On “Te, tabangi ko bi”
Yezabelle F. Quinapondan “Te, tabangi ko bi,” is a phrase that echoes frequently through my household. It’s a magical phrase, you see, consisting of words that transfix me into giving my utmost attention to these calls several times throughout the day. It’s like a signal I’m forever conditioned to adhere to. Whenever I hear those shrill voices on the other side of my door, I—as if on cue—drop whatever it is that I’m doing to respond, even if it might break the ‘flow’ I built up in writing a school essay, or even if it might force me to break away from my sappy and corny teenage romcoms.
As the eldest and only daughter, I like to play a little game whenever those calls beckon me to be summoned out of my teenage hobbit hole of solitude. Before I open the door to leave my room, I always try to guess who out of the four other members of my family needs my help this time around. Would it be Ralph, who could be struggling to differentiate between verb tenses? Is it Dad, who could probably be worried that he accidentally deleted another app on his phone (although he probably didn’t)? Or maybe it would be Michael for once, asking me what new anime I think he should start now or imploring for algebra answers. Although it could be just Mom again, whose requests are much easier to narrow down; hers are either taking down the hanging or asking for my opinion on a new dress she’s been eyeing on Facebook Marketplace—there is no in-between.
My daily life is a constant mantra of these requests, which naturally conditioned my flexibility to be able to do one thing in one minute and another in the next. This conditioned ability of mine can be seen in my school life as I switch my notebook for my laptop, proceed from focusing on my work to helping my friends with theirs, and topic-shift from discussing research papers to “Huy, gimingaw nako niya!” It is the reason why I can’t ever seem to sit still, why my hands are always itching to be doing something, and why I feel as if there is something wrong with the world if there isn’t anything for me to fulfill or some role to fill in.
And yet as I sift through the days of fulfilling my mom’s need for outfit validation to satisfying my brother’s algebra inquiries, I wonder where my requests fall in place. They certainly do not fall onto the irresolute shoulders of my younger brothers, but they do not seem to reach my parents’ minds either, constantly caught up in bills and work. Between being told to “Enjoy being young, Ate,” and expectations because “dako na ka, be a good role model for your brothers,” I have no idea where I stand and which of the contradicting roles I am to fulfill. And so in my flexibility to do so much at one time accumulated over the years, I do the one thing I am conditioned to do: lay aside my requests and fulfill both roles.
Let me tell you, being the eldest daughter is not for the weak. Eldest daughters in Filipino families are fated to grapple with not only being the eldest but also the gender stereotypes of Filipino culture that demand to be followed. Imagine the workload of a father, the role as an emotional pillar of the household of a mother, and the needs of a child waiting to be fulfilled, all thrust upon the eldest daughter without so much prior notice.
It is an impossible balance; the tipped weight of the scale branded to the eldest daughter’s birth is one that is never asked for but is expected to be maintained. She is expected to be a provider and giver, yet the fact that she is in need of her own provider as well is so easily shrugged off and clouded by the anticipations placed upon her by not just Filipino society, but also the very people who have subjected her to this label in the first place.
Parents, being the ones who have burned this label onto us, naturally preach that eldest daughters ought to have utang na loob to their family: to carry on the responsibilities of their familial and gender roles and be indebted to the sacrifices they made; yet is it more so a debt than a cry of interdependence? Is it a proclamation to subject their daughters to the role of a perpetual barrier, the first to bear the brunt of their parents’ joys, sorrows, and frustrations? Or a decree to leave them to a place between child and caretaker, with both ends having no receiving point? An existence that goes hand-in-hand with constantly fulfilling roles and the needs of the family is the fate destined for their daughter, and she will come to find that she does not exist separately without them.
It is a peculiar thing, being a breadwinner and provider when in a Filipino family it is ideally the eldest males who fill this role. Eldest males have a one-track goal of being the breadwinner and spearhead of the family set out for them. The pressures of this prerequisite goal are determined, singular in focus, and straightforward in its expectations; it is a period, a simple sentence for them. A one-way track and a predetermined path of struggles define their being a breadwinner in their family. For the eldest daughter, however, being a breadwinner means taking detours, with multiple stops in her path. Not to discount the struggles and challenges of an eldest firstborn, but an eldest daughter’s goals simply lie not only in being a provider, but also as a nurturer, a pillar, and an exemplar that goes beyond traditional gender roles. Her track is not so one-way—it is a comma, a run-on sentence.
She embodies all of these roles yet falls short in the eyes of society and perhaps within her own family, simply because doesn’t fit the mold of being a male breadwinner or a parent herself. She is a silent force and a strong presence, one that challenges the status quo; yet it is that same presence that ultimately and paradoxically bounds her to be overshadowed by utang na loob and the traditional norms of who should hold the reins.
Once the universal female rage that accompanies this realization comes to pass, maybe she will find that she can never define her identity on her own, bound to all the others she is obliged to take on. Maybe she will find that though she may not be recognized for it, she will always be a father and a mother before she is a child. Perhaps, she will find that she is defined by all the things she is yet also by all the things that she is not.
And so the eldest daughter will forever tip-toe her way around the many duties bestowed upon her at birth, taking on the mask of many roles at the cost of her identity. Her debt to be a constant pillar for her family strips her away of any right to make a name for herself as it shackles her for life, a reminder of what she can’t afford to be. Yes, her roles as the first daughter, the Ate, and the second mother and father will solidify her place and identity forever in the minds of her family—but never as a woman of her own.
