Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
American Son (written much earlier)
by Brian Ascalon Roley
Well, here I go again, disturbing you with my usual “book review.” I put those two words in quotation marks because I never really follow the rules of reviewing. I even tried posting this piece on FLIPS and asked others to share their reviews. I received one good response—just one. If only I were allowed to repost it here. These days, sharing articles from the web is difficult. Copyright must always be respected. So this website remains a one-man show.
I judge books based on my personal response to them. I don’t analyze structure or language in a formal way. I simply react.
As I continue thinking about American Son, I realize that I don’t really know Fil-Am culture or the Fil-Am way of thinking as well as I thought I did.
This review is shaped by my own experience as a native Filipino who never lived through what biracial children experience. Their struggles are different from mine. Their way of seeing the world is different from mine.
So I ask you, dear readers, not to prejudge this book based solely on my feelings. Make no mistake—it is a good book. It allows us to enter the minds of some Fil-Am (biracial) kids. I would genuinely appreciate it if you would share your own reactions to it.
I don’t believe there is such a thing as a “correct” book review. Like art, literature has no single measure.
Read the book.
My Personal Take on American Son
by Brian Ascalon Roley
Christmas is coming. I don’t know about you, but this season has been unexpectedly enjoyable for me. In middle age, I’ve learned to be more flexible with my own idiosyncrasies. I feel more confident in myself and more decisive. I know when to plow through writing when inspiration strikes, and when to stop altogether when exhaustion sets in.
The good thing is that I now write more freely, without worrying about whether anyone is reading or not. I’ve finally learned to say no—to leave things behind, to ignore distractions, to be fierce about my freedom and individuality. I suppose I’m becoming more Americanized. But freedom and individualism are not exclusively American; they are Filipino, too. They are universal.
These days, I alternate between web design and reading fiction. I’m currently immersed in Anne Rice’s Blackwood Farm. I recently finished American Son by Roley and I’m halfway through Holthe’s When the Elephants Dance.
American Son is a simple and direct novel, but it didn’t sit well with me. The Filipino mother is portrayed as almost unbelievably foolish. In all my years living in America, I have never encountered a Filipino mother like that. I wish some Fil-Am writers would take the time to understand their Filipino roots—and the Filipino character—before projecting generalized or stereotypical traits onto Filipinos. It becomes even more troubling when those portrayals seem designed to satisfy American expectations.
I understand that some Fil-Am children may feel ashamed of their Philippine heritage, but that does not justify rationalizing that shame by condemning their own culture. I’ve written about the flaws, the dirt, and the dirty laundry of the Philippines myself—but I do so grounded in lived Filipino truth.
When a Fil-Am writer portrays a Filipino mother as someone who silently bows her head while being screamed at by an American woman—honey, that simply doesn’t ring true. The Filipino mothers I know here in America do not behave that way. They are not passive, frightened, or oblivious. They do not stand by while their children spiral into crime.
And a Filipino mother supposedly raised in wealth—someone from Forbes Park? Come on. I would expect a woman of sophistication, not someone introduced almost as a maid. If this is how some Fil-Am children view their Filipino mothers, then woe to them. They clearly do not understand the caliber of Filipina women.
I don’t know how others experienced this book, but I often felt uncomfortable reading it. Is that because I am a “native” Filipino? There were many moments when I shook my head and thought, This isn’t possible. Or Really? Or What??? Of course, fiction is fiction—but good fiction often feels truer than reality.
In the end, I realized I needed to understand what this book is really trying to do. I had to read it as if I were American. Seen through that lens, the novel is about an American kid trying to find himself within American culture—though it unfortunately ends in violence, in a kind of Dirty Harry / Equalizer fashion. I certainly don’t want Fil-Am kids discovering themselves this way, but the existence of this story suggests that such paths are possible.
This is a Fil-Am novel, and I’m beginning to see the early flowering of Fil-Am stories in America. Another Fil-Am story—this time through film—that attempts to explain Fil-Am culture is The Debut. It also centers on a Fil-Am character who feels ashamed of his heritage. I can only hope that this sense of shame does not become a recurring theme—or the heart—of Fil-Am storytelling.
Because there is nothing shameful about being Filipino.
And there is nothing shameful about our culture.
