Magdaragat, page 10
Growing up in the 90s, I experienced the world before and after the dawn of the Internet. I was a curious child, and when I would ask my parents questions, they would say, “Check the encyclopedia.” One day, I grabbed the P book and flipped the pages to learn about the Philippines, only to be disappointed at the few paragraphs in front of me. My main resources for learning about Filipino culture and history were the oral stories my parents would share with me. They did their best to expose me to cultural activities such as food, music, and dance, but my curiosities around my identity were far deeper than what I could find answers for in a textbook. Why did my parents leave the beautiful, tropical archipelago islands for a place where it’s freezing cold most of the year? Why, when I asked elders about the history of the Philippines, did they all begin with the colonization of the country by Spain for 300 years and then America for 150 years? Why are Filipinos so proud of their Spanish ancestry? Why do so many Filipinos exaggerate their Spanish ancestry? What were the impacts of colonization on Filipinos? What do my parents mean when they say “colonial mentality”? Was the Philippines always a third world country? Did Filipinos always practise Catholicism? Why were only men given powerful positions in the Catholic Church? Why am I made to feel shame about my sexual desires? What does it mean to be Filipino-Canadian? These are some of the questions I began to ask myself as a young person. I may not have had the exact vocabulary as a child, but these are the beginning curiosities that helped me begin to locate myself.
Colonial mentality is a state of marginal consciousness, which lacks the critical awareness of the forces of domination and oppression that shape attitudes, values, and behaviors in the colonized. This lack of awareness among colonized peoples results in mimicry of the colonizers’ attitudes, values, and behavior while their own indigenous values keep subverting and betraying this mimicry.
— Leny Strobel2
Colonial mentality and internalized oppression are rampant in the Filipino community. For example, growing up, my elders would say to me, “Stay in the shade and out of the sunlight, so that your skin doesn’t become dark.” When I visited the Philippines in 2017, I was bombarded with skin-whitening products and ads. After spending a few days on the beaches of Boracay, my cousins had a visceral negative reaction at how “dark” I was. They couldn’t understand why I would want to tan and be in the sun. The mainstream beauty standards in the Filipino community to this day continue to uphold and perpetuate colourism, anti-Blackness, and white-centred standards of beauty. This is only a sliver of the way Western life and products are valued more than Filipino ways of living and being.
Filipino history is often summarized by many Filipinos and Filipino Americans in one phrase — “300 hundred years of the convent and 50 years in Hollywood.” This is evidence suggesting that many individuals with Filipino heritage may not have a very good understanding of their historical and cultural roots; that they may lack a strong, authentic, and positive Filipino knowledge base that may contribute to developing pride toward their heritage. This limited and inaccurate representation of Filipino history sends the message that nothing existed prior to the arrival of Europeans; that Filipinos owe everything they know, and even their survival, to their European or Western colonizers.
— E.J.R. David3
After eighteen years of attending the Canadian public school system, I only began to develop my understanding of colonization while attending university. I began to learn about the historical genocide of Indigenous people in Canada at the hands of the Canadian government and the Catholic Church. Today, ongoing genocide against Indigenous people is happening through land displacement, the child welfare system, poverty, and the school-to-prison pipeline.
In order for the settlers to make a place their home, they must destroy and disappear the Indigenous peoples that live there. Indigenous peoples are those who have creation stories, not colonization stories, about how we/they came to be in a particular place — indeed how we/they came to be a place.
— Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang4
After learning about the history of Indigenous peoples on Turtle Island, I understood that the dehumanization and genocide of Indigenous groups all around the world has occurred and continues because of settler-colonial projects that seek to extract resources in the name of capitalism. I completed my teacher degree through the University of Winnipeg and Red River College in 2013, and it was at this point that I began to ask questions such as: What is a colonized person? What negative impacts has colonial mentality had on my personal life in terms of how I relate to myself and others? How does one overcome the internalized oppression of colonization? How might I reclaim my true identity and power without the projections of oppressors? What does it mean to be a decolonized Filipinx in so-called Canada? How do non-Indigenous people understand a connection to their original homeland without being on the land? What is my role and responsibility, as a settler on stolen land, to be an educator in a diverse community of learners that includes Indigenous children? How might I, as a leader and educator in the Filipino community, teach our youth about the history of the Philippines and Filipinos in Winnipeg?
