When people ask me about my being Filipino, it surprises them that I don’t understand the Tagalog language—or have different words for Filipino things.

I have to explain that unlike most Filipinos who settled in the Midwest, my family did not come from the Manila region but rather I am an ethnic and linguistic Ilocano.

The earliest Filipinos in Chicago were a handful of pensionados who arrived in the early 1900s when the Philippines was an American colony—freshly purchased from Spain. Imperial Spain was forced to dissolve its overseas holdings after its loss of the Spanish American War. Many of them were boys from wealthy Manila families—not unlike the characters in Jose Rizal’s epic, Noli Mi Tangere—sent to America with a pension to pay for a Western education.

I only recently finished reading the Noli and its sister book, the Fili. And you should, too.

These “pensioners” were part of the benevolent assimilation program of the colonial power.

“Benevolent assimilation.” Don’t get me started on this one.

In the northernmost reaches of Luzon island, the highlands, mountains, and surrounding coastal areas are the Ilocos—today divided up into the provinces of Ilocos Norte, Ilocos Sur, Pangasinan, among others.

These are where my people are from.

And we did not come to America as pensionados.

No.

My people came as sakada—farmer laborers exploited to work the sugarcane fields on the Hawaiian Islands.

While the tendency today is to move away from Philippines regionalism—an aim of the country’s independence heroes—it is difficult to do as Ilocano people.

We have our own traditions in literature, music, art, and spirituality that differ greatly from the politically-superior tribal Tagalog people. And our language is different.

My great-grandfather Eusebio Farinas was the first to arrive on a cattle ship (yes, a steamship for cows) to Honolulu from Narvacan, Ilocos Sur. He had accepted a contract to become an indentured laborer for the Oahu Sugar Company. He was followed by my grandfather Irineo on the cattle ship, SS Maunawili.

Both were part of the first two waves of Ilocano migration that started in 1906—when the Hawaii sugar plantations, which produced a massive amount of the world’s consumer sugar supply, faced a labor shortage.

Recruiters from the Hawaii Sugar Planters’ Association (HSPA) needed workers—cheap workers who would do anything for a couple bucks.

The HSPA offered what would seem to Ilocanos as attractive wages and benefits. In reality, they were not.

$14 per month, actually. With reductions for company-provided housing and company-store purchases for food, clothes, and other necessities.

“I sold my soul to the company store,” Tennessee Ernie Ford sang about debt bondage.

These Ilocanos suffered debt bondage.

They found their supply in the provinces of Ilocos Norte and Ilocos Sur.

“Just sign on the line.”

“You will be a Hawaiiano.”

Between 1906 and 1930, various sources claim that over 30,000 Ilocanos signed up and migrated with the promise that, “Kasla gloria ti Hawaii” or “Hawaii must be paradise”—an ironic claim for these Pacific islanders.

Despite the ends, some historians would claim it was a trap. The sugar planters were not exactly known to be benevolent men—considering they were responsible for the illegal overthrow of a peacefully-reigning Queen of a prosperous independent Hawaiian kingdom and hand the land over to the U.S. Government. This was done with the illegal help of the U.S. Marines and Navy.

Those Ilocano laborers we now call sakada faced grueling work hours, laboring with canvas and burlap sacks tied to their arms and legs to protect them from the stinging brush in the fields from sunrise to sunset on the hot plains of places like Waipahu and Wahiawa—alongside equally exploited Japanese, Chinese, and Portuguese workers.

The work involved cutting, harvesting, and processing the profitable sweet grass stalks—which required physical strength and endurance to do.

Living conditions were akin to crudely built shacks laid out in camps—similar to Black slaves in the American South.

My grandfather Irineo lived in Camp 2 in Waipahu—a specifically Ilocano camp. Men would share a “house” with a dozen men. Sanitation was limited. Access to healthcare and education was almost nil—especially in the earliest years.

Despite the hardships, those Ilocanos, my forefather Hawaiianos, persevered and found strength in their shared culture and traditions.

They became close, singing songs by campfire to the strums of guitars under starry Hawaiian nights—sharing food they traded with the other Japanese, Chinese, and Portuguese workers.

