Whenever I visit my parents at my childhood home, they always ask “Kumain ka na ba?” “Have you eaten yet?” I always hope there’s leftover ulam, particularly laing (a stew of taro leaves cooked in coconut milk with some meat — usually pork). The best laing has either shrimp or little anchovies (dilis). Years ago, before my dad retired, he found a little takeout place downtown that had the best laing, which he’d take home from work to eat for dinner. I always loved Tita Marcy’s, but my mom has recently started to cook laing herself and I’d say it rivals the best. Sometimes my parents will have some leftover Filipino dessert. I always hope there’s cassava cake with the little strips of buko (young coconut). Sometimes there’s leftover ube cake made by a Tita or fresh mangoes from the Asian grocery.
Anthony Bourdain would say that the most human thing is to share a meal together. Food is memory, culture, identity, community, family. Food is home.
It’s certainly been encouraging to see how Filipino food is becoming more popular globally. Ube is everywhere now. This new found popularity has evoked many complicated thoughts — about appropriation, about authenticity, about colonialism.
But my point, pare, is that to be Filipino isn’t just about food.
To be Filipino is to be part of a grand, unique, interwoven tapestry — stories across galaxies and lifetimes of peoples who have crossed oceans to find new worlds.
Chapter 1
What does it mean to be Filipino?
It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since I was a young Filipino-Canadian immigrant growing up in Mississauga. But I don’t think I’m the only one asking that question.
You might ask, if it’s difficult to define what it means to be Filipino, how do you recognize your kababayan? Why do you feel a sense of familiarity with your Filipino nurse or Filipino janitor or Filipino lunch lady? Why do you feel proud of Olivia Rodrigo or Bruno Mars? Why do you know all the words to Jeremy Passion’s “Lemonade”? Why do you feel a sense of kinship with people you’ve never met oceans away?
The story of “the Filipino” is complicated. It’s a long tale of colonialism, corruption, government policy failures, racism, but also tragic stories of separation and longing and sadness. But the history of “the Filipino” — no matter where you find us around the world — is also full of resilience and defiance and revolution and hope and care and love.
“Filipinoness” isn’t the same globally. The story of Filipinos in the diaspora is different than the those in the Philippine islands. The story of Filipino-Canadians is different than the story of Filipino-Americans. We all have unique stories that have shaped and re-shaped and imagined and re-imagined our interpretations of what it means to be Filipino.
“Filipinoness” isn’t the same across genders. Despite the heavy Catholic influence, I’ve learnt that the matriarchs of the family — particularly Mom and Lola P — are the ones with all the wisdom. Ask a Filipino woman or a bakla or a trans person or a siya or someone who isn’t just a straight man what it means to be Filipino and you’ll get a different answer.
I won’t claim to know all the answers. Everyone will have different answers and they are all valid. Perhaps to be Filipino is to embrace the complexity of identity and community. What I know is that when I think of home and family and the values I live by, I know that I’m Filipino and I’m proud to be Filipino and I love all my kapwa.
Mom, I still remember the smell of your cooking. All the ulam you made for us growing up. Whenever I make kare-kare or ukoy, I think of you.
Chapter 2
Part 1
Growing up, I felt like I had two identities. At school, I was Angelo. A curious kid that wanted to learn about history and politics and the world. With my parents, with my Titas and Titos (Filipino for “Aunts” and “Uncles” but it’s used for both blood relatives as well as older-generation Filipinos who aren’t family) and with my Filipino friends, I was Gio. I was a guitar-playing, wannabe photographer who was part of a Filipino Catholic youth group (my mixed feelings about my Catholic upbringing are a story for another day).
Being raised by my parents in a community of other Filipino-Canadians meant that I grew up with Filipino culture. My parents and my Titas and Titos made sure I ate Filipino food and tried to speak to me in Tagalog. I still remember going to Tita Marcy’s store when my parents got home from work to choose what we wanted to eat for dinner. We had parties to watch Manny Pacquiao’s fights, with a buffet of lechon, lumpia, palabok, and so much more. Looking back at it now, I’m appreciative of my parents and my Titas and Titos because — even if I can’t speak Tagalog fluently — I can still understand Tagalog enough to try and carry a conversation. My parents and all the Titas and Titos: they all believed in me. They encouraged me to pursue my dreams. It’s true when they say: “it takes a village.” Being raised in a Filipino-Canadian community gave me a sense of belonging.
Part 2
“She’s my sunshine in the rain. She’s my Tylenol when I’m in pain yeah.“
If you’re a Filipino living in the diaspora around my age, you’ll know all the words to the “unofficial Filipino anthem.” Everyone knew Jeremy Passion’s “Lemonade” by heart. The classic melody, the iconic and unmistakable ukulele. All the boys in our youth group wanted to play the song on guitar and serenade their crush.
Scholar Benedict Anderson conceptualized the idea of a “nation” as an “imagined community.” You may be living far away from someone else, but you can feel a kinship with someone if you shared history, language, culture, and other characteristics. This kinship could span vast lands and climb mountains. It could even cross oceans.
With the invention of the Internet, the advent of YouTube, and the emergence of Filipino-American musicians online (primarily based in California) — like Jeremy Passion, AJ Rafael, Gabe Bondoc, and Jesse Barrera — it became easier for Filipinos around the world to feel a sense of belonging.
What was so special about that moment in time was that technology (before the “enshittification” of everything online) allowed Filipinos around the world to feel that they can find home and belonging in our love for music and in our celebration of these talented Filipinos.
Mom and Pop, I didn’t understand until later in life that you and my ancestors guided the way across the oceans of life long before me.
Chapter 3
Part 1
The last few times I visited the Philippines, I tried to learn more about my grandparents and their parents before them and their parents before them. I wanted to know my ancestors to better understand myself.
