters, even when she moved to the states to help raise me and my sister. Even though they were separated by distance, they were as close as ever and she always taught my sister and I to watch out for each other because there is nothing like a bond between sisters. Being a Filipina-American woman is filled with nuance, complications, joy, compassion, and a sense of responsibility and care for everyone around you. If it were not for my Nanay Helen’s lessons during those formative years, I would not be the kind, caring, compassionate, resilient, and brave woman that I am today. I feel her spirit in everything I do, and as I embark on a new career path, her presence envelopes and guides me. Because of how much she cared for her family and gave herself to others, I have chosen to dedicate my life to helping others help themselves. I am working toward a Masters degree in Clinical Psychology with an emphasis in Marriage and Family Therapy, and I know that she would be so proud of me. Those foundational lessons that she taught me about being a Filipina have laid the groundwork for a future of providing care to those who have experienced and survived trauma, like my Nanay, like my mom, like me.

Philippine hero Dr. José Rizal once said, “Ang hindi marunong magmahal sa sariling wika ay higit sa hayop at malansang isda.” (One who does not love one’s own language is worse than an animal and a rotten fish.) Speaking Tagalog has always been a great part of my Filipino-American identity. Although I was born in the United States, my parents made the conscious decision to raise me speaking in their native tongue. As a child, I remember them making a point of only speaking in Tagalog when at home; if I tried to speak English with them, they would pretend to not understand so that I would switch to Tagalog. They taught me how to sing “Lupang Hinirang,” how to sing children’s songs like “Bahay Kubo,” read books like “Juan Tamad,” and recite prayers in Tagalog like “Ama Namin.” I spoke in Tagalog to my titas and titos, my lolas and lolos, and other Filipinos in our church community. Tagalog became a source of warmth and comfort for me; speaking it felt like home. I was proud to speak it. However, one day, when I was seven years old, I went to a church meeting with my parents and was bewildered. I observed that despite every person in the room being Filipino, the meeting was conducted entirely in English, with everyone refusing to utter a single word in Tagalog. When they did use Tagalog, it was usually used to convey a joke or an afterthought. Confused, I whispered to my mom in Tagalog, “Why aren’t they speaking Tagalog? Everyone’s Filipino.” This realization was the first of many realizations from my childhood to my teenage years about the position of Tagalog, not just in my own life and identity, but in society as a whole. Whether it was in church, in weddings, in family gatherings, in Facebook posts, or in debuts, I kept asking myself, “why are they speaking English instead of Tagalog?” I understood that we were in America, but even in situations where everyone was Filipino and could understand Tagalog, people elected to speak English. When I visited the Philippines for the first time, the signs, museums, historical sites, and advertisements were in English. In the National Bookstore, I could not find a single novel in Tagalog; all were in English. Sooner or later, I began noticing a pattern. English was used when people wanted to sound ‘sophisticated.’ It was the language of the affluent, the popular, and the educated. It was the language of politics, academia, and commerce. English was the language that many Filipinos prided themselves in speaking, not Tagalog. What Tagalog meant to me—a language of beauty, comfort, national identity, and pride—was not what Tagalog meant to other Filipinos. But why? When I researched the history of the Philippines, I learned that the reason behind all this was American colonization and linguistic imperialism. English was imposed on Filipinos to ‘civilize,’ to ‘educate,’ and to subjugate them. As a result, the idea that English meant wealth and education was ingrained in Filipinos. If one spoke English, one would become rich, powerful, and revered. One could climb out of poverty and achieve success in life. These attitudes continue to pervade Philippine consciousness to this day, and if left unchecked, the complete Anglicization of the Philippines would not only marginalize Tagalog and other Philippine languages, but could cause them to become extinct. These languages whose traditions, literatures, and speakers once thrived could find themselves becoming languages that are forgotten, archaic, and obsolete. Learning this not only disheartened me, but made my blood boil. “Why can’t Filipinos love their own native language,” I desperately asked my parents in tears, “Why do we still worship the language of our colonizers?! Bakit, bakit, bakit?!” All my parents could muster was, “Wala tayong magagawa, anak. We can’t do anything about it.” I had never felt so alone, so betrayed, so lost, and so hopeless. However, I refused to give up without a fight. I knew that I could do something about it, even if it’s something small. In high school, I began translating popular English songs into singable versions in Tagalog, I began advocating in my church to read Scripture in Tagalog for masses that celebrated Filipino saints, I learned how to sing harana, kundiman, and other old Filipino songs, I wrote my own original songs and poems in Tagalog and posted them on social media, and I started learning and using ‘archaic’ Tagalog words. This passion to fight for Tagalog and Filipino identity continues on in my college years as well. As a freshman last year, I joined the Pilipino American Student Union and the Filipino cultural arts and dance group, Kayumanggi. I formed a new Filipino acapella group that sings both new and old Tagalog songs, and performed these songs at our Pilipino Culture Night event. My most proud accomplishment, however, was writing my own academic paper about linguistic imperialism in the Philippines entitled “Wikang Imperyalismo, Wikang Mapagsamantala: A Critique of English Linguistic Imperialism in the Philippines.” Now as a sophomore, I have decided to major in International Relations and minor in Linguistics so that through academic papers and research, I can continue to passionately fight against linguistic imperialism for not only Tagalog, but other Philippine languages as well. For me, my Filipino identity and Tagalog language are inseparable. I earnestly and sincerely believe that one of the reasons why I am here on this Earth is to fight for my cherished and beloved native language, no matter the cost. This passion is what keeps me going during times of hardship, pain, and suffering. It is what drives me to study well, to try my best at whatever I do, and to live to fight. Dahil kung hindi ako ang magmamahal sa sariling wika, sino? (Because if I don’t love my own language, who will?)

