爸爸 Dad
In 1948, my father Nelson L. Chow was born in Iloilo, Philippines. Born to my Chinese grandparents, as I call them 嫲嫲 (maa maa) and 爺爺 (ye ye) [grandparents in Cantonese on Dad’s side], he became the only person in my family to be born in the Philippines. My aunt, his oldest sister, was born in Hong Kong and immigrated alone, two years after he was born. My father was born in the city and province of Iloilo where he learned Chinese: Fukienese, Cantonese and Mandarin, as well as a Filipino dialect: Ilonggo. My dad said at the time, most of his classmates were fully Chinese or Chinese/Filipino mix, not having a Filipino classmate until university.
Through asking my father about his experience growing up in the Philippines, I learned that my grandfather lived in Japan before immigrating. He said my grandfather was fluent in Japanese, Mandarin, Cantonese, and bits of English. When the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937) began, where the Japanese invaded China, he was asked by both the Empire of Japan and Republic of China to fight for their sides with his ability to speak and translate both languages. Wanting to avoid it, he left for the Philippines. One cool piece I learned was that my grandfather was a journalist, though my father was never one, that’s where he picked up his inquisitive and social mindset, which eventually was passed down to me.
I asked what he liked doing in the Philippines growing up, and he laughed thinking about it, saying that his father kept him pretty sheltered, “the same way I did to you and your sister, I’m glad you have so many hobbies now.” He touched on his love for Filipino food, something he looks forward to doing for his birthday when we go out to different Filipino restaurants in the Bay Area. The servers are always surprised when he orders dinuguan. I haven’t quite picked up the taste for it, but growing up with him, he would expose us to many Filipino customs and cultural experiences that he grew up with. So much so, that for the longest time, I thought I was Filipino, not understanding ethnicity vs nationality.
After my dad graduated from Central Philippine University, he worked as a graduate assistant and taught a year of general psychology to the freshmen class. During that time, my grandfather was stabbed and murdered in a robbery attempt. Til this day, my father hasn’t expressed much about the situation, just casually sharing that moment to me on a drive home when I was in high school. With my aunt having already moved to America, my father felt like there was nothing else in the Philippines for him. My grandfather had papers to move him and my grandmother to California, but because of his death, my father had to register for a student visa to move him and my grandmother to LA.
From LA, my father attended UOP in Stockton, CA, and ended up moving to San Francisco where he met my mother. I have spent the month asking different family members and friends on how they immigrated to America and to hear the contrasting yet similar details to getting here. As I reflect on it, it’s still pretty amazing to me how people with all different backgrounds are able to leave what they had and move to another place. My grandmother gave up her home in Britain owned Hong Kong to live with my grandfather in the Philippines, whereas my maternal grandmother’s home was taken from her from communist China. I want to continue to reflect, preserve, and appreciate the stories of Asian-Americans in our country.
