Hailing from Chicago, being half black and having a black father was never an issue for me, as I grew up in a largely black community. Hell, I even have the second grade photo to prove it.:
I’m the middle one in the first row fyi. Behind the sign. Like a friggin’ hero, yeah.
It was only after I moved to the Philippines that I started feeling enormously self-conscious. I was already a shy child, and it didn’t help that I was being criticized by my peers for the way I talked or the way my hair looked (they liked to call it ‘dead hair’ or ‘pubic hair’), that I had an obviously black girl’s name or that my dad was a large black man and that everyone would tend to stare at him because he was so different. I remember one of my history teachers touching upon a subject about the different native races and referred to the black ones as ‘niggers’, nonchalantly turning to me a moment to say ‘No offense’ before lecturing on. I remember trying not to be offended, but I think I felt slapped in the face, being reminded how different I was from everyone else. I had never even considered it, but mom would nag at me for never picking up an interest in speaking tagalog, saying that the reason I avoided people was because I had thought they were saying bad things about me and I couldn’t understand them, which only made me even more reclusive. I remember I’d cry a lot on some days because hated this alienation so much, wanting so badly to go back to Chicago and the people I was familiar with.
This ‘inferiority complex’, as mom would so nicely put it (and by ‘nicely’ I mean rub it in my face and told me to get over it) lasted until sometime into college, where, after a good long time of avoiding mirrors, finally took a moment to look into one and thought “Hmm…I’m not that bad-looking at all.” I was still apprehensive about my appearance, but over time I learned to be more accepting of ‘being unique’. It wasn’t through any thoughtful advice from someone or reading an inspiring article about accepting who you were- I just realized it was a huge hassle, worrying about things that would become irrelevant in the long run. People came and went, would most likely have forgotten who you were, and would have done so much with their lives that this moment of discomfort would mean nothing.
I started looking up to my father, who I had been ashamed of for most of my life, and started to appreciate him more. He was a smart man, who did more for people in his life than most people in this country would care to do. He cared about his family and worked hard to make sure we had everything we need. Even stricken and on his deathbed, he refused to bog down the family’s income for his sake, which we refused of course, and did everything we could for him until the end. He struggled to live longer than anyone expected him to (the doctor had initially given him eleven months; he went on for five years) just to see me graduate college. Despite all his failings, which I had never known about until much later, he loved us and never cheated on my mom, which is more than I can say for a lot of men as far as I know. I wished I had a better relationship with him and in the short time I had after realizing this, tried to be closer to him. Maybe a little too late, however…a few days prior to my brother waking me up that morning to tell me that he had died, I was trying to find a way to tell him what he meant to me. But I was too ashamed of myself to tell it to his face, so I had written it in a card. But mom would have likely made me read it to him anyway, so I just had a card sitting on my shelf until that day. I don’t know what happened to it, I think I hid it away somewhere, or threw it out. Sometimes I feel it should be one of my biggest regrets, but I know that my dad knew I was proud of him, and that I had made him proud with my graduation, if it was the only accomplishment he would acknowledge. But it probably would have been nicer still to have told him.
Nowadays, I’m not ashamed of telling people my name is Tatiana instead of just making them call me Tad or Taddle like I had been doing for most of my life. I willingly tell people I am half black and that I did have a black father, but not for the sake of being allowed to tell black jokes without discrimination. I have pride in having that blood in my veins, and that blood creating what I always felt was some weird hodgepodge of a body of black and Filipino traits (okay, I can honestly do without my kinky hair. It’s more trouble than its worth.). I’m far from perfect or ideal, but I am what I am, and to those that feel I don't fit in...I'm not going away. So deal with it. I have for 23 years. I'm sure you can, too.
~Taddle