As a first-generation settler living on stolen land, I have had to look at how I have benefited from colonization and activate my privilege to dismantle systems of oppression within myself and in my community. Settlers must continually work to decolonize their mentality and take action toward the repatriation of Indigenous land and life. Unlearning internalized oppression is not just mental work, it is emotional, physical, and spiritual work. Throughout my life, I have found joy, expression, and connection through my artistic practice. The relationship with myself and others continues to be cultivated through learning and creating, which has been a powerful healing modality when it comes to self-improvement.
Each One, Teach One
For as long as I can remember, the arts have always been a safe space for me. A place I could practise expressing myself in a creative and fun environment. I loved to mimic dancers on television, teaching my cousins choreography, singing, acting, performing at family parties, drawing, colouring, painting, and making things from scratch. During my time in the public education system, I took every opportunity I could to be part of the arts through classes, clubs, and extracurriculars. My parents recognized my interest and passion for the arts early on, so they encouraged and supported me to explore my curiosities. I remember one day, my mom asked me if I wanted to take up ballet, to which I responded with a quick “No, thank you.” I refused the offer because I didn’t feel like I would fit in. I had never seen a Filipino ballerina before. I was more interested in hip hop dancing because the music resonated with me. In 1996, my parents enrolled me to dance with Magdaragat Philippines Inc. It was the first place where I received formal dance training in Filipino folk dance, hip hop, ballet, jazz, and improvisation. It became a new source for learning about my culture. I went on to Tec Voc High School, where I trained with Patti Caplette and Sofia Constantini. By the age of seventeen, I was being invited by my friends to professionally choreograph dance numbers for their debuts (Filipino coming-of-age parties). I also began breaking (breakdance) training under B-Boy Rector of Quick Beats Crew and B-Boy Boobjester of Dangerous Goods during this time. In 2006, I became a member of Define Movement, a street-style dance crew led by Dammecia Hall. I trained in a variety of dance forms including hip hop, house, dance hall, and vogue. When you learn a dance form, you not only learn movements, but you have the opportunity to learn about the culture, history, and people. The dance styles I gravitated toward were genres born out of the African or Latinx diasporic experience. When I listened to the lyrics of the songs I was dancing to, I felt like my experiences were being mirrored to me. Topics ranged from, but were not limited to, living in poverty, searching for identity and meaning, self-improvement through self-development, and uplifting community through giving back.
As I began to be invited to teach professionally as a young adult, specifically in the styles that I had experience in, one of my greatest fears was participating in cultural appropriation. As a guest in a variety of Black and Latinx diasporic–created dance forms, it was and still is critical for me to know and acknowledge the history of each dance form and to participate in the culture of each dance style. For example, hip hop was born in the Bronx as a cultural movement created by African-American and Latinx-American youth to express themselves, bring about positive opportunities, and create safe spaces in underserved communities through the forms of DJing, MCing, Graffiti, and Breaking. Fifty years later, it continues to serve as a vehicle for transformative learning for marginalized groups all over the world. I resonated with Hip Hop culture because it was accessible; I felt welcomed and valued, and there I met a diverse range of peers and mentors who had similar life experiences as I did. Many of the street-style dance pioneers and their students are currently still alive and teaching, thus developing relationships with these instructors has been and still is integral to learning how to deliver the cultural knowledge authentically and respectfully. When picking my mentors, I purposely chose teachers who can articulate the lineage of their knowledge. In the summer of 2018, I trained under some of the pioneers of street-style dance forms in New York City. My instructors taught me that being a part of the culture is about family, hard work, perseverance, and dedication. Being a “culture vulture” is not acceptable, and that if one cannot teach the movement without the history, vocabulary, and technical skill, then a more suitable candidate should be hired. Street dance culture has been passed down through generations by oral storytelling and physical demonstration. There are no accredited schools or training centres that a dancer can attend to become a “Hip Hop Certified Teacher.” In this sense, street credibility is still an important part of the culture. In order to be regarded as an expert in the styles, there needs to be a demonstrated commitment to the form, its history, and to the culture and liberation of historically marginalized people. Ethical and active participation includes training with elders, competing, organizing, teaching, and advocating for the community. Hip hop artists often quote this African Proverb “Each one, teach one.” This motto represents our responsibility to uplift ourselves and our communities through mutual and reciprocal education and solidarity building.
