When I learned that Juliane Moore authored a children’s book titled “My Mom is a Foreigner, but Not to Me”, it hit a raw nerve. The book instantly made it to my Christmas Wish List.
I’m a mother to a 17 month old toddler son in a country that I have yet to call home. Ironically, I’m also the child of strangers from a different shore. My mother immigrated to the United States with three year old me and my one and a half little brother to join my Filipino-American father. We were among the very last to leave the motherland, leaving behind the legacy of a poverty-stricken country and inheriting all the hopes, dreams and ambitions of several generations of my father’s family.
Living in the Netherlands has caused me to have an existential crisis (understatement). I grew up feeling and believing I was (am) American. I was merely a Filipino by convenience, mostly to appease my parents. Home to me was the San Francisco Bay Area (San Francisco and Berkeley).
I watched countless hours of Sesame Street, The Little Prince, Fragglerock, Duck Tales, Gummy Bears, Punky Brewster, Full House, The Rugrats, Mr. Rogers, Doggie Howser, Family Matters, The Fresh Prince of Bell Air, The Golden Girls, Growing Pains, MacGyver, Boy Meets World, The Wonder Years, and ER. I was practically raised on TV, just like most American kids of my generation. Childhood was littered with memories of dodgeball, hopscotch, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, youth orchestra, and piano lessons.
I also grew up with parents that spoke English with a very heavy Filipino accent. My mother only cooked Filipino foods. Any celebration (birthday party, anniversary, graduation, holiday) came with the prerequisite bottomless Filipino dishes of lumpia (spring rolls), pancit (noodles), adobo (chicken stew) and leche flan (custard). I had to call all the adults “auntie” and “uncle” regardless of whether, or not they were actually related to us.
My brothers and I became obnoxious Americanized Filipino kids to the disdain of our ultra conservative, traditional Filipino parents. We were quite good at imitating their accent, of making sweeping generalizations about the Philippines colored by the experiences of our parents, and begged them to wake up to the reality that they were raising their kids in the United States, not in the Philippines. Eventually, my adolescent and adoltestant years gave me the freedom to pick and choose aspects of Filipino culture that appealed to my American sensibilities. I embraced being Filipino-American.
Yet, when I went to join my now-Dutch husband in the Netherlands, I was slapped for the first time with racist overtures and derogatory prejudices. I was ostracized for being different. This was not imagined. My race and subsequent judgements about my race established their perception of me and led to many colorful interactions. My San Francisco bubbled popped.
There were so many instances when I could feel people’s discomfort the moment I open my mouth to speak, their ears betraying what their eyes were showing them. Others would complement just how well I spoke English and sounded like an American. Polite questions of “where do you come from” would be met with my standard reply, followed by the more intrusive question, “where do you really come from”.
Perhaps part of my heightened sensitivity to being a foreign mom in the Netherlands is that my beautiful half-Dutch son is officially categorized by the local Dutch municipality as an Allochtoon. My sweet, sweet boy born in Utrecht with a Dutch father who dearly loves him is labeled as “originating from another country“. Oh Holland, dear Holland, please love him as one of your very own because I promise you he will one day make you very proud.
More than once has my parenting skills, especially because I carried my baby, been described as being reminiscent to African mothers in the bush. I don’t know whether or not they were insulting me, or giving me a genuine compliment. Remaining optimistic, I guess they were just mesmerized by the fact that my baby rarely cried and possibly in awe of my mothering skills. After all, Dr. Harvey Karp (Happiest Baby on the Block) asserts that in traditional cultures such as those in Africa and in Bali that practiced baby-carrying, colic doesn’t exist. Mental note: “Don’t you worry your pretty little mind; people throw rocks at things that shine …”
Though as challenging as it is being a mother from a different shore, I also love how living in the Netherlands has opened up my world to wonderful people all around the world – Singapore, South Africa, Italy, Australia, India, Indonesia, the Philippines, Pakistan, Portugal, Turkey, Morocco, Greece, Poland, England, Belgium, Germany, Austria, Russia, Latvia, Sweden, Nigeria, and Switzerland. Let’s also not forget about the amazing Dutch who get me and those that don’t really but still open their heart to my foreign ways.
We are still on the fence of truly embracing the quintessential Dutch tradition of Sinterklaas. We rarely ever eat potatoes, a typical component of a Dutch dinner. There is no Apple stroop and Dutch hagelslag (chocolate sprinkles) in our cabinets. Forget about Fristi and Chocomel ever finding its way into our fridge. And my blossoming foodie toddler refuses to eat bread, an essential staple of the standard Dutch breakfast and lunch.
I cannot wait to read “My Mom is a Foreigner, but Not to Me” to my son. And the longer we stay in the Netherlands, the higher the chances of me and him possibly facing cross-cultural battles. But that’s a long way away.
As far as my 17 month old toddler son is concerned, I’m his mommy. I sing to him all the songs I grew up with– namely, You Are My Sunshine, Baby Baluga, Head Shoulders Knees and Toes, The Wheels on the Bus, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and the Itsy Bitsy Spider. I speak to him exclusively in English, my native tongue. He’ll grow up knowing that I’m a proud daughter of California and will always bleed blue and gold. He has warm meals three times a day. I plan to teach him to be mindful of all his blessings, counting them like stars in the sky. At the right moments, I’ll tell him that “I love to watch you play“. And I pray that he will always know and feel that he is loved.
I hope to teach him mindfulness of others. I want to teach him to really listen to other people’s stories. I want to relish in the wonder that’s reflected in my son’s eyes as he discovers the world around him. I’m looking forward to re-discovering the Netherlands, one seen from the eyes of a more patient, forgiving and understanding mother.
Thus begins a new chapter in my life – Finding Dutchland.