Resilient: an adjective used to describe individuals who have endured difficult life events but have recovered. Through my lens, the word resilience has evolved into a pop-psychology term and has become overused and misused within the field of psychology. Specifically, this term has been used to conceal the systemic oppression leading individuals from historically marginalized populations to repeatedly overcome obstacles of racism, sexism, capitalism, ageism, ableism, imperialism, and colonialism. Similarly, “matapang” is a Tagalog adjective that was commonly used throughout my childhood as a way to describe individuals for being strong or brave when facing various obstacles in life. Now as a clinical psychology doctoral student at the University of San Francisco, my social-justice-oriented education has challenged me to reflect upon my narrative as a heterosexual, cis-gender, second-generation Filipina American. As a result, I have come to view the terms resilient or matapang as unhelpful ways of describing individuals who face adversity. In my perspective, using these terms within and outside of clinical settings does not equip individuals with the proper preventative tools to effectively develop and implement coping strategies when facing future obstacles. Born of two Filipino immigrants and raised in a multigenerational household, I watched my parents, aunts, and grandmother endure various obstacles while simultaneously holding space for moments of individual and collective joy. Although each member demonstrated their ability to experience and share joy, they also experienced countless moments in which hardship made it difficult to embrace peace and contentment as a person and family unit. For instance, my family members were often made to feel inferior by their employers, colleagues, or landlords for not articulating themselves proficiently in the English language. In response, my family persisted quietly and obediently in hopes of achieving the American dream. However, experiences of discrimination further contributed to the housing instability and financial insecurity that became our reality. Moving a total of 14 times across the Bay Area throughout my childhood made it more difficult for my family and I to experience joy as well as a sense of stability. Furthermore, due to the fear of negative consequences for speaking up against discrimination, I witnessed my family members turn to unhealthy patterns of behavior as an attempt to cope. Years later as a first-generation undergraduate student at the University of California, Davis, I learned about the impacts of acculturation on immigrant families like my own including substance use, depression, and anxiety. Additionally, I learned that silence made it easier for my family to navigate new systems without scrutiny. Moreover, I became cognizant of how individuals who continuously experience oppression may also gain skills in resourcefulness. For instance, my parents used different “home” addresses for my younger brother and I to access and attend public school education within an affluent community. Witnessing and experiencing inequitable access to resources and resulting trauma responses firsthand shaped my interest in pursuing a doctoral degree in clinical psychology. Now as a developing Filipina-American clinician and board-certified neuropsychologist, my clinical work and community-based research have been informed by my family’s collective experiences. More specifically, my family’s collective experiences of embracing joy while also being mislabeled as resilient and misusing the term matapang for enduring oppression. The stress my family faced while navigating unfamiliar cultural, sociopolitical, legal, and healthcare systems has also paralleled many of the stressors my patients and their families have faced. From indicating English as a primary language in order to receive an earlier autism evaluation for their Spanish-speaking child to learning how to access various mental and behavioral health services for the first time, navigating unfamiliar systems can be overwhelming and frightening. As a provider-in-training, my identity as a Filipina American has enabled me to deeply empathize and comprehend the challenges my patients and their families face daily. Moreover, it has helped me view my work as a form of individual and collective advocacy that emphasizes collaboration. By collaborating with my patients, various health-service providers, and local community organizations in Santa Clara County as well as other Bay Area counties, historically underserved populations gain equitable access to quality, comprehensive services regardless of their intersecting identities, background, and socioeconomic status. Lastly, my identity as the only Filipina American in various academic and clinical settings has motivated me to express the importance of reframing resilience amongst my white-identifying colleagues and supervisors by acknowledging the role systemic oppression plays in a patient’s emotional, behavioral, and interpersonal distress. Through my privilege of higher education as a first-generation college graduate and doctoral student, I have learned that silence does not equate to survival; rather, it can result in tarnishing joy and lead to distress. Moreover, when an individual or collective unit does experience joy, it does not diminish the harsh realities of ongoing oppression. My identity and experiences as a Filipina American have been pivotal to my growth as a social justice-oriented clinician. Engaging with my communities as an anak, tita, Pinayista scholar, mentorship co-coordinator, Students of Color board member, and peer supervisor has helped me develop a voice that is not afraid to challenge barriers to equitable mental and behavioral health care. As such, in my newly earned position of power and privilege as a future licensed clinician, I aspire to empower individuals and families by providing them with the tools and resources they need to navigate systemic oppression in adaptive and helpful ways. Overall, I aspire to uplift those labeled as resilient or matapang by facilitating systemic change to buffer the need for resilience within our society.

