ANTHONY V. OLAES
Growing up in the US, I never wanted to be Filipino. I wanted to be Hawaiian—I mean, people love Hawaii! The Philippines? It was kidnappings and poverty on the news. And because TV was truth to me at the time, I never dreamed of going.
But everything changed when my grandparents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in the Philippines. That trip would shape the next 20 years of my life.
I remember the heat, the humidity, and a distinct smell once we stepped out of the airport. Driving to Cavite, I saw makeshift homes on bamboo stilts, lining the roads. Trash everywhere. I looked at them and thought,
‘Why can’t they throw their garbage away?’
‘Why don’t they get jobs like normal people?’
My grandfather warned us to stay away from them. We didn’t ask why. We just believed they were dangerous, lazy, uncivilized…and that belief stayed with me.
So years later, when my parents decided to retire in the Philippines after 55 years in the US, I was furious. Why would you leave safety? Are you asking to be kidnapped? They’d made it in America. They achieved the American Dream—so why go back?
My dad just said, “It’s time to go home.”
I didn’t understand until one day, while in the Philippines, I was invited to play golf with an uncle. Halfway through, I learned he sold insurance part-time and volunteered the rest. That confused me. Why waste time volunteering?
He told me he helped build homes for people experiencing poverty through an NGO called GK, like Habitat for Humanity, but better. I snapped. “There’s nothing here that’s better than the U.S.”
He didn’t argue. He said, “If you’d like, I’ll show you after golf.”
We drove to a squatter village. I fell asleep in the car and woke up surrounded by shanties. On one side of the road were the shacks, and on the other, small, colorful homes with paved walkways. I was anxious. My grandfather’s warning echoed in my head.
As soon as I stepped out, kids ran up to me, gently placing my hand on their foreheads. ‘Mano po’. I wished I had hand sanitizer. I followed my uncle cautiously as he introduced me to the residents. Everyone smiled. Some invited me in. Others asked if I’d eaten.
I thought it was a setup. Maybe they were preparing to ask for donations. But house after house, it was the same warmth, the same generosity.
Eventually, I wandered off on my own and knocked on a door. The woman inside greeted me like family. And suddenly, a thought hit me:
These people weren’t so different from my aunts and uncles in the States. They didn’t have much, but their love and laughter were familiar. It was home.
I crossed over to the shanty side and sat with a few families. And in that moment, something shifted. I didn’t feel fear. I felt connection. I looked into the sea of shanties and felt, for the first time in my life, completely one with everyone in that community: heart and soul. I came in as an American… but I left a Filipino.
That day, I made a vow: One day, they won’t live like this anymore—not on my watch. And I believed that if the tables were turned, they’d do the same for me.
Years later, I would learn there’s a word for this feeling: Kapwa. It’s a shared identity, a soul-level connection.
That 2006 trip changed my life. I began returning to the Philippines six times a year, raising funds, building homes, and bringing along other Fil Ams (Filipino Americans) who were also afraid to go back. And just like me, every single one of them was transformed.
I wanted to preserve this transformation and share it with more people. So, in 2015, I launched the Filipino School in San Diego. One of its core programs is Filgrimage, a Filipino pilgrimage.
Today, the Filipino School is entirely online through The Filipino Story Studio on YouTube, and a website called TheFilipinoStory.com, where any Filipino—a half, a quarter, or even just a sixteenth—can learn, feel, and become Filipino like I did through the transformative videos that we produce.
There are no doubts anymore. I know who I am. I know where I’m going. The place I once feared now holds a special place in my heart.
Now I understand what my father meant when he said, “It’s time to go home.”
Because this is home, the Philippines isn’t just where I come from—it’s a place where I’ve always belonged, even when I didn’t know it. Every Filipino I meet feels like family… because somehow, they always saw me as one of their own, long before I ever saw it in myself.
Now that I know, I have a lifelong commitment to stand for this family, to build up this home, and to ensure that every Filipino, everywhere, never forgets who they are and where they belong.
The Spirit had brought me home!
