No issue has so outraged Filipinos all over the world than the
treatment by Canadian school authorities of the 7-year old Filipino
boy, Luc Gallardo, who was reprimanded 10 times for what the school
principal said was his “disgusting” practice of using a spoon along
with his fork to eat in the traditional Filipino manner.
The uproar over the spoon incident derives perhaps from the fact that
eating with a spoon and fork is a practice common to all Filipinos,
regardless of wherever they may be. It was handed down from previous
generations and will be handed down to future generations of Filipinos,
wherever they may be.
Think about it. Filipinos are divided on GMA, charter change, Erap,
federalism, and virtually everything else but at the end of the day, as
well as at the beginning and in the middle, every Filipino (who has
food to eat) will eat with a spoon and fork.
The Canadian incident came to light when Luc’s mother, Maria Theresa
Gallardo, filed a complaint with the local school board in Quebec to
protest her son’s treatment by the school lunch monitor. The local
press covered the complaint and reported her comments. “I find it very
prejudiced and it’s racist,” she said. “He’s supposed to be acting like
a professional. This is supposed to be a free country with free
expressions of culture and religion.”
My column last week about this issue ((“Global Filipino Village”)
elicited an unusually high level of response about what one reader
called “the unfortunate Luc”.
That reader, an Englishman (PGH) who lives in the Philippines with his
Filipina wife, had the decidedly minority view on the issue.
“My private suspicion is Luc eats like a slob by anyone’s standards,
and is thus drawing unflattering attention to himself. If he were a
tidy eater, less fuss would have been made. He needs to learn the
ropes. That's what school's for, and his mother's doing him a
disservice by supporting him against the group he needs to join.
However, let's give the little lad the benefit of the doubt.”
“Does or doesn't culture matter? The argument that the reaction to
Luc's table manners is 'racist' says, in effect. "Your culture is
important to you - but my culture is important to me! Both are equally
important! It is racist to put your culture ahead of mine on the same
issue." By using the 'r' word, she is also surely implying that table
manners are like skin color -- unchangeable. Although this is an
untenable proposition, it puts Canada on the defensive.”
I responded to his email by sending him the comments of a Canadian
columnist who was "gobsmacked” when he read about Luc Gallardo’s
treatment.
“That Canadian is extremely stupid and a downright bully (I’m saying
this not because he berated a Filipino child). If he’s never seen
anybody eating with a spoon and fork at the same time, it’s probably
because he’s never traveled, never been outside of the four corners of
his town in Canada and therefore helplessly ignorant. Furthermore, the
principal proved that he was terribly parochial because I can assure
you that I know Canadian Indians (the true, genuine Canadians) who eat
with their hands too, and if ever they use cutlery, they like to use
spoons and forks. What’s wrong with that?”
"This principal must be told that in Thailand, one of the more
civilized countries in the world, people eat with spoon and fork
introduced no less by the British East India Company some 150 years
ago. And if we are to believe that it was nanny Anna (Anna and the
King), an Englishwoman of prim and proper Victorian era, who taught
the princes and princesses of Thailand to eat properly with a spoon and
a fork, who is he to say that a child eats like a pig just because he
eats with a spoon and fork?"
With regards to the issue of “this 'racist' epithet”, the Englishman in the Philippines wrote:
“The charge of 'racism' is being used way too much; to the point that
one suspects it's become a way of winning a cross-cultural argument
without having to argue. It blindsides people. They seem not to have
any adequate defence against it.”
”My distinct recollection is that 'racism' is shorthand for 'racial
discrimination' which means treating someone differently on account of
their skin color (or other physical characteristic associated with
race). The prime example -- which ignited the whole issue in the US in
the '60s -- was seating Blacks in the backs of buses.”
“Now here comes this Filipina lady in Canada complaining that -- what?
-- her son is being required to be the same as everyone else? Will
someone please explain to me how this got to be 'racism'?”
I agreed with the reader. It isn’t racism, it’s cultural chauvinism, a
belief that one’s culture is superior and should be the dominant norm.
