Advertisements in a language I could barely understand, accompanied by the smell of fried fish meant I could only be in one place: the Philippines.

Except I wasn’t. This was Seafood City, the Filipino grocery store just five minutes away from my childhood home.

In Carson, being Filipino wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. In fact, almost a quarter of the city’s population is Filipino, according to a press release from the city of Carson. I spent weekdays with my Filipino classmates and reserved weekends for loud Filipino family parties.

But when I was 7 years old, my mom’s job relocated my family to Humble, Texas.

My first Texan school consisted of mostly minorities, namely, Black students. Still, I couldn’t find any other Asian kids, no matter how hard I tried.

According to the U.S Census Bureau, only 0.9% of Humble’s population is Asian, while 56% of the population is either Black or white.

Being Filipino wasn’t something I shared anymore.

All I had left of my Filipino community was the family I moved with. My aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents were still waiting for me back home in Carson.

But my parents had no problem adjusting to Texan culture. If anything, my dad loved it. He gave his heart to Texan barbecue ribs and even started collecting guns. I never knew my dad liked guns until we moved to Texas.

Meanwhile, my older sister was entering seventh grade and was too focused on her own social life to help me navigate mine.

Suddenly, being Filipino was something that belonged only to me.

I went from having a huge circle of friends who understood me to teachers calling me “exotic” and kids calling me names. I was 7 years old when I was first called a racial slur against East Asians. The Philippines is in Southeast Asia. But in Texas, Asian is Asian and being Asian wasn’t the norm like it was in Carson.

I no longer fit the fabric of what it meant to be normal and with every passing day, I tried harder and harder to get that back.

I changed the way I spoke.

This meant learning to adopt Texan lingo, even if it was a little strange. Who would’ve thought putting crayons “up” didn’t mean literally holding the box in the air?

I changed the snacks I liked. Ube Pillows and Pancit Canton weren’t options anymore. Instead, I timidly followed my mom around Walmart to throw Goldfish and Lunchables into our shopping cart.

Just as I began adjusting to the culture of my new school, my parents told my sister and I to pack our rooms into boxes once again. This time, I would be attending a predominantly white school in Atascocita, Texas.

Atascosita’s population is 94.1% white, while Asians only account for 0.8% of the population, according to the U.S Census Bureau.

I knew no other Asian kids at this school. It was clear that I needed to become white.

I hated being Filipino. I never brought it up at school unless someone decided to squint their eyes at me and call me “Chinese.” It seemed that being Filipino was the source of my social hardships.

I was at the top of my class academically. I was getting invited to events and contests and I was put in an accelerated reading class. My teachers loved me. Still, I could never earn the same appreciation from my peers. I lost my fourth-grade student council election to my white classmate.

No big deal. What I did win that year was an invitation to my friend’s sleepover.

I had one single friend: a white girl whose friends didn’t go to our school. She told me all about her big friend group from her soccer club and I told her all about my friends from track.

I never did track. That was a lie and so were the friends I told her I had.

Getting invited to my friend’s sleepover meant meeting her friends and maybe even becoming a part of a real-life friend group.

My excitement blinded me from the isolating feeling of watchful eyes as I took my shoes off when I entered the house.

One girl told me I resembled a monkey, another snickering as she told me to keep my shoes off and climb the tree outside.

I was just happy that these girls wanted to laugh with me.

But of course, they weren’t laughing with me; they were laughing at me. They never asked to stay in touch and I never saw them again.

A year later, when I was 10 years old, my parents told us we were moving back to California. I felt as if I had let go of a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

Just like that, my family moved to Torrance. I thought the war was over: I was finally going to be surrounded by people who understood me again.

However, being the token Filipino in an exclusively East Asian friend group was a new battle entirely. In Texas, I was too Asian. Now, I wasn’t Asian enough.

It was no longer a matter of fitting in; it was a matter of feeling beautiful.

I sat out as my friends shared makeup because the shades “didn’t complement my skin color.”

I listened as they complained about “being too tan” when I was noticeably several shades tanner than them.

I spent my high school years at West High School in Torrance, giving my all to looking East Asian. It didn’t work. The makeup was made for fair skin and my stubborn Filipino tan was unwilling to cooperate.

The battle against the East Asian beauty standard followed me until I entered college, where I was freed of the high school cliques and social warfare.

By my second semester at El Camino College, I got my first part-time job at Preso Tea — a boba shop about 15 minutes from my house.

To my surprise, several of my coworkers were Filipino.

Not only that, but they were cool. Cool Filipino girls with cool clothes and cool cars. I almost felt starstruck.

My eyes lit up when they asked about my ethnicity.

“I’m Filipino!” I said, eagerly awaiting their reciprocated excitement.

For the first time, I was expressing this fact wholeheartedly. Never have I ever said those words that loud, that fast.

Seeing these girls made me realize that being Filipino wasn’t something I needed to hide. They certainly didn’t. They wore their culture loud and proud on their sleeves. I wanted to be just like them.

“I couldn’t tell you were Filipino,” my coworker said casually.

Oh.

It’s funny. This was my goal my entire life. But at that moment, the comment made my stomach turn.

Her words followed me home that day. It was as if the ghost of my suppressed identity was coming back to haunt me.

I didn’t want to be someone else anymore. I wanted to be Filipino. I wanted people to know I was Filipino.

“Pinoy pride” is a universal expression of Filipino nationalism. It encapsulates the feeling of belonging among Filipino people. It makes strangers feel like family. It’s the foundation of our community. To be Filipino is to be loved and that includes loving yourself.

Growing up, I didn’t even want to be Filipino. Instead of showing off my heritage, I was embarrassed by it. I buried it deep underneath the Lunchables and the Korean makeup.

This year, I put the Filipino flag in my Instagram bio.

To everyone else, it’s just that – a flag. To me, it signified that I had finally laid my worst years to rest. I was no longer hiding being Filipino, nor was I merely accepting the fact – I was embracing it. This was my way of expressing Pinoy pride.

Sometimes, I still feel like I’m chasing something I’m not. There are parts of the Filipino-American identity that I can’t attach myself to: I can’t speak Tagalog, I’m not good at singing and I’m not becoming a nurse. Still, I’m filled with the endless unconditional love of others and myself.

And that is undeniably Filipino.