2026-01-26 15:38:42
bookreviews
It amazes me how impatient I can become when, in the interest of brevity, I find myself unsettled by the long passages presented in my daily meditation guides—whether from Today’s Devotional or Our Daily Bread. I understand the intent behind these extended readings. They are meant to weave a narrative, to create continuity, to draw the reader gradually into reflection. Perhaps their intended audience is made up of readers who linger, who contemplate through the intellect before arriving at stillness. I suspect I am not alone in occasionally skimming, copying, or skipping ahead. Still, I notice my impatience most sharply when I want to move quickly into contemplation itself, into silence, into the place where the heart speaks more clearly than words.
Today’s passage is a familiar one. Jonah is called by God and responds not with obedience, but with resistance—so deep that it hardens into stubborn refusal. He flees from his task, and the Lord allows him to be tested severely, swallowed by a great fish, suspended between life and death, until Jonah confronts the folly of his resistance. Only then does he surrender, repent, and ask for forgiveness.
Jonah, I realize, lives in many of us. How often do we resist the very things we are meant to do? How often do we refuse a calling—not necessarily a dramatic one, but a quiet, persistent invitation to use what we have been given? Sometimes it is a talent, a passion, or an ability that stands out, something that could serve others in meaningful ways. Yet in my own case, I often hide from that responsibility. I fear failure. I fear rejection. Worse still, I fear ridicule and mockery.
My hiding takes the form of escapism. I spend copious amounts of time surfing the internet or engaging in digital creativity. Some of this is harmless, even productive, and at times it does make use of my talents. But it also allows me to avoid other equally important gifts I possess—writing, sustained reading, programming. Over the last few days, I went on a spree creating reels and short videos, yet I failed to finish the book I have been reading for weeks. I failed to complete the blog posts and stories I had planned. I did not even open the programming books meant to help me update skills I have neglected for years.
To be fair, my mornings are usually fulfilling. I meditate. I exercise. When motivation strikes, I visit plant stores or tend to my growing collection. My mornings feel grounded and intentional. But by afternoon, I often drift. Except for yesterday—when allergies flared up, clouded my vision, and worsened after I foolishly walked through pollen-heavy park trails—I typically slide into social media idleness. Yesterday had an excuse; most days do not. Before that, I became absorbed in new experimental video projects—pleasurable, yes, but ultimately incomplete.
That sense of incompleteness follows me. It lives in the quiet awareness that I am using escapism to avoid the deeper work. Writing, I still believe, is where my true gift lies. I have dabbled—some Tagalog poetry here and there—but that is not enough. I have not finished the books I set out to read. I have not completed the stories waiting patiently in my drafts. I have not returned to programming, despite years of intending to do so.
This is why I meditate. Meditation is not an act of self-punishment. It is daily renewal. It is a gentle reminder—spoken through the Holy Spirit—that there are unfinished things in my life’s journey. Thoughts that remain raw and unformed. Stories that want to be told. Experiences that deserve to be shaped into language and shared.
Sometimes I imagine my life without the internet, and this is where my frustration truly begins. Without it, I am certain I would be reading voraciously in retirement. My mornings would still be the same—quiet routines, movement, reflection—but my afternoons would be devoted to creative life: writing, inventing stories, lingering with ideas. I would spend my days in libraries and bookstores, surrounded by shelves and silence. I would be immersed in the skills I already possess, instead of scattering my attention across endless digital distractions.
I close my eyes and return to a life before the internet. I remember the excitement of driving from my home to the Borders bookstore in Fort Lauderdale. I remember the smell of newly printed books. The soft rustle of pages turning. The café corner filled with readers quietly immersed in magazines and novels. Conversations held in low tones. A cough here and there. That, I suspect, is where I would still be if technology had arrived more slowly. More than anything, I miss being among people who shared the joy of quiet companionship—together, yet not intrusive, connected without performance.
Internet technology has pushed people farther apart physically while drawing them closer into a virtual world. We are surrounded by millions, yet enclosed in silence. Companionship without presence. Interactions curated, filtered, flattened. What remains are superficial acknowledgments stripped of sensory life—no turning pages, no murmured conversations, no shared stillness. No crowds engaged in the same simple act. No beauty in ordinary humanity.
