I came to the US as a Graduate Student in the Fall-Winter of 1959-1960. I was 26 years old. The next year, my wife and oldest child joined me in Chicago, Illinois. The years from 1960 to the present are detailed in my blogs and autobiography, http://davidbkatague.blogspot.com
The 1960s was a pivotal decade for our family — a time of both excitement and quiet uncertainty. Born and raised in the Philippines, I carried with me a deep sense of Filipino culture — the close-knit family ties, respect for elders, traditions steeped in faith, and the vibrant celebrations that stitched together our communal life. Yet, like many immigrants of our time, we arrived in America with one collective hope: to build a better life for our children-the so called the "American Dream".
The advice we often heard then — whether from well-meaning friends, teachers, or even other immigrants — was simple but stark: “If you want your children to succeed in America, teach them English first. Let them grow fully American. Forget Filipino for now.”
We took that advice to heart. Our children were born here, raised speaking only English, educated in American schools, and immersed in the culture of their peers. Their friendships, their thinking, even their humor — all shaped by the American experience. And in many ways, the strategy worked. They navigated their education and careers with ease, never burdened by a heavy accent or cultural misunderstandings. They blended in — exactly as we had hoped. And All of them are professionally successful in their chosen field in Law, Banking and Federal Service.
But as the years passed, I found myself grappling with an ache I hadn’t anticipated: the regret of cultural disconnection. We had succeeded in assimilation, yes, but at the cost of our children not fully knowing the richness of their Filipino heritage — the language, the stories, the depth of traditions that made us who we were. I think often of the songs of my youth, the tales of Filipino heroes, the warmth of a “mano po” greeting, or the vibrant joy of a barrio fiesta — things my children knew only vaguely, if at all.
Assimilation brought opportunity, but it also brought erasure — a soft fading of roots beneath the glossy surface of the American dream. Today, when my grandchildren ask about where I came from, I do my best to piece together for them the stories of the Philippines — of mango trees in the backyard, jeepney rides in the bustling city, and the aroma of adobo and sinigang in a family kitchen.
I’ve come to realize that assimilation and heritage do not have to be mutually exclusive. If I could turn back time, I would have embraced a “both-and” approach — raising our children to be both proudly American and deeply Filipino.
Now, I gently remind my children and grandchildren that identity is not just where you live or what you speak — it’s also about where your story began. For us, that story began in the Philippines, and it’s a story worth telling, preserving, and celebrating.
Our Family Motto: “Never forget where you came from, for it will always guide where you are going.”
Here’s a second blog post on the same subject but incorporating our family’s roots in Marinduque and Iloilo respectively:
2. From Iloilo and Marinduque to America: Our Family’s Journey of Assimilation and Cultural Memory
When I reflect on our family’s journey to America in the 1960s, my heart is a mosaic of pride, longing, and quiet reflection. I was born and raised in the Philippines, a country whose soul lives within me, no matter the miles I’ve traveled or the years that have passed.
Our roots are anchored in two beloved provinces: Iloilo(Me) in the Visayas, where my family relished the rhythm of rural life, and Marinduque( Macrine), the tranquil island known for its Moriones Festival and gentle, hospitable people. Iloilo gave us its rich Hiligaynon songs and the grace of old Spanish churches standing watch over towns like Jaro and Molo. Marinduque offered us our beach house, simpler joys: mango trees heavy with fruit, clear rivers where we bathed as children, and the annual Moriones festival where men donned Roman centurion masks — a vivid spectacle of devotion and storytelling.
In those days, family was our compass. Sundays meant big gatherings — a pot of batchoy from La Paz or plates of pancit canton and Kare-kare, stories flowing as easily as the coconut wine some elders sipped with a chuckle. Laughter echoed under nipa roofs, and every elder's tale carried a lesson, every superstition a reflection of deep-seated beliefs.
Yet when we arrived in America, we were advised — even urged — not to teach our children our native languages, be it Tagalog, Hiligaynon, or any local dialect. "They’ll adapt faster," they said. "Don’t confuse them." With the best of intentions, we took that path, ensuring our children were immersed in English, American customs, and education. We watched them blend seamlessly — excelling in school, making friends, dreaming in a language that wasn’t ours.
But as years passed, so did a quiet sadness. When I remembered the lullabies my mother sang in Iloilo, or the way Macrine's uncles from Marinduque recounted legends of the Marinduqueño warriors, I realized these would be unknown to my children. The warmth of a mano po, the instinct to offer food to every guest, the quiet respect when addressing elders — these customs began to fade.
Today, I sometimes wish we had held firmer to those cultural threads. I wish my children could understand the playfulness of a Hiligaynon joke, or the reverence behind the Moriones masks that march every Holy Week in Marinduque. I wish they had stood with me on a pier in Marinduque watching fishermen haul in the sea’s bounty at dawn, or felt the soft stillness of an Iloilo evening under a sky alive with stars.
Yet the story isn’t over. I now share these memories with my grandchildren and great grandchildren — telling them of their ancestors from Iloilo, a land of scholars and sweet-speaking poets, and from Marinduque, where every smile is a welcome home. I cook them puto and Kare de Pata and show them family photos from towns they have never seen but might someday visit.💚
We may have assimilated, but I believe it is never too late to reconnect, to reclaim the roots that nourish our identity.
Our Family Motto:
"Never forget where you came from, for it will always guide where you are going."
And so, the stories of Iloilo and Marinduque live on — not just in me, but in the hearts of the next generation who carry both the American dream and the Filipino soul.
💚Last year three of my adults grand children visited Manila and Marinduque for the first time. Previously, my four adults children, and my other three other grand children visited the Philippines( Boracay and Marinduque) for the first time during our 50th Wedding Anniversary in 1957.
Meanwhile, Did you know that.....
It’s not just habit—it’s cultural. Rice is comfort, tradition, and energy all in one. Even fast food chains in the country offer rice with fried chicken, burgers, and yes, even spaghetti!
Finally: Filipino assimilation in America is a complex process marked by both integration and unique challenges. Early Filipino migrants, often arriving as U.S. nationals, faced discrimination and exploitation while contributing significantly to labor in the West and Hawaii. Subsequent waves, particularly after 1965, brought increased diversity and a wider range of experiences. While many Filipinos have successfully integrated into American society, some struggle with identity issues and the loss of language and cultural traditions.
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