Personal Thoughts while Sampling the poetry of Nick Carbo

(originally written in early 2000s, this current version was 'revised' using ChatGPT)

Reading *Secret Asian Man* isn’t just reading poetry—it’s entering the complex, hilarious, and painfully honest world of the Filipino-American. Nick Carbo doesn’t just write poems. He compresses a lifetime of shared cultural truths into the thin spine of a book. In every line, I see the Pinoys scattered across America—but more unsettlingly, I see myself.

Not that I consider myself a tunay na lalaki (God forbid!), but the character he creates exposes the very core of what it means to be Filipino in America. His “man” is me—our quirks, our shame, our desires. The way we scratch and sniff our armpits (gross!), the way we flirt in chat rooms, the embarrassing confessions we only make to each other in hushed Taglish. These are the things we pretend we don’t do—but, of course, we do.

When I first arrived in the U.S., my company assigned me to share an apartment with a Chilean and a Brazilian. Day one: the Chilean hated my smoking, and the Brazilian? He adored me for being gay and shocked me by walking around the apartment stark naked. Welcome to America! Later, when I passed the PT Licensure with ease, they suddenly looked at me with reverence. I was the hero. But they aced the driving test while I kept failing mine. A Filipino landing in the U.S. will instantly face a gauntlet of absurd, uncomfortable, and unforgettable encounters—not just with locals, but with fellow immigrants too. My first year? Absolute hell.

Which is why Carbo’s poetry feels so personal. He writes about our secrets—the stuff we rarely share with outsiders but are dying to laugh about with fellow Pinoys. He writes about the peculiar camaraderie we have. How we hug, tease, pull hair, shout across rooms. How we joke, whisper, shriek. Filipinos, especially abroad, are *loud*. And affectionate in ways others don’t always understand. My American friends cringe when I call my Filipina friends “amore” or “querida” while playfully insulting them. But my friends laugh—not in spite of it, but because of it. We know the code.

And yet, our conversations are layered. I know a Filipina therapist who giggles “hihihihi” with me and bursts into “hahahaha” when Americans join in. A Greek doctor friend once asked me why. I shrugged and said, “It’s a Filipino thing.” What else can you say?

Of course, I’m the worst person to ask about Filipino behavior. I’m a master of tall tales. Once, a nurse asked me why I wasn’t married. I told her I belonged to the Ming Dynasty’s Sacred Eunuch Society—castrated at birth to serve the Empress of China. She *believed me*. The story spread through the hospital like wildfire. People began asking me what it felt like. I told them it grew back, bigger than ever. They got even more curious.

In America, I’ve crafted my own exotic legend. A Filipino fantasy as survival mechanism. I am, perhaps, the flamboyant gay brother of *Tunay Na Lalaki*. When the Greek doctor asked me where I went to church, I told him I was a devotee of the *Waywaya Religion* from a remote Philippine island. I described our rituals, our chants, our sacred trees. Weeks later, he asked a Filipino nurse about it. She was confused. “There’s no such thing,” she said.

But this is who we are—*tellers of tales*. We are the keepers of anecdotes, confessors of weirdness. We open ourselves to each other with ease—but are far less open to truly *listening*. We talk, we argue, we joke. But do we really read what our fellow Filipinos write?

Sadly, not enough.

Hundreds of books by Filipino and Filipino-American writers are published every year. How many of us read them? Too few. And that’s part of our tragedy: the more we ignore each other’s voices, the more fragmented we become. If we truly read one another, we might just become the most connected, cohesive people on earth.

But we don’t. We dismiss Filipino-authored books as too English, too Tagalog, too elitist, too street, too this or that. Any excuse not to engage. Meanwhile, we consume endless noise from politicians and celebrities, recycling the same drama, the same lies, the same tired plots with different actors. We lose our chance to grow wiser, deeper, and more whole through literature—our truest mirror.

Years ago, I created this site to promote Philippine and Filipino-American literature. Because I believe this: in our stories lies the measure of who we are. No commentator, no celebrity, no politician can match the emotional scope, the nuanced truths, the quiet revolution of a well-crafted Filipino short story or poem. Every time I finish one, I walk away with a new pair of eyes.

Just listen:

You'll never pass an audition in New York
until you improve your accent and learn
how to sing like Lea Salonga in Miss Saigon.
Did you bring your Chinese dresses?"*
"Talaga? I have to wear dresses to get a part?" he asks,
fanning himself with a magazine.
"Name the top ten male leads in Hollywood—
and how many Asian hunks have you seen
involved in hot sex scenes with Sharon Stone,
Demi Moore, or Goldie Hawn?"

These are thoughts I’ve buried deep. The truths I dare not say aloud. But Carbo says them. And in doing so, gives us permission to laugh, cry, and nod in painful recognition.

If you're Filipino, read him.
If you're Filipino-American, read him twice.
If you're neither, read him anyway.

Nick Carbo isn't just poetry.
He's revelation.
2025-04-18 14:25:44
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