I admit it. There is something nice about being called kuya. Maybe it’s the authorative respect thing that comes along with it. As the oldest of seven children I do feel a sense of duty and obligation to lead, protect, and provide for my siblings. Which is strange since I hardly know most of them. It’s a birth right and burden I suppose.
Perhaps it’s the notion of belonging to a clan of some sort — a wolf pack. I now have identity within the family tree. I know where I fit and understand what it means to be a kuya.
Perhaps still.. being granted this Filipino title has reconnected me back to my roots. While my citizenship identifies me as an American citizen (of which I proudly value the priviledge) where I grew wings and took flight my roots reach firmly and deeply into Filipino heritage. It is a heritage which I know very little of and admitedly was not to fond of. Nevertheless I can’t deny where I came from. I am Filipino after all and as such I also bear the identity of kuya and all that accompanies it. It’s still something to get used to and I’m certain it’ll get to a point where it’ll be as natural as my American siblings calling me big brother.
