I remember having mixed emotions about moving to Washington, DC two years ago. My father, who had lived in the East Coast for at least a decade before moving to California, warned me that not only would I have to get used to a concept known as "seasons," but also, East Coast culture, including the people, was different from the warm utopia of my Golden State.

Within two weeks of moving to Washington, I had made the switch from jeans, flip flops, and a tank top, to the three- piece suit. As I was walking down the infamous K Street, a young woman came up to me, asking me if I "had a minute for the environment." But, before I could respond, she proceeded to comment, "Let me guess where you're from... you look exotic."

Exotic? Did this environmentalist, whom I would have considered an ally in the progressive movement, just refer to me as "exotic"? Where am I from? I quickly recognized that I was in my professional attire and thus, had to act the part instead of reacting on impulse. Perhaps the young woman was unaware of the underlying implications of her remark. She wasn't the first, and certainly, not the last, to make such a comment.

Growing up, I identified with my Filipino ethnic background. I immersed myself in the culture, including clothing, performing arts, community, and of course, food (though I've been limited in the latter ever since I became vegetarian). When it came time to filling out paperwork and having to check off one of the "race/ethnicity boxes", I checked off Asian and/or Pacific Islander without any reservations.

During my freshman year in college, however, my Chicano Studies professor challenged me to dig deeper and confront my rather complex identity. I was already confused about whether being Filipino meant that I was "Asian" or "Pacific Islander" (since the Philippines is really a group of islands in the Pacific)-- was it really that necessary to add to the confusion?

Nevertheless, given my deep respect for this particular professor, I decided to entertain his charge. I began to think about all the previous and current instances I'm in the Mission, a predominantly Latino neighborhood in the Bay Area, and carry conversations with Latinos in Spanish. My appearance, and fluency in their native tongue led them to believe I was from somewhere in Central or South America. When I go to Chinatown and order dumplings from the first hole in the wall I come across, both the vendor and other customers begin speaking to me in a foreign language, which I embarrassingly can't even tell is either Mandarin or Cantonese. Interestingly enough, when I attend a Filipino cultural event or celebration, many confess to mistaking me for being Chinese, Mexican, Hawaiian, or anything but Filipino.

As I progressed in my undergraduate studies, it was as if both sides of my family had decided that "it was time" to reveal that I was more than Filipino. My mom's ancestry traces to Madrid, Spain, which I confirmed during a study abroad trip to this area. However, I was more shocked at finding out my grandfather on my dad's side was from a province outside of Beijing, China, and that "Damian" isn't really our last name. Wow, here I was at 20, on the brink of graduating from college, and I didn't even know my real name...

But, why the secrecy? Why was I born into and grow up in an America, which not only defined me to be "exotic" and "foreign," but also influenced an unnecessary simplification of my ethnic identity?