Why We Say “You’re More Filipino Than Most Filipinos” and Why It’s Not Just a Compliment
You’ve seen the phrase before. Maybe you’ve even typed it.
A foreign vlogger eats with their hands. A K-pop star sings in Tagalog. A white tourist posts a beach reel with the caption, “Mahal ko kayo.” The comment section fills with adoration. “You’re more Filipino than most Filipinos.” It sounds harmless, even heartwarming. On the surface, it feels like a compliment. A moment of pride. A way for Filipinos to express joy when others recognize what we’ve always known is beautiful.
But when a phrase like this becomes so common, and so easily said, it deserves a second look.
What does it actually mean to be more Filipino than most? Why do we offer so much praise to outsiders who embrace Filipino culture, yet often hesitate to extend the same acceptance to our own – especially those who are queer, regional, dark-skinned, diaspora-born, or don’t meet the usual expectations of how a Filipino should act, look, or speak?
This is about more than flattery. It’s about Filipino identity, and how we’ve come to define it not just by history or heritage, but by performance. Somewhere along the way, being Filipino became something that could be earned, something that could be handed out like a prize, something that feels more valid when it is reflected back to us by someone from outside.
Beneath this instinct lies something we’ve carried for centuries. Colonial mentality taught us that being seen by others was a form of worth. That praise from outsiders made our culture more real. That recognition from foreign voices mattered more than affirmation from within. This is why foreign validation feels powerful. Why we sometimes feel more proud when someone else says we are worth celebrating than when we say it ourselves.
When we tell someone they’re “more Filipino than most Filipinos,” we are not just congratulating them. We are revealing the complicated ways we have learned to attach value to our own culture. We give identity as if it is a reward, while silently creating a hierarchy of who belongs and who still has something to prove.
This pattern has become part of our online culture and our everyday behavior. We see it in how honorary Filipino labels are handed out. We see it in the way we decide who gets to be included and who gets to be corrected. We see it in our discomfort with tension and our desire to be accommodating. Ideas like hiya, pakikisama, and utang na loob play a role in this. They shape how we express pride, how we show gratitude, and how we avoid confronting the harder truths about ourselves.
This is not just about foreigners. It is about us. About what we celebrate, what we suppress, and how much of our identity is shaped by wanting to be seen. Because at some point, the phrase “You’re more Filipino than most Filipinos” stopped being just a comment. It became a mirror we keep holding up, hoping it tells us what we long to believe.
- Why We Say “You’re More Filipino Than Most Filipinos” and Why It’s Not Just a Compliment
- “Honorary Filipino” – Compliment, Cringe or Coping Mechanism
- Who Gets to Be Called Filipino and Why We Still Gatekeep Our Own
- Why We Give Identity to Outsiders but Make It Harder for Our Own to Belong
- When Filipino Identity Is Treated Like a Prize Instead of a Lived Experience
- When Cultural Appreciation Replaces Filipino Voices Instead of Uplifting Them
- How to Be Proudly Filipino Without Needing to Be Seen
- Who Are We Giving Our Identity To and Why Do We Keep Asking for Ours Back
“Honorary Filipino” – Compliment, Cringe or Coping Mechanism
For many Filipinos, calling someone an “honorary Filipino” feels like a warm gesture. It is often said with pride or amusement, a way to show appreciation when someone from outside expresses genuine love for Filipino culture. Whether it is a foreign actor trying adobo or a content creator posting travel vlogs from Siargao, the label gets passed around like a stamp of approval. In a digital age where attention is currency, being called an “honorary Filipino” seems like the highest form of cultural praise.
But what exactly does this phrase mean? Who gets to be called one? And why has it become so easy for us to hand out Filipino-ness as a compliment?
The term “honorary Filipino” has become a shorthand for belonging. It is how we signal that someone has passed the invisible test. That they have said the right phrases, shown enough interest, or demonstrated enough emotional connection to be rewarded with cultural status. It might look like harmless flattery, but at its core, this label reshapes how we understand what it means to be Filipino. Instead of being a birthright or a lived identity, Filipino-ness becomes something that can be earned through approval, behavior, or foreign fascination.
The instinct to give this label is not shallow. It is tied to something far older and more emotional. To understand why we are so quick to declare someone an honorary Filipino, we have to look at the cultural psychology that drives this habit. At the center is a potent mix of hiya, utang na loob, and colonial mentality – forces that continue to shape how we relate to recognition, validation, and power.
Hiya, or the deep sense of social propriety, pushes us to be accommodating and deferential, especially to those we perceive as guests or superiors. When a foreigner engages with our culture, we often respond with excessive politeness, even admiration, because we do not want to appear rude or ungrateful. This politeness is not always conscious—it is embedded in our instinct to be welcoming at all costs.
