Echo

   Had dinner and had a long warm shower. I feel exhausted. I cried in class tonight, well, after class.

So
there we were, talking about Conflict Theory and Functionalism - how
the dominant class imposes universal norms on the subordinate class,
creating false consciousness that fosters a hegemony. It was
unavoidable, then, to talk about the different classes and how people
who earn less usually go to schools that do not provide a curriculum
that is as challenging and fulfilling as the curriculum of the schools
where the more economically advantaged go. In effect, in a
functionalist society, "poor" kids get "bad" education, and therefore
land low-paying jobs; while "rich" kids get "good" education, and
therefore land high-paying jobs. The "poor" remain "poor," the "rich"
remain "rich." However, functionalists argue that if an individual
tries "hard enough," he/she will eventually succeed. Conflict Theory
(which yes, borrows a lot from Marxism) says that this isn’t
necessarily true, therefore the subordinate class must create conflict
to instigate change.

The discussion turned into the role of
education in our functionalist society and the roles we, as teachers,
take in the propagation of one theory over the other. One of my
classmates said that while it is unfortunate that class dictate who
becomes successful in life, at the end of the day, she would prefer a
surgeon who had good grades in school rather than a surgeon who did
so-so in school - and in effect, choosing the surgeon who came from a
"good" school.

Another classmate, however, felt that grades
did not necessarily reflect the skill of a person in the real world. He
gave himself as an example. He said that he did poorly in school, but
he thinks he’s doing pretty well as a teacher. He even went so far as
to say, "I wouldn’t want a teacher who had a 4.0 GPA in college to go
near my kids. He wouldn’t know how to speak to my daughter."

Well.

I
might not have gotten a 4.0 GPA, but I did pretty well in school. I
would’ve been excellent had Math not been a requirement (curse you,
Mathematics!) and I am now maintaining a 4.0 GPA in grad school (whew,
no more Math.) But I don’t want my performance in school to be held
against me. Bad grades should not be used to make untrue and hasty
generalizations about people’s performance in the real world - and
neither should good grades! I told him that it was unfair to make those
statements, especially since it implied that I would not be an
effective teacher. Schooling is not the only factor that influences a
person’s ability. I grew up in a third world nation where good
education is a luxury, even though it is said that it is a right.  Does
that not at least affect my effectability in the classroom with regards
to being able to reach out to the students who are doing poorly in
school? Also, those of you who know me personally and intimately know
what I had to go through in the past. I think that that should be
enough grounds to say that I would know "how to speak" to that that
guy’s daughter. Bad grades do not a person make, and neither do good
grades. I refuse to believe that my being a good student deters me from
being a well-rounded person! I told him that he should not be making
generalizations about one extreme while desiring not to be held against
the generalizations made about the other extreme.

Suddenly,
Mark (not his real name), another classmate of mine said he had had it
with the generalizations made in class. He took offense with how the
class was using words like "They" and "Them" to stress how the
subordinate class was this entity that was so separate from who they
were ("they" meaning my classmates.) As a teacher in a racially diverse
school, he felt that the least the class could do was to name "them" if
they were going to talk about "their" situation. African American.
Latino. Asians. Poor.

Well, that opened a nasty can of worms.
Immediately, my other classmates went on the defensive. He was telling
the class the disappointment he felt and the others took it against
him. Up until that point in class, I was limiting myself to the
theoretical arguments about functionalism and conflict theory. There
were a lot of generalizations going around and I chose not to play the
race chip, even though there were only two other girls who were not
white (one was African American, the other was Latina.) I always find
it interesting (to put it mildly) to watch white people talk about
racism and class inequality and see them talk about it passionately. I
often wonder what they would feel like if they were the ones who were
different. But here was a white man (and in any society, that is the
best representative of any dominant class: educated, white, male) and
he was standing up for me and the other "people of color"! He was a
virtual stranger, but I felt as if he knew exactly what I was feeling.

At
one of the lulls that followed the heated arguments, I said that there
is a difference between intent and effect. While the others might not
have intend their words to have that effect, the effect is undeniable.
Mark was offended, and frankly, so was I. He just had the chutzpah to
say it, I didn’t. And in the final analysis, I think effect is more
important. Intent is debatable, effect is undeniable. I couldn’t understand how my classmates’ resentment over the perceived accusation of some mild form of racism takes precedence over Mark’s real offense to the language my classmates inadvertently used.

The
class ended soon after that because we really were at a standstill.
Tempers were flaring and it was really very uncomfortable. When
everyone was filing out, I shook his hand and said, "Thank you." I
meant to say more, but I couldn’t let go of his hand and I started to
cry. I was so overwhelmed by his bravery to speak up for someone who
was so unlike him. Finally, since I couldn’t let go of his hand
(because I could hardly stand anymore), he hugged me and he said,
"Thank you."