I knew very little about my ancestors on my dad’s side. My grandma immigrated to L.A. decades before I was born. My grandpa passed away long before me. What I knew is that my dad’s family was raised on the campus of the University of the Philippines Diliman Campus because my grandpa was a university administrator. When people asked me where my family was from in the Philippines, I always just said that my dad’s side was based in Quezon City because that’s all I ever knew.
It wasn’t until I sat down with my Tito Jess and my grand-aunt Lola P when we traced our family tree. I learnt that my family had roots in Nueva Ecija. But more importantly, I learnt that my great-great-grandpa was Ladislao Diwa y Nocon — a national hero and Katipuñero. He was a lawyer who joined the La Liga Filipina, whose writings inspired the Filipino nationalist movement. He was a founding member of the secret society, the Katipunan, which ignited the Philippine Revolution, fighting for independence from the Spanish colonial empire. Revolution was in my blood.
Part 2
More than anything, my grandparents on my mom’s side — Mom and Pop, as I lovingly called them — were my greatest inspirations. In their love and care and stories and complexity, they taught me what it means to be Filipino.
Mom and Pop moved to Canada around 1999 to help my parents take care of my brother and I. As we grew older, I drove them both around to doctor’s appointments or to see their friends. As they begun to struggle walking, I held their hands and steadied them.
Mom was caring and loving and funny and sometimes annoying. But she had big dreams for me and she believed in me more than I did in myself. Mom’s cooking meant that I was raised eating Filipino food and knowing Filipino flavours. I tried to learn her recipes but I could never make her food as good as her. I used to hear all her stories about Manila during WWII. She used to describe General MacArthur’s return to the shores of the Philippines as if she was there on the beach (she certainly wasn’t since she was just a child). She told me of her father — a Filipino of Spanish descent who loved his violin. And through her mother, my family had Filipino-Chinese heritage.
Pop was my greatest hero and inspiration. To me, he was an individual who was bigger than life. He lived a fascinating, complex, and unique life that I can’t even begin to understand. Over the years, he’s told me so many stories, but it was always difficult to tell the difference between truth and fiction: living under Japanese occupation, losing family in the war, a mysterious brother that may or may not have existed, growing up as a child with the Marcoses, being the mayor of a town in Bohol, serving as the Dean of Law in a university, playing golf with Army generals, forgetting to put on a tie in court, and many more. Over the years, I learnt that he had roots in Bohol and Ilocos Norte. He would always ask if I wanted meryenda, which is a mid-afternoon snack (yet again an example of how food is important to Filipinoness). I will always cherish those times hanging out at Tim Hortons between errands, hearing stories about his life over coffee and a tea biscuit. Or sometimes, when we’re at home, we’ll have pandesal — he’ll eat his with butter and, if I’m lucky that it’s available, I’ll have mine with Nutella. Pop is the reason I am who I am today: he inspired my love for studying history, understanding politics, and most importantly, being a fan of basketball and the Raptors.
Part 3
In the twilight of their lives, Mom and Pop lived in the Philippines in their lifelong home. They were too old to continue flying back and forth between the Philippines and Canada. COVID and the lockdowns took a toll on them. They became frail and needed care. My grandpa had lost his memory and could barely recognize anyone.
In 2022, after finishing my Master’s, I visited the Philippines and had the chance to see Mom and Pop for the final time. Mom ordered all of my favourite Filipino foods. She had their caretakers go out to the corner to get balut and isaw for me. She always had fresh mangoes ready for me. For dessert, she had cassava cake with the little strips of buko, ube halaya, and other sweet treats. Over several days, I learnt as much as I possibly could from them, listening to their ancestral stories. I sat quietly with Pop, just being in his presence, even if he couldn’t communicate coherently. I spent time rummaging through Pop’s office, trying to find any books or documents or pictures that could tell me more about who he was.
Leaving them was one of most difficult things for me to do. I think we all knew that this was going to be the last time we would see each other. I cried like I’ve never cried before. In retrospect, I’m very glad to have had that last little bit of time with them and to be in each other’s presence.
Mom and Pop took their final journeys across the forever seas on September 2022 and January 2024, respectively. But though they were far away, their love never faded.
Mom and Pop, I baked pandesal today. Rebecca loves it when I bake. Eating pandesal for meryenda always reminds me of you.
Finale
What have I learnt from all this?
To be Filipino is to be complicated. To be complex. To be a prism that reflects many angles.
There is no one answer to what it means to be Filipino. And perhaps, Filipinoness is ever changing, as new generations discover their heritage and interact and shape it in their own ways.
But I think, if I’ve learnt anything over the years, if I’ve learnt anything from my community, if I’ve learnt anything from my ancestors, here’s my answer for what it means to be Filipino:
To be Filipino is to be revolutionary. To be Filipino is to be brave. To be Filipino is to be loving To be Filipino is to be caring. To be Filipino is to be at home. To be Filipino is to belong to a community that imagines and re-imagines itself throughout the centuries across vast oceans and galaxies and lifetimes.
There is a word in Filipino, which we recognize as a core value in our culture: kapwa. The way I understand it is that it means our shared humanity and togetherness. It means empathy and community. It means we are all connected to one another. To be one with your family, your friends, your ancestors, but also your co-workers, your classmates, everyone you meet on the street.
Pakikipagkapwa is the act and being of kapwa. To share the same sun and moon and stars and sky. To share the same future. It is an honour and a responsibility to care for one another and to share our love and warmth and joy and hope with each other. To be at home with each other. To belong to one another.
For me, that’s what it means to be Filipino.
Mom and Pop, you may be oceans and galaxies away, but I hope I made you proud.
