Notes from Paris

(This was written by Taong Bato three years ago when he was still in in the City of Lights)

Something caught my eye this morning when I bought my weekly supply of groceries at G20, a French supermarché. Stacked at the stalls where confectioneries and bonbons were found, to my surprise, were Filipinos. No, I didn’t mean real brown Filipinos in flesh and blood, but Filipinos, the biscuits made in Spain.

I remembered the controversy generated in 1999 by these biscuits. Ousted president Joseph Estrada back then ordered the Department of Foreign Affairs to file a diplomatic protest with the Spanish Embassy, echoing the sentiments of some well-meaning Filipinos who regarded this as an affront to our national dignity.

When I first heard the brouhaha generated by these biscuits, I brushed it off and dismissed the ruckus as another manifestation of our roller-coaster emotional state. Our national obsession for cellular phones have probably taken a toll on our ability to think rationally (didn’t they warn us that constant exposure to cellular phone radiation could damage our brain cells?). After all, did we hear Italians give a hoot over Italian spaghettis, the French over French fries, the American over American hamburgers and the Chinese over Chinese noodles?

I usually have misgivings whenever we Filipinos cry foul over what we perceive to be a racial slur against us. For we have fallen flat on our faces not a few times before (remember how angry we were when we heard that Oxford English Dictionary defined Filipinas as domestic helpers only to learn later that we’ve been misinformed?) The truth is, I found it quite ironic when we ourselves are guilty of the same prejudices.

We label Chinese traders as greedy usurers. Indians and Pakistanis are often caricatured as having interesting smells. Westerners are sexually-deprived, sleazy perverts who visit our country in search of Filipina lolitas.

And this is penchant for prejudice is not only directed towards other races. Various foreign colonisers, by their divide and conquer rule have made us intolerant even among ourselves. This prejudice usually stems from antiquated folk beliefs to outright ignorance. How many times I have been eyed with cautious suspicion from people from Imperial Manila whenever I mention that I am from Zamboanga del Norte? Many would think that it is inherent in my blood to likely run amok in the first signs of anger. If somebody hails from Negros Island, one would probably suspect that he has a lola for a manananggal. One disheartening was the interview I saw on TV a few years ago of a 14-year old youth from Olongapo City who was abandoned by his Black American father. In that interview he said that he rarely ventured outside Olongapo because people would only call him nog-nog or negro. At least in Olongapo, he reasoned out, people would understand why his skin has different colour pigmentation.

I grabbed a couple of packs of Filipinos and examined their wrappers. Yes just the word “Filipinos” –no qualifiers like “biscuits” or “pretzels” after it. Flipped the label to the other side and there written in small letters was the advise : “Try Filipinos after one hour in the fridge”. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to feel insulted after reading the wise advise.

I would admit though that something in my Filipino pride was pricked when I saw those biscuits. I felt that my identity was reduced to a lowly junk food. What made it doubly insulting was that it was manufactured in the country that had, for three centuries, trampled on our cultural identity, not giving it a chance to grow and take shape of its own. This is why in all Asia, we stand out like an anomaly, with no real culture that we could call our very own.

Have we sunk so low before other people’s eyes that they wouldn’t hesitate to call us biscuits or to associate us with some stone age society suspended in time? I remembered being appalled when one misinformed American student asked me if a Third World country like the Philippines has skyscrapers. Much as I didn’t want to respond to him so as not to dignify his question, I didn’t want to let his insult get by. I pointed out to him politely that Philippines might be poor, but I assured him that Filipinos were not living in the Dark Ages.

Biscuits and Filipinos. Domestic helpers and Filipinos. Third World and Filipinos. The association stuck, like some Siamese twins that could only be separated after a long, painful and delicate surgery.