“My parents were tasked with the job of survival
and I with self-actualization.
The immigrant generational gap is real.
What a luxury it is to search for purpose, meaning, and fulfillment.” -Bo Ren
Have you ever felt, in all senses of your identity, not enough? Not Filipino enough. Not American enough. Not white enough. Not brown enough. Not Asian enough. But also not quite Pacific Islander. Too dark. Too fat. Too skinny. “I don’t speak Tagalog, but I understand.” Spoiled American. Too ungrateful. Basstos (indecent). Walang hiya (shameless). “Are you a nurse? No?” Oh, definitely not Filipino enough. It is an unsettling feeling that may be familiar to many second generation Filipino Americans — a feeling only exacerbated by our individual and familial circumstances.
Pregnant and alone, my mother came to the United States in 1987. She gave birth to my kuya (older brother) and, shortly after, met my father. They married in 1991 and had me the following summer. My mom being a realtor, we moved frequently. For me, this meant a new school every few years, and being teased by a new group of mean kids. My parents divorced when I was 7 years old and if I didn’t already feel lost and removed from most of my family, I definitely did then. When my mom needed her family the most, the only ones around were my kuya and I — spoiled American kids that didn’t understand hardship. We definitely were not enough for her at that time.
My mother filled that void of loss and loneliness with countless stories of my tatang’s (grandfather’s) selflessness. Probably the most memorable being that he not only raised his own 8 children, but also made space in his heart and home to adopt 10 more. Throughout my life I had been inspired by my tatang to be generous and compassionate. This led me to find a career in healthcare. But that road was filled with higher education classes surrounded by white peers and professors, and an overwhelming feeling of imposter syndrome. “No one looks like me. Should I be here? Am I enough for this profession? For these patients?”
I could go on and on about this feeling that has reared its ugly head in almost every aspect of my life. Where I am getting at is that nothing has ever fully resonated with me enough to break me out of this cycle of insecurity until I found climbing. Climbing brought me to a place where I could fall in love with myself — my body, and my disjointed sense of self. My struggles and self-perceived weaknesses somehow became strengths in my climbing.
No longer am I navigating complicated family situations, but rather a boulder problem or lead route. I am able to figure out my own beta, my own way regardless of expectations. My short stature forces me to be flexible, creative, face my fears, and make the leap (or dyno). My thick skin from facing bullies in grade school helps me pull on those sharp crimps, as well as confront other climbers (mostly white men) for their beta spraying and unnecessary remarks. The melanin in my brown skin protects me from the sun on those outdoor climbs. It is my armor that I wear proudly.
In November 2018, I traveled to the Philippines with my partner to celebrate my tatang’s 100th birthday. We, of course, planned a climbing trip and decided on Cebu. In the weeks approaching, we connected with local climbers and I was excited to learn that our trip coincided with the first few days of a week-long climbing festival, Lust for Lime XIV.
I had my sights set on Vina Kulafu, a 100ft 5.11a /6b+ located on this gorgeous vertical strip of white and orange limestone in the middle of the jungle. After working through a boulder start up to the first clip, I started to feel the fear and hear the doubts resounding in my head. A fall before the second clip could mean a ground fall. I still had 90ft+ of climbing to do and I had no idea what the moves were. The pump from climbing all day was quickly creeping in. OKAY CHRISTINE. Tama na (enough). Breathe. Focus. Fight through the pain. Block out the noise (screaming chickens). Ignore the fact that this rope smells like feet. And MOVE.
If I’m being honest, I don’t remember most of this climb. I can visualize a few things — tiny pockets, holds that looked like shark teeth, glossy footholds — that’s about it. I realized this was the first time I truly experienced flow when climbing — “a cognitive state where one is completely immersed in an activity [that] involves intense focus, creative engagement, and the loss of awareness of the self.” It was almost spiritual, and sometimes I could swear that my ancestors carried me up there. (I’ve been watching too much Avatar). In those moments spent on that route, I, in all that I am, was enough.
For some, climbing may be “just climbing.” But for others, such as myself, it is much more than that. We carry a lot of baggage up with us. Our ascent is filled with enduring centuries of intergenerational trauma, unlearning internalized oppression, fighting unrealistic familial and societal ideals, and decolonizing our bodies and minds. We carry all of this and try to clear our minds just enough to be able to find that glorious micro chip to carefully place our toe on, step up, and reach the next hold. We continue moving up, despite all of these forces and systems trying to pull us down.
To my fellow second generation Filipino/Asian Americans or those with immigrant parents… We may feel that we will never be able to give back to our parents what they provided us.. That we may never be able to fulfill their far-fetched expectations as we face new types of obstacles today in this country.
But we don’t need to do everything and be everything. We are all doing our best. We are enough.
-Christine Antonio
