Bisaya a English teacher

I was the best English speaker in school. When I graduated from elementary school in 2013,  my final English grade was 99, the highest possible grade. In a nation like the Philippines,  legally a free republic but forever under the colonial influence of the USA, fluency in English  is a big deal. To Filipinos, it assures competence and intellect; it promises prosperity. Yet I,  like every other student in my class, sometimes slipped into Bisaya.

Bisaya is a language native to the Philippines’ Visayas region. It’s the lingua franca of  Baybay, the little corner of Leyte province from which I hail. Although it’s natively spoken in  Baybay, Bisaya is discouraged in classrooms. It wasn’t and isn’t taught formally — not in  school, not in higher education. The use of Bisaya in classrooms, even those in  Bisaya-dominant places, is often mocked and penalized.

Some Bisaya speakers say their schools had cards for documenting students’ use of the  language in the classroom; each “offender” would be punished for speaking in Bisaya. In my  school, we had to pay a fine when we got caught speaking in Bisaya during class. I also recall  an incident in which my teacher forced me to write that in the classroom, I shall only speak in  English and Filipino (a standardized, colonial form of Tagalog) over and over again on a  sheet of paper.

I was the best English speaker in school. I’ve already said that, but it bears repeating. I and  the people around me believed that my aptitude in English should’ve rendered me immune to  the urge to speak in Bisaya, and yet I still did so. I felt as though my native language and  culture were a disease that nothing could cure.

One of the worst things about it was the utter invisibility of our people. We were and are  incessantly erased. People assume that Filipinos speak Filipino or Tagalog, and that it’s “our  language,” despite the fact that for many of us, it’s yet another colonial language imposed  upon us since childhood. Society taught me that I should celebrate any sort of Filipino  representation; those Tagalog-speaking characters represent me, right?

I don’t want to diminish the importance of Tagalog-speaking representation, especially in a  diaspora context. But the truth of the matter is that they don’t represent me.

Lapu-Lapu, a precolonial Bisaya hero who would’ve spoken our language and not Tagalog,  being represented as a Tagalog speaker does not represent me. Depictions of “Filipino  mythology” that presents our languages and cultures as a monolith does not represent me.

Casting Filipinos from other ethnic groups, such as Filipino-Canadian Shay Mitchell (whose  mother is Kapampangan), as Tagalog speakers does not represent me or Kapampangans.  Bisaya stars’ heritage constantly getting erased in Filipino programs, while Bisaya characters  are relegated to supporting, comic relief roles (typically as domestic helpers), does not  represent me.

Filipino is a constructed, political identity. I’m Bisaya and I hope to provide Bisaya  representation to the world. Sure, I’m young — I just recently turned 21 — and for that  reason, a lot of people don’t take me seriously. But I know that I’m determined to dedicate  pretty much my entire life to enlightening other people about the diversity of the Philippines,  as well as represent my people. In my own little way, I hope to contribute to this movement  of visibility through my work as a screenwriter for Atypical Pictures, Inc.