IN the bubbling percolator of my otherwise caffeine-infused existence, I was caught between the savory caress of adobo and the fiery appeal of kimchi.
Wait, what are we talking about here—food or relationships? Neither. It's all about mistaken identity.
First, it happened in another country. An immigration officer took longer to check my passport compared to my companions. He scrutinized my passport, then my face, then his monitor. Unsatisfied, he had to call his colleague to confer. Finally, I was good to go.
My brother suggested I might be a look-alike of a Chinese convict. Oh my, I thought more along the lines of a Chinese actress.
It did not happen once but twice. In another incident, I almost didn't get past foreign immigration. The officer asked too many questions to verify my identity.
In Manila, sales attendants would ask if I were a foreigner—an Asian foreigner. When in Manila, I used to speak English because my Tagalog is the worst of its kind. However, constant communication with Tagalog-speaking friends improved my confidence in the language.
One day at the grocery, checking on items in the Asian aisle, I met Kaycee. She was surprised and said, “Ikaw diay na.” She explained that she had seen me earlier checking on Asian items. She was with her husband, and they were looking for Korean ingredients. She told him, “Didto ta kay naay Koreana ga pamili. Maayo gyud siguro.”
Yesterday, during a quick stop at a convenience store. I grabbed my Onigiri from the chiller and paid. The cashier asked, “I-heat?” I replied, “Yes, please.” Then I said, “OK lang if I add coins?” He said, “Ok lang, Ma’am.” Then he asked, “Koreana ka, Ma’am.” To which I firmly replied, “Dili. Dili uy.” He shared that when I entered, he said to himself. “Mag English na sad.”
I'm an adobo and not a Kimchi, but I love both foods. Does watching K-dramas eventually turn you into a Korean?
It doesn't end there. Even a security guard scrutinized my ID.
It was during a marketing call. The security guard asked for our IDs. It took him a long time to verify my identity. My friend Jovi had to intervene, saying, “Cya na. Nag pa sex change na.” In my SSS ID, my hair was long, while my hair at that time was short—boy cut.
The worst was when I joined a house-to-house campaign in Lagonglong when my brother ran for Vice Mayor (and won). People kept asking, “Hala, naa diay igsoon si Kagawad?” My brother served as the number one councilor for two terms before running for a higher position.
That's no longer an identity in crisis—it’s existence in crisis.
Perhaps in a distant land where fair skin is as common as it gets, I can finally be an adobo.
