I Count

This morning, I thought I was going to post the next installment from my trip to India and get back to my story of becoming all-zen-and-shit, but one of my friends shared this grid today. People who say these things may even consider some of them compliments, but they don’t hear what’s coming out of their own mouths because they’re listening with their own ears and not those of the receiver.

I wrote about being a spork a few weeks ago, and my last post was about working with the shadows and healing from them in order to come to live more peacefully and let my light shine. Balance. Duality. We can’t ignore the not so pretty parts, so here’s one of the not so pretty parts about me.

Today you get to read more about the shadows, specifically “You don’t really count.”

And I’m not even going to put too much thought into it or leave you with suggestions for being the change or remind you about compassion, empathy, kindness or love. I’ve already done all that in other posts. If you give a shit about those things, you’ll remember or re-read earlier posts if you missed them.

Today I feel like it’s my turn to just spew my what’s on my mind.

“You don’t really count.” That phrase is one of the things that led me to figuring out who I am without letting someone else define me – not by race, gender, religion (which includes no religion), marital status, college major (haha) or any of the ways that people determine who “counts”.

I got tired of being dismissed for being who I am based on someone else’s point of view. I learned that I was giving too much power to someone else if I let their perspective define my place or role. Sometimes I still have moments when I feel like I don’t belong anywhere mostly because I feel misunderstood, but it’s temporary. I get back to remembering who I am and my purpose on this planet in this lifetime.

So for today, I’m going to set aside stories of being human and share a bit about being Filipina American. For me, this comes at the risk of getting labeled as “sensitive” even though on any given day my race doesn’t cross my mind, but having a blog and not using my voice to share my personal experience with my race feels like a disservice if I am truly bringing my authentic self to improving our world.

Someone could call me derogatory names, and I wouldn’t give a fuck. Yeah, the whole sticks and stones thing. It says more about the speaker than it does about me, but hearing “You don’t really count” has been a different story.

Even now I feel like someone out there will dismiss this because the focus has been that black lives are in danger, and it’s not about me or my experience as person of color because I can leave my house and not be as concerned as I might if I were a black woman.

“You don’t really count.”

That has been one of the most hurtful phrases throughout my life because it dismisses me, but what feels worse is that I’ve heard it recently! Some of the white friends who now feel so “woke” from watching films, reading books or articles about race-related topics, have used it just as some black friends have minimized my value because “your people don’t suffer like black people”. Mind you, these have been in social media conversations, so some of these friends aren’t even people who I speak to on the phone or in person. Therefore, in all honesty, I don’t take it so seriously or too personally, but yeah, I take it into account and try not to judge. Once it’s been said though… it leaves a mark.

It is so easy to exclude a racial spork if you’re splitting the world into black and white. The other day, a new viral video began circulating. A Filipino American, James Juanillo, shared his experience of being a person of color (POC) approached by a white person while he was stenciling Black Lives Matter on the retaining wall of his own property. Yeah, try to tell him he doesn’t really count.

I’m in some weird space. Some race issues are new to me, but others are not. Sometimes I see an issue as an issue between two people, and I don’t notice their racial difference until some points it out for me. I’m not colorblind, but my mindset doesn’t assess race right away. I don’t know if my race has ever been used for me or against me in things like getting a job or what part I got in a school play. My parents seemed to be more aware of race maybe because they were immigrants in the 1960s.

I was born in Connecticut in the ’70s. I grew up in Northern Virginia with diversity in my neighborhood and my schools. Diversity expanded in different ways in my college years (meeting students from others states and countries), and it’s still present in adulthood. I feel lucky that I’ve always had people in my life with whom I could openly discuss race because we genuinely want to understand each other’s experience – no one getting defensive or aggressive or judgmental – simply matter of fact and honest about what we don’t know. Our own ignorance about each other’s experiences.

One of the most significant race conversations was with my closest male friend – my big little brother. Twenty years ago, he told me about driving while black and conversations black parents have with their sons. Yep. I was almost thirty years old when he told me about the additional conversation his parents had with him when he was learning to drive and ready to get his driver’s license. Again, it was a matter of fact conversation, but I realized I was clueless. I appreciated him not judging me for not knowing, but I felt sad that he was used to the ignorance and denial outside of the black community.

A few years ago when I received the notification that my 23 and Me results were ready, I sent a text to my BFFs: “Well, time to find out I’m not white LOL” Yeah, it wasn’t news that I’m Filipina, but it turned out that my ancestry is only 88.2% Philippines and here’s the surprise 4.4% European. (Right, that doesn’t add up to 100% because I didn’t list all of the results. My best guess is that one of my ancestors migrated from Europe to the Iberian peninsula and went to the Philippines with the Spaniards. Another story for another day.)

All of the unspoken codes among groups – bro code, girl code, and so on… It’s along the lines of talking shit about your own sibling, but don’t let anyone outside of your family say an unkind word about them. So my closest friends and I know where the joking begins and ends. Maybe you have the same “code” within your closest circle. Note: I can already feel how some people will run with this to a dark place, so please don’t miss my point. Between my friends and I, we have earned each other’s trust and love in being able to discuss and sometimes joke. As with all things, if you stop and have to ask yourself if something is appropriate, it isn’t.

So, let’s see… what I have encountered as a Filipina American, some of which shifts me back and forth in the black and white world so that I don’t count… Some of this is probably relatable for anyone of mixed races or any race that’s not black or white.

• Being told I’m dark enough or light enough to pass for…
• Being told I have privilege
• Being told my experience was discrimination
• Being asked, “Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand?” (although this goes beyond race; women hear this when it comes to sexual harassment)
• Being asked when I learned to speak English

I’m sure there’s more I could list if I tried to give it any more thought. Please feel free to leave a comment.

On another note, a stranger on a friend’s Facebook post said my comment about my focus on the root of injustices, not just racial ones, was “spiritual bypassing and privilege”. People coming from that mindset find no value in my contributions, especially if it doesn’t fit the needs of their argument. I am still working towards justice, equality, equity, and peace, but my point is the same across the board: we’ve lost sight of using compassion, empathy, kindness and love.

I’m done spewing. If you made it to this line, thanks. I appreciate your time joining me here because you, without me asking you or needing you to, affirmed my own certainty that I count.

Luceat lux vestra.