When I was a child I liked writing stories. And like how I imagine many children’s stories were written, I was the walk-alone underdog who would have the knowledge that can only come from unique experience that would allow me to save the day. My stories would reflect whatever book series I’d be reading at the time: vampires, pirates, vampire-pirates, Greek mythology and demi-gods, wizards and witches. But there was one story that sticks in my mind more than any of the others and it is, by far, the most embarrassing and incriminating piece of work to ever exist. Note that I am placing ultimate trust in you readers. Written somewhere within the delicate, angsty years of sixth, seventh, and

eighth grade, “Symboline: The Tale

of the Last Asian Cowgirl” is the

manifestation of a child searching

for cultural identity in the realm of

mixed heritage. And while my

narrative was less than subtle, it

established a lingering fascination

of cultural and ethnic heritage that

has at the same time confused and

informed my identity as a half

Filipino, half white, Southern

woman.

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You know, when you’re a child,

you have no fear and often don’t

care about how others see you as

long as they’d let you share their

colored pencils during art class. I

mean, if that were not the case,

humiliating manuscripts like

“Symboline: The Tale of the Last

Asian Cowgirl” wouldn’t even exist;

those thoughts would just be repressed and never put down on paper. But when you move into

adolescence, suddenly every eye is on you and every difference is exponentially magnified.

 

So while I began exploring racial and ethnic identity in middle school, it wasn’t until high school that I

realized other people were noticing how I was different. Sure, there are moments looking back where

I knew there was something off. I distinctly remember telling my best friend, Lindsey, about a pair of tsinelas and her just staring at me like, “Anna what the hell are you talking about?” Obviously she didn’t think exactly that. We were like ten. But you get the point. And so I was like, “What are you stupid? How do you not know what tsinelas are?” Well I learned that day that tsinelas is not a common, English name for flip flops. Tsinelas is the Filipino term that my family throws around interchangeably as if it were English, but the rest of my world had no idea what the heck we were saying.

 

But anyways, high school was when I became fully aware. This was my first time in a public school setting where there were actually other kids who were POC. On the second day of my freshman math class, a boy I had never met – in awe of my supposed math genius (really we had just worked a year ahead in my private school, it would all catch up with me the following fall) said sarcastically, “You’re just good at math because you’re Asian."

 

Um, yes?

 

No?

 

I didn’t actually know.

 

But he seemed pretty well established in the social ladder so I accepted this as truth and went on with my day. Eventually, that label started to stick. I became the smart Asian girl who could help you with your homework because, duh, she had already finished hers like two nights ago. But then there were times when people didn’t know what I was, but they knew I was ~something else~. In Spanish classes where I had a knack for the language and a convincing accent, I was Mexican. Even students who were actually Mexican thought I was Mexican. Other times, I was Polynesian or Hawaiian because I look like Lilo – or Moana for all you uncultured youngins – and because of my “innate ability to be chill.” Real quote.

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