At the beginning of 2022, I felt called to focus my dance practice and work on helping to cultivate the vogue and ballroom scene in Winnipeg. The ballroom community is a 2STLGBQIAA+* centred space for the ballroom scene to learn and compete against one another, walking a variety of categories designed to simultaneously epitomize and satirize gender constructs, occupations, and social classes, while also offering an escape from reality. After years of training in Vogue Femme, I asked Matthew “Snoopy” Cuff to mentor me in 2022. My relationship with Snoopy gave me the opportunity to meet with Ballroom community members in Toronto, as well as facilitate free vogue dance classes and co-organize kiki balls in Winnipeg. I still have much to learn when it comes to the Ballroom Community, and my goal like any of my interests is to be a student for life.
Breaking the Cycle of Capitalistic Productivity
I completed my Bachelors of Education at University of Winnipeg in March 2013 and only a few weeks later started my first full-time position as a teacher. I was an ambitious young professional, with a mission to prove my worthiness and hireability as a permanent teacher. I was also dancing competitively, putting in an excessive amount of rehearsal hours at the expense of rest. On June 1, 2013, I fell asleep while driving my parents’ car, hitting a parked vehicle, which caused mine to flip over and crash. I woke up, unbuckled myself, and got out of the car. All I could hear was myself thinking, “How am I going to get to work on Monday?” Why was this the first thing that came to mind? Why wasn’t it, “Oh my God, I almost died, but I’m alive”? Looking back, my reaction was due to a mindset that prioritized productivity over personal safety, a reaction caused by internalized colonialism and capitalism. I returned to work on Monday morning and spoke with my then principal. I explained what happened, to which he replied, “Maribeth, you are burning the candle at both ends.” It was the first time I had someone tell me that I was a workaholic. That if I kept overextending myself, there would be nothing left. After this event, for the first time in my life, I stepped away from dance and instead focused on learning to slow down and take care of myself. I began to practise yoga and meditation. I realized how poorly I was treating my mind, body, and spirit because I didn’t take or value breaks. In 2015, I returned to my dance practice and joined Project Dance Company. The crew became one of the first groups from Winnipeg to represent Canada at the Hip Hop International in San Diego. The following year, I joined B.O.S.S. Dance Team as a dancer and choreographer. I signed my first permanent teaching contract in early 2017.
When the COVID-19 pandemic hit the world in March 2020, I began adapting to the evolving education and arts industries. My most successful strategies to help me cope with the isolation have been honouring rest, slowing down, sitting with my emotions, practising movement and mobility both indoors and outdoors, listening to music, writing, learning new skills, and practising gratitude. I had the opportunity to complete a variety of projects during this pandemic, but this would not have been possible without prioritising my health, as well as my communities. Finding a balance and rhythm between the commitments in one’s life is a dynamic dance, but if you practise grounding through cultural and spiritual rituals, mindfulness, humility, and setting boundaries, you will create space to find your own flow and not one controlled by capitalistic productivity. Rest is our resistance against white supremacy, and our wellness is foundational to our liberation. Learning to be still, to be strong, to be at peace with the present moment is an integral part to creating art sustainably. Another critical factor in maintaining a state of wellness for myself is asking for help and connecting with the Filipinx community.
Help Wanted!
