The Jamero Campo in Livingston, California

A brown-skinned, American-born, second generation Filipino nonagenarian, the current American struggle with racial inequality has dredged up decades-old but still vivid recollections of my own struggles with racism.  It is my hope that sharing my personal experiences will be of help to younger Filipinos as they wend their way in our country’s bewildering racial morass.

The eldest son of immigrant Manong Generation parents, I was born in 1930, just months after the onset of the Great Depression. My father was a sakada recruited by Hawaiian plantation owners to work in the sugarcane plantations. He subsequently sailed to California after being blacklisted for participating in labor strikes. My mother was a school teacher who immigrated to America to further her education – an objective never fulfilled because of events beyond her control. Until their deaths in the 1980s, they operated a successful 40-acre farm and a Filipino farmworker campo in the Central Valley.

Like their Manong Generation contemporaries, they encountered discrimination. Like other Manong Generation parents, they chose to keep their experiences with racism to themselves, believing that it was prudent to “not make waves.” I was left to deal with racism virtually alone.

While I didn’t understand it at the time, my first brush with racism was on a grade school playground when a white boy asked to see my tail. I was bewildered and embarrassed by the question and laughed it off. (Outgoing and friendly, I often turned to humor in awkward situations.) When I was in the sixth grade the teacher recruited me to participate in a minstrel show for the role of Sambo. I did not know minstrel shows were racist plays that demeaned black people. I did not know that my role as Sambo depicted a racial stereotype.

By the time I was in high school, I began to see how racism affected Filipinos. To begin with, most of my Filipino friends dropped out of school to help support their families. Another example, the Filipino farmworkers at the campo often asked me to shop for them in town. At first I believed it was because of their not being fluent in English. But I soon learned it was because townspeople were suspicious of these single farmworkers and their alleged propensity for yearning after young white women. Moreover, I observed that only people of color labored in the fields. Manong Generation immigrants were not the only ones who toiled in the fields; members of my own Bridge Generation did, too. I began to wonder, “Am I destined to become a farmworker?”

Popular in high school, I was elected class president in my freshman and sophomore years. Sometimes my popularity got me in trouble. As a sophomore, I along with four white boys crashed a freshman event. I was the only one suspended. Upon learning of my suspension, my mother took me by the hand and together we marched unannounced to the principal’s office. She demanded to know why her son was the only one suspended. I was immediately reinstated. Towards the end of my sophomore year, my class was in the process of planning academic schedules for our junior and senior years. I noted on my planning form that I was interested in pursuing a college preparation curriculum. The reviewing teacher ignored my excellent record of academic achievement and extracurricular activities. He asked, “Why do you want to enroll in college prep? Your kind belongs in agriculture or machine shop, not college.” I was so hurt. On the verge of tears, all I could do was walk away in shock. I told no one about this incident, not even my mother.

“During my naïve years, I believed my future children would not have to suffer the pain of racial discrimination that my wife and I experienced.”

For most students, the junior prom is the social highlight of the school year. But for this naïve and idealistic 16-year-old, the prom turned out to be a painful lowlight instead. I had never asked a girl for a date before. I nervously considered prospective dates. I did not believe it would be difficult to find a willing date since I was popular and an academic achiever. I was wrong. I was not like other boys after all. I was Filipino and brown. The mores of the times did not permit interracial dating. Other boys of color had warned me about the social taboo of dating a white girl, but until I was repeatedly turned down for a prom date, I refused to believe them. I could have asked one of the few Pinays in school, or a Japanese, Black, or Mexican girl. However, I felt I should date someone I usually socialized with. In the end I chose to stay home rather than be told whom to bring to the prom. This was a painful incident for me. I looked at my image in the mirror and tried to wash my brown color away; but no matter how hard I scrubbed the color was still there.

That summer I experienced yet another painful incident of racism. I was not allowed to swim with white friends in the neighboring town’s pool. As a person of color I had to be content to escape the oppressive Central Valley heat by cooling off in nearby canals.

My senior year was a never-ending series of bitterness and self-destructive misconduct. I openly defied my teachers, chose not to apply to the prestigious California Scholastic Federation for which I was fully qualified, and because of my misconduct, my journalism teacher rescinded my promotion as editor of the student newspaper. Perhaps most serious of my personal misconduct was the disrespectful manner in which I told my parents about my future plans. My mother, disappointed in her plans to further her own education, looked forward to her oldest son going to college; but I told her I would only be wasting her money -- I was planning to enlist in the Navy. As his eldest son, my father looked for the day I could take over his grape farm and labor contracting business. I declared farm work was not for me and angrily told him, “I’m glad I’m going into the Navy so that I’ll never have to work in the fields again.”

My four years in the U.S. Navy contributed greatly to my need to mature and learn about the real world, including racism. I learned about the Navy’s traditional racism and how it automatically relegated Blacks and Filipinos to become stewards that were, in reality, servants of officers. Somehow, I was assigned as a yeoman, presumably because my official Navy records labeled me “White.” (For American-born enlistees, the U.S. Navy only had two racial categories – black or white.) During boot camp, much of our company of 120 recruits was made up of poor whites from the Deep South who constantly tormented the company’s only black sailor. Once, I watched as the unfortunate sailor was sexually assaulted. I did not utter a word in protest. To this day, I still feel guilty about my failure to act.

