Yaya and her alaga: A Filipino American Story
The question: “Where are you from?” is arguably the hardest question to answer for minorities in the United States. I get this question quite often, and I generally quip back with, “San Francisco.” Usually, the white guy quips back with, “No, where are you really from?”
Another question I get asked is, “What are you? What do you identify as?” Growing up, I would instantly say, “Filipino.” I am proud of the stories that led me to say this; however, over time, the evolving notion of identity further complicated my understanding. My passport is blue. But why was I raised telling myself I am Filipino?
Growing up in a predominantly white community and attending a grammar school with mostly Irish and Italian families deemed me “whitewashed” by many Filipino Americans in high school. Internally, I felt more in tune with my roots than my peers. This notion of “more” stems from the probing of me being “whitewashed.” What the hell did that even mean? In reality, I accompanied my mother to weekend prayer gatherings to Santo Niño, I learned traditional folk dances, regularly visited the Philippines, and I had a Yaya. And I guess that makes me “Hella Pinoy” — a term coined by Filipino American comedian Rex Navarette. For the most part, this notion is only relevant to Filipino Americans who understand his or her culture through the mechanisms of their elders. Some things Navarette describes as “Hella Pinoy” are putting plastic covers over rugs, pointing with lips, the “Filipino head nod” with the accompanying “Oo,” having a full plate of food before saying grace, and keeping stickers on televisions.
Though I was raised in America and undoubtedly have American values ingrained in my mind, there’s a part of me that feels deeply Filipino. I still duck in front of televisions saying, “Excuse, excuse” and look forward to the latter parts of family gatherings to rummage for leftover food. Additionally, I’ll always remember the Tagalog “Our Father,” I’ll always turn my head when Filipinos say “Hoy!” or “Shhht,” and I’ll refer to the air-conditioning as “air-con.” This conundrum over identity came about during a conversation with my girlfriend’s ate, or big sister in Tagalog. This feeling of non-identification comes from the greyness in upbringing. For every aspect of my life that is profoundly American, there are parts that are undoubtedly and solely Filipino. I had an epiphany. I can’t bring myself to say “I am Filipino” or “I am Filipino-American” due to my relationship with my Yaya.
In 2017, the late Filipino-American writer Alex Tizon shared the story of his family’s yaya. The piece entitled, “My Family’s Slave” was a hotly topic on social media, group chats, and online publications amongst Filipino and Filipino American communities. I was bombarded with different points of view on the article. Some just shared the article, others added some commentary, many plugged their opinions on oppression in the Philippines, and a good amount critiqued before fully understanding Filipino culture in the Philippines and the United States. Being unsure of where or what to comment on, made me question: “What do you identify as CJ?” and “What’s your take on this story?”
I identified with the article the most when it was deeply Filipino. I felt transported to the moments when Lola built personal relationships with Tizon’s friends and when non-Filipinos would ask for Lola’s relation to the family.
My family has a best friend, second mother, a phenomenal chef, a massive hoarder, a devout Catholic, a sintunado — Tagalog for out of tune — singer, a generous soul, and an honorary family member. Her name is Yaya. The word yaya is directly translated to governess. Unlike Lola’s story, Yaya’s is filled with endless laughs, minor struggles, and a handful of heartfelt moments. I am Yaya’s one and only alaga, the direct translation to English means “care.”
To give you a picture of Yaya’s undying love for my brother and I, she wiped my brother’s butt mid-baseball game because he had to poop, she played baseball with my cousin Zio and I (even though we found pleasure in testing Yaya’s short temper), she prepared breakfast every morning from the first day of preschool to my last day of high school, and (be prepared to give this lady a standing O and give her a hug the next time you see her) physically extracted shit from my bum because Baby CJ couldn’t flex his bowels hard enough.
Yaya, originally from Ilo Ilo, a city on southeastern tip of Panay island in the Philippines, came to the United States on the same hope of a better life. She migrated to Los Angeles and now calls San Francisco her home. Yaya fully embraces the freedom in America. She has hundreds of shoes, closets of colorful blouses, and (her favorite) a shit ton of swagged out leggings. She has more leggings than Imelda Marcos has shoes. She absorbs aspects of American culture like couponing, joining a church choir, saving popcorn containers for future refills, bulk buying at Costco, enjoying eating out, jogging for fun, watching daytime soap operas, and filling her iPod with thousands of tunes. She couples these aspects of assimilations with things Navarette would deem as “Hella Pinoy.” Yaya practices unorthodox remedies like rubbing Sprite on her scalp to cure a headache, downing beers during menstruation(she openly tells this story to my family and closest friends) and putting burnt matches on singaws, or cold sores. Additionally, she prays during her daily commutes, says “Sayang” if food may be wasted, she reuses plastic containers to hold cooking ingredients, and prays to St. Anthony when she loses things.
Though Yaya may be “Hella Pinoy,” she resides in a country where she could be this person.
Whenever family and friends from the Philippines would visit, they’d ask my parents, “Why doesn’t she wear a uniform?” A uniform is customary for most yayas in the Philippines. However, Yaya resided in San Francisco where class, social structure, and the practice of erasing a yaya’s identity doesn’t exist. As an outsider looking into the “yaya culture” of the Philippines I know, families that can afford to have one or in some cases multiple, treat these women as subordinate human beings. Tizon description of the belittling and mistreatment of Lola is accurate in many cases. And though yayas may be treated nicely and compensated accordingly, there is an underlying feeling of superiority “the rich” have over their workers. The have and have nots rarely break bread together in the Philippines.
I acknowledge that there’s a dichotomy between Filipino and American culture regarding this matter. But higher-middle class Filipinos from the Philippines cannot expect Yaya to be a yaya in America, the same way (some) Filipino Americans cannot fully understand Tizon and Lola’s story/relationship. My relationship with Yaya, though endlessly comical and endearing, is a commentary on the interplay of contrasting identities and personalities.
Ask the handful of friends that also call her Yaya. Homies from grammar school and high school know her for the delicious empanadas, mouthwatering lumpia, hilarious stories, endless gossip, amazing hugs, and her trademark voice. Those closest to me would always get baon or “to go’s” and holiday banana bread. She made my world into her own by interacting with people in my community. She knew teachers, coaches, karate instructors, and even local market workers by name. Whenever I’d accompany her to get groceries or walk to Karate lessons, I’d always hear a, “Hi Yaya!” Even when we ran into friends, they would yell, “Yaya!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” She was and is more of a legend than I am. She knows more people in the community than my mother, brother, and I combined. Thus we dubbed her, Miss Congeniality. This side of her is Yaya at her happiest. Though she doesn’t mean to, Yaya inherently makes others smile. Her most endearing quality is her overwhelming sense of care. And though I now reside on the opposite side of the country as Yaya, she still sends me empanadas, banana breads, my favorite Maui onion chips, Chicken in a Biscuit, and her signature Adobo flakes.

The exploration of my identity through the unique relationship I have with Yaya may (eventually) help me answer the question of, “Am I Filipino or am I Filipino-American?” Though those who identify on either side may be quick to deem me as one or the other, my case seems too uncommon. Is it really a question of am I too much of one or the other? Will I ever be at peace and a hundred percent certain with the conclusion I make? The answer is in the reminiscing of memories, current conversations, and in the continuation of my relationship with Yaya. It was wrong of me to assume that my relationship with Yaya is profoundly Filipino because of it’s exterior. I realize now that I don’t know the answer to my inquiry because the only part of me I can deem (fully)Filipino-(fully)American is Yaya.
