From David Anthony Hohol…

As I drive down the highway, and as it’s been for what seems like forever this time of year, my mind is filled with memories. I am on a long journey to see an old friend. Reggie and I have always been friends. My mom always told me, right up until she died of cancer a few years back, that Reggie and I were the best of friends before we were even born. In the Sloane District on the south side of Chicago, our mothers were neighbors out in the projects. Acquaintances turned into friends when each of them got pregnant with us only days apart. They went to Lamaze classes together, shopped for baby clothes together, and always spoke of how Reggie and I would be friends. On May 14, 1967 Reggie and I were born at the same hospital only seven hours apart and we’ve been friends ever since.

We both grew up poor, even though at the time neither of us really knew what that meant yet. Reggie never knew his father, so only his mom was there to raise him and his seven brothers and sisters. I had a father, but always told Reggie he was lucky. My father’s drinking and the beatings I took, along with my mother and sisters, are things I wish I could erase from my mind. I remember feeling happy when after another week of binge drinking my father slid a shotgun into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Right from the beginning, Reggie and I were inseparable. We learned to talk together, we learned to walk together and we went to school together right from kindergarten. We shared the same dreams, the same troubles and even the same girls some times. Reggie and I were exactly the same, and we will always be just like brothers. We spent nearly everyday together up until we were fourteen years old. It was the summer of 1981 when Reggie left Chicago to go live with his maternal grandparents in Canada. More twenty-five years have passed since that summer and our lives have changed oh so much. Nevertheless, every year since then Reggie and I have met up to spend Labor Day weekend together.

The visits have gone on to include girlfriends, wives and children. Each year we take turns coming up to see the other. This year it’s my turn, and I’m coming up alone, as I have just divorced my wife of twelve years. Each year I drive up my mind always goes back to the last summer’s day we spent together before Reggie moved away, and this year is no exception. I can see that whole day in my mind so clear as crystal, it’s like it happened the week before. Time passed can be a truly amazing thing.

“So ya think you’ll like it up there Reg?”

“I’ll hate it… I know I will. I hate my mom for doing this to me.”

“Too bad ya got kicked outa school… that’s what did it, huh?”

“Yah, I told ya why… my mom has this stupid dream of me graduating high school… like I care. She says I’m the baby of the family and that none of my brothers and sisters finished    school so I’m the last chance.”

“My sisters finished school and my mom’s always on my case about it, but I don’t see the big deal.”

“Well my mom says the only way I’ll ever do it is if I get outta Chicago and go live with my grandparents in Canada. Kamloops… I mean shit, what kinda fucked up name is that?”

“I don’t know what to say Reg… I mean I was there too. I don’t know why I didn’t get kicked out, but I’m glad I didn’t… my mom woulda killed me.”

“I don’t why my mom is making such a big deal outa this for. I mean two of my brothers not only didn’t finish school, but ended up in jail… I’m not that bad!”

Yah, no shit Reg… your brothers scare me sometimes.”

“Principal Marino is a prick! He said that Rydell Junior High didn’t need my kind and that me being there was bad for the school. He said this was his new crackdown and that he was gonna get my kind out and make Rydell a good place again.”

“Maybe he just liked me better… I don’t know.”

“Ah get over it Sean, it’s not that at all! I always get treated differently than you… always. You know how it is. What about the time we both got caught shoplifting from O’Malley’s?”

“Yah I know, that was weird.”

“O’Malley bars me from the store and gives you a warning… what the fuck was that?”

“Yah, you’re right. I remember the very next time I went in there to get us a couple a snow cones while you hiding around the corner outside he told me to stop hangin’ around with your kind, that you’d only bring me down.”

“You told’em off though… that was cool.”

“Yah, I called him a fat tub and told him to mind his own business… fat asshole barred me for two weeks.”

“Yah… that was cool man.”

“Hey Reggie, ya feel like a snow cone? My treat… it’ll be a bon voyage present.”