Among the inventions during this time is the ramen-like egg noodle soup dish called saimin—a product of plantation laborer cultures colliding in the camps.

These Ilocanos would meet off-site at Catholic mission churches, like Saint John the Baptist in Kalihi.

They would form their own social organizations to support one another—and the families they left behind in the Philippines.

The Great Depression was an earthquake for the Hawaii sugar industry and the sugar barons that ran the plantations. Demand for the sweet grains was reduced which led to unemployment and poverty among plantation laborers.

During this time, racial discrimination and prejudice increased as white Americans in charge saw these Ilocanos as a threat to their economic and social status.

A system akin to apartheid was created during this time in Hawaii history—with government run by an oligarchy of the Big Five sugar factors (ironically, my brother now works for one of them, Alexander and Baldwin) and separate rules enforced for whites versus Native Hawaiians and the Asian and Portuguese migrants. Segregation was enforced and police were known to have harassed and violently treated these “colored” locals.

I recommend people watch the PBS American Experience documentary, The Island Murder, about the Massie Trial. It explains the political environment of the time.

But Ilocanos responded to these adversities, organizing themselves politically and economically. This is when they discovered the power of the labor union—striking to demand better wages and working conditions.

Plantations started contracting physicians to offer healthcare services. One of those country doctors was father to the future Honolulu Mayor Kirk Caldwell—who won City Hall on a wave of Filipino votes.

Ilocanos who finished their contracts stayed in Hawaii and engaged in their own sources of income off the plantations. They fished, farmed, and started their own small businesses.

My grandfather’s brother, Lucio, opened a small laundry business—one of the first successful ones owned by any Filipino in Hawaii. Though, it wasn’t quite the level Chinese-Filipino American tycoon Vicky Cayetano’s business achieved.

A watershed moment was when Ilocanos started going to school—including the University of Hawaii. My branch of the Farinas family has two alumni—my older cousin Jonathan and my younger brother Jun.

A third wave of Ilocano migration took place after World War II—when the Philippines became an independent nation in 1946. This wave consisted of war veterans, wives of U.S. soldiers, students, professionals, and relatives of earlier migrants—like my grandfather’s children, cousins, nieces and nephews.

Family reunification became another watershed moment as Ilocano families began to buy land and build houses in Hawaii.

These family members would be integrated into the tourism economy—becoming staffers at the major hoteliers—the Moana Surfrider, Royal Hawaiian, Princess Kaiulani, and Hawaiian Village, among others.

My own father would work as a utility steward at the Royal Hawaiian while my mother would work as a housekeeper at the Moana Surfrider.

We are currently in the middle of the fourth wave of Ilocano immigration—which began in the 1960s. The creation of Medicare and Medicaid meant an increase in healthcare jobs—and an increase in doctors and nurses.

The American feminist movement opened up new job opportunities for women in the U.S. This meant they ended up fleeing nursing and teaching jobs.

Ilocanos stepped in to fill these needs.

According to the 2010 U.S. Census, over 200,000 people in Hawaii said they were specifically ethnic Ilocanos. That is more than 85% of the Filipino population of Hawaii.

The history of the sakada and Hawaiianos is more complex than I have shared. A century of presence in Hawaii has transformed the Ilocano people of Hawaii into something different from Ilocanos today in the Philippines.

Even the Ilocano language of Hawaii has evolved to include more words and phrases borrowed or developed from their fellow plantation laborer ethnicities.

Their folk music has found to have blended into contemporary local Hawaiian music.

Ilocano foods like pinakbet, dinengdeng, and longanisa sausages have changed to Hawaii tastes. Bibinka for example now looks more like local-style Japanese butter mochi—with an inherently smoother texture.

Ilocano art in Hawaii like abel textile weaving, inabel cotton and pineapple fiber clothmaking, damili pottery, and sarungbangi songs have incorporated Hawaiian motifs.

When people ask me about being Filipino, I am excited to engage in an education—to teach with pride my Ilocano roots. Or rather, my Ilocano Hawaiiano roots.