Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
Well, here I go again—disturbing your feed with another one of my “book reviews.” I put that in quotes because I don’t follow traditional formats. I write based on how a book makes me feel, not by dissecting its structure, prose, or form. I recently shared a version of this review on the FLIPS forum and received one thoughtful response. I wish I could post that reply here, but it’s increasingly difficult these days to share articles due to copyright concerns. So this space remains a one-man show.
Reading American Son made me realize just how little I truly understand Filipino-American (Fil-Am) culture, especially from the perspective of bi-racial children raised in the United States. As a native Filipino who immigrated as an adult, I’ve never experienced their kind of identity struggles. Their cultural confusion, pain, and longing are different from mine.
So I ask you, dear reader: please don’t judge this book solely through the lens of my emotional reaction. American Son is a powerful book. Make no mistake about that. It opens a window into the minds of our Fil-Am youth—at least some of them—and that alone makes it worth reading. I would deeply appreciate hearing your reactions too. It’s through shared dialogue that we begin to understand each other better.
As for the idea of a “correct” book review—I don’t believe in that. Reviewing a book is like responding to art: it’s deeply personal, subjective, and driven by emotion more than rules.
My Personal Take
Christmas is around the corner. And perhaps surprisingly, I’m enjoying the season more these days. Middle age has made me more forgiving of quirks, more grounded in who I am. I now write freely, uncaring of whether people read or applaud. I’ve learned to say “no,” to let go, to pursue my freedom, to value my individuality. Maybe I’m becoming more “American”—but then again, values like freedom and individualism aren’t just American; they’re also Filipino, and ultimately universal.
These days, I divide my time between web design and reading fiction. I recently finished American Son and am halfway through Holthe’s When the Elephants Dance. I’m also enjoying Anne Rice’s Blackwood Farm.
American Son is written in a simple, direct style. But I struggled with it—particularly with the portrayal of the Filipino mother. She’s depicted as painfully naïve and submissive, to the point of absurdity. I haven’t encountered a single Filipino mother like that in my decades in America. The mothers I know—whether immigrants or long-settled—are strong, sharp, and fiercely protective of their children.
I get that fiction reflects reality as perceived, and that some Fil-Am writers may carry shame or unresolved tensions about their roots. But I do wish there was more effort to portray Filipino characters with dignity and complexity, rather than to pander to what American readers might expect. There’s a risk in reinforcing stereotypes just to sell stories or validate inner conflict.
For instance, a Filipina character with a background from Forbes Park being mistaken for a maid? That’s hard to swallow. And when that same character bows her head in silent humiliation while being screamed at by an American woman? I had to put the book down and mutter, “Come on now.” The Filipino mothers I know wouldn’t take that kind of treatment without standing up for themselves—or their children.
Of course, I recognize this is fiction. And good fiction doesn’t always depict ideal scenarios—it often exposes painful truths or uncomfortable possibilities. But it’s also important to distinguish between presenting a reality and promoting a caricature.
Reading American Son made me uneasy. Maybe because I’m a native Filipino, and I couldn’t relate to the world it portrayed. I had several moments where I just shook my head and muttered, “This couldn’t happen,” or “Really?”
But stepping back, I tried to read it through a different lens: that of an American-born reader. Viewed this way, the novel becomes a coming-of-age story—a tale about an American teenager trying to define himself in a fractured world. Unfortunately, the journey ends violently, almost like a scene out of a vigilante movie. I worry that this is not the path we want for our Fil-Am youth, but the fact that the story exists means it's at least plausible.
American Son represents the beginnings of Fil-Am literature in the U.S.—and it deserves attention for that reason alone. Alongside films like The Debut, which also centers on a Fil-Am character ashamed of his roots, it paints a picture of a generation wrestling with dual identities. I just hope that shame is not the defining theme of Fil-Am culture. Because there is absolutely nothing shameful about being Filipino.
There’s much to love, respect, and celebrate in our heritage. I hope future writers will show that side too.
Next up for review: When the Elephants Dance by Tess Uriza Holthe. Stay tuned.
2025-07-18 01:55:58
bookreviews
In a modest stucco house tucked into a quiet Florida cul-de-sac, the late morning sun streamed through half-open blinds, casting long, warm strips of light across the floor. Ramon had only just risen—later than usual. At sixty-three, he had learned not to rush the day. He reached for his coffee, still warm in his thermos mug, and sat before his small meditation nook, the Bible app already open to Romans 12.
"Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice... Do not conform to the pattern of this world..." the verse read. The words echoed with clarity in his mind, and for once, he did not fight them.
This was not a new realization. Each day lately has been a small act of surrender, of letting go of the habits that had once defined his sense of productivity—and even, mistakenly, his sense of self-worth. But this morning felt different. There was joy, however subtle. Joy that came not from achievement, but from clarity. From release.
Ramon remembered how it all started, three years ago. What had begun as an innocent desire to share a few life updates with distant friends through Facebook had quickly spiraled into something far more consuming. At first, it was the thrill of rediscovery—of updating, of crafting video reels, editing soundtracks, pairing filters with sentiment. But soon, the habit took root. He began posting daily. Then, obsessively. Checking likes. Monitoring views. Browsing endlessly. Admiring others. Comparing. Envying.
Social media, he realized, had become a mirror—one that reflected not who he was, but who he thought others wanted him to be.
“It was no longer joy,” he whispered, his fingers tracing the worn cover of his prayer journal. “It was hunger. For attention. For affirmation. For something the screen could never really offer.”
The Holy Spirit, he believed, had been gently steering him back. The clearest sign came not in a sermon or a dream—but in illness that had rearranged everything—plans, priorities, and the illusion that he would one day return to his old hometown in the Philippines for good.
He remembered the trip home three years ago —forty-five days spent in a town that no longer recognized him, surrounded by faces that belonged to someone else’s memory. The streets were familiar, yes. The food was still comforting. But the connection? Gone. A third of his friends had passed. The rest were aging, burdened, and distant. He had wandered the house his parents once lived in, sitting by the lace-curtained window, watching the slow passage of tricycles and schoolchildren. He had never felt so alone. He never felt so alienated in a barrio he once called home.
That’s when the Holy Spirit whispered again: “Stay where you are in Florida. You are not done there. You cannot start all over again in your old town in the Philippines. Everything you thought was there is gone.”
Florida, for all its humidity and heat, offered safety. Emergency services. A hospital ten minutes away. Paved walking trails under sprawling banyans. Anonymity. Solitude. Familiarity. Life.
And so, he returned back and stayed.
This morning, Ramon had mailed his HOA checks for the rest of the year, a symbolic gesture of commitment to the place he now reluctantly called home. As he stepped out of the post office, sunlight poured through unexpected raindrops—a shimmer of grace falling from a blue sky. The breeze off the Intracoastal cut the summer heat, and he took it as an invitation: he walked. Four miles. Shade and breeze his companions. And in his ears, his latest audiobook—four chapters of Robert Jordan’s Lord of Chaos, interwoven with the whisper of leaves and the steady rhythm of his own breath.
The afternoon led him to General Dollar, not out of urgency, but for the simple pleasure of routine. Potato taters. Zero-sugar soda. Something to stock the pantry. Something to mark the day. He drove home feeling light.
But the temptation lingered. The lure of checking Facebook. The dopamine pulls of the red dot.
He resisted.
Instead, he opened his laptop and began writing — notes for a new article on his health blog, drafts for his fiction website, ideas swirling for a piece that might inspire someone down the line. Perhaps this very story, told under another name. Perhaps this moment.
He no longer felt the need to link everything to Facebook. His creative work had become sacred again, private even. The likes didn’t matter. The shares didn’t either. What mattered was clarity. Discipline. The rediscovery of his gifts: writing, storytelling, teaching.
Social media had taught him a painful truth: that much of the world now performed rather than lived. He too had performed, perhaps not with vanity, but with the quiet desperation of someone trying to matter in a world that was forgetting him.
But God had not forgotten him. The Spirit reminded him daily—through wind, through verse, through the very restraint it took not to open another tab.
There were things Ramon still missed: the spontaneous chats with old friends, the imagined life in his hometown, the brief flirtation with digital popularity. But more than these, he longed for something deeper—something lasting. Conversations with God. Insights from long-dead authors. Honest reflections rendered in prose, stored in a quiet website, unlinked from the noise.
At dusk, Ramon sat again by his window, the same kind of window he had once stared through back home. But this one looked out onto a Florida street, quiet and still, the breeze just beginning to shift as another thunderstorm prepared to arrive.
He pulled out his notebook and began to write:
“Offer your life not for applause, but for purpose. Offer your time not for praise, but for presence. Offer your gifts not for trend, but for truth.”
He paused.
This was worship.
This was joy.
This was enough.