“Wow, high roller! Hey, if you’re buyin’, I’m takin’. Let’s go. I guess I’ll be waiting outside though.”

Even at that moment as Reggie and I walked up 127th street to O’Malley’s, a convenience store that had been there our whole lives, I thought to myself this would be the last time we would ever take this walk together. I remember the sky was a hazy gray that day and the huge sun was fighting to break through the puffy white clouds that sank all the way down into the cluttered horizon. I remember a warm, soft breeze blew and that the air felt safe and familiar. As we walked up to the front of the store, Reggie said he was coming in. I told him there wasn’t any point in starting any trouble and asked him to just wait outside. At first he said he didn’t care because he was leaving tomorrow anyway, but I somehow managed to convince him otherwise. I went inside to get us two snow cones and I was just about out the door when Reggie stuck his head in.

“Hey O’Malley, how ya doin’?”

“What’s a matter Washington, couldn’t find any cars to hot wire today?”

“Nah, there’s none around. I just stopped in to say one thing to ya though.”

“What’s that?”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself ya fat pig!”

“You get the fuck outta my store right now!”

O’Malley ran towards us and Reggie and I took off down the street, laughing uncontrollably. Old man O’Malley shouted out one last thing before we disappeared around the corner. “That’s right Washington… run like the little monkey you are… that’s all you’re good for. And you too Doogan… you’re turnin’ into trash. I told you ya would turn into trash hangin’ around with them!”

“Eat shit O’Malley!” I replied as we ran down the street.

Reggie and I ran for almost three blocks until we finally reached Cornerstone Park. Winded from our unexpected sprint, we sat under the forgiving shade of two gigantic elm trees and ate our Dr. Pepper snow cones. Later on, we played some basketball and after that went down to Mayfair Mall to check out the girls. All day long we never once stopped talking. Our topics of conversation ranged from what we would do with a million dollars, to what we wanted to be when we grew up. It was the kind of talk that goes on between kids everywhere; it was the kind of talk that seemed important; it was the kind of talk that was fun. Reggie was my best friend to be sure, but the friends I had back then always seemed to be more special than at any other time in my life. I never again had the kind of friends I did when I was fourteen. Come to think of it … who really does?

At the end of the day I walked Reggie back to his mom’s place, we said our good-byes, and Reggie gave me his grandparent’s phone number in Canada. It was then we made plans to get together the next summer. As it turned out, we did and always have. Nevertheless, as I stuffed Reggie’s number into my raggedy old jeans we really didn’t know if we’d ever see each other again. As I walked towards the street along the cracked and jagged sidewalk, I didn’t turn back because I didn’t want Reggie to see me crying. Years later when I told him, he confessed he was doing the same.

I did go on to graduate, and so did Reggie. I went to a trade school, and today work for the city of Las Vegas as an electrical engineer. Sadly, Reggie’s grandparents died in a car accident less than two weeks before his high school graduation. He was named the sole beneficiary of his grandparent’s life insurance policy, and just as they would have wanted him to, he used the money to put himself through school- law school that is. When Reggie took center stage in that ridiculous cap and gown his mother and I sat in the front row each of us beaming with pride. In the end, I suppose Reggie and I escaped much of what people thought was in store for us. With that said, Reggie will always have to deal with certain things; it was a fact of life he realized much before I did. As the years rolled by, I was better able to see the people in my old neighborhood back in Chicago for what they were. Back then, I could never understand the different way people looked at Reggie and me. As a kid, I would often ask myself why and today… I still do.

From the time of Marcos to the Home of the Brave, comes a story of a cultural transplantation; a young boy taken from an unstable homeland in the Philippnes to the tough streets of Chicago. Below we are taken on the global journey that changed Staff Writer Dr. Ron Villejo forever.

Jap. Chink.  I was 9 years old and newly arrived in Chicago.  Jap.  Chink.  Racial slurs for Japanese and Chinese, that’s what some kids at school called me.  Something to do with my squinty eyes. 

