It was a Sunday in the 90s. I was a primary school kid in suburban Sydney. Church was held in a small, yellow brick hall on Blaxland Road. I came here with my family to meet other evangelical Filipinos. We shared hours together; interminable sermons, karaoke and barbecue foil trays of ensaymada and pancit.
The program followed the predictable formula of praise and worship, some greetings, the tithe and preaching. Near the middle, though, there would be the ‘Special Number Performance by Robert and Elizabeth Kennard’.
My sister and I were singled-out to do this, placed on stage by the pastors, because we were half-White. By having an Anglo-Australian father, we were given the limelight.
Between the tithe and worship, we performed. Some Sundays were a capella versions of our school anthem, ‘Growing up in Christ’. Others were skits based on parables like the Prodigal Son and the Mustard Seed. Sometimes we even rendered Hillsong hits like ‘Jesus What a Beautiful Name’ into sign language.
I was terrified of performing. The adulation of white-haired lolas wasn’t worth the teasing I’d get in Sunday school from the full-Filipino kids after I left the stage and returned to be a ‘normal’ kid.
Robert (right) and his sister (left) with family in the 90s. Source: Supplied
Although a proudly queer and biracial man now, I think back to these performances, and how my understanding of Whiteness developed from this sort of othering in my own community.
It still takes effort to debunk myths about Whiteness and see myself in relation to it.
Being mestiso – a term for mixed-race – has afforded me privilege; exoticising me in both my White and Brown communities.
Although a proudly queer and biracial man now, I think back to these performances, and how my understanding of Whiteness developed from this sort of othering in my own community.
The Philippines has survived four centuries of colonisation by two sets of White invaders – the Spaniards and Americans. We gloat we’ve spent 300 years in a Spanish convent and 50 years in Hollywood. Part of the culture’s survival has meant learning to adapt to the taste and whims of the coloniser. And enjoying it.
We eat spam and corned beef religiously, a hangover of World War 2 American soldiers. Spanish and English pepper our languages and dialects, and many Filipinos still claim Spanish blood like a badge of honour. Beauty queens are deified, and they usually have European-sounding surnames and European-looking faces.
Colonisation made us believe Western identity is power. Being half-White is twice as good.
‘You are blessed to have your father’s surname,’ my grandmother would say in Ilocano, my mother tongue. To have a thin nose, his height. To have dimples and lighter skin.
‘You are blessed to have your father’s surname,’ my grandmother would say in Ilocano, my mother tongue. To have a thin nose, his height. To have dimples and lighter skin.
Filipinos at church also believed this.
‘You could be a celebrity in Manila.’ Tita Shirley grabbed me before leaving once, pinching my cheeks so hard I saw stars. I can still smell her mouth full of pork and sugar and soy sauce as her eyes twinkled around my face.‘You wouldn’t even have to learn Tagalog, I promise!’
Later when she left, my grandma whispered into my ear as I stuffed myself with pandesal. ‘It’s true. You are gifted by the Lord.’
For her, being half-White was a gift, a free pass.
As first-wave migrants, my family tried to shield me from the Pauline Hanson era of White Australia Policy. As the vitriol against Asian-Australians grew, we behaved ‘Whiter’.
We tried to white-out our brownness by changing who we associated with. In the 2000s, we stopped attending Filipino church and opted for the local Pentecostal one, dominated by White families. We stopped weekend trips out West, to Blacktown and Rooty Hill, epicentres of the Filipino diaspora in Sydney.
Robert with his mother on his 21st birthday. Source: Supplied
‘Makapauma,’ my aunties would say when I asked why. ‘You get tired of it.’
We tried to white-out our speech too. We began talking to each other less and less in Ilocano and more and more in English. When I spoke with non-Filipino friends, I became conscious of every errant ‘p’, ‘f’ or ‘b’ I pronounced. I made sure not to sound like my mother, with her rusted-on provincial twang. I made sure to be as lazy with my ‘t’s and as non-rhotic with my ‘r’s as I could.
Eventually this effort to assimilate meant I almost lost my Ilocano completely. I felt a lifeline to culture dislodging in my throat.
Eventually this effort to assimilate meant I almost lost my Ilocano completely. I felt a lifeline to culture dislodging in my throat.
Well into my 20s I continued to reject my identity, avoiding trips back to the Philippines and bleaching my skin with whitening soaps and lotions my mum bought from Filipino tindahans. I wanted Whiteness so I ridiculed my Brownness – the food, the mannerisms, the accents. I did it all without ever acknowledging the self-loathing.
It left me feeling hollow – between two cultures while having none.
While I was glorified in Filipino communities for my Whiteness, as an adult I found the gay White male gaze homing in on my Brownness too.
On dating and hook-up apps my desirability was rooted in me looking ‘foreign, but familiar’. I’ve been told I have ‘something else in the mix’, ‘gorgeous ancestry’, ‘Latino blood’ and ‘exotic smooth skin’.
Until recently, my life has felt like a yoyoing search for approval, reeling in and rolling out how I look, speak and act, from one community to another.
In the last couple of years, I have tried to move beyond this.
I’ve been lucky to chance upon friendships with Filipinxs in the Sydney LGBTIQ community that see past my appearance.
I’ve been lucky to chance upon friendships with Filipinxs in the Sydney LGBTIQ community that see past my appearance. They’ve helped me rediscover the words and sarcasm in Ilocano I had lost, and to re-wear the abaniko of facial expressions I learned as a kid – have you seen a Filipina’s face when hungry or ecstatic?
They’ve also taught me about the rich, pre-Hispanic legacy of being queer and Filipino.
I’ve felt kinship and a coming together of two distinct parts of me, and there is so much joy to be had in allowing yourself to celebrate this in community.
Culture and belonging are not based on a body, or its proximity to Whiteness. These friendships have helped me reimagine what I told myself I wasn’t.
I am learning again to hold on to my other side. The forgotten half.
