OPINION: Fil-Ams not representing the Philippines are just another foreign Olympian to me

I don’t get nervous when they compete, I don’t cry when they win or feel sad when they lose. I have no emotional attachment to them—except admiration for their skill.

Someone asked me the other day what I thought of Fil-Ams in the Olympics representing Team USA (or other countries). I said I didn’t think of them at all and couldn’t care less. But I do admire their achievements like I do many foreign athletes in the Olympics.

I don’t experience sweaty palms and a pounding heart when a British or American “with Filipino blood” wins. There just isn’t an emotional connection because it’s not our flag that’s patched to their uniform or is going to be raised at the podium. I don’t feel like I have any stake in their win or loss.

But watching our Filipino athletes at the Olympics (in Tokyo and now Paris), I am filled with excitement, dread, hope, nervousness, elation. I am on the verge of tears and a piercing scream the entire time.

I look at the schedule of our Filipino athletes like I’m playing Bingo, checking who has exited their event, and who has advanced to the next round. Then my nervousness continues to mount.

It brings back memories of my grandfather when his favorite team was in the PBA finals. He would pace in front of the TV, leave the room, come back after a few minutes, look at the score and leave if his team was trailing. He had an irrational fear that if he watched, his team would lose so he would leave the room—defeating the purpose of a live broadcast.

It was ridiculous. It is ridiculous that I feel the same now.

On the other hand, mixed-race athletes who choose to represent a country other than the Philippines only enter my consciousness when I see a story link on my Facebook feed that a friend has shared. In the past few days, there have been too many of those.

Filipinos and local media’s obsession with half-Filipinos has resurfaced yet again, “claiming” them as if they were representing us. Headlines and videos of Americans, Canadians, British athletes “with Filipino blood” wearing the country of their non-Filipino parent have been proliferating. Then you read comments like, “Go, Pinoy!” “Nakaka-proud!”

They may be ethnically half-Filipino, but they’re not representing us in this competition. Many of them were born in the US (or another country) and raised there. America is their country, it’s their home. They have no affinity for the Philippines even when they bring lumpiang shanghai to a potluck dinner.

They may be ethnically half-Filipino, but they’re not representing us in this competition. Many of them were born in the US or another country and raised there. America is their country, it’s their home.

Media loves to quote them, any morsel about how they love the Philippines will do, rather than actually telling a compelling story so we might get to know them. “I love the Philippines no matter what,” the half-Filipinos love to say. C’mon, let them continue—what does “no matter what” mean? So, congratulations on your win, now let me get back to more interesting stories of your fellow foreign athletes.

The Ukrainian fencer who got disqualified at the qualifying World Championship for refusing to shake the hand of her Russian competitor who was vocally supportive of the invasion had a better story. How did she qualify for Olympics and win gold? She was allowed because of “special circumstance.” Now, that’s a story.

For full-blooded Filipinos living in the Philippines who chose another nationality due to incompetent sports commissions here or for a better chance at winning in the Olympics, it must have been a hard choice. They have my sympathy and good wishes.

Why don’t you let me read instead stories of how Filipino boxer Carlo Paalam started boxing when he was a boy to put food on the table. Tell me how many times he got knocked out as a teenager, and years later how he sank to his knees and cried when he defeated the defending Olympic champion in the semifinal at the Tokyo Olympics.

As a nation, we are again watching our athletes in Paris, calling on our gods to bring Carlo, EJ, Nesthy and the rest to victory. They have our flag on their chest and on their sleeves—and we hold all of them in our hearts.

Let me read again the story of how Hidilyn Diaz screamed and wept and laughed when she successfully lifted 127 kg. and won gold. For the first time in 97 years, one of our own lifted all of us to touch gold. I cried in 2021; I still get teary eyed when I read her story and watch that clip now.

The same feelings overwhelm me when I watch how Nesthy Petecio advanced to the final by defeating Italian Irma Testa, who couldn’t congratulate her because Nesthy was on her knees with her eyes closed. And how Eumir Marical jumped and punched the air after he knocked out his opponent, and bowed to the referee and the very few people in the arena after he won the bronze medal.

In July 2021, our athletes who won medals in Tokyo were the salt of the earth—all of them from humble beginnings who found their sport as a way out of their circumstance. They didn’t have the luxury of well-equipped gyms when they were growing up or even as Olympians (Hidilyn was stuck in Malaysia due to Covid and, without a proper gym, she trained with water jugs and bamboo sticks). They carried us on their backs as we were all worn out from Covid.

As a nation, we are again nervously watching our athletes in Paris, calling on our gods to bring Carlo, EJ, Nesthy and the rest to victory. They have our flag on their chest and on their sleeves—and we hold all of them in our hearts.

Editor in chief

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