My Caucus

At 11:30am every third Tuesday of the month, I walk upstairs to the group counseling room at my work. If I get there early enough, I can claim a spot on one of the squashy yellow sofas by the window and curl up with a blanket. As soon as the caucus session begins, the ensuing hour always goes the same way – I grip my coffee mug tightly with both hands, try not to make eye contact with anyone while my heart hammers in my throat, and remain completely silent until it’s over.

These caucus sessions are well-meaning on their face. I work for a social justice organization in Boulder and, as such, the staff is expected to reflect critically on their various gender, sexual, and ethno-cultural identities. About half of the staff members attend a monthly

For obvious reasons, there is no “test” that can establish conclusively whether one is more White or a Person of Color. Generally speaking, though, other members of my caucus speak a language other than English, are visibly non-White, and several are even first-generation immigrants. I am a native-born US citizen. I’m not truly fluent in anything but English, though I do occasionally speak Spanish with my clients. I am mixed White and Filipina, and in most contexts I don’t pass for White, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that I speak another language. But there is one specific language that I don’t speak that I might be expected to: Tagalog, the most commonly-used dialect in the Philippines. And there is a glaring reason why I smile sadly and say “no” whenever someone asks me whether I can speak

Having grown up in rural North Carolina, I already felt conflicted about being biracial, and not speaking my own family’s language – especially when others in the caucus could slip into their native Japanese, Thai, or Spanish at will – only added to my sense of shame. By not having learned Tagalog, I felt that I had been robbed of the chance to be Filipina in a way that I thought was authentic. Instead, I felt like a fraud, an empty shell of mestiza looks with none of the cultural knowledge to lend credence to my brown skin or wide nose. On bad days, I was angry specifically with my parents and grandparents for neglecting to teach me Tagalog. On worse days, I would sit in caucus while others shared their day-to-day struggles with navigating White American culture, and I would think bitterly to myself, “Why are you complaining? You’re so lucky to still have ties to your own culture. And speaking another language is such an incredible asset when it comes to applying for jobs and meeting new, fascinating