Do Second-Generation Hapas Have it Better?

Hapa Mag - MARCH 10, 2021

By Donna Berry

In Zineb Sedira’s art installation, Mother Tongue, three flat screen TVs positioned side-by-side on a wall depict the artist, her mother, and her daughter recounting childhood memories in their three native languages. In the first video, Sedira’s mother speaks to Sedira in Arabic, and the artist responds in French. In the second, Sedira speaks to her daughter in French while her daughter responds in English. In the final video, Sedira’s daughter and her mother attempt a conversation. As Sedira’s mother speaks to her granddaughter, there are long stretches of silence between them. Sedira’s daughter looks off camera, presumably to her mother, unable to understand her grandmother’s Arabic. Sedira’s mother tries earnestly, her eyes and voice filled with love. She speaks more slowly, softly, but her delivery is not the problem. It’s the language. Sedira’s daughter cannot understand the mother tongue.

It’s hard not to feel loss when viewing this piece. To lose an ancestral language during a single lifetime seems tragic. But this is common. Many studies show that heritage languages are almost entirely lost to the grandchildren of immigrants, whether Algerian, as in the case of Mother Tongue, or those of us of mixed Asian descent. This also holds true for other cultural touchstones. Dilution of our Asian cultural heritage, at least statistically, appears inevitable.

Language is an enormous part of one’s cultural identity. It provides access. A sense of belonging. For first-generation Hapas like me, belonging is a loaded word we can spend a lifetime trying to achieve. But how does our connection to our Asian heritage inform the first-generation Hapa experience? How does that compare to the experience of second-generation Hapas? Do our kids have it any easier? Do they belong?

Growing up on the eastside of Los Angeles in the early ‘80s, I was one of the few Hapas in my community — an ethnically diverse neighborhood of mostly Hispanic and Asian immigrants. My parents divorced when I was two, and though my father is white American, I was raised Filipino, having spent most of my time with my Filipino mom and family. We ate Filipino food. Our house was decorated with Filipino art and woven mats called banigs. Sitting prominently in my dining room was an altar to the Virgin Mary and Jesus, decorated with colorful beaded rosaries and decades worth of anointed palm fronds. My family spoke a mix of Tagalog and English, called Taglish. My Filipino household was no different than that of my Filipino friends, except for one big difference — me.

My family didn’t treat me like one of their own. When I walked into a room where my relatives were speaking Tagalog, they switched to English, even though they knew I understood Tagalog. But why? I believe there were two forces at work here. First, it was the result of the cultural abrogation encouraged by my immigrant family, and especially my mom. Secondly, it was in part to my appearance: while I was definitely not white passing, I wasn’t Filipino passing either. They knew it, and so did I.

During my childhood, my mom made no secret of her ambivalence when it came to me learning Tagalog. She was aware, like many recently immigrated Filipinos, of the anti-immigrant sentiments and stereotypes shared by white America. To be accepted as an American, and to succeed, my mom encouraged me to shed those characteristics that connected me to my immigrant origins. Assimilation was the ultimate goal. For many first-generation Hapas like myself, becoming American meant a break from Tagalog and Filipino traditions. For example, when it came time for my debut, a Filipino coming-of-age ceremony akin to a quinceañera, I was simply told that I wouldn’t have one. Though I craved a connection to my Filipino heritage that so many of my relatives defined themselves by, I didn’t look or feel the part, and so, I didn’t fight the decision. Maybe I didn’t think I was Filipino enough for one either.

Like many first-generation Hapas, my complicated relationship with my Asianness extended beyond my home life. At school, I didn’t fit in with the Filipino clique or the Hispanic cliques. I often found myself most comfortable with the “outcasts”: the queer kids, the jocks like myself, the other ethnic minorities, and Natasha (the one white girl at my school). I thought that if I wasn’t so tall or if I just looked and acted more Filipino, things would’ve been easier for me. I could’ve belonged in the Filipino group with their perfect handwriting, cute Sanrio pencils and erasers, and perfect straight hair. Instead, I was a 5’10” ethnically ambiguous basketball player with wild frizzy hair. Don’t get me wrong, I had friends, most of whom I still see today, but instead of seeing myself as belonging to my “kabal of misfits,” I saw us as outsiders. I saw myself as an outsider, desperately wanting to belong. Desperately wanting to be Filipino enough.