∞

America was a virtual Shangri La for a Filipino boy. The Land of Milk and Honey,   America was flowing white and brown.  I also understood the figurative meaning of the phrase.  I set about to list all the toys and clothes I wanted, because in America I could have whatever I wanted to have – heady stuff, for a little boy.  I tried to get my sisters (6 and 4 years old) and brother (5 years old) to create their own list, but they noted only a handful of things.  “You can have more, you can have more,” I urged them. 

By most accounts, we had a good life in the Philippines.  Both professionals – Mechanical Engineer and Pharmacist – my parents had a house built in Parañaque, southwest of Manila.  We lived a middle-class suburban life and accordingly, I went to the nearby well-to-do Catholic all-boys school of St. John Don Bosco.  What’s more, we had two housemaids taking care of us. 

My parents, though, had a sense of a future not looking so bright. The 1960s was the presidency of Ferdinand Marcos, and they each felt that trouble was afoot.  I never knew how or when they began to plan our departure from the Philippines, but in 1968 my father’s two sisters and their families left from America in May.  We followed suit in September.  In 1972, President Marcos declared martial law.  Foresight on the part of my parents? Surely.

∞

I was a shy but playful boy on the Westside of Chicago, where there were many more Latinos than Filipinos.  An autumn cool was already in the air, and there seemed to be more cloudy days than I remembered seeing in the Philippines.  It was ideal weather for recess in the playground. 

What goes on in the playground was a microcosm of what was to come for us children.  All that made living delightful was there – the running, the climbing, and the jumping.  In fact, play was an entire language for us; the groan from exerting on the monkey bars; the screaming laughter from some sort of chase; the soft thud of falling down. No need for words, really.

Jap.  Chink.  In the playground, I soon learned to retort, “I’m gonna kick your ass!”

My older cousins taught me that, as they, too, were subjected to such slurs.  “I’m gonna kick your ass!” 

I kept saying it, until it stopped feeling awkward and stupid to say. 

∞

Life in Chicago was a far cry from our spacious home in Parañaque.  For the first few months, we were amongst three families living in a three-bedroom flat.  The three sets of parents – mine, my two aunts and their husbands – each staked out a bedroom.  We children – a total of 14 in the household, with a wide range in age – mostly slept on the living and dining room floor. 

It was fun for a while, but the cramped quarters led the cousins to fight amongst ourselves; never mind the other kids at school. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass!” 

Remarkably, it must’ve worked.  Soon thereafter, I heard Jap and Chink very little.  Shy or not, I saw clearly that there was value in being tough. 

              ∞

 Better than being tough, I found that the real ticket into social circles and the approval that comes with it was my academics.  I was a smart boy.  I came to learn that Philippine curriculum was more advanced than that of America.  There, children go from elementary school to high school – that is, from 6th grade to high school.  In America, there were 7th and 8th grades to navigate, before high school.  So, instead of 18 years old, many Filipinos are in the university at 16 years old.  So the curriculum, from early on, was geared along such a timeline.

Cool, totally cool. 

∞

I remember a boy named, Raul, a Puerto Rican.  A smallish boy – a gangbanger – he had a clutch of boys in the neighborhood.  Thankfully, I was never part of this. Curiously, he took a liking for me.  He sort of came into my circle. (Well, not really, as I had no circle.)  For instance, I’d go home for lunch after which he’d come by our apartment building and wait outside for me, so that he could walk me back to school.  Somehow, I felt safe and proud to be friends with him.

Raul wasn’t a very bright boy.  This, mixed with a troublesome nature, made him the butt of even the teacher’s awful jokes and derisions in class.  “Raul, you have no class!” 

So, there it was, I understood it.  Without his ever demanding anything of me, I helped him with his schoolwork – the stuff of friendship.  I got the protection that probably helped me stay out of trouble, in countless, unknown instances.  He got a better footing with his academics.         

Again, not much talking about it, Raul and I learned lessons for a lifetime. 