In late 2018, after a long-term romantic relationship came to an end, I felt that, for the first time in my life, I was ready to see professional therapists and healers. After speaking with them, I came face to face with many of the questions I had been asking myself around my identity. Up to that point, I would have described myself as an extremely hard-working perfectionist who was afraid of failing. Failing the expectations of parents, failing to be successful at school and my career, and failing to find a partner to spend my life with. We can be our worst critics, but we can also be our most powerful healers. I learned that when we go through traumatic events in our lives, later in life we can revisit younger versions of ourselves to begin processing and healing through the pain. We can begin to equip ourselves with healthy ways of dealing with old trauma being triggered. When I think about the number of racialized friends and their family members I know who access therapy, it’s few and far between. The cost of therapy and stigma toward it continue to prevent many Indigenous, Black, and People of Colour (IBPOC) from accessing mental health support. What I have observed in my work with youth is that the discussion around mental health and wellness in IBPOC families is still in developmental stages, with our youth often leading the conversation, and unfortunately in some cases it’s completely off the table. Growing up, I would hear elders tell young people to “pray away their problems” or “ask Jesus.” I have only begun to examine the trauma I have incurred via colonization, the relationship dynamics in my life, and my experience growing up in a Filipino Roman Catholic home. One of the most powerful lessons I’ve learned through therapy is that no one is born with shame; it is taught and internalized.
In 2019, I began to intensely research what other Filipinx/a/os living in the diaspora were doing to reclaim their pre-colonial ways of living. In my search for other Filipinx/a/os with similar curiosities around intersectional identity and decolonization, I came across the term Filipinx and found the work of a scholar named Leny Mendoza Strobel. Strobel’s work focuses on Filipinx/a/o decolonization; Kapwa psychology and babaylan practice; primary/land-based babaylans in the Philippines; babaylan-inspired practices by Filipinos in the diaspora; and personal narratives on decolonization as a spiritual path. Her work offered a pathway to exploring what it meant for me to decolonize as a Filipinx living in the diaspora, grounded in pre-colonial Filipinx/a/o belief systems. In her book, A Book of Her Own, Strobel explains her use of the term “indigenous:”
I use the term indigenous to refer to the self that has found its place, its home in the world. Emptied of projections of “inferiority,” “third world,” “undeveloped,” “uncivilized,” “exotic and primitive,” and “modernizing,” it is the self capable of conjuring one’s place and growing roots through the work of imagination, re-framing history, and re-telling the Filipino story that centers our history of resistance, survival, and re-generation.5
After reading Strobel’s decolonial work and other post-colonial work done by Filipinx/a/os living in the diaspora, I decided to seek out other Filipinx working in the therapeutic industries because I wanted advice from people who had similar lived experiences. Through following #Filipinx on Instagram, I was connected with Heather Rebecca Wilson, a Transformational Coach based in Tongva territory (Los Angeles). I virtually attended her Filipinx Healing Circles, where we co-created a sacred space for Filipinx in the diaspora to connect, express, and release challenges we experienced in the realms of decolonizing our bodies, minds, spirits, and energy. In January 2021, I began to see Dr. Reese Malone, who holds a Masters of Public Health and a Doctorate of Human Sexuality. In April 2021, I redesigned and relaunched my website. The creative process was a cathartic experience for me because I was able to reflect, see, and celebrate the personal and professional growth I have achieved over the past few years. It was also the first time that I publicly shared that I identified now as a queer Filipinx. In the early part of 2022, I participated in my first Kali container with Ate Imee, also known as Mayari Moon. In this virtual class, I was able to remember the martial arts my ancestors would have used to defend themselves from colonizers and enemies. Ate Imee’s container created a safe space for diasporic Filipinx around the world to come together to learn and reclaim their ancestral strength. Dr. Malone’s therapy sessions, Wilson’s healing circles, and Ate Imee’s Kali container are places where I have been able to continue to dissolve internalized oppression. Being in relationship with Filipinx/a/o healers and other community members actively reclaiming their pre-colonial identities has been and will continue to be a critical part of my life. I am grateful to have given myself the permission to be vulnerable enough to share my struggles with others, and to be open to practising and internalizing new mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual habits that help me to feel whole and empowered.
