One Tribe - An Examination of Stanley Karnow’s - In our Image: America’s Empire in the Philippines

Originally published Sept 14, 2015 

While you’ve been reading some of my posts about cats, yoga, chocolate and other randomness, I finally did finish this book. The reading of this work has been an enormous undertaking. It’s not the size of the work (although I might also be able to conquer a small island armed only with this book) but 400 years of a rape of an island, rape of a culture and rape of the Filipino psyche. I undertook this book in an effort to follow a rabbit down a hole. Primarily, it was a recommendation from Scott Walker, author of Edge of Terror, previously reviewed on this blog. Second, I wanted to know why my mother’s birth certificate was destroyed during World War II.  Lastly, I sought to know about the rule of the Spanish and the Americans as a means to understand the “why” of the migration of my family from the Philippines to America. What I got was a mixture of war, politics, economics and culture. It makes sense that those things come into play since the reasons behind something as complex a human migration live in the decisions and actions of multiple generations, spanning multiple continents and how those stories, our stories, intersect. It was amazing to learn this history, yet I am fatigued by the images in my mind of war, poverty, imperialism and subjugation. Having lived through the People Power Revolution led by Cory Aquino or “restoration” as Mr. Karnow describes it, was just the tip of the iceberg. 

Mr. Karnow has a very engaging writing style.  It’s probably the thing that got me through his thorough and very impressive book. At times it was like reading war segments of Lord of the Rings. There were several instances of armies traveling, landing on a particular coast and engaging in battle. There were many accounts of unforgiving jungles and terrain that decimated foreign armies and natives alike. Yet the same jungles and terrain protected its inhabitants foreign and native alike. These conflicts were first waged with swords, spears and shields in the 16^th, 17^th and 18^th centuries, guns in the 19^th century and finally politics, psychology and economics in the 20^st century.  Actually, those last three occurred early on as well but more subtly with the hand to hand combat in the forefront.

When reading about the rule of Spain, Mr. Karnow described it as “feudal” with plantation overlords and indentured servants up until the 19^th century. This feudal climate and revolution on the brink was the backdrop of two works by Dr. Jose Rizal reviewed in this blog. 

I was particularly intrigued with the history discussed before Spain. In some ways I view it as the purest of our history before the involvement of imperial powers. This is where I want to begin my discussion. 

In our earliest history, Mr. Karnow talks about the Philippine people as a tribe that “belonged to no social group larger than the village, which was in fact [their] family”. He described us as clans with a male chief living in villages where most quarrels happened with each other. Such disputes were also resolved by the male chief. These tribes were a self-contained system of checks and balances and had the ability to settle disputes, take care of its very young members and also it’s elderly. The Philippines being an archipelago isolated such clans from each other. They had no idea (or concern) that on the other side of the world, the Crusades were being waged.  This was an effort to restore Christian access to holy places in and near the Holy Land. As a result empires grew and waned. Eventually, the dark ages saw the dawn with the Age of Exploration. In 1460 the Catholic pope issued the Inter Cetera, granting Spain rights to explore lands west of Europe. In the same vein Portugal was granted the right to explore lands east of Europe. In 1493 the next Pope granted Portugal the privilege of Christian Crusade, considered holy writ of exploration. For a reasons that will not be considered in this essay, a Portuguese explorer Fernão de Magalhães aka Ferdinand Magellan sailed for the Spanish crown. He and his crew sought out spices, lands and prestige. Magellan and his co captains were promised 1/25 of the profits should they return with a cargo full of cloves, cinnamon, ginger and sesame. Their progeny were also promised the rights to rule lands that they “discovered”.  

Magellan courtesy of Google

After a year at sea, Magellan and his men depleted their supplies. They ate rats, sawdust, and cowhide off their yard arms. Their water, mostly likely untreated as my husband points out, turned yellow in purification but they drank it regardless. 

One of Magellan’s crew, Antonio Pigafetta, wrote “had it not been for calm seas that allowed them to travel great distances and reach land, they might have all perished from starvation”.  They “discovered” the island of Guam in March 1521. They were greeted by cheerful natives that stole everything they could from their boat.  Magellan and his crew stocked up on provisions and left as quickly as they could.  As a reader, I might think this was an indication of things to come, except their roles would be reversed and the value of the items stolen would be vastly immeasurable.