Utang na loob, or debt of gratitude, is another force at play. When someone from outside acknowledges our culture, many of us feel an emotional debt. We feel honored. And in return, we give praise that often outweighs the gesture. We offer identity as a form of repayment, believing that their act of noticing us deserves something in return.
But the strongest undercurrent is colonial mentality, a deeply rooted belief that anything foreign carries more weight. This mindset, passed down from centuries of colonization, teaches us that praise from outsiders validates our worth. That if someone from a powerful nation admires our food, our people, or our values, it must mean those things are finally real or exceptional. In this light, the honorary Filipino label becomes less about inclusion and more about emotional dependence. It reveals how much we still seek to be seen, and how that longing can override our sense of internal belonging.
When we give out Filipino identity as a reward, we begin to change its shape. It stops being a complex, evolving experience and starts to look like a checklist of good behavior. Speak a little Tagalog. Try lechon. Praise the hospitality. These gestures become more than respectful – they become qualifying acts. And when foreign praise becomes the gateway to identity, we are left with a troubling question. If Filipino-ness can be earned from the outside, can it also be denied from within?
Because while we are busy praising others for loving our culture, many Filipinos are still trying to prove they deserve to belong to it. From queer Filipinos and Indigenous peoples to diaspora youth who speak more English than Tagalog, there is a quiet battle for recognition happening behind the scenes. They are rarely called honorary anything. Instead, they are questioned, corrected, and sometimes erased.
The term “honorary Filipino” is not just a compliment. It is a reflection of how we value ourselves. It reveals how quickly we are willing to give away pieces of our identity to those who admire it, even as we struggle to offer that same generosity to our own. It invites us to ask why being noticed feels like such a relief, and why we still need someone else to see us before we can fully see ourselves.
Who Gets to Be Called Filipino and Why We Still Gatekeep Our Own
It is easy to celebrate someone who is not Filipino by birth when they show interest in our culture. In fact, many of us go out of our way to make them feel included. We proudly call them “more Filipino than most Filipinos,” elevate them with the “honorary Filipino” label, and share their videos or stories as proof that our culture is worth admiring. But while we offer this cultural inclusion to outsiders with open arms, we often struggle to extend the same grace to our own people.
There are still Filipinos who are not considered “Filipino enough.” They exist at the margins. They speak a different dialect. They come from underrepresented provinces. They are darker-skinned, queer, disabled, Muslim, Indigenous, or born abroad. Some do not know how to speak Tagalog. Some do, but not fluently. Some do not act the way we think a Filipino should act. And so, we question them. We correct them. We reduce them to conditions that we would never apply to a foreigner who did the exact same thing.
This contradiction is not random. It is shaped by what Filipino psychologist Virgilio Enriquez once framed as kahiya-hiya and kapuri-puri. These terms roughly translate to “shameful” and “praiseworthy,” and they reveal something important about how Filipinos judge behavior. The same action – eating with your hands, wearing traditional clothing, speaking broken Tagalog – can be called kapuri-puri when a foreigner does it and kahiya-hiya when a local does. What is praised in one context is mocked or hidden in another, depending on who is performing and who is watching.
This is why someone from Spain or South Korea can sing a Filipino love song and receive thousands of comments saying they are more Filipino than most. Meanwhile, a Visayan content creator who uses their regional language may be told to translate to Tagalog or English to be understood. A queer Filipino who moves with too much softness is seen as too Western or too performative, even though their experiences are shaped by the same history and bloodline.
This double standard reveals an uncomfortable truth. We are more comfortable celebrating our culture when it is presented through someone else. When it is filtered through novelty, foreignness, or performance, we embrace it. But when it is lived, when it is messy, when it does not fit the aesthetic mold, we pull back.
Part of this comes from colonial mentality, but it is also influenced by a persistent obsession with appearances – what some scholars have described as ganda orientation, or beauty-centered social values. We are drawn to what is pleasing, polished, and globally acceptable. As a result, those who do not fit the mold are often left out of our definition of Filipino pride.
So we find ourselves in a strange cultural crisis. We say we want to uplift Filipino identity, but we continue to gatekeep it. We give it away to those who mirror our culture back to us in ways that feel entertaining or admirable. Yet we question those who live it in ways that feel uncomfortable, difficult, or unfamiliar. We praise performance, but hesitate with lived experience.
This is the heart of the Filipino identity crisis – we want to be proud, but we do not always know how to hold pride that does not look neat. We want to be inclusive, but we have not reckoned with the standards we quietly enforce. We want to be seen, but we still struggle to see each other.
So before we call someone else “more Filipino than most,” maybe we need to ask why so many actual Filipinos still feel like they have to prove they belong.
