Fighting For the Culture

I was told when I was little

that I was weird.

A short, Filipino girl

who brought Filipino food

every day to school.

The short, Filipino girl

who sometimes spoke a little bit of Tagalog,

and a little bit of Ilocano.

Teasing turned to pushing,

then pushing turned to name-calling,

then turned to punching,

which all in all

turned to bullying.

Whether my growth was forced or not,

I had to fight.

From grade one to grade four,

I had to fight, scream,

punch, and kick.

"Ching-chong," "china," "weirdo,"

was what my Mexican and white bullies

called me.

Sometimes I would use my words

instead of my fists and legs,

but not once

was I racist towards my bullies.

All boys, never girls;

they could not fight back

the way I fought back.

When grade five rolled in,

the teasing, the pushing,

the name-calling, the punching,

the bullying finally stopped.

When it stopped, I learned two things:

1. do not let anyone

hurt you,

make fun of you,

for being Filipino,

and 2. be proud of being Filipino.

Learning these two lessons

prepared me for growing up.

Growing up in a world

where there are worse things done 

by huge racists;

public or hidden executions

done by the police, Neo-Nazis, and the KKK;

public humiliations

done by those who are affiliated with neither organization

but fear the spread of different cultures.

The Filipino flag has the blue side upright,

but ever since I was born up until now,

as long as there is racism

towards Asians and Pacific-Islanders,

the blue side will go down, and the red side will go up,

the Filipino flag in my heart.