See, the thing about eldest daughters that sets us apart is that we were brought up to become “a good sibling”, yet were never really taught how. We never had an Ate or a Kuya to look up to for reference or even so much as an instruction manual growing up; we had to be that reference. We had to be the instruction manual. It is a privilege we yearn for that our younger siblings might groan and grumble about, yet it is one we are so in need of to satisfy the perpetual and redundant orders given to us.
“Te, be a good Ate to your brothers when I’m not around, ha? I’m sure you can do it,” my mother tells me at least once a month. “Yes Ma, sure,” I would reply… but how? It appalls me that she automatically thinks I can do it; sometimes she has more confidence in me than I do. When that phrase or any of the sort is uttered, it reminds me of how I wish I had been taught these things and so much more by my mom, not to be obliged to teach myself how to be a mother instead. But what is a woman to do when the one asking this of me is living as a woman for the first time too?
In turn, since mothers are the only example we have, it is in her image that the eldest daughter inevitably becomes copies of her; the eldest daughter naturally becomes a second mom. She defines herself not as a daughter but draw her identity from her mother. Only, her identity becomes so intertwined with the only figure she can emulate, that the line between being a daughter and a mother becomes increasingly blurred. Sooner or later, she will define herself according to her mother’s rage and sorrow and is directly subjected to it as the firstborn. It is a curse to become the very person who subjugated you into becoming someone they couldn’t and to become an extension of the one who was meant to be your front-line barrier from the world’s hurts, only to turn on you and thrust that role onto you instead.
And so when I look at my brothers, I see the child I could have been where I wouldn’t have turned out to be the result of a woman’s first time raising a child. I see my mother’s regret in not having been able to do the things she does for them now for me when I was their age. I see the hurt of having a hand in raising them myself, a role I filled in when my mother couldn’t. I see all these things and realize that my own mother has demanded me to untangle the ropes of motherhood by myself for children who never knew my womb.
But I could never be mad at her, because perhaps my mother also looks toward the maternal energy her eldest daughter emulates to seek solace and understanding. Perhaps she levitated towards that strength that was borne out of her rage, the same one that the eldest daughter becomes subjugated to. Because of course, who could understand a mom more than the second mom of the family? Who better than a daughter who can sympathize with someone whom she is fated to inevitably become? My mother, after all, was once a daughter like me. Maybe this paradoxical relationship also emphasizes the significance of utang na loob in Filipino culture, to bring justice to a woman’s identity given up to become a mother for us eldest daughters to mimic and survive in this world.
Perhaps it is our existence that stands as our utang na loob, a debt ingrained with the understanding that we are indebted not only to a woman’s dreams that die with our birth, but as integral players in a mother’s pursuit of redemption.
And by extension, perhaps the family’s concept of utang na loob and cry for interdependence doesn’t come from a place of fulfilling debt and absolute reliance, but rather from a place of yearning to be understood and seen amid the pressures of the traditional Filipino definition of family values and dynamics. Maybe a family’s frustration comes from the hurt people in it, the eldest daughter just happening to be suffering the brunt of it all by birthright. After all, the eldest daughter is not alone in navigating the complexities of the family, it can just be seen that she is fated to take over the helm in times when the parents cannot. Now I know that each one of us are just subject to these traditional norms, and we all go through the same journey in navigating them.
Needless to say, even through a muddled identity, there is a special resilience that only the eldest daughter can build. It is a resilience forged amid conflicting roles, societal expectations, and literal identity crises that can only be brought upon by being both a daughter and mother at the same time. This ability to be able to be so flexible in adhering to demands shows a unique strength. An ability I now realize is a part of me, nurtured in between my family’s ridiculous requests. Because what is the use of this resilience, if not to be strong enough to lay aside my needs and sacrifice my identity for the ones who benefit from it the most when it is stripped away from me?
The eldest daughter and her jumbled identities are instrumental in the family, and I now realize that she is not just a mere product of familial roles and obligations. The reliance that her family puts on her is something only she can be trusted with, and it is how she carries herself knowing this that defines her, not the brand marked upon her by birthright.
I will choose not to let these roles confine me, and use them as an opportunity to fulfill. Fulfill what my parents couldn’t and fulfill things only I can, because who else on this earth can simultaneously be a parent and a child at the same time? I will embrace my identity, no matter how muddled or disorganized it can be, because that is what I have taught myself to do. An identity for identity’s sake be damned, I will define myself by how I will navigate the complexities of my existence, breaking traditional gender roles and all.
The “Te, tabangi ko please,” requests will never cease to echo throughout our house and in my mind, and that’s okay. Maybe my muddled identity as the eldest daughter can take a new shape in the form of resilience, to be defined not by the confines of my birth, but by what can be accomplished in the opportunity of fulfilling my roles.
It seems that I’ll have to keep playing my little guessing game at my door. I could be wrong, and it’d be both Ralph and Michael who will be screaming for answers at the same time, once I deal with that, I’ll turn my attention to my dad lingering in the background with his phone. Then maybe I’ll take down the hanging without my mom asking and give her a hug—if her womanhood is anything like the two thousand words I just typed out, then that woman deserves tenfold all the hugs I have to offer; maybe that’ll give me a reason to emerge from my hobbit hole from time to time. As I go about tomorrow, next week, and the next few years fulfilling these requests for my family, I will always remember that my worth extends beyond the roles I fulfill and the expectations placed upon me. I am not defined solely by the responsibilities I shoulder, but by the love, compassion, and resilience that I bring to my family. My existence is not a burden to be borne, but a gift to be cherished.