I accept that my age, my tempo, and my way of being no longer align with this AI-driven world. Yet this technology has also fostered a culture that demands speed, ease, and instant results. Apps promise knowledge without effort, identity without depth, power without responsibility. Some allow anonymous cruelty; others manufacture fame, wealth, and influence overnight. Technology has blurred the boundary between the material and the spiritual.
For those of us raised on their separation—where material accomplishment came through patience, discipline, careful thought, and human conversation—this fusion feels disorienting. What once required time and effort now appears achievable through performance and manipulation. Wealth is built on unverified promises. Grand claims are made: solar energy solving everything, self-driving cars ensuring safety, AI replacing nearly all labor so humans can simply sit back. Much of this feels like smoke and mirrors—science fiction sold as inevitability. When reality fails to match prophecy, people are left empty-handed, yet still convinced they were on the brink of something extraordinary. In the process, perseverance, hard work, and thoughtful engagement—the very traits that built modern civilization—are quietly abandoned.
Another consequence is the normalization of impulsiveness. I remember when letters were carefully written, when messages were revised before being sent, when conversations were restrained and respectful. Today, communication is often raw, capitalized, reactionary—filled with conspiracies, half-truths, and outright fabrications presented as fact. I do not need to list examples. Anyone living in this age knows what I mean.
Perhaps I am simply growing older. But the speed and violence of cultural change—the disappearance of human values, replaced by unchecked desire for material excess—feels alarming. How can a person be proud of extreme wealth while surrounded by extreme poverty? How can such imbalance exist without eroding the soul?
I may never fully understand the consequences unfolding before us.
That may be why I linger in reflection. Spirituality—belief in a God far greater than humanity—is not optional for me; it is necessary. I want to wake up one day facing the Being who represents the highest version of myself. God, as my guiding Spirit, becomes the measure I cannot reach by idolizing other humans or hoarding the earth’s resources. At a certain point in life, the spiritual dimension is no longer a luxury—it is a safeguard, a marker that keeps one from personal and societal ruin.
This is why I commune daily with the Holy Spirit—or with that quiet presence planted within me from the beginning. We call it conscience. And in listening to it, I am reminded, gently but persistently, of who I am meant to become.
2026-01-26 15:14:33
blog
American Son
American Son (written much earlier)
by Brian Ascalon Roley
Well, here I go again, disturbing you with my usual “book review.” I put those two words in quotation marks because I never really follow the rules of reviewing. I even tried posting this piece on FLIPS and asked others to share their reviews. I received one good response—just one. If only I were allowed to repost it here. These days, sharing articles from the web is difficult. Copyright must always be respected. So this website remains a one-man show.
I judge books based on my personal response to them. I don’t analyze structure or language in a formal way. I simply react.
As I continue thinking about American Son, I realize that I don’t really know Fil-Am culture or the Fil-Am way of thinking as well as I thought I did.
This review is shaped by my own experience as a native Filipino who never lived through what biracial children experience. Their struggles are different from mine. Their way of seeing the world is different from mine.
So I ask you, dear readers, not to prejudge this book based solely on my feelings. Make no mistake—it is a good book. It allows us to enter the minds of some Fil-Am (biracial) kids. I would genuinely appreciate it if you would share your own reactions to it.
I don’t believe there is such a thing as a “correct” book review. Like art, literature has no single measure.
Read the book.
My Personal Take on American Son
by Brian Ascalon Roley
Christmas is coming. I don’t know about you, but this season has been unexpectedly enjoyable for me. In middle age, I’ve learned to be more flexible with my own idiosyncrasies. I feel more confident in myself and more decisive. I know when to plow through writing when inspiration strikes, and when to stop altogether when exhaustion sets in.
The good thing is that I now write more freely, without worrying about whether anyone is reading or not. I’ve finally learned to say no—to leave things behind, to ignore distractions, to be fierce about my freedom and individuality. I suppose I’m becoming more Americanized. But freedom and individualism are not exclusively American; they are Filipino, too. They are universal.
These days, I alternate between web design and reading fiction. I’m currently immersed in Anne Rice’s Blackwood Farm. I recently finished American Son by Roley and I’m halfway through Holthe’s When the Elephants Dance.
