Youth : OPINION : ‘We Are Not Colors; We Are People’ : ‘We don’t resemble white walls, or brown trees or yellow suns. We’re human beings--we’re beyond color.’

He wasn’t Filipino--he was white. Oh, God, he was so perfect--he was rich, smart, funny . . . white--he was perfect. But I was stupid. What had I done to myself? Lied. I lied to myself. You see, for a moment, I felt equal--I felt white. I was glorious! No one could take me off my pedestal--I was white--I had a white boyfriend. Didn’t that make me perfect, too?

He was a first--the one guy that proved them wrong. They don’t have one-track minds--white guys fall in love with all nationalities, even mine. I see all these interracial couples. He was in love with me. And I with him. We were a cheap version of “Jungle Fever.” We were a joke.

I used him. And he used me. We used each other. I wanted a white boyfriend--it comes with the territory of being a banana, an Oreo, a coconut, a-shamed. Yeah, that’s right, I’m embarrassed. I’m ashamed of all those Filipino gangsters . . . of all those FOBs (fresh off the boat) . . . of Tagalog . . . of the country I was born in . . . of my culture . . . of myself. I’m ashamed of my blood--of the ethnicity that burns through my veins, stains my skin, and molds my face! I denied myself and rejected every other Filipino in America! I was stupid.

Why didn’t I defend myself when he belittled me? When he made fun of my mother--”Ching chong chang,” he said. “Why are you so possessive? Filipino women are known to be so possessive. But I don’t blame them, because those Filipino guys are a bunch of players anyway,” he said. Why didn’t I defend myself?

Why? Because I agreed with him. Filipino guys are players, and I’m a possessive bitch. But I was also stupid. Who was he to say all that to me? He was American--full pledged red, blue and WHITE. And I was a foreigner in his God-gracious, perfect land.

Do you know why I’m like this? No, how can you, when I don’t even know myself? How can anyone know what it feels like to live somewhere that you don’t belong? Only those who have experienced what I have can relate. I don’t belong anywhere--I don’t feel comfortable with white people, with brown people, with yellow people, with black people. I’m sorry, but I don’t fit in with any color.

Why? Because I am not a color. And Martin Luther King Jr. is not a color. And Connie Chung is not a color. And George Bush is not a color. We are not colors. We are people. We don’t resemble white walls, or brown trees or yellow suns. We’re human beings--we’re beyond color.

But why am I overlooked in department stores? Isn’t my money as good as yours? Why do I get such cold looks from people in their cars? Isn’t my car as fast as yours? Why do you get service with a smile, and me, none? Are my eyes so small that I can’t see racism?

I’m not stupid. I used to be . . . I lacked knowledge. I lacked the knowledge of my culture . . . I lacked the respect of myself. But I taught myself to love myself--my true, Filipina self. But for what? Did I teach myself in vain, only to live with your ignorance? I broke through my ignorance because I couldn’t live a lie. Are you going to break through yours, or are we both going to live lies?