Stand-up comedian Rex Navarette has a routine where he talks about his
childhood friend, Brian, who, when he ate at their home, was surprised
to see Rex’s mother eating her food with her fingers. He told Rex that
his mother was “Third World”. Rex’s mother overheard the comment and
asked Brian how he eats his French fries. With his fingers, he replied.
“Then you’re Third World too”, she said.
Anyway, if you’re keeping a list, put this down as Difference # 79.
Americans (and Canadians) are forked-up while Filipinos are spoon-fed.
Tuesday, May 9, 2006
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
The Quiet Force in Autumn
BOSTON - The autumn leaves of varying hues of gold, brown and yellow are glorious even as they cling to the trees before falling to the ground with the coming onset of winter.
I stare at the leaves on the trees outside my mother’s hospital window as I anxiously wait for my mother to break out of the coma that she has been in since she suffered an aneurysm in her brain two weeks ago.
I have known my mom all of my life. I cannot recall a time when she wasn’t around for me or for my seven other brothers and sisters.
I remember her as the quiet force in my life. Even when she was disappointed in my choices, she never scolded me or lectured me for them. She just helped see me through them.
My mother was quite unhappy when I became an activist against Marcos just as I was graduating from high school. She had such great hopes that I would someday be a senator and perhaps even president of the country. But then what mother doesn’t harbor such lofty ambitions for their children?
I remember her patiently waiting for me late into the night when I would come home after attending rallies and demonstrations in the First Quarter Storm events of 1970. She would just pray that I would eventually come to my senses.
I never did.
But it was my quiet patient mom who figured in the event that totally changed my life.
It was January of 1971. My father’s close friend, then Congressman Francisco Reyes, phoned my mom because he couldn’t reach my dad who was in London on a business trip.
He told my mom that he was with President Marcos in Malacanang the night before when they were watching a TV round table discussion where I fiercely criticized Marcos for his corruption and venality. The congressman told my mom that Marcos said that he would get me for what I said about him.
My mother was beside herself with shock, fear and trepidation. How could she prevent this? She knew that just telling me to stop what I was doing just wasn’t going to work. She had to find another way.
What my mom did was to obtain a passport and plane tickets for me and to then inform me that my father had suffered a stroke in London and that we had to go there right away to be with him. As the eldest son, it was my obligation to accompany her, she said. So before I knew it, we were off to London to be with
my dad.
When I arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport, my dad - all hale and healthy - was there waiting for us. It was a clever ruse and it worked. At first I was quite upset at their deception but I understood their reasons.
My mother told me about what Congressman Reyes had said and of their fears that I would be “salvaged” (kidnapped and killed) like so many other activists I knew.
We talked about my taking some time away from the Philippines.
“Wait until the situation cools off”, they said. They suggested that I go to San Francisco and continue my studies there. When it was safe for me to return - when Marcos’ term ends in 1972 - I could return, they assured me.
I eventually came around and accepted their suggestion. I went to San Francisco and continued my studies at USF. Our deal was that I would return to the Philippines when I completed my studies.
But I couldn’t return because Marcos’ term of office didn’t end in 1972. He declared martial law and continued on in power until he was overthrown in 1986.
During the dreaded years of the Marcos Dictatorship, so many of my activist friends were killed or imprisoned and I would likely have joined them too if I had remained in the Philippines.
When I decided to go to law school in 1976, my mom was ecstatic. She said she always knew I would be a lawyer someday. She was there at my graduation in 1980 and she was there when I opened my law office in 1981.
She was there when I ran for public office in 1990, campaigning for me and handing out flyers in the streets and taking to her mahjong mates to support me and contribute part of their “tong” to my campaign. She was there when I became president of the San Francisco Community College Board in 1998.
When I went to Manila last January and appeared in a TV confrontation with Senator Panfilo Lacson, my mom’s old fears came back. She had heard that Lacson was an officer of the notorious MISG (Metrocom Internal Security Group) of Col. Rolando Abadilla and that he was a torturer and killer under Marcos.
“Be careful of Lacson, anak” she would warn me just as she did 33 years before and I would just smile as I did then. Perhaps I’ll listen to her and come to my senses one day.
But my mom won’t be around to see that day. She never broke out of her coma.