American Son is a simple and direct novel, but it didn’t sit well with me. The Filipino mother is portrayed as almost unbelievably foolish. In all my years living in America, I have never encountered a Filipino mother like that. I wish some Fil-Am writers would take the time to understand their Filipino roots—and the Filipino character—before projecting generalized or stereotypical traits onto Filipinos. It becomes even more troubling when those portrayals seem designed to satisfy American expectations.
I understand that some Fil-Am children may feel ashamed of their Philippine heritage, but that does not justify rationalizing that shame by condemning their own culture. I’ve written about the flaws, the dirt, and the dirty laundry of the Philippines myself—but I do so grounded in lived Filipino truth.
When a Fil-Am writer portrays a Filipino mother as someone who silently bows her head while being screamed at by an American woman—honey, that simply doesn’t ring true. The Filipino mothers I know here in America do not behave that way. They are not passive, frightened, or oblivious. They do not stand by while their children spiral into crime.
And a Filipino mother supposedly raised in wealth—someone from Forbes Park? Come on. I would expect a woman of sophistication, not someone introduced almost as a maid. If this is how some Fil-Am children view their Filipino mothers, then woe to them. They clearly do not understand the caliber of Filipina women.
I don’t know how others experienced this book, but I often felt uncomfortable reading it. Is that because I am a “native” Filipino? There were many moments when I shook my head and thought, This isn’t possible. Or Really? Or What??? Of course, fiction is fiction—but good fiction often feels truer than reality.
In the end, I realized I needed to understand what this book is really trying to do. I had to read it as if I were American. Seen through that lens, the novel is about an American kid trying to find himself within American culture—though it unfortunately ends in violence, in a kind of Dirty Harry / Equalizer fashion. I certainly don’t want Fil-Am kids discovering themselves this way, but the existence of this story suggests that such paths are possible.
This is a Fil-Am novel, and I’m beginning to see the early flowering of Fil-Am stories in America. Another Fil-Am story—this time through film—that attempts to explain Fil-Am culture is The Debut. It also centers on a Fil-Am character who feels ashamed of his heritage. I can only hope that this sense of shame does not become a recurring theme—or the heart—of Fil-Am storytelling.
Because there is nothing shameful about being Filipino.
And there is nothing shameful about our culture.
2026-01-26 15:38:42
bookreviews
Reflection1-26-2026
It amazes me how impatient I can become when, in the interest of brevity, I find myself unsettled by the long passages presented in my daily meditation guides—whether from Today’s Devotional or Our Daily Bread. I understand the intent behind these extended readings. They are meant to weave a narrative, to create continuity, to draw the reader gradually into reflection. Perhaps their intended audience is made up of readers who linger, who contemplate through the intellect before arriving at stillness. I suspect I am not alone in occasionally skimming, copying, or skipping ahead. Still, I notice my impatience most sharply when I want to move quickly into contemplation itself, into silence, into the place where the heart speaks more clearly than words.
Today’s passage is a familiar one. Jonah is called by God and responds not with obedience, but with resistance—so deep that it hardens into stubborn refusal. He flees from his task, and the Lord allows him to be tested severely, swallowed by a great fish, suspended between life and death, until Jonah confronts the folly of his resistance. Only then does he surrender, repent, and ask for forgiveness.
Jonah, I realize, lives in many of us. How often do we resist the very things we are meant to do? How often do we refuse a calling—not necessarily a dramatic one, but a quiet, persistent invitation to use what we have been given? Sometimes it is a talent, a passion, or an ability that stands out, something that could serve others in meaningful ways. Yet in my own case, I often hide from that responsibility. I fear failure. I fear rejection. Worse still, I fear ridicule and mockery.
My hiding takes the form of escapism. I spend copious amounts of time surfing the internet or engaging in digital creativity. Some of this is harmless, even productive, and at times it does make use of my talents. But it also allows me to avoid other equally important gifts I possess—writing, sustained reading, programming. Over the last few days, I went on a spree creating reels and short videos, yet I failed to finish the book I have been reading for weeks. I failed to complete the blog posts and stories I had planned. I did not even open the programming books meant to help me update skills I have neglected for years.
To be fair, my mornings are usually fulfilling. I meditate. I exercise. When motivation strikes, I visit plant stores or tend to my growing collection. My mornings feel grounded and intentional. But by afternoon, I often drift. Except for yesterday—when allergies flared up, clouded my vision, and worsened after I foolishly walked through pollen-heavy park trails—I typically slide into social media idleness. Yesterday had an excuse; most days do not. Before that, I became absorbed in new experimental video projects—pleasurable, yes, but ultimately incomplete.