In 1953, my second year at San Jose State College, I along with two other Filipino American students, moved into one unit of a two-bedroom duplex shared with a married student and his wife. Within a week, we were evicted and given a month to vacate the duplex. We were told by the landlord that he received numerous complaints about the browning of the all-white neighborhood. After anguishing and despairing over the sudden turn of events, we became galled at having no recourse to the eviction -- civil rights remedies were yet to be enacted. We decided to send identical letters to the two San Jose dailies and the college newspaper. Their headlines: FILIPINO STUDENTS ASKED TO MOVE: ASK, “IS THIS WHAT WE FOUGHT FOR?” It was signed by two Korean War veterans – a fellow student and recipient of the Purple Heart and Silver Star and me. With the exception of one demonstration by two carloads of SJSC students, the community’s response was dismal. No official from the college offered assistance. Civil rights organizations such as the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and the Japanese American Citizens League were conspicuous in their silence. Most frustrating was the total absence of support from San Jose’s established Filipino community. There were no remedies or lasting change. We soon faced the sad reality that this racist incident was of significance only to us.

On June 5, 1957, two weeks after earning a master’s degree from UCLA, I looked forward to my first professional position as an adoption worker with the Sacramento County Welfare Department. I eagerly launched into finding a rental for my family, which had now grown to three children in addition to my wife and me. My wife was familiar with Sacramento and had a good idea of affordable neighborhoods that were open to small children. On one of our first inquiries, an elderly white woman met us. Smiling, she said, “I’m so sorry – the house was just rented.” I sensed she was not being altogether forthcoming and went to a nearby phone booth. When I asked if the rental was still available, she replied in the same saccharine voice, “Yes, would you like to see it?” I then told her she was a “lying SOB,” identified myself as the brown person who had been on her doorstep a few minutes before, and slammed the receiver down before she could answer. Again, I experienced the pain of being denied housing – not because I could not afford it, but because of my brown skin. I was so angry that I broke down in tears.

I was fortunate to have had a successful career as a top-level executive of a variety of social and health service organizations. One would think that persons in lofty positions would not experience racism and discrimination, regardless of their skin color – but not me. I encountered racist bosses in the Seattle Regional Office of the U.S. Department of Health, Education and Welfare and with the United Way of King County. On business trips, I would be asked for multiple pieces of identification by suspicious hotel clerks, white executives were not. When I entered a room with my staff for a meeting with persons I had never met before, they would often assume that one of my staff was in charge – not me. I would be asked, “Where did you learn to speak perfect English?” (My usual answer, “The same place as you.”) Some of these incidents might be considered minor indignities, but they confirm the harsh reality that in America one is usually judged by the color of their skin, not who they are as persons.

During my naïve years, I believed my future children would not have to suffer the pain of racial discrimination that my wife and I experienced. But racism was still alive and well. In addition to teaching our six children to be responsible human beings and citizens as all parents attempt to do, my wife and I grounded them in the harsh reality of American racism. We taught them to stand up for their rights, to know and be proud of their Filipino ethnicity. Regardless, the lessons to our children failed to completely protect them from discriminatory racial incidents. During the years our children performed with the award-winning Seattle Filipino Youth Drill Team, white crowds would often taunt them with, “Ching-Chong Chinamen” or “Go back where you came from.” Our children were often asked, “What are you?” In middle school, our son got into a fight with a white student after repeated racial taunting; with no reasons given, our daughter was the only student excluded from a class event. While shopping as young adults, they were followed by store owners/security personnel for one reason – their brownness. Today, racism continues to be alive and well. Today, as parents themselves, our children are teaching their own children the same lessons they learned from my wife and me. I will be forever grateful that we believed it necessary to make them aware of the reality of American-style racism.

As I write this article, nationwide protests against racial inequality -- particularly against Blacks – are in their 14th straight day with no signs of waning. These protests give me hope for the future. The fact that the nationwide protests are the longest ever in American history, is in itself a hopeful sign for achieving lasting solutions. Additional hopeful signs: the increasing number of countless multi-ethnic communities of all ages that have joined the ranks of protesters; written and verbal objections to Trump’s leadership and policies from present and former Trump officials; similar criticisms from a few Republican members of Congress; and effective messages from the presumptive Democratic presidential candidate.

I began this article with the hope that younger generations of Filipino Americans can benefit from my experiences in dealing with American racism. I hope learning from my experiences, at least in a small way, will add to the hopeful signs of change.

Peter Jamero was born in Oakdale, California in 1930 and raised on a Filipino farm worker camp in Livingston , California. Recipient of a master’s of social work degree from UCLA, he is a trailblazer having achieved many “Filipino American Firsts” in his professional career. He is the author of Growing Up Brown: Memoirs of a Filipino American and Vanishing Filipino Americans: The Bridge Generation. Retired, he lives in Atwater, California.

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