Pinoyphilia

Valentine’s Day stirs up a lot of emotions in everyone. Some people are swept away in a rapture of love, blind to the fact that they have been conditioned to act that way by greedy candy companies. On the opposite end of the spectrum are the militant, anti-Valentine’s Day people who stand outside of fancy restaurants and hiss at couples who walk in. But somewhere in the middle are people who can’t help but think of Valentine’s Day as a day or reflection. “Jerry,” one of my single Filipino friends who lives here in Chicago, is one such person. He called me yesterday and posed the question, “Why aren’t people into Filipinos?”

Knowing that “Jerry” wouldn’t be receptive to the usual bits of sage advice that people offer against questions like that (and because I like to hear the sound of my own voice), I decided to tell him a delightfully creepy story about non-Filipinos who love Filipinos…

A long time ago, when I was a young and naïve lad with supple skin and a 29 inch waist, I marched in an independent winterguard. For those of you who don’t know, winterguard is that thing where girls, gay boys, and gay boys who swear that they’re straight but end up getting caught having sex with other boys in utility closets at the University of Dayton Arena, spin flags in routines set to music.

To defray the costly expense of lodging during away trips, most out-of-town guard members stayed with in-town guard members and their families. It was a great way to meet new people, save money, and in my case… become slightly traumatized.

I stayed with a seemingly nice Christian family of white folks one year. “The Johnsons” were particularly interested in just about everything I had to say, which sat very nicely with me for obvious reasons. During the car ride, they asked me where I was from, what I did, how long I’d been marching in winterguard, if I was Filipino, if I speak Filipino, if I’d ever been to the Philippines, and if I like Filipino food. I wondered what the deal was with all the Pinoy-related questions until I set foot in their home.

The place was more ethnic than the whole of Iloilo. No matter where I turned, I saw something Filipino. There was a Weapons of Moroland plaque on the wall, a capiz shell lamp in the corner, a statue of the infant of Prague (Santo Niño) on an altar, a Last Supper tapestry beside the dinner table, and even a vinyl carpet runner beneath my feet. The family had collected these items during the many years of missionary work they did in the Philippines.

Dinner was especially uncomfortable due to the fact that not only was Mrs. Johnson’s chicken adobo better-tasting than my mother’s, but they all stared at me and waited for me to speak. When I did say something, they acted as if I’d told the greatest story ever. It was a little unsettling. I seriously thought that they were going to ask me to put the lotion on the skin so they could make a Filipino skin suit. The high point of the evening was when the oldest Johnson child turned to me and remarked that Caucasian/Filipino children are especially beautiful, then did the creepy repetitive double eyebrow raise.

I survived the weekend without being robbed of my skin or contributing to the impregnation of the oldest Johnson child to fulfill their dreams of cross-cultural hybridization. I hoped that Jerry would understand that sometimes it's not always a good thing when people are into Filipinos, but he really didn't see any value in my story. He just wondered out loud whether or not he should go to Sidetrack. Now I secretly wish that the next white man he dates corrects his Tagolog.