I love my brown-ass

This piece is called “Products of Colonization”, mixed media, approx. 39x40 (inches).  This was my first exhibit and was held in the International Hotel Manilatown Center (I-Hotel) from April 27^th, 2010 until May 4^th 2010.  The exhibit actually stayed up an extra week in the I-Hotel. (yay)

This piece is really personal to me, not only because it has my grandparents and mothers pictures on it, but because it shows what affect colonization has had on the Philippines and the ideals of the people that were raised with the colonizers mentality.

The Barong (traditional Filipino shirt) in the front is actually not from Filipino/a’s.  These see-through shirts made from the leaves of pina, were actually made by the Spaniards when they colonized the Philippines.  The shirt was made for lower-class people and made transparent so that people could not hide weapons...The shirt is physically stripped down for metaphoric reasons, as well.

My mother is a product of a traditional Filipina and a navy man from a base that was stationed in the Visayas in Palompon, Leyte.  My grandmother was married to him, but he was an alcoholic and was eventually “dishonorably discharged” from the service and deported back to the united states. Since my mom is half white, she was seen as the “beauty” of the town – don’t get me wrong – my mother is beautiful, but why was that the only color related to beauty? She grew up in front of marching bands and competing in beauty pageants... and I was never as light as her, I was brown as my Spanish-looking grandmother, with big frizzy, curly hair, big thick lips, and meaty thighs.  My mom even made me use skin whitening soap (the advertisement all around the painting) to “help” me look whiter.  This stuck with me growing up in a small suburb of Southern California, Palmdale.  I always thought I wasn’t tall and skinny enough, my hair needed to be straighter, and I begged her to dye it blonde, but she wouldn’t let me because I was too young for “kaartihan”. Then I moved to San Francisco and I found that I couldn’t fit-in the Asian crowd either…I don’t know, but I didn’t actually realize.. until I was dating a Chinese guy ...that I was too “exotic- looking” to bring home to mama. (in my head: “WTF does that mean?!”) my lips and butt were too big, and his mom might think I’m black (in my head: “SHIT say something!”) of course I was too stunned to respond, but I was also stunned at myself for feeling so fucked up about it so many weeks after. 

So this painting was my middle finger to those “colonizer mentalities/ideals”

Yes, I am in a better place in my life now, and definitely don’t think of myself badly in that way anymore, I love my brown-ass.

Know History, Know Self

This is something I wrote when I found out I was pregnant. It’s been revised several times.. this is as short as I could make it.

Raised as a traditional Roman Catholic Filipina, born from an immigrant mother, struggles with a tourist-visa father. Raised by an aunt on the weekends and an uncle who betrayed my trust with men at a young age. They took my mother in, pregnant at 17, alone, and banished to this land called America. Surely, they would be more accepting of a pregnant teen than her small town in the Philippines. She strived to get an education... vocational medical school at night and flipped burgers during the day. They watched her child (me) for free, and so I was silenced by the principles of "utang ng loob." Yearning for a positive male figure in my life I attempted a relationship with my clinically depressed father, too consumed by his own problems to be the father I expected him to be. But, my mother stayed. She grew up without a father so she desperately tried to provide me with one. but he constantly dissappeared when problems arose. Nowhere to run when he left, no one to protect me from my uncle. "utang ng loob" still silenced my pain.

my mom, June 1988

I grew up denying it, I matured trying to change my father - for he was in every man I dated. I hung on as tight as I could, for as long as I could, in disbelief every time my attempt to change my father failed. But, I thought I found a keeper, because he held on to me tight. So tight I became isolated from everyone. I was in his hands, he said it was a safe place. There, he told me lies, there, he kept me down, there, he made me feel as though I would never find better. There, he held me down, physically, mentally and emotionally. But, I stayed, so determined to show mother that he was a good guy and to prove to her racist-ass that not all black men are violent, uneducated, and unethical……and simply, that love could exist in any color and culture, not just Filipino’s. I may have been correct in my intent, but wrong in my particular choice for the man I thought was right for proving that to her. I didn't realize I was repeating history until I ended up pregnant myself.

me, June 2009

I ended that cycle  the day I found out I was pregnant.

Be Forewarned: Here we go.

I am not a professional. I am not a writer. I'm a little internally insecure, but even though some of these stories may make me feel uncomfortable, they are stories that - I feel - I need to tell before moving on with my damn life. And as you read this, I may sound like a "debbie-downer" or an "all about me" type of conceited problematic person. I know the world doesn't revolve around me, and I also know there are folks out there that have been through - and are going through - much worse. I'm just writing to relieve myself of these thoughts, histories and stories that I feel are worth telling - and hopefully, find people that can relate to them-or just like reading them. I'm not much of a talker, shit never comes out my mouth correctly, so I attempt (poorly) to write ((..hell...I can barely write a paragraph without any run-on sentences. noticed much?)) Don't grade me for grammar.

sidenote: cussing may occur.