2025-07-17 00:00:56
shortstories
American Son by Brian Ascalon Roley
Well, here I go again—disturbing your feed with another one of my “book reviews.” I put that in quotes because I don’t follow traditional formats. I write based on how a book makes me feel, not by dissecting its structure, prose, or form. I recently shared a version of this review on the FLIPS forum and received one thoughtful response. I wish I could post that reply here, but it’s increasingly difficult these days to share articles due to copyright concerns. So this space remains a one-man show.
Reading American Son made me realize just how little I truly understand Filipino-American (Fil-Am) culture, especially from the perspective of bi-racial children raised in the United States. As a native Filipino who immigrated as an adult, I’ve never experienced their kind of identity struggles. Their cultural confusion, pain, and longing are different from mine.
So I ask you, dear reader: please don’t judge this book solely through the lens of my emotional reaction. American Son is a powerful book. Make no mistake about that. It opens a window into the minds of our Fil-Am youth—at least some of them—and that alone makes it worth reading. I would deeply appreciate hearing your reactions too. It’s through shared dialogue that we begin to understand each other better.
As for the idea of a “correct” book review—I don’t believe in that. Reviewing a book is like responding to art: it’s deeply personal, subjective, and driven by emotion more than rules.
My Personal Take
Christmas is around the corner. And perhaps surprisingly, I’m enjoying the season more these days. Middle age has made me more forgiving of quirks, more grounded in who I am. I now write freely, uncaring of whether people read or applaud. I’ve learned to say “no,” to let go, to pursue my freedom, to value my individuality. Maybe I’m becoming more “American”—but then again, values like freedom and individualism aren’t just American; they’re also Filipino, and ultimately universal.
These days, I divide my time between web design and reading fiction. I recently finished American Son and am halfway through Holthe’s When the Elephants Dance. I’m also enjoying Anne Rice’s Blackwood Farm.
American Son is written in a simple, direct style. But I struggled with it—particularly with the portrayal of the Filipino mother. She’s depicted as painfully naïve and submissive, to the point of absurdity. I haven’t encountered a single Filipino mother like that in my decades in America. The mothers I know—whether immigrants or long-settled—are strong, sharp, and fiercely protective of their children.
I get that fiction reflects reality as perceived, and that some Fil-Am writers may carry shame or unresolved tensions about their roots. But I do wish there was more effort to portray Filipino characters with dignity and complexity, rather than to pander to what American readers might expect. There’s a risk in reinforcing stereotypes just to sell stories or validate inner conflict.
For instance, a Filipina character with a background from Forbes Park being mistaken for a maid? That’s hard to swallow. And when that same character bows her head in silent humiliation while being screamed at by an American woman? I had to put the book down and mutter, “Come on now.” The Filipino mothers I know wouldn’t take that kind of treatment without standing up for themselves—or their children.
Of course, I recognize this is fiction. And good fiction doesn’t always depict ideal scenarios—it often exposes painful truths or uncomfortable possibilities. But it’s also important to distinguish between presenting a reality and promoting a caricature.
Reading American Son made me uneasy. Maybe because I’m a native Filipino, and I couldn’t relate to the world it portrayed. I had several moments where I just shook my head and muttered, “This couldn’t happen,” or “Really?”
But stepping back, I tried to read it through a different lens: that of an American-born reader. Viewed this way, the novel becomes a coming-of-age story—a tale about an American teenager trying to define himself in a fractured world. Unfortunately, the journey ends violently, almost like a scene out of a vigilante movie. I worry that this is not the path we want for our Fil-Am youth, but the fact that the story exists means it's at least plausible.
American Son represents the beginnings of Fil-Am literature in the U.S.—and it deserves attention for that reason alone. Alongside films like The Debut, which also centers on a Fil-Am character ashamed of his roots, it paints a picture of a generation wrestling with dual identities. I just hope that shame is not the defining theme of Fil-Am culture. Because there is absolutely nothing shameful about being Filipino.
There’s much to love, respect, and celebrate in our heritage. I hope future writers will show that side too.
Next up for review: When the Elephants Dance by Tess Uriza Holthe. Stay tuned.
2025-07-18 01:55:58
bookreviews
Simple Life
In a modest stucco house tucked into a quiet Florida cul-de-sac, the late morning sun streamed through half-open blinds, casting long, warm strips of light across the floor. Ramon had only just risen—later than usual. At sixty-three, he had learned not to rush the day. He reached for his coffee, still warm in his thermos mug, and sat before his small meditation nook, the Bible app already open to Romans 12.
"Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice... Do not conform to the pattern of this world..." the verse read. The words echoed with clarity in his mind, and for once, he did not fight them.
This was not a new realization. Each day lately has been a small act of surrender, of letting go of the habits that had once defined his sense of productivity—and even, mistakenly, his sense of self-worth. But this morning felt different. There was joy, however subtle. Joy that came not from achievement, but from clarity. From release.
Ramon remembered how it all started, three years ago. What had begun as an innocent desire to share a few life updates with distant friends through Facebook had quickly spiraled into something far more consuming. At first, it was the thrill of rediscovery—of updating, of crafting video reels, editing soundtracks, pairing filters with sentiment. But soon, the habit took root. He began posting daily. Then, obsessively. Checking likes. Monitoring views. Browsing endlessly. Admiring others. Comparing. Envying.
Social media, he realized, had become a mirror—one that reflected not who he was, but who he thought others wanted him to be.
“It was no longer joy,” he whispered, his fingers tracing the worn cover of his prayer journal. “It was hunger. For attention. For affirmation. For something the screen could never really offer.”
The Holy Spirit, he believed, had been gently steering him back. The clearest sign came not in a sermon or a dream—but in illness that had rearranged everything—plans, priorities, and the illusion that he would one day return to his old hometown in the Philippines for good.
He remembered the trip home three years ago —forty-five days spent in a town that no longer recognized him, surrounded by faces that belonged to someone else’s memory. The streets were familiar, yes. The food was still comforting. But the connection? Gone. A third of his friends had passed. The rest were aging, burdened, and distant. He had wandered the house his parents once lived in, sitting by the lace-curtained window, watching the slow passage of tricycles and schoolchildren. He had never felt so alone. He never felt so alienated in a barrio he once called home.
That’s when the Holy Spirit whispered again: “Stay where you are in Florida. You are not done there. You cannot start all over again in your old town in the Philippines. Everything you thought was there is gone.”
Florida, for all its humidity and heat, offered safety. Emergency services. A hospital ten minutes away. Paved walking trails under sprawling banyans. Anonymity. Solitude. Familiarity. Life.
And so, he returned back and stayed.
This morning, Ramon had mailed his HOA checks for the rest of the year, a symbolic gesture of commitment to the place he now reluctantly called home. As he stepped out of the post office, sunlight poured through unexpected raindrops—a shimmer of grace falling from a blue sky. The breeze off the Intracoastal cut the summer heat, and he took it as an invitation: he walked. Four miles. Shade and breeze his companions. And in his ears, his latest audiobook—four chapters of Robert Jordan’s Lord of Chaos, interwoven with the whisper of leaves and the steady rhythm of his own breath.
The afternoon led him to General Dollar, not out of urgency, but for the simple pleasure of routine. Potato taters. Zero-sugar soda. Something to stock the pantry. Something to mark the day. He drove home feeling light.
But the temptation lingered. The lure of checking Facebook. The dopamine pulls of the red dot.
He resisted.
Instead, he opened his laptop and began writing — notes for a new article on his health blog, drafts for his fiction website, ideas swirling for a piece that might inspire someone down the line. Perhaps this very story, told under another name. Perhaps this moment.
He no longer felt the need to link everything to Facebook. His creative work had become sacred again, private even. The likes didn’t matter. The shares didn’t either. What mattered was clarity. Discipline. The rediscovery of his gifts: writing, storytelling, teaching.
Social media had taught him a painful truth: that much of the world now performed rather than lived. He too had performed, perhaps not with vanity, but with the quiet desperation of someone trying to matter in a world that was forgetting him.
But God had not forgotten him. The Spirit reminded him daily—through wind, through verse, through the very restraint it took not to open another tab.
There were things Ramon still missed: the spontaneous chats with old friends, the imagined life in his hometown, the brief flirtation with digital popularity. But more than these, he longed for something deeper—something lasting. Conversations with God. Insights from long-dead authors. Honest reflections rendered in prose, stored in a quiet website, unlinked from the noise.
At dusk, Ramon sat again by his window, the same kind of window he had once stared through back home. But this one looked out onto a Florida street, quiet and still, the breeze just beginning to shift as another thunderstorm prepared to arrive.
He pulled out his notebook and began to write:
“Offer your life not for applause, but for purpose. Offer your time not for praise, but for presence. Offer your gifts not for trend, but for truth.”
He paused.
This was worship.
This was joy.
This was enough.
2025-07-17 00:00:56
shortstories