Magellan soon spotted the island of Leyte. Magellan called it the archipelago of San Lazaro, for Lazrus, whom Jesus resurrected as they had also been brought back to life at the end of their harrowing journey.  Magellan also saw the islands of Samar and Mindanao before he set foot on the island of Limawasa. Despite orders to stay on his ship, Magellan went ashore with 50 men to celebrate Easter. He erected a cross explaining to the natives through an interpreter that it would protect them against evil (however Magellan defined it).  Mr. Karnow also explained that the gesture was intended to confirm Spain’s claim over the area. Two chiefs, unaware of the mass’ meaning, partook in the mass.  Perhaps they were humbled by its simple and profound ritual, the way I am to this day.

Magellan wished to convert the natives to Christianity and rule as a viceroy of Spain. A local chief Humabon feigned interest in such a plan and both parties exchanged gifts. Humabon gave rice, pigs and chickens. Magellan offered silk Turkish style gowns, a red cap and a pair of gilt cups. Magellan’s crew was sent to Humabon’s palace to deliver such gifts and explain the benefits of Christianity. Prior to leaving, one of Humabon’s nephew’s invited them to his home to be entertained. Women, topless and some nude, danced and played musical instruments. Pigafetta wrote that they were “very beautiful and almost as white as our girls” (I will revisit this in a later post). He left out further details of evening for discretion. 

In April 1521, Humabon was baptized and re-named Charles after the Spanish king.  Humabon’s wife and entourage were also baptized.  The villagers underwent the same ritual to emulate their leader. Magellan did not understand that Humabon’s influence was limited to a handful of villages. Magellan directed the local tribes to pledge their allegiance to Humabon who would represent the crown of Spain. 

Humbon, courtesy of Gooogle



Lapu Lapu, a chief on the nearby island of Mactan, Humabon’s traditional enemy, resisted the conversion.  Humabon implored Magellan to punish his rival and Magellan sought out to do so, despite the admonition of his advisors.  He thought he was protecting “his flock”. 

Lapu Lapu, courtesy of Google

Magellan in his arrogance thought that his men armed with guns, lances and swords could overpower naked natives wielding knives, spears, bows and arrows.  He mobilized 60 men with minimal armor.  Humabon brought 600 men but they did not partake in battle under orders from their “shepherd. 

Thanks Google Maps!

 Tribes, disparate yet connected as they were, communicated the impending offense to Lapu Lapu. Upon learning of the attack, he mobilized 1500 warriors among the other clans. He told them that foreign intruders had smashed their idols and imposed a strange religion. It’s not unbelievable that our tribes, naked and crude would be led to war so quickly to restore tribal access and traditions in and around their archipelago. They sought to protect their families as Magellan sought to protect his newly Christened flock.

Magellan’s men arrived on the shores of Mactan in the very early hours. In the low tide, their boats were unable to get too close to shore leaving their mounted cannons out of reach. I imagine tropical mist on pristine blue beaches, still dark with the sun not fully alight. It might have been enough cover for the warriors that waited for them. I’m not sure who made the sound louder than the lapping waves before the ocean water turned red and the silence erupted into opposing armies uttering the unintelligible Rage that drives men into war. Lapu Lapu’s force thunderous in their defiance and Magellan’s men equally valiant perhaps shocked by the force that waited for them. The Europeans used their muskets and crossbows but in vain as the savages slaughtered the knights, under holy writ of exploration, abandoned by their God.  Magellan in the midst of the chaos and slaughter, ordered his men to retreat. He covered them, injured and looked back many times to make sure they could escape. Perhaps he questioned his Catholic king why he would grant such access to undoctrinated lands so that he may be slaughtered to give rise to the capitalist kingdom come. The few that survived it called Magellan a martyr. 

Battle of Mactan

They had no inkling that their numbers would also be slaughtered under the hand of their newly Christened Charles, disappointed by their ability to subdue the heathen Mactan king. 

At this stage of the story, it seems like the explorers landed and both parties employed guile and violence until very few of the explorers returned home to document the events. I’d like to think we won, yet it was the “discovery” of Magellan’s crew that opened the door for a more “civilized” people into my country. What seemed like equality in hand to hand combat would never happen again. My people weren’t going to stand a chance against the imperial powers that found their way in our lands and altered the course of our history. As a colony, we were made into their image, distorted and becoming what we were not (Quinano 2000).

Part 2

Originally published June 23, 2016 

Since Magellan’s arrival, other cultures in addition to Spain have been overlaid upon us; the Americans and the Japanese briefly.  We altered our appearance and played roles that were conducive to life rather than dignity or morality. We couldn’t afford otherwise. In doing so, we became less and less like ourselves all the while, the instinct to maintain our tribal nature remained. We just found different ways to name it, depending on the language of the conquistador whom we wished to emulate. We did it to be spared the cruelties of war and imperialism. 