Wow.

School’s definitely back. I wrote this as a requirement
for a class. We were asked to think about "nation" - what it means, how
is formed, etc. I ended up writing this. I wasn’t bargaining on it
being this personal, but there you go.

I can’t wait to go back home.

* **
 

My family and I moved to Grand Rapids on 2001. I had just graduated from college and idealism was flowing quite healthily through my veins. I did not
want to move to the States – at the point when we moved, I had already
begun living on my own and I wanted to stay behind and do my own thing
in the Philippines. Kicking and screaming though, I joined my family.

I never shared my fellow Filipinos’ fascination with the US. I have tons of kababayans (Filipino for “countrymen.” Bayan means “country.” The prefix ka-
is the same as “co-" in “co-worker”) living illegally in this country
because it promises more money, more stability, and more opportunities
for growth. I, on the other hand, am afflicted with the haughtiness
that comes with the city-born and bred upper-middle class. Growing up,
I already had money, I already had stability, and I already had
opportunities for growth. Instead of viewing America
as a land of opportunity, I thought it was the land of excess. I
resented it because my country always saw itself as inferior in
relation to America.  

When
9/11 happened, my heart went out to those who died and to those who
were left behind. To combat the growing hatred against foreigners that
came in its aftershock, I remember seeing an ad campaign airing over
and over again. A diverse bunch of individuals were saying the words,
“I am an American.” They managed to pick individuals that looked
nothing like each other, and their message was clear: stop picking on
the foreigners. Despite best efforts though, for the first time in my life, I felt horribly different. Suddenly, we were the enemy just because we were different. We live in Grand Rapids, and we couldn’t be more different than all the other Van Somethings and De Somethings.

I decided to go back home after just 6 months in the US.
When I got back home, I embraced my idealism with vim and vigor. I was
determined to make something of myself, and I tried to turn my back
away from my bourgeoisie background. What I ended up doing was a
compromise between my idealistic and pragmatic self: I became a
teacher, I helped shape the next generation…in an exclusive,
prestigious, and expensive Catholic all-boys high school. I was
teaching boys who had pretty much the same hoity-toity background I
have, but I wanted them to realize that they could and should go beyond
that. I still wonder how effectively I was able to do that.

Now that I live here in Grand Rapids
again, with my husband, and as a full time graduate student, I can’t
say I feel entirely different. I still harbor the same resentments I
had before, albeit now with a tinge of sadness. It was a sad day when I
grew old enough to realize that my parents were human and made mistakes
– it’s the same now that I see that America isn’t so great after all. I am more forgiving of the US and its citizens. Ignorance more than hatred fuels so many of its
people and while it is a constant struggle to remind myself to rise
above the situation, I know I need to; the scornful look, the hushed
voices, or worse, the quasi-benign, overly-saccharine smiles of
condescension notwithstanding.

The
concept of a nation is such a tricky idea to define because people are
no longer limited by borders. My being over and beyond the borders of
my country has made me think more about my nation and my nationality
more. I now look and think about my nationality in terms of how it is
shaped by my being here. It’s snowing again outside and I’ll probably
have another bowl of cold cereal for breakfast and that’s about as
un-Filipino as my morning can get (oh, to have the warmth of a muggy,
tropical sun, and the smell of roasting garlic and rice!) But I am
grateful to be here, to study, to be outside my comfort zone, so that I
could go back home and hopefully be a better teacher. 

I
believe that a nation relies mostly on its people for its identity and
I struggle with this because I am trying my best to define who I am in
the context of my home country and the country that now educates me –
so that I may educate my own people. I am but one person, but I know I
help define my nation; in the same way I know that one racist (insert
swear word) does not define this nation.

I
am not a proper example of the majority of my people. Too many of us
are hungry for food, education, attention, and the chance to make a
better life. I listen to my classmates who teach in cushy districts and
they complain of inattentive students and I think about the children
back home who have to make do with the shade of a mango tree for a
classroom. And they have to compete with ants to sit on the muddy soil
underneath it. I think of the teacher who teaches 50-70 students at a
time for a pittance, who chooses to remain in the country to teach
despite the exodus of other teachers to become domestic helpers in
countries far and away. But we laugh, and boy how we laugh. And we
dream, and we have big dreams.

Though I hate to do it, I must: In relation to the US, the Philippines is a poor nation. It is small, it is easier to ignore its needs.
Someday though, I hope when we do become great, it won’t be a relative
greatness, we’ll be great just because we are. That is my big dream.