On November 23, my mother, Teofila “Pel” Elepano Rodis, passed away.
(My mother will be buried on Monday, December 1, at the Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma after a mass at St. Stephen’s Church in San Francisco following a viewing at Duggan’s in Daly City on Sunday, November 30).
HAPPY THANKSGIVING !
I stare at the leaves on the trees outside my mother’s hospital window as I anxiously wait for my mother to break out of the coma that she has been in since she suffered an aneurysm in her brain two weeks ago.
I have known my mom all of my life. I cannot recall a time when she wasn’t around for me or for my seven other brothers and sisters.
I remember her as the quiet force in my life. Even when she was disappointed in my choices, she never scolded me or lectured me for them. She just helped see me through them.
My mother was quite unhappy when I became an activist against Marcos just as I was graduating from high school. She had such great hopes that I would someday be a senator and perhaps even president of the country. But then what mother doesn’t harbor such lofty ambitions for their children?
I remember her patiently waiting for me late into the night when I would come home after attending rallies and demonstrations in the First Quarter Storm events of 1970. She would just pray that I would eventually come to my senses.
I never did.
But it was my quiet patient mom who figured in the event that totally changed my life.
It was January of 1971. My father’s close friend, then Congressman Francisco Reyes, phoned my mom because he couldn’t reach my dad who was in London on a business trip.
He told my mom that he was with President Marcos in Malacanang the night before when they were watching a TV round table discussion where I fiercely criticized Marcos for his corruption and venality. The congressman told my mom that Marcos said that he would get me for what I said about him.
My mother was beside herself with shock, fear and trepidation. How could she prevent this? She knew that just telling me to stop what I was doing just wasn’t going to work. She had to find another way.
What my mom did was to obtain a passport and plane tickets for me and to then inform me that my father had suffered a stroke in London and that we had to go there right away to be with him. As the eldest son, it was my obligation to accompany her, she said. So before I knew it, we were off to London to be with
my dad.
When I arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport, my dad - all hale and healthy - was there waiting for us. It was a clever ruse and it worked. At first I was quite upset at their deception but I understood their reasons.
My mother told me about what Congressman Reyes had said and of their fears that I would be “salvaged” (kidnapped and killed) like so many other activists I knew.
We talked about my taking some time away from the Philippines.
“Wait until the situation cools off”, they said. They suggested that I go to San Francisco and continue my studies there. When it was safe for me to return - when Marcos’ term ends in 1972 - I could return, they assured me.
I eventually came around and accepted their suggestion. I went to San Francisco and continued my studies at USF. Our deal was that I would return to the Philippines when I completed my studies.
But I couldn’t return because Marcos’ term of office didn’t end in 1972. He declared martial law and continued on in power until he was overthrown in 1986.
During the dreaded years of the Marcos Dictatorship, so many of my activist friends were killed or imprisoned and I would likely have joined them too if I had remained in the Philippines.
When I decided to go to law school in 1976, my mom was ecstatic. She said she always knew I would be a lawyer someday. She was there at my graduation in 1980 and she was there when I opened my law office in 1981.
She was there when I ran for public office in 1990, campaigning for me and handing out flyers in the streets and taking to her mahjong mates to support me and contribute part of their “tong” to my campaign. She was there when I became president of the San Francisco Community College Board in 1998.
When I went to Manila last January and appeared in a TV confrontation with Senator Panfilo Lacson, my mom’s old fears came back. She had heard that Lacson was an officer of the notorious MISG (Metrocom Internal Security Group) of Col. Rolando Abadilla and that he was a torturer and killer under Marcos.
“Be careful of Lacson, anak” she would warn me just as she did 33 years before and I would just smile as I did then. Perhaps I’ll listen to her and come to my senses one day.
But my mom won’t be around to see that day. She never broke out of her coma.
On November 23, my mother, Teofila “Pel” Elepano Rodis, passed away.
(My mother will be buried on Monday, December 1, at the Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma after a mass at St. Stephen’s Church in San Francisco following a viewing at Duggan’s in Daly City on Sunday, November 30).
HAPPY THANKSGIVING !
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
