The Filipino language is something I see as achingly beautiful and uncomplex. Unlike the English language, with all its ridiculous rubrics, impractical “silent” letters, and perplexing tenses, Filipino, and many other Asian languages, are spelled the same way they are pronounced. Yet English, with all its ungraceful sentences and general clunkiness, is the “universal” language, the frontier for communication, the preferred formal prose.
The Filipino as we know today has been colored and tainted by many other languages. Years of colonization under the Spanish have slowly integrated their language, slang, and syntax which fester from our food to surnames, delicious profanities, time-telling, and everyday words (e.g. “merienda,” “silya,” “la mesa”).
I would argue that Spanish is far more beautiful than English, the former resembling the heat of an argument, or perhaps the whirl of a silk ribbon. But none compare to the Filipino language—especially when it comes to declarations of love.
As someone who isn’t the biggest romantic, I’ve found myself preferring professions of love made in Filipino over English. Terms of endearment, such as “mahal,” “sinta,” “ibig,” and “irog” have the fluttering ability to make one’s heart hum. There’s a certain musicality to them, something sweet, and thick, and honeyed, that seem to roll off the tongue like syrup.
“I love you,” translated to Filipino, is “mahal kita.” “Kita,” while it means “you,” is different from “ka” or “ikaw,” which also translate to “you.” “Kita” integrates both the “I” and the “you.” Here, there is nothing that stands between you and I. We become one. Love and us. No one is the giver nor the receiver.
Kaibigan, if pulled apart, is rooted on the word “ibig.” I find “kaibigan” to have a bit more gravity over the simplistic “friend.”
Harana versus serenade. Mahal kita versus I love you.
Make no mistake, I’m a bit ashamed to admit I’m not the best at speaking Filipino. I trip over the harsh consonants, incessant use of Ks, rolling syllables, letters that seem to procreate (Naaalala, for example. Why does it have so many As?), and vowels that sound like a driver making consecutive sudden brakes, or a chef rapidly chopping with a knife. My tongue is at rest when speaking English, and my mind blares sirens when I think in Filipino. Filipino felt hard against my teeth, and filled my mouth with cotton. Filipino trips me up into an awkward dance of mispronunciations and general displays of conyo-ness.
The children of imperial Manila all have the hivemind of English being the apparent “superior” language. A testament to this is our perennial code-switching, and bumbling, westernized accents when speaking in Filipino. Something I foresee in the distant future is a generation of Filipino adolescents who have relegated Filipino as a second language. This possible course of action that we are undertaking haunts me.
One day, I fear I will not do justice in teaching my potential children our language–even more so, failing to teach them to treasure its beauty and lure, from each grating crevice to sloping vowel. This burden is something I hope rests not just on me, but on the rest of my generation. It’s far from late, but to salvage a language, one requires a deep appreciation for it. In the years to come, I can only hope for our culture’s sake, we get there.
