I am Not a Filipino
Carl Jerome Velasco
The blood that encroaches across the intricate pathways of my mauve-tinged veins and vessels is that of a Filipino. The food and pabulum I devour and vouchsafe for consumption shares its patriotic identity with that of my blood. I exchange in communication with the medium spoon-fed by my race and culture that encompasses ethnic authenticity and separation. Filipinos are religious, and as I am a Filipino, I do share and practice my faith with a holy entity that shawls my incapacity as a sinful creation of the lord. I practice the culture introduced since the commence of my upbringing. I perform and embody the sacred identity of which my roots have bequeathed upon my inception.
My heart is a Filipino. My body is a Filipino. I look like a Filipino. I came from a Filipino family.
I relished a childhood that was contaminated with the grace, well-being, and holistic sacrament that my country and my god has provided me.
And yet, with all these... I still am not a Filipino.
I am not a Filipino because instead of inhaling my rich culture with alpine patriotism, I shudder at it. Instead of proffering my anatomical dexterity to become an instrument to lend a hand for those who need it, I fawningly weep for them. Instead of using my intellectual sovereignty to produce perspectives, viewpoints, and prospects which would be beneficial for our growth, I exploit it and sell my gift to the manipulative mediocrity that emanates from a negative external output.
I am not a Filipino because my blood is manufactured.
I am not a Filipino because I do not withdraw my patriotism from a goldmine of history fought and died for by our plethora of heroes. I do not plant the seeds of fair retribution, tact, and incredulity into my wellness. I do not practice courageousness and bravery to which I owe my heredity for.
I do not delve through the broad subject matter that concerns my country. Instead, my interest dwells, and is peaked with mundane extremities that would not subsequent into my development. I am not a Filipino. I cluster my hands in shame and guilt. I am an irresponsible child of the lord. I am an arrogant offspring of my ethnicity. I am a ravenous and an ungrateful creation of the manufactured entourage that surrounds me. I have let myself be in the hands of a false race.
I am not a Filipino because true Filipinos are rare. True Filipinos reach hand in hand to protect and be divided amongst the individuals that propel them up towards the threshold of a brighter future. I am not a Filipino.
You. You. And you. Take a quick look at yourself. Are you a Filipino? Or are you just a Filipino citizen?
Reason for writing: Well, originally I envisioned a speech that explained how great Filipinos are, the same she-bang all over, how we are so adept in every staple possible, how we exceed in every aspect there is to our artistic talent. But then I thought of myself, speaking in front of an audience, delivering the most untruthful roster of statements. And I remembered that I am an anarchist. The rebellious blood surged, kicked in, and was unstoppable. There is nothing more truthful than this that I have ever written in my entire life. Enjoy reading the painful foray into our culture's reality. My country is not bad. In fact, it's an amazing piece of work. The current people inside it are tearing it apart, though.
I leave you with that.