∞

 “I’m gonna kick your ass!” was so effective, yet so ineffective at the same time. 

 More than 40 years have passed, and since those fateful first months in Chicago I have very rarely been slurred upon by others.  Maybe it has to do with the toughness and confidence I’ve kept building up over years.  Maybe it has to do with the several relationships and circles I’ve chosen to put myself in.  Maybe it has to do with my smarts.  Who knows?

You see, here’s the thing.  Jap and Chink still reverberate within me.  Why?

Filipinos, by and large, don’t have very strong self-esteem.  Today we’re spread around the world, but more often than not, you’ll find us to be more deferential than assertive, more serving than commanding, more friendly than tough-ass.  Why?

For centuries, the Philippines were under colonial rule – by the Spaniards largely, but the Chinese and Americans figure prominently into this.  The northern part of the Philippines was their stronghold, and they came in when the economic and social fiber of development was still in its nascent stages.  More than just neglect to build the economic foundation of the local people, they actually dismantled it!  For example, Chinese merchants got small-time farmers to sell rice, below its value.  Then, in turn, they sold it at above this value.  

Imagine cutting off a baby’s feet, before he can even walk!

That’s what happened.  We were duly servants in our own home.  Invisible, in a similar vein as author Ralph Ellison posed the Black American.   

Yes, by the late 1800s, the ongoing stirrings of rebellion in the country led to the formation of a national identity (albeit roughshod and patchwork).  The Philippines gained its independence.

But still, why is our self-esteem generally still low, more than a hundred years later? 

My take on this:  This bit about independence is a pipe dream.  The 1900s was the era of the Americans.  Their sheep’s clothing was liberator, which hid the wolf of oppressor underneath.  More powerful than the Spaniards, I believe, the Americans entered our brain (e.g., through books and television) – and planted themselves within our tongue (i.e., through language, Filipinos became one of the best English-speaking Asians in the world). 

The Americans more or less just left, but I argue that we’re still an oppressed lot.  By whom?  By the longtime wealthy, powerful families in politics and business.  One learns not to mess around with them, because if someone does, they’ll see that corruption is the least of your worries.  One will literally put their life in danger.  My parents must’ve known this.  

I challenge any of my kababayan (fellow Filipino) to win me over with the notion that Filipinos are independent.  He or she will fail.  Today we are still under colonial rule. 

∞

Shame is a powerful social, behavioral tool in Philippine culture.  It’s a way to command obedience from children by parents and teachers – and from everyday citizens by those in power.

In fact, oddly enough, to feel shame was a sort of badge of honor amongst Filipinos.  So much so that for a child to be scolded with walang hiya (shameless) was doubly shaming! 

For a non-Filipino, this can be a maddening, twisted thing.  I’d agree.

Jap.  Chink.  This made me profoundly ashamed. 

The slur wasn’t even the fucking right nationality!  How odd and cruel can children be!  Damn it, didn’t they know I was not Japanese or Chinese.  It was as if I didn’t deserve the honor of being kicked in the gut with my own nationality.  Instead, it was like having my gut ripped out of me!  More than just invisible, I was now hollow. 

Talk about self-esteem.  Walang hiya.  Talk about shame.  How deep can you go with your nth power? 

∞

Jap.  Chink.  Oh, I can forgive.  But never, ever forget. 

Born in the Philippines in the capital city of Manila, Staff Writer Dr. Ron Villejo moved with his family to the United States while still a boy and  was raised in the storied city of Chicago. He received his PhD in Clinical Psychology from Chicago’s Northwestern University Medical School and has nearly three decades of experience in consulting, coaching, and counseling, working with thousands of people from all walks off life, throughout the United States, Europe, and the Middle East. He has since parlayed his experiences into a career in business psychology and management consulting, working with a number of companies to discover and develop leaders, and presenting at a variety of conferences around the world. Villejo offers RELATIVTY OnLine an academic and unique international take on individual perspective and self-elevation, and we are priviledged to have him with us.