I cut my mother tongue right out of my mouth. I stitched a new one in with shaky, inexperienced hands, thread and needle stolen from my grandmother’s bedside table. Later, I would come to recognize this as my first act of betrayal. If I roll my tongue along the ridges of my teeth, my canines snag on the syllables of old stitches, catching onto parts of a self-inflicted wound that never set properly. You see, my first language was Tagalog. My grandma, my Nanay, had been my first, and my favorite, conversationalist; she helped me shape my mouth around the soft letters and hard endings of Tagalog. My first language was warm in this way, the way that we begin each morning with tsaa and kape, a comforting familiarity. When I began to attend public school in America, I learned the coldness of English. Kindergarten was just early enough for other children to notice how differently my tongue fit around certain words. After one too many fumbles, I went home one day and I never spoke Tagalog again. I grew to hear, to understand, but my muscle had split with disuse. My words were clunky where they should have been graceful, harsh where they should have been gentle. I often say I lost a part of myself when I came home that day, and I continued to shed the warmth given to me by my grandmother until I had dug a chasm between us, one where words lost themselves in translation. My relationship with my heritage as a Filipino-American has been complicated, rough, and bruising… but after my nanay’s death in 2019, I attempted to bridge over what I had so vehemently buried. Though I feel I lost myself for so long, my journey to reconnect with my family and my culture has given me the opportunity to gain even more than I could have imagined. In February of 2019, my grandmother was hospitalized for a severe asthma attack, but I was sure she would be coming home at the end of the week. When her stay spanned through the weekend, I still stayed. Come Monday morning, we received a call from the hospital informing us that my grandmother had passed away in her sleep that night. I felt like the world had slipped from my hands and cracked open, the core blinding me and stripping me raw. When the funeral came and I was asked to give a eulogy, I could only mutter shaky apologies and a quiet Salamat, Nay, the only word in Tagalog I could muster in the moment. I felt my grief mix with shame. How could I give up what my nanay had so lovingly taught me, what we used to spend our days giving each other? On the mother’s day following her death, I wrote her a letter written in broken Tagalog. It was my attempt at rekindling what used to tie us so closely together. After the pain subsided into an awful ache, I began to mold my mouth around the words I forced myself to forget. Relearning Tagalog was like suturing a cut in my throat, but this time, the scar had healed over, milky white and beautiful. It was a dedication to my love for my family, a marker of my passion and devotion. Speaking Tagalog again opened a whole new world of doors to me. I could communicate with my elders and relatives in the Philippines, speak to my mom in her native tongue, and I was able to find comfort in my community. After suppressing my heritage for so long, I opened my arms to loving the people who were part of it. I’m grateful that I grew up in a town that had a large Filipino community, one where I could attend church with my Ates and Kuyas and Adings, and go to a school that has a Fil-Am club and performances of traditional Filipino dances. In my high school years, I did three years of tinikling and I formed some of my greatest friendships there. In Tagalog, there is a word I love that I feel encompasses Filipino culture. Bayanihan. It exemplifies the Filipino spirit of loving and helping your community. I feel this deeply. After being around my Filipino family, I found a purpose in service and humanities. After seeing the welcoming love that greeted me, I knew I wanted to give myself and my care to people who need it. At the moment, I am a dedicated teacher and an advocate for equal-opportunity education. In my senior year, I dedicated my birthday to raising money for foster children, a tradition I carry until now. In my heritage, I found compassion, and my love for people, animals, and the environment. My care defines me and it is born from being Filipino. Trying to reconnect with my culture has been a struggle, but one that I have been so happy to push through. Through the trips and falls of trying to love the Filipino aspects of myself, I gained incredible confidence and love for myself as a whole. There is a stereotype around Filipinos and being loud, taking up space, and at times being “dramatic.” I am now proud to say that I do not escape the stereotype, but for a long time, I tried to. I spoke quietly, kept myself small, and I never made a fuss. When I was younger, I was embarrassed to have a family that was always the loudest in the restaurant, I didn’t like when my mom danced in the middle of the store, and I always kept the karaoke mic at bay. But in my attempt at hiding this part of myself, I drowned any semblance of individuality, passion, and shameless joy. I have been learning that to be Filipino is to take pride in loving things boldly and openly, and that love can be expressed in laughing too loudly across the table, singing in supermarket aisles, and serenading your family with Whitney Houston. We love in strange ways, but it is love none-the-less, and it is a love that we are satisfied with. I am tenderly in love with everything, and I am obsessed with saying it and showing it whenever I can. This is being Filipino to me. My culture and heritage has shaped me into someone who cares graciously for her friends, family, and little inanimate objects, someone who takes pride in herself and her loud voice and uses it for good, and someone who my Nanay would be proud of.