Whoa, there’s only a few days left for the showing of Bindlestiff Studio’s multi-genre production The FOB Show in San Francisco. It’s ill-timed though, falling on the same week as the last week for filing taxes. I better get on TurboTax and make sure the IRS won’t come after me.
It’s a loaded term - FOB, that is. It’s a mean word hurled by one Filipino kid to another. Although I was never called that in my face, I was fully aware of being one when my family and I arrived in the States back in 1983. My sisters and I entered the San Francisco public school system in a state of culture shock. The public displays of affection, the intimidating swagger of bullies and the open disrespect of students for their teachers were just a few of the things we were not used to. I immediately felt I didn’t fit in.
My appearance didn’t help either. I was hopelessly “fashion-unconscious.” I brought over what I thought was fashionable in Manila then - the baston pants, the Otto shoes - and I stood out like a sore thumb (I missed the whole Bagets movement by a few months, by the way). The Flip kids were wearing straight-cut Ben Davis pants and Members Only jackets (with the collar strap hanging at the back), and they slicked back their hair in a pouffy bouffant (an early incarnation of the mullet, I must say). My hairstyle was that of the typical Asian immigrant - parted on the side and sweepingly combed over sans any hair styling product to keep it in place. I wore glasses, was skinny and nerdy. I was perhaps the only FOB in English honors class my first year in the States.
I felt I didn’t belong for a while. I attempted to click with people from my own community first. San Francisco already had a sizable Filipino population and it seemed like a good place to start. I was puzzled, however, by the dichotomy present within the Filipino community. On one side were the American-born Filipinos. On the other were the Filipino newcomers. And never the twain shall meet.
Funny, I discovered I could hardly connect with both groups. The Americanized Filipino, in groups or individually, seemed aloof, cliquish and hard to approach. Back then, my defense mechanism against the rejection was a repulsive reaction borne out of an ugly legacy of classism learned from living in the Philippines. I would think, “Humph, sa Pilipinas, atsoy/atsay ka lang.” (”Harrumph, in the Philippines, you’re merely a household helper.”) I’m glad to say I came to appreciate much later the fact that the US levels the playing field for all Filipinos, no matter from what walk of life they or their ancestors came.
The newcomer Filipinos, on the other hand, were not the ones I was accustomed to hanging with in Manila. A whole world of difference seemed to be between us. They were from the Philippines, yes, but not from the part where I was from (again, classism rears its ugly head). But I learned to let go of false notions of belonging and gave camaraderie a chance. I made quite a few friends.
Later as I became more assimilated into the culture (e.g. getting with the fashion program among other things), my sphere of friends got even larger. I gained more Fil-Am and non-Filipino friends alike. At this point, I felt I had the best of both worlds. I was able to mimic, and indeed master, the American twang quite well that I think I may have fooled some into thinking I’ve been in America all my life. But charades don’t last long, do they? Once in a while, I would let out a slip that gives it all away. You know, that slight telltale slip - the misplaced emphasis on the wrong syllable, or the accidental ee instead of a short i - that you try to recover quickly by pronouncing the word over again, this time correctly, but you know the damage has been done. A couple of slips like this in the course of the first stages of friendship and your new friends begin to wonder.
I remember one time when a good friend of mine started what I thought was an innocent game of “Oh-remember-this-show-when-we-were-kids.” It turned out to be an insidious plot to blow my cover. The game went something like this: my friend starts with “Oh yeah, remember the Manah, Manah song from Sesame Street?” Then I’d say, “Yeah!” and even sing a portion of it. Then I’d offer back, “How about Morgan Freeman from Electric Company and oh yeah, Spidey? Remember Spidey?” Then he’d counter with “Remember how Rerun used to do this move?” then bust out with a perfectly executed pop-lock routine. It’d go on like this for a while. So far so good. Until it came to a stumper like, “Ooh, how about The Magic Drawing Board on Captain Kangaroo?” I’d get all pale and sweaty, knowing that I’d be soon found out. I could only mutter complaints under my breath against Marcos, or whoever lacked the foresight of allowing Captain Kangaroo on Philippine airwaves in the 1970s.
I’ve been meaning to post this sooner. Last Sunday in San Francisco, I met with Mark of 
After eating, we headed back to