What once shamed me, I now carry as a badge of honor
- Anna Mae Yu Lamentillo
- Dec 5, 2025
- 3 min read
NIGHT OWL
There is a quiet turning point in life that arrives without warning—when the things that once made you shrink suddenly become the things that make you stand taller. I did not recognize this moment at first; it revealed itself slowly, in hindsight, as I began to appreciate where I came from and who I had become. For years, like many Filipinos conditioned by generations of subtle and not-so-subtle pressure, I believed I had to sand down the parts of myself that felt “too provincial,” “too local,” “too different.” The world had taught me that assimilation was a measure of success.
But now, I see clearly: the things people once used to shame me are precisely the parts of myself that carry the most truth, the most history, and the most dignity. These are not flaws—they are evidence of heritage. I wear them now like a badge of honor.
Take intonation, for example. People comment on it with a smirk, as if speaking differently were some sign of inadequacy or lack of sophistication. I used to worry about this, practicing neutral accents, ironing over every regional sound in my voice. But today, when someone says, “May intonation ka,” I reply, calmly and assured, “Lahat tayo may intonation.”Because it’s true. Every person, no matter where they come from—from Manila to Mindanao, from New York to New Delhi—has an accent shaped by their community. The only difference is that some accents are treated as superior, while others are treated as something to rid ourselves of.
Why should I apologize for the sound of home?
The pride of a people begins with language. Our words, our cadence, the way our vowels bend and our consonants soften—these are the first markers of identity. They tell the story of who raised us, who taught us, who loved us, and which shores our ancestors stood on long before anyone told us to be ashamed. Language is the oldest heirloom we inherit. It is alive, breathing, adapting, and resisting.
To speak our dialect—whether it is Cebuano, Ilocano, Waray, Hiligaynon, Kapampangan, Tausug, or any of the many tongues woven through our archipelago—is to declare that our culture is worthy of pride and protection. The moment we stop apologizing for how we speak is also the moment we stop apologizing for who we are.
And that moment matters, not only for personal healing but for national progress. A nation cannot rise if its people are taught to diminish themselves. A country cannot thrive if its citizens believe that their value depends on how closely they mimic someone else’s voice. The colonial mindset thrives on the idea that what is foreign is superior. But imagine what could happen—what kind of Philippines we could build—if we embraced our own stories, our own tongues, our own cultural texture without hesitation.
I have come to appreciate my life more deeply because I have learned to claim every part of it, including the parts others once mocked. I no longer see these traits as weaknesses but as threads of identity. They remind me that I come from a long line of people who endured, created, loved, and existed long before anyone demanded we conform.
If there is one thing my own journey has taught me, it is this: True liberation starts when we stop letting others define what should make us proud. A nation begins with individuals who refuse to be shamed for being Filipino—fully, loudly, and unapologetically.
In reclaiming what once hurt us, we reclaim our power. And in doing so, we move closer to building a Philippines rooted not in imitation, but in authenticity.
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