By Riana Torrejon

There is a silent battle that is fought by many young immigrants.

I grew up in the Philippines, then immigrated with my family to Canada when I was almost eleven. At first glance, the new country appeared utopian as the streets were clean, the buildings were free of vandalism, the people were quite friendly, and I wore a smile every night before bed. That smile lasted until I began school in the fall. During my first two years of school in Canada, I was bullied. Kids first pointed at my long black hair and claimed that I was a witch.

Not long after, they drew comics featuring my hair and other foreign features and passed it around the school—always ensuring that I was the last to see them. To make matters worse, Filipino dishes often call for ingredients like onions, garlic, and fish, the scent of which clung to my clothes. The aroma reminded me of my grandmother’s home in the Philippines, but my classmates considered it a stench. I distinctly entering the classroom on morning to be met by the crinkling of noses followed by the backs of chairs at each table forming impenetrable walls. It was only when the bell rang, and the teacher appeared that eventually, I was able to take advantage of their distracted states and force myself through a crack that revealed itself in their ranks. I grew up in the Philippines, then immigrated with my family to Canada when I was almost eleven. At first glance, the new country appeared utopian as the streets were clean, the buildings were free of vandalism, the people were quite friendly, and I wore a smile every night before bed. That smile lasted until I began school in the fall. During my first two years of school in Canada, I was bullied. Kids first pointed at my long black hair and claimed that I was a witch. Not long after, they drew comics featuring my hair and other foreign features and passed it around the school—always ensuring that I was the last to see them. To make matters worse, Filipino dishes often call for ingredients like onions, garlic, and fish, the scent of which clung to my clothes. The aroma reminded me of my grandmother’s home in the Philippines, but my classmates considered it a stench. I distinctly entering the classroom on morning to be met by the crinkling of noses followed by the backs of chairs at each table forming impenetrable walls. It was only when the bell rang, and the teacher appeared that eventually, I was able to take advantage of their distracted states and force myself through a crack that revealed itself in their ranks. The bullying stopped when I transitioned into junior high school and the rise in immigration soon brought in familiar faces that looked like my own; students with skin just like mine, hair just as black, and the familiar smell of fish that used to greet me at my grandmother’s. During the first year in junior high school, I was less afraid of the walls as I now had more people in the trenches with me. In our huddle as a minority, we could ignore our harsh reality by only facing each other. However, I still snuck occasional peeks of the outside world and strayed from the huddle every now and then. With all my observations, one day, I narrowed down that there were two different types of Filipinos in Canada: the “whitewashed” and those “fresh off the boat,” or FOB for short.

The whitewashed Filipinos resembled the kids on the other side of the wall as they had no traces of the Filipino culture that gave them away, other than the colour of their skin. Devoid of an accent, the scent of garlic and onions, and hold on to the Filipino heritage, these whitewashed Filipinos did not appear to have to endure the bullying I had experienced. After this epiphany, I found myself slowly singing more English songs, adopting the Canadian accent, and as I kept inching in this direction, I woke up one day to find that I no longer had to look for cracks to enter through the wall, but was now on the other side of it, viewing my peers still in the trenches through these cracks.  In an insidious manner, fear had crept up on me as the years of persecution culminated. I needed so badly to belong and remain within the safe perimeters of being whitewashed, that I feared embracing the heritage my ancestors so proudly passed down to me. It wasn’t until high school that I fully understood this because of a phone call with my grandmother. We struggled to communicate as our language, Bisaya, no longer felt natural on my tongue. I examined myself in the mirror for what felt like ages after that phone call.

Before me stood a girl who easily passed for a native-born Canadian. Everything my family had passed down onto me was hidden away deep within my heart for I became too hindered to fully embrace myself and bear semblance to my past self, the FOB, the immigrant that was ostracized for being different. Now, I’ve made the effort to reconnect with my roots by reading about Filipino history, speaking Tagalog and Bisaya with family and friends who know the dialects, and attending Filipino events. Fortunately, my heritage didn’t fully leave me, and I’m now unafraid of embracing it, regardless of how others feel. My story’s not uncommon as many young immigrants also feel the tug of war between their identities. Let’s ensure we treat one another with open minds and with a willingness to understand before we judge. This will change our actions for the better. It will also allow for many, such young immigrants, the space they need to let their two identities co-exist and happily get along. It should not be a tug of war in Canada, the mosaic.