That sense of incompleteness follows me. It lives in the quiet awareness that I am using escapism to avoid the deeper work. Writing, I still believe, is where my true gift lies. I have dabbled—some Tagalog poetry here and there—but that is not enough. I have not finished the books I set out to read. I have not completed the stories waiting patiently in my drafts. I have not returned to programming, despite years of intending to do so.
This is why I meditate. Meditation is not an act of self-punishment. It is daily renewal. It is a gentle reminder—spoken through the Holy Spirit—that there are unfinished things in my life’s journey. Thoughts that remain raw and unformed. Stories that want to be told. Experiences that deserve to be shaped into language and shared.
Sometimes I imagine my life without the internet, and this is where my frustration truly begins. Without it, I am certain I would be reading voraciously in retirement. My mornings would still be the same—quiet routines, movement, reflection—but my afternoons would be devoted to creative life: writing, inventing stories, lingering with ideas. I would spend my days in libraries and bookstores, surrounded by shelves and silence. I would be immersed in the skills I already possess, instead of scattering my attention across endless digital distractions.
I close my eyes and return to a life before the internet. I remember the excitement of driving from my home to the Borders bookstore in Fort Lauderdale. I remember the smell of newly printed books. The soft rustle of pages turning. The café corner filled with readers quietly immersed in magazines and novels. Conversations held in low tones. A cough here and there. That, I suspect, is where I would still be if technology had arrived more slowly. More than anything, I miss being among people who shared the joy of quiet companionship—together, yet not intrusive, connected without performance.
Internet technology has pushed people farther apart physically while drawing them closer into a virtual world. We are surrounded by millions, yet enclosed in silence. Companionship without presence. Interactions curated, filtered, flattened. What remains are superficial acknowledgments stripped of sensory life—no turning pages, no murmured conversations, no shared stillness. No crowds engaged in the same simple act. No beauty in ordinary humanity.
I accept that my age, my tempo, and my way of being no longer align with this AI-driven world. Yet this technology has also fostered a culture that demands speed, ease, and instant results. Apps promise knowledge without effort, identity without depth, power without responsibility. Some allow anonymous cruelty; others manufacture fame, wealth, and influence overnight. Technology has blurred the boundary between the material and the spiritual.
For those of us raised on their separation—where material accomplishment came through patience, discipline, careful thought, and human conversation—this fusion feels disorienting. What once required time and effort now appears achievable through performance and manipulation. Wealth is built on unverified promises. Grand claims are made: solar energy solving everything, self-driving cars ensuring safety, AI replacing nearly all labor so humans can simply sit back. Much of this feels like smoke and mirrors—science fiction sold as inevitability. When reality fails to match prophecy, people are left empty-handed, yet still convinced they were on the brink of something extraordinary. In the process, perseverance, hard work, and thoughtful engagement—the very traits that built modern civilization—are quietly abandoned.
Another consequence is the normalization of impulsiveness. I remember when letters were carefully written, when messages were revised before being sent, when conversations were restrained and respectful. Today, communication is often raw, capitalized, reactionary—filled with conspiracies, half-truths, and outright fabrications presented as fact. I do not need to list examples. Anyone living in this age knows what I mean.
Perhaps I am simply growing older. But the speed and violence of cultural change—the disappearance of human values, replaced by unchecked desire for material excess—feels alarming. How can a person be proud of extreme wealth while surrounded by extreme poverty? How can such imbalance exist without eroding the soul?
I may never fully understand the consequences unfolding before us.
That may be why I linger in reflection. Spirituality—belief in a God far greater than humanity—is not optional for me; it is necessary. I want to wake up one day facing the Being who represents the highest version of myself. God, as my guiding Spirit, becomes the measure I cannot reach by idolizing other humans or hoarding the earth’s resources. At a certain point in life, the spiritual dimension is no longer a luxury—it is a safeguard, a marker that keeps one from personal and societal ruin.
This is why I commune daily with the Holy Spirit—or with that quiet presence planted within me from the beginning. We call it conscience. And in listening to it, I am reminded, gently but persistently, of who I am meant to become.
2026-01-26 15:14:33
blog