belonging

Today, I went to school and waited for my turn to have some papers processed. I was one of only three graduate students in the waiting area, apparent not only by our dress, but also by the fact that we three were the only ones unaccompanied by friends -- and therefore, the only ones who were quiet. Most interesting was the conversation going on around us during that wait. Everyone was speaking in English. If anyone spoke in Pilipino, it was with a distinct non-Filipino accent, or it was actually Taglish.

One guy was engaged in a particularly loud and annimated conversation with another guy. His speech was peppered with four-letter words:

...and then, you know, this guy was beating the **** out of him! He was really like... wow, man... **** talaga!

Sitting there, I felt a bit out of place, not just because of the difference in age -- I'm almost sure these kids would call me "ma'am" or say "po" when talking to me -- but because of the difference in language.

I got the same feeling not long ago, before a recent trip up north (part of which I blogged about here). Standing in line to get a ticket at the bus station, I felt as if I were no longer in Manila. The dispatcher and everyone in line ahead of me were transacting business in Ilocano. One could tell that this bus was bound for the north, where Ilocano is spoken; in fact, this bus company made trips only to that part of the country.

Again, the language was a hindrance. I could understand snatches of conversation, but on the whole, it was a different culture altogether. Similarly, though the teenagers in the first incident were speaking in a language I understood very well, the difference in how we used this language was the key.

These experiences represent two different communities -- that of the undergraduate students of that particular university, and that of the Ilocano speakers. A community assumes many things. A shared language is one of them. With close to 200 dialects spoken in the Philippines, is it any wonder that regionalism exists? A given locality can speak more than one dialect or language, in fact, and this makes it all the more challenging.

More than a shared language, a community also involves shared ideas and the shaping of a common world view. In particular, I refer to a discourse community -- one in which participation means the use of jargon or terms and, at the very least, familiarity with the written and spoken train of thought unique to the community. The world view of that male teenager who spoke English as an American his age might, for instance, would be entirely different from that of the bus company dispatcher who spoke Ilocano and perhaps very little Tagalog or even Pilipino. Even if they lived in the same locality, their very perceptions of that locality would be different.

What language could the Philippines lay claim to as a national language? What world view would this language produce and represent? In my experience, when some residents of Asipulo wanted to communicate with me, they did so in English. This may represent the hopes and aspirations of many Filipinos, but certainly not their daily experience.

If there are as many world views as there are tribes and dialects in our country, what is to define our sense of belonging? When national events unfold and are represented and reported in media in a language that a great many people cannot relate to or worse, do not understand, belongingness must be found in other forms, through other commonalities.