In speaking to other first-generation Hapas for this piece, several themes of my life were echoed in their own experiences: a sense of not belonging or “otherness” and seeking out the company of “misfits.” But some other, more troubling themes also emerged. Bullying. Low-self esteem. Depression. Self-harm. Our ethnic duality suspended us in a dangerous purgatory of identity. We were teetering on a tightrope stretched high above the ground.

Filipino or white? 

Korean or Ecuadorean?

Chinese or white? 

But why all the acrobatics? Did we have to choose? Could there be another path to belonging?

Enter, stage left, second-generation Hapas. Though I was encouraged to shed my immigrant cultural roots as a child, with my own kids, I do just the opposite. I do everything I can to imbue them with Filipino culture. Their lola (grandma in Tagalog) even lives with us because I believe so strongly in the benefits kids receive from multi-generational households, especially mixed kids. But if you ask my kids, who are ethnically mixed with white and Filipino, if they identify as white or Filipino, they will give you a puzzled look and say none of the above. They are American. They see their Asianness as another ingredient in their American pie, whereas my mom saw it as an incongruent flavor, and I see it as not an American pie at all– Americans are white!

For this story, I interviewed several second-generation Hapas, ranging in age from 12-18. Some live in predominantly white neighborhoods, and some live in urban, ethnically diverse communities. Some know a few words of their heritage language (unsurprisingly, mostly curse words.) Most eat their ancestral cuisine and are familiar with the customs of their Asian ancestors. Without self-consciousness, they attend lunar new year parties, debuts, bar and bat mitzvahs, Three Kings’ Day celebrations, and quinceañeras — it doesn’t matter what country their parents are from. They are not excluded by others or because of their own apprehensions.

When asked about their cultural identity, these young Hapas have very similar things to say. Across the board, they identify as American. While some wish they could speak more of their ancestral languages, mostly so they could communicate more easily with their Asian elders, none of them viewed this language gap as a negative. At school and in their communities, these second-generation Hapas don’t feel excluded from social groups because of their mixed heritage. In fact, many of these young Hapas didn’t think cliques at school were race driven. Instead, cliques are based on shared interests: the gamers, the Pokémon kids, the jocks, the high-fashion girls. When asked if they gravitate towards other Hapas in their schools or community, most had to really think about the question. They hadn’t analyzed the race of everyone in their social circles. Some didn’t even know if a friend was Hapa, and if they were, most didn’t know what type of Asian they were mixed with! You can imagine how surprising this was for someone who always identified people by their ethnicity. It is one of the first things I see, and I’m sure other first-generation Hapas would say the same.

While I am generally a big Disney fan, the one thing I do dislike about Disney movies is how they often portray kids teaching adults an important life lesson. I’m not saying this never happens in real life, but as a mother of two, I can say with confidence that it’s RARE. But full disclosure, talking to these second-generation Hapas opened my eyes to just how myopic my view of cultural identity is. Hapas don’t fit into boxes. Whiteness is not a prerequisite of “American.” If you want to celebrate your Asian cultural roots, great. If you don’t, that’s fine too, and these young Hapas know it. They aren’t trying to fit into boxes. They just belong.

When I reflect on Mother Tongue with this new perspective, it doesn’t feel as tragic. There will be some inevitable strains on our connection to our ancestral cultural heritage as we broaden our vision of identity. And that’s OK. The benefit of widening our understanding of what it means to be American is blissful inclusion, and we can see this play out with second-generation Hapas. They don’t feel the pressure of assimilation or the sense of “otherness” that often plagued their Hapa parents. This is both a sign of our times and because our notion of American identity is evolving.

I don’t hear it as often nowadays, but for most of my life, a frequent question people would ask me is, “What are you?” While vague and crude, I knew what they meant. Because I’m so ethnically ambiguous, they were inquiring about my racial heritage. Most of the time, I would say “from L.A.” or “wouldn’t you like to know?” I thought I was being cute, avoiding their question, a punishment for their rudeness. But even if I didn’t realize it before, I see it now. I am American. I can belong, too.

Donna Berry is a Phoenix based mom-of-twin-boys, sometimes lawyer, doodle-lover,and aspiring author. You can follow her on twitter @ucladonna.