Community Essay : ‘Is It Because I Am Filipino?’ : A mother wonders if a hurtful slight is racism, then finds the tables turned on her.

Preparing for my son’s birthday party was an emotional experience. My inner voices were hyperactive.

It started with one mother apologizing because out-of-town guests would keep her son from attending. My inner voice asked: “Is it because my son is a Filipino and they are Caucasian?”

My mind said, “Hush. Listen.”

She said, “You had a Brio card (for the popular wooden toy trains from Sweden) saying that he is a member of good standing (of the Brio Club). Was that because you want us to buy him Brio gifts?” Her directness clashed with my Asian culture. Pop . . . it came out quickly and I said, “No, that was to convey the train theme on the flyer. We wanted his company, not really the gift.” In the Filipino culture, friends are like extended family.

I wanted to say to her that we’d be happy to have him at the party while she dealt with her guests. I hesitated. I remembered the last time I offered to take the kids to the nearby Baskin-Robbins. She felt funny releasing her kid to me. Inner voice says, “Is it because I am Filipino?”

My minds says, “Hush, she may just be a protective mother.”

The doorbell rang. The man identified himself as a neighbor. He offered his driver’s license as proof. Inner voice says, “That’s odd, why the I.D.?”

“Hush . . . Listen . . .”

He said, “I was almost robbed at gunpoint last night. A car bumped me. I heard your neighbor had been robbed, too. I thought we could get together to compare notes.” I motion him to go two houses down. He returns a few minutes later and asks me to accompany him. It’s after sundown and I smell alcohol on his breath. I say, “I don’t feel like it, man.” He’s hurt. Earlier he had felt safe with me because I had opened the door to listen to his story. Now, I just shut it. He said, “You don’t understand. I am black. I don’t want them to call the police on me.” I wanted to help him, yet as a woman living in the inner city, I feel unsafe. I was about to offer to call the neighbor, but he left hurriedly. If he only knew that it was not his color . . . It was about the alcohol on his breath.

My 9-year-old watched the play “America in the Heart” with us at UCLA about Carlos Bulosan, one of the Filipino pioneers whom we endearingly refer to as “the manongs.” In the 1930s, they were mistreated because of their color, blamed for high unemployment during the Great Depression, called monkeys and n------, beaten on the streets for dating white women and prevented from buying homes. My daughter asked, “Was that true, Mom?” Before I could answer, my husband said, “Yes, that was how Filipinos got treated in the 1930s.” My daughter said, “I am Filipino, but I am not treated that way.” His father replied, “That’s true . . . and that was because these manongs fought those injustices so that you could be treated equally now.”

“Well,” my daughter answered, “I just treat everyone well. I try not to play with just one group all the time. Otherwise, I hurt the feelings of others. I play with them all just because they are all my friends.”

I smiled. I felt proud of her and her multicultural philosophy. To test her, I asked who would she invite to her birthday party. She names a friend from each group: Caucasian. African-American, Korean, Vietnamese, Chinese, Latino. “And, Mom, I am still looking for a Filipino.”