You Don’t Understand Our Culture
…and maybe she’s right

But its the only culture I know.
I suppose I should back track a bit.
I’ve always considered myself Filipino.
Why?
Because at a very young age, I was told, “ Honey, you are Filipino.”
Okay, realistically, none of my relatives ever said “ honey.” That’s a white people thing. Growing up in the states, I’ve learned to incorporate many colloquialisms that could be perceived white in origin. Or better yet, “American.”
Honestly, from the picture above, I think I look more Chinese than anything else. Probably because I do have Chinese ancestry.
This week has been particularly hard on me for several reasons.
- My father has advanced Alzheimer’s.
- Hospice comes to the house frequently.
- Nurses who are trained in palliative care are constantly monitoring my father’s slow descent towards death.
- My father can no longer speak coherently, yet those around him are convinced he knows his name and can tell us that he is “okay”. He is not. If he were okay, and understood what the word “okay” meant, he would surely disagree with the “okay” assessment.
- My father constantly tries to get out of bed when he has soiled himself, and people wonder why he gets angry when we push him back down. The wanting to get up, when the urge to urinate comes upon someone is a trained automatic response, learned when one is being potty trained.
- When he gets agitated, he hits himself on the head, somewhat violently, and those around him wonder why. They don’t understand that he is like an infant, and he can’t communicate his wants and desires anymore. He is going backwards.
7. I left Washington to help with my father’s transition to a better place, because I have been down this road before with my mother. Her Alzheimer’s was not as advanced as my father’s and she escaped the tortuous journey my father is on by having a stroke in the middle of the night.
Yet, those who are surrounding him with love and hope for tomorrow believes he is going to get better and not worse, especially if they say enough prayers and plead with God to let him live a little bit longer…
Except for me.
I want to take him home and let him rest peacefully, without being poked, prodded, shaken, yelled at, and other instances which may inflict more pain and trauma.
I was told by a family member point blank…
“ You do not understand our culture, you were raised in the States.”
Honestly, anyone who is familiar with Filipino culture, no one ever tells you ANYTHING point blank, it’s done in a very passive aggressive way, like a quick swipe to your skin, a small slice on your epidermis, resembling a paper cut. At first, you feel the sting, but as the day continues, that paper cut really begins to hurt…

(google images)
My soul and spirit and heart are covered in paper cuts.
And it fucking hurts.
For the past five days it has been a clusterfuck.
What exactly is a clusterfuck?
(slang, vulgar) A chaotic situation where everything seems to go wrong. It is often caused by incompetence, communication failure, or a complex environment.
Incompetence/ having family members who have not experienced, nor want to understand the end of life, or refuse to recognize the signs that it is happening before them, because their religious dogma does not speak of such things. The term “ quality of life” has no jurisdiction in the Catholic world. Keep the patient alive, at all costs, even if it means the patient does and will suffer.
Communication failure/ Two vastly different cultures trying to communicate their best intentions for the patient, because each culture has a different value system when it comes to life and death.
Complex environment/ One culture rooted in deep faith, that every life is precious, no matter what the conditions, must continue to support life, whereas the other culture respects the autonomy of the patient, respects the patients needs and foresees other complications that may cause harm or trauma to said patient, because the patients’ safety and comfort are first and foremost.
I am caught in a clusterfuck.
I am stuck in between two worlds.
What I thought I knew about myself I no longer identify with. And I try to assimilate into the world I thought I belonged in, all I hear are these words…
“ You do not understand our culture, you were raised in the States.”
I guess that makes me “ less than.”
Another micro aggression.
Once again…
I am the “ other”.
However, I am told I am “ family”.
I want to tell that family member…
“No, you don’t understand ME, because you don’t WANT to. You don’t want to understand that I have been down this road before with my mother. But you are asking me to be here because of my father. You are asking me to recognize my “ obligations” to the family. You want me here because I AM his daughter, and that position comes with duty to your parents, to honor your elders, to help them in their time of need. I understand that if I refuse, there will guilt; guilt and shame that are so intricately interwoven into our DNA, that in Asian families it is a prerequisite to breathe, to call oneself a Filipino.”
“Don’t tell me that I don’t understand “ your” culture because I don’t agree with your view on death, and sustaining ones life who is clearly suffering, because your dogma will not allow you to let them go.”
I understand “ our” culture all too well.
