INQUIRER Global Nation

CALIFORNIA, United States—At the recent Pistahan Parade and Arts and Culture Expo at San Francisco’s Yerba Buena Gardens, I was one of the main stage emcees. For the last 16 years, it’s always been a special event. When do Filipinos ever get to stop traffic and call attention to themselves en masse in the middle of San Francisco?

But this year I thought I’d make it a little bit more special, at least for me.

I wore my Barong Tagalog.

No big deal, right? Everyone has one. Yes. But do you wear it? Or does it hang in your closet next to one of those old polyester disco shirts you used to wear in the ’70s? Or is it among your Filipiniana, under your picture of Jose Rizal and the placard featuring the weapons of Moroland?

Call it a breakthrough moment for me, an American Filipino. I never wear a Barong Tagalog. Not even to the Asian American Heritage Pancit and Adobo lunch at work. I do wear something to these events, of course. But I usually go in normal non-ethnic threads like a typical off-the rack American. The irony is it’s something likely made in China, Sri Lanka, or increasingly, yes….the Philippines.

Do you ever read the labels for origin? To my surprise my favorite Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, the oversized soft cotton seersucker one with the blue stripes, is made in the Philippines. So why isn’t it Rafael Lauren? The shirt is almost as Filipino as a barong, but the guy on the horse on my chest is swinging a mallet, not a bolo. Hence, the name Polo, not Bolo shirt, despite its Filipino origin and seamstress, to whom I’m likely related.

Still, that doesn’t make the shirt Filipino enough for Pistahan.

If clothes make the man, there’s only one garment that says “Filipino.” (Though there’s many, especially after a tuyo breakfast that can smell Filipino).

There’s the Imelda dress with butterfly shoulders if you’re bakla and out for karaoke.

And for the more modest types, there’s the standard barong, in pina, polyester jusi, or cotton. Take your pick.

As I dressed for Pistahan, I knew I had a barong somewhere. How can you be Filipino and NOT have a barong? But my Filipino see-through shirt is so thin, I couldn’t find it. Practically invisible next to the signed Benny Agbayani Mets jersey and the lime green Nehru jacket, my barong seemed like the Holy Grail when my frantic search ended.
I held my Filipino shirt in my hands and admired the handcrafted stitching and the fabric, as delicate as lumpia wrapper. There was no question, I would be its filling. I had to wear it. But my parents never told me how to wear it.

For example, they didn’t share with me barong lore, the story behind the shirt. For example, I thought the barong was colonial. But legend has it that the Spanish made the Tagalogs wear the barong, and leave it untucked as a way to differentiate the locals.

Another legend deals with the translucence of the shirt. Yes, it’s because the Philippines is hot. But I like this other story—that the shirt made it difficult for the Filipino to hide a weapon.

The story appeals to me because it shows the Filipino was feared. But if preventing concealed weapons was the issue, why stop at the shirt? Why not go all the way with see through pants and underwear. A total barong look. Weapons free.

Ooh. But that would be stiff and uncomfortable. Perhaps the colonists had a little sympathy by stopping at the shirt.

The biggest barrier to wearing the barong, however, is not the garment, but the weather.
Oh, if we could only replicate the hot wet Augusts of the Philippines year round to accommodate our barong wearing. NOT!

As an overseas American Filipino (an OAF to you), this is a tough thing. It’s just not Philippines-hot very often.

But I doth protest more than say our unfortunate ONFs—overseas Nordic Filipino.
These far-flung Filipinos in say Iceland deserve at least a lining in their barongs, don’t you think?

The rest of us will just have to deal with the T-Shirt, preferably white. This was the thing that drew the most comments during my virginal barong wearing.

“You’re supposed to wear a white T-shirt!” scolded my friend Alan Manalo, himself an American Filipino, an emcee of another portion of the show, and dressed in American casual.

“White T-shirt?” I asked. “Hey, who made you the Barong Czar?”

It’s true. While it was warm in San Francisco, it was not that warm. So I wore a black T-shirt, one favored by hunters that is sold with the slogan, “Don’t let them smell you before you smell them.” It’s actually the same long-sleeved black thermal undergarment I wore in 15 degree weather at the Barack Obama Inaugural in Washington, DC. Besides, with the death of Cory Aquino, I was in mourning. Black it was.

My barong was well received. For once, I looked Filipino. Wearing the barong, no one doubted my Filipino-ness for a second. The black T-shirt, yes. But not the barong. That was bullet-proof. In fact, I got a lot of “magandas.” And one guy offered to buy it off my back.

I loved my first public wearing, I couldn’t take off the barong. Even when I left Pistahan, as I walked to my car, people could spot my Filipino-ness from a mile away.

Later that night I showed up at my friendly Saturday Poker game in my barong.

“You come from a Filipino birthday party?” one of my non-Filipino buddies asked.
Clearly I had become comfortable in my own skin shirt.

It made me think overseas Filipinos should make it a point to wear the barong at least once a week. From Iceland to Iowa, go ahead get it out of cold storage and wear it.

During the ’60s, African Americans in the US wore Afros and donned the dashiki as a sign of cultural hipness. We need appropriate ethnic wear to symbolize our culture. Oh, you can ask, “What did Lapu Lapu wear? “ But a barong fits the bill nicely.

And as a PDF—public display of Filipino-ness—it can’t be beat.

Wear it with pride. I walk around just waiting for some rube in my office to ask how many toilet seat covers it took to make my shirt.

I just smile and tell them it’s a Barong Tagalog—something you wear when you’re too smart for a suit.