I am Filipina-American. Dual identity has it’s pluses and minuses. In Doha, it tends to be more minus than plus.
Whenever I get into a taxi, drivers immediately speak to me in Malay and Talalog. I shake my head and politely assert: “I do not understand. I cannot speak.”
Or, when queuing to pay at Carrefour, cash attendees call me “atay” and launch into a one-sided dialogue I wish I could translate and understand.
When going out to a bar or a nice dinner both western/eastern expat and Arabic men falsely presume I’m of some “other profession.” It’s sick. And the stares are invasive and impolite.
Or, when shopping, Qatari or Arabic women presume I am a customer service attendant and start ordering me to find them whatever item they cannot find. I have to carefully reply to their puzzled amazement/confusion so I don’t offend them: “Sorry, I may look like someone you presume should…But I do not work here.” Awkward silence. More often than not, they stare. Or, they walk away in a frustrated huff.
Yep. I’m frustrated, too.
Why is it shocking that I have a North American accent and a master’s degree?
To Filipinos: I’m not Filipina enough.
To old-fashioned, conservative Americans: I’m not white.
To non-U.S. citizens: I’m not typically “American.”
Believe it or not, I was born and raised in the U.S. English is my native language. I have no recollection of my parents ever speaking to me in their dialect. Ever.
Is “Walk All Over Me” tattooed across my forehead?
sunburntindoha 