We were cunning, we were chameleons, we suffered irreparable losses but we survived. We became diasporic in nature.  As part of that dispersion, I became an alternative social bred, somewhere between Filipina and American. 

Upon my arrival, I adopted a self in an attempt to be more American. Later on, I just felt like a fraud. I skirted around these emotions for 20 years. Assimilation had a cost. The DREAMers took it back when they proclaimed their status.  I am realizing its cost for me. 

Where did we (and by we, I mean my undocumented brothers and sisters) go when we became a little more like them and a little less like us? My mother was hopeful that in coming here so young that I would grow to sound like “them”, and less like “us”. This way my origins would not be questioned. Now I have no trace of a Filipino accent. When I speak Tagalog, my Fil-Am relatives look at me sideways. However despite all the molding, some things could not be re-made. Now I wish to un-make what is no longer necessary.

Truth is, I was a weird ass kid. My reading tells me that not fitting in is part of the American immigrant experience. A therapist once told me it was creativity. I recognize it now as part of my undocumented American experience. I got the best advice on this life from Anne Rice’s vampire chronicles. I loved her characters, purposefully on the outskirts.  I loved their monster nature and their vulnerability. So many of her vampires were brought into the life by force. Some vampires loved their makers. Others hated them for perverting their mortality. It seemed their vampire powers magnified the best or worst of their humanity. I wondered if I would have been this way had I not been placed in this life.  I concluded such things were already in me, just heightened.   

In life, Lestat was a formidable human. He once slayed several wolves to protect his village. Among his family, he was the one with dreams and the capacity to achieve them. Circumstance and some of his family wouldn’t allow it. He was made into a vampire by someone seeking something special. Magnus was unlike his vampire kind, having chosen the life. Unlike his peers, he had captured a vampire in chains and taken the blood. He called Lestat “wolf killer” as he stalked him before the pounce. Unlike other makers that stayed with their fledglings, Magnus chose departure. He had made his own pyre after he had showed Lestat his hiding place from the sun. He also showed him the treasure collected during the centuries. His only other instruction was to scatter his ashes. In the absence of a mentor, Lestat was left to his own devices. He found himself in the company of those that tried to manipulate his power and those who loved him. It depended on the nature of those to whom he revealed himself. He of course made fledglings. Some were enhanced by the gift and others were destroyed by it. Most of these interactions left him broken in one way or the other, not unlike my own interactions. It was after a departure of Gabrielle, his mother, companion and true equal that Lestat sought out his vampire origins. 

He had once heard the legend of Marius. In his travels, Lestat was able to go where no human could go. He saw desserts, rain forests and mountain ranges. His immortality made him impregnable against the elements but always alone. While roaming distant lands, Lestat started to write Marius messages.  They were carvings where it would have been impossible for humans to access.  With no avail, Lestat flew into the sun and then buried himself in the ground.  He stopped feeding on the life in the earth and dried up, only left with an awareness.  He could sense life going on above him and time progressing. In some instances he thought his heart pumped, aching for the blood that would restore him. Alas, it was Marius’ heart he heard and Marius’ blood that restored him. When they made contact, Marius treated him like a son the way mentors in my undocumented community have treated me.   

When Lestat awoke, he found himself in Marius’ lair in a remote Mediterranean island. Lestat learned that Marius had been the watcher and the scholar among them. He learned of Marius’ vampire origins and finally what had helped him survive the centuries. Marius told Lestat that he had been able to survive the passage of time because he was already a man when he was made. He explained that those that were made too soon, that did not live a lifetime before their vampire lives, were the ones that went early into the fire. He told Lestat that if he meant so withstand immortality, he needed to live out one complete lifetime as soon as he could. “To forestall it may be to lose everything, to despair and to go into the earth again, never to rise.” With that Marius asked him to go back into the world, to Lestat’s disappointment just having found Marius. 

I have read this book many times. I’ve always written those lines down for their power. The significance of this conversation has revealed itself as I get closer to the age when Marius was made. Fortunately, my lessons have come in decades and not centuries. I felt something similar leaving Geneseo just as I was “getting it”. I had established a solid group of friends, my grades improved tremendously, and I felt better about myself. With that balance I didn’t want to go into the unknown. I was in a safe space as an undocumented student. I had no idea what the work world had in store for me. My parents paid my tuition as I was ineligible for financial aid. There was no graduate school in my immediate future. I had to get out and work. I had a conversation with Dr. McCoy (insert link) before I left. She told me that having connected with culture, I had gotten what I needed from Geneseo. 

