A brown girl in a white man’s world. That was the original tag line I had in mind when asking three other women I’ve known since high school to join me in publicly spewing thoughts on our lives as women, specifically Asian-American women, specifically Filipina-American women. We’re all in our 30’s, in various stages of love, career, parenthood, and well-being. We live in different cities, lead different lives, but despite it all, one thing stays the same.

We’re all trying to make it, and we’re all seeing the color of our skin impact that it.

We spent our adolescent years in the Paradise Hills suburbia of San Diego, well known as one of the highest concentrations of Filipinos in the United States, thanks to the nearby Naval bases our dads came through. The local highway, Highway 54, was even renamed the Filipino-American Highway. Our moms shop at places like Seafood City and the Navy Exchange, and shit, even I bought a walis ting ting the other week. It sits outside my front door, ready to deploy before people come over.

I didn’t realize how Filipino I am until I started interacting with non-Filipinos. My first culture shock came as an undergrad at San Diego State University. Although I’d lived in San Diego most of my life, I had never been surrounded by so many blonde people. I remember being in the women’s bathroom, and all these tall, willowy, anorexic chicks washing their hands in the sinks, flanking me like poles I can never climb. It was the first time I felt bad about being 5”0.

Since that day in the bathroom I’ve made a niche for myself in the nonprofit world as a development professional (the equivalent to “sales”). I excel when I’m on paper, when my words—black ink on a white page—speak first. My grant proposals have a 90% success rate. And although I can schmooze like the best of them, smile as bright as any one, the fact is, most people with high earnings are white men in their 50’s. I’m a brown girl in my 30’s. I’m a DARK brown girl at that, and from the hood. I’m not really the person you should send out to make a face-to-face ask.

I’ve got nothing in common with most of the donors I work with. I know how to navigate their world but I’ll never be part of it. Even the few wealthy Asian women I know still come at things from an Asian woman’s perspective. They still smile demurely and graciously when hosting their male colleagues. I do it, too. It’s my nature.

Being a Philippine born woman sets me apart from my white women colleagues, from my Filipino-American brothers. It’s an identity and experience unique in itself, and one I’ve taught myself to become proud of, despite the racist setbacks. I know the bamboo ceiling is probably even lower for me as a woman, but maybe instead of breaking through it, or raising it, I’ll just move to another room. or step outside of all it altogether when I need a breather.