Philippa Uden

[2001. Me with with my mum and dad in our hometown of Kent. I basically passed as white until I was 3!]

1999 | Medway, UK | British and Filipino

When I’m asked, “Where are you from?” I fear having to explain my whole life story. I can never stop at “I live in Cornwall and I grew up in Kent,” even though I consider Cornwall to be my home. People often look at me as if expecting more explanation. This leads to “My mum was Filipino and my dad was British” and saying this reminds me they’re not alive. It’s not really something I want to dwell on, if I’m honest. When people find out I’m an orphan, I’m often met with quite superficial assumptions, like “They must be so proud” and “You’re so independent.” I know people mean well, but my mum was an immigrant and accountant. If she was alive, she’d freak that I chose to study theatre. Some people have no idea how much I long for an argument or a quarrel with her, imagining that she’s here to tell me off and make me think about it properly. Not having a mum and dad means I’m facing the world on my own, and it’s not all fun.

In the early parts of my life, my culture and upbringing was very Filipino. Despite living in a mobile home park in a white area and my mum moving to a country she was unfamiliar with, the fact that she took my brother and I to an ethnically-diverse school meant she was able to make friends with other Filipino parents. My dad was about 70 years old when I was first born, so he loved being looked after and meeting people who enjoyed singing and dancing at birthday parties. I remember religion being a big influence, that our small community shared a statue of the Virgin Mary and would host gatherings with rosary bead recitals (and some gorgeous Filipino food). 

Several weeks after my 12th birthday, my mum passed away after fighting a long battle with breast cancer in 2011. My dad was 82 at this point, and my mum had once described him like a third child rather than a husband. I remember feeling a lot of pain and asking my aunty who would look after us. My brother and I were taken in by extended family who lived in Cornwall. We were very lucky to have a strong relationship with our English family, because it meant that our family unit wasn’t split up. I am deeply, deeply grateful that my brother and I didn’t slip through the net. But suddenly, we were in a very white area, and I felt like I lost a part of my identity. Our dad passed away a year later after being diagnosed with Louie Body Dementia (a very quick-acting dementia) and contracting pneumonia. To me, losing them at such a young age kind of just made me and my brother the kids without parents. We weren’t quite old enough to have developed an emotional connection beyond the care-giving part. My mum never became my best friend, she never got the chance to talk to me about periods and boys and I can barely remember the sound of her voice.

The conversation about being mixed was absent for the most part in discussions with my family, but I remember an older cousin once asking me “How do you actually prefer to call it? Is it, like, mixed? Or biracial, or…?” And I didn’t know the answer. He knew the term “half-caste” before I did, and I remember my aunty telling him not to say that because it was rude. My granddad (my guardian) is notorious for being the “Grumpy old git” in my family and his ideas of racism were more explicit. When he talked about immigrants and “coloured people”, it always rubbed me the wrong way and I never knew why. Vivid memories I have regarding my mixed identity are actually from times spent at school and uni. I can recall during a history lesson about slavery, I once asked my teacher whether people who were both black and white were treated the same as black or white people, and she said: “They would’ve been fine.” Looking back, I realise that was a can of worms about colourism she probably didn’t want to open. My brother and I, although we weren’t repeatedly bullied, were called Pakis and Punjabs by other schoolkids, which confused me as I knew not all Asian people are the same. I never told my family about this and just ignored the comments. As the only WOC in my drama class, my teacher gave me the opportunity to perform a monologue as Dido Elizabeth Belle, and at University I have also played a mixed-passing black person, which were great opportunities for me to research and say important things about institutional racism, but I felt awkward that I might have been taking an opportunity from a black person. Although people of colour are continuously underrepresented in the South West of England, and I was only one of few students of colour involved in student-theatre, I felt like I was stepping on someone’s toes. And yet I never had a platform growing up to talk about being Asian. 

It wasn’t until I joined the Filipino Society at my University that I realised how out of touch I had become with my heritage. Everyone at Filipino Society was so welcoming; as well as students who are ethnically Filipino and of Filipino nationality, some of us were mixed and had come to study in the UK from across the globe. I felt a sense of belonging again. I realised the importance of keeping contact with my Filipino family and I learnt how to cook chicken adobo for my brother for the first time. But I also struggled with defining my identity as a minority within the UK, as my struggle has been very different to my black British friends and my international student friends. Because I am straight, cis-gender and neurotypical, but also mixed-race, working-class and bereaved, my experiences have been very different to others. 

My grandparents support me as much as they can, and since my time at University, I have been able to explain to them why I have struggled with racism and classism despite having different perspectives. It sounds like a small ask, but it relieves me when my Nan is shocked when I tell her about racist incidents, as she seems to understand it better than some people my age. I even still make ignorant mistakes sometimes, but I am very lucky to have supportive friends to teach me along every step of the way. I am now writing and publishing poetry both in print and online to explore my complicated identity, and also had the honour of opening a book launch event for Shareefa Energy in December. Although I am more aware of my struggles, I am now more embracing of how far I have come and how much I have achieved. I owe this not only to myself, but to everyone who has shown love to me and my brother over the years.

I want people to acknowledge that life is diverse and that is just the way it is. Rather than supporting the social restraints and the discrimination, or investigating and clarifying the ambiguity of any person who doesn’t “fit the mould”, I’d like us to appreciate the fact that the globe and its communities have been connected throughout time. Mixed-race people did not just appear from the ether. It wasn’t difficult for my parents to exchange letters. It was possible for my dad to fly to the Philippines and meet my mum. So my existence is possible, it’s real and I’m making the most of it.

[2019. This was my “Paint the Town Red” 20th Birthday Party in Exeter. My brother came up to visit for my birthday party and we spent the weekend partying, shopping and cooking pasta. I chose this photo as it reminds me of good times and how precious our relationship is. Even though we have grown into two totally different people, I am so proud of us and the lives we are making for ourselves.]