In the years after my undergraduate education, I lost myself in solitary sports. I re-read my Anne Rice books, got myself into graduate school and was entrenched in a career. I succeeded because I started doing things I had never done before like triathlons. I did things that I didn’t think were possible like finance a graduate degree. Yet I found ways towards self-destructive behaviors. I am certain I didn’t wish for true oblivion, which would have been depression or deportation, but in all ways I needed a place for the frustration. It built within unbeknownst to me as a result of my immigration status. I’d like to say that I was the DREAMer that excelled academically and athletically but I wasn’t. I am a weekend warrior and I was much the same coming up the academic ranks. I wasn’t valedictorian of my class but I was in the top 10. I wasn’t a great swimmer but I worked hard and aided my team to victories. I had nice friends but despite their influence I had issues. I felt manic depressive because in their company, I was like them. On my own, I felt like something gangrenous was within me.  I acted out, found friends on the fringe and pursued unhealthy relationships. I took my angst out on my body as an athlete. As I got older, I discovered the drink. Most times it was fun and a time to spend with friends. Other times it was dangerous. I was lucky to be surrounded by people that cared about me. Other times I was just lucky to be alone and save myself the embarrassment. 

Like Lestat who feigned humanity, and my ancestors who feigned political allegiances, I feigned put together suburban professional. Some days weren’t “feigned”. I definitely worked my butt off to balance a career and graduate school.  At Age 20 something I was still trying to fit in. My efforts to assimilate, establish a career and further my education had a cost.   I use to have a trendy studio apartment. I use to strum my blue guitar and “sample” wines. I once found myself alone and passed out on the floor. I’ve had a few anxiety attacks. Sometimes they were about work. I once had a violent anxiety moment regarding a roommate. It was a nasty female situation made worse in my mind by her knowing my undocumented status. 

My anti-depressant of choice carried me for about 7 years. My relationships with men, friends and myself were landmines. I grew to understand why my dad and our Dark Passenger had their beers. My father’s temperament was exacerbated by our illegality. There was some part of me that was slowly seeing my father’s image reflected in me.

As Lestat sought our Marius, who had the centuries to study their kind, I found my answers in data. After a while I grew to trust data more than one single person’s point of view. In the past I have allowed people with vociferous opinions to dictate my person. The results were disastrous. It may be that data was how found my way or back to a person I liked. 

Like Lestat I wished for a life out of the margins. Like him I wished I could have “made it known to the whole world of our kind, and to draw them together”. Given our current immigration system, there were few options. I always sought some kind of absolution from illegality. Unfortunately I was seeking it from a person. I didn’t know it was the system incapable of recognizing my personhood. I didn’t know that’s what I was trying to get back. 

The amazing thing about Lestat was that he did draw his kind together in the most spectacular way possible. He would have done it in his human life. As much as I draw parallels between my life and Lestat’s I think we might only be alike in the one conversation with Marius that I am re-telling. Lestat is a badass among badasses and he loved it. This story is of Lestat’s beginnings.  I am almost middle aged and still into the data. My problem is that there is so much data and I am slow to process it. The implications are massive. Reading Edge of Terror led me to Mr. Karnow’s book and I am not done writing about it. When I read the history of my people, I started to see my friendships past as a microcosm of my people taking on identities that didn’t belong to them. They were coping with imperialism and war as I was coping with the results of colonialism. 

I resented my peers that never had to hide their identities. It destroyed some of my adult relationships.  I suspected identity was sometimes a result of privilege. I grew not to fault my peers, knowing their lives were shaped by different narratives. Like me, they too sought tribe members for their life’s journey. Undocumented or not, the lives of 20 and 20 something career women has its challenges.  It was inevitable my life would intersect with theirs. It was the fate my mother wanted with our migration. The differing narratives between me and my peers and our different identities accumulated over time was inevitable. My own narrative, not having originated from a place of power is something with which I struggle to reconcile. In the end, it was a better life than what was in store from me had we not migrated.  

I think back to Lestat and how his heart broke and soared with the relationships he made. I think about the relationships that have lifted and broken me. Lestat embraced his nature with his immortal strength as I have embraced life in my damaged state. I admire Lestat’s defiance against all the rules that kept him “safe” as my blogging has aired my dirty laundry and voiced the less savory aspects of the DREAMer.

It might have happened in the past decade that I believed I belonged here. It was definitely in the past five years that I learned to love myself. Motherhood demanded such a thing if I was going to teach it to my son. I am not exceptional but in the belly of the beast, the part of me that needed to write it all out is a re-make of an image that is my own. I had been safe believing what the system wanted me to believe. I loathed myself in the process. I take a little piece of my historic tribe to go on despite systemic barriers. I take a piece of Lestat in loving myself despite my flaws.