I was raised in the Philippines yet couldn’t speak my own language. My parents decided I was only to learn English since they could afford the education. This was my prologue to language learning problems, and eventually, cultural separation. Manila’s streets echoed with sounds foreign to my ears, a symphony of languages and cultures converging in whirlwinds of confusion. I struggled to juggle another language vastly disparate from English; the sounds and grammar akin to two roaring oceans with clashing tides, my ship helplessly jostled in between. Thus, I grew up unable to speak to my neighbors, my family, a language barrier isolating me from them.
Upon moving to the US, English dominated my household, for other languages would impede my ability to assimilate. Summers smothered by American history books and preparatory English Kumon classes, I reminded myself “I fell behind in a previous country, I couldn’t fall behind now.” However, studying English vocabulary wasn’t a guaranteed gateway to fostering friendships. Moreover, I was only familiar with Filipino culture; if I struggled to connect at home, how could I befriend others? In fourth grade, I grew anxious about speaking–every time I opened my mouth I was paralyzed, suffocating from my own words. I denied every invitation to play tag or swing on the playground, afraid that every friendship attempt would end up fruitless.
Moving as often as we did combined with this language barrier caused extreme social anxiety. Early goodbyes were a pattern in my life, and I felt betrayed every time I was the new kid at a new school, just having adapted to the previous one. I was looking through a keyhole, peering with jealousy at all the things I didn’t have: permanence, stability, friendships. It tasted bitter; I never had enough time to call someplace home, somewhere to encapsulate memory lane. I longed for the culture I lost and the friendships I could never keep.
An essential pivot to the language issue came through the advice of my Filipino neighbor. With Filipino parents sending their kids to Filipino classes to learn traditional food recipes, he emphasized “Ally, you can cook all you want, but the true connection is through language.” Cooking fills the stomach; culture fills the heart.
A spark of yearning lit up inside of me, and I begged my parents to talk to me in Tagalog nonstop, sharing culture and childhood memories. They wholeheartedly indulged my incomplete sentences and heavy American accent. Every day was a chance to incorporate sprinkles of Filipino culture. On dry days with the sun’s heat beating down on us, my dad taught me to whistle to summon a cool breeze. I named my dogs after Filipino foods and held them as I danced like performers in Sinulog street festivals–just like my mom.
Ironically, my deepest connection wasn’t through language, but through food. I cherish the moments my family spent in the kitchen cooking pancit–which I later learned symbolized long life–without a recipe. With every batch of noodles, my mom wove her own flavorful universe with miscellaneous vegetables and spices. It was through homeschool Filipino classes, that I not only learned how to cook but realized the value of change. Each neighborhood I moved to was an unpredictable batch of pancit, every person a unique seasoning or ingredient I needed to learn how to savor. Between me and everyone else was a noodle to weave in order to connect and form friendships.
Reigniting my connection to others, I broadened my horizons and learned Spanish as a third language. I took AP Spanish in my junior year as the only non-Hispanic student in the class, eager to learn the diverse cultures of Spanish-speaking countries, my heart smitten by the mirroring resemblance between Filipino and Hispanic cultures. As I am approaching graduation, I will walk the stage with a Seal of Biliteracy in Spanish.
Upon reflection, I realize that language isn’t merely a communication tool; it's a bridge connecting us to our roots, to others, and to the vast tapestry of human experience. The struggles I faced weren’t roadblocks but stepping stones, unveiling the unique cultural charms that encompassed identity and the power of language. Committed to ensuring nobody feels unheard and supporting every individual's journey towards holistic well-being, I eagerly await studying pre-med in college. Furthermore, motivated by the struggles I have overcome as a Filipino immigrant–from the social anxiety that emerged due to juggling cultural disparities to becoming a multilingual passionate about learning cultures–I plan on minoring in either anthropology or Spanish.
In conquering the roaring oceans and clashing tides of the social customs of two distinct countries, I aspire to utilize my expansive cultural and linguistic knowledge to provide care for LEP patients (patients with limited English proficiency). As a future gastroenterologist, I want to remove cultural and linguistic barriers and provide gastrointestinal care to patients of many backgrounds. I strive to foster a personal connection with my patients, making them feel comfortable talking about their health and creating a safe environment for self-expression regardless of our cultural differences.
Delving into the world of nutrition and culture is crucial to achieving my mission of advocating for others through facilitating their path to physical, mental, and social wellness. Moving forward, I envision myself using my mastery of languages–Tagalog, Spanish, and soon Bisaya–to build bridges between communities and advocate for the well-being of others, fostering connections transcending linguistic boundaries.