Why We Give Identity to Outsiders but Make It Harder for Our Own to Belong
In Filipino culture, we are taught from a young age to be kind, accommodating, and polite. These traits are often seen as our greatest virtues. They are rooted in our values of pakikisama, the desire to keep harmony within the group, and hiya, the instinct to avoid shame or causing discomfort. On the surface, these values make us appear warm and welcoming. But when left unchecked, they can also shape how we protect, perform, and even surrender cultural identity.
When a foreigner shows admiration for Filipino culture, many of us go out of our way to reward them. We flood them with praise, celebrate their effort, and tell them they belong. We do this because it feels good. Because we want to be gracious. Because we are proud that someone finally noticed us. But part of why we give this validation so quickly is because we have been taught that saying nothing would be rude, and saying too little might seem ungrateful. So instead, we give everything. We say, “You’re more Filipino than most.” We say, “Welcome to the family.”
This instinct is shaped by a subtle but powerful need to maintain peace. Pakikisama teaches us to avoid confrontation. Hiya tells us not to make things awkward. So rather than having real conversations about culture, identity, or appropriation, we overcompensate with praise. We turn validation into diplomacy. We treat inclusion like a gift we give to avoid conflict, instead of a truth we guard with care.
At the same time, many Filipinos who live outside the mold continue to be held at arm’s length. A Filipino born abroad who struggles with Tagalog may be shamed for being “too Western.” A local artist who critiques religion or politics may be told they are not “Filipino enough.” A member of the LGBTQIA+ community may be celebrated for talent but quietly disrespected in private. These people are not given honorary titles. They are given silent suspicion.
What this reveals is that our standards of Filipino-ness are not consistent. They are selectively enforced depending on who is watching, who is performing, and who is expected to conform. Outsiders are given identity as a reward for admiration. Insiders are made to earn it by adhering to unspoken rules.
This is not because we are cruel. It is because we are conditioned to protect harmony, even if it comes at the cost of truth. We do not want to challenge a foreign admirer. We do not want to confront our own internal biases. And so, we give identity away to avoid tension and withhold it when it feels too complicated.
At the root of this is still colonial mentality, which has trained us to center external approval over internal alignment. We have learned that to be seen by others is to be valued. That applause is worth more than discomfort. And so we bend ourselves around who celebrates us, even if it means breaking the bonds between us and our own people.
When identity becomes something we offer to others but not to ourselves, it stops being a home. It becomes a stage. And on that stage, we begin to lose sight of who we are when no one else is watching.
When Filipino Identity Is Treated Like a Prize Instead of a Lived Experience
Filipino identity is often described as something beautiful. It is associated with resilience, hospitality, warmth, and joy. But beauty can become a mask when identity is reduced to what others find admirable. Over time, Filipino-ness has stopped being just a lived experience. It has become something people perform in exchange for praise, and something others are awarded for performing well.
This transformation turns Filipino identity into a prize. A form of recognition handed out when someone behaves in ways we like. Foreigners are praised for saying “salamat.” Content creators go viral for eating with their hands. Tourists are celebrated for visiting small towns. These acts become currency – small gestures exchanged for social validation. And when we respond by saying they are “more Filipino than most,” we are not just being kind. We are declaring that Filipino identity is something to be earned.
This performance-based view of culture does not just affect outsiders. It creates impossible expectations for Filipinos themselves. It suggests that to belong fully, you must be presentable, fluent, funny, photogenic, or agreeable. You must match the version of Filipino-ness that is easiest to celebrate. And if you do not, you risk being treated as incomplete.
Here, the concept of loob becomes essential. In Filipino psychology, loob refers to the internal self – our depth, intention, integrity, and emotional truth. It is what lies beneath the surface. Being Filipino, in its most rooted form, is about loob, not performance. It is about connection to community, memory, language, and struggle. These are not things that can be performed for likes or taught through travel. They are lived. They are carried. They are felt.
But in a world driven by appearance, even Filipino-ness has become filtered through ganda orientation – our deep cultural obsession with what is pleasing, polished, and desirable. We associate being Filipino with smiling faces, attractive visuals, warm hospitality, and success abroad. We do not often associate it with protest, pain, grief, contradiction, or resistance, even though those experiences are just as Filipino as joy.
When identity is treated like a trophy, it creates a hierarchy. Foreigners are given recognition for trying. Filipinos are told to try harder. Those who are loud, defiant, regional, or complex are seen as difficult to claim. Meanwhile, those who fit the exportable image of Filipino pride become the face of the culture – even when their connection to it is minimal.
This is what deepens the Filipino identity crisis. We have turned culture into performance, and we have turned belonging into a competition. We hand out identity to those who reflect it back in pleasing ways, while asking those who live it every day to prove they deserve it. We reward mirrors more than we honor roots.
To reclaim Filipino identity, we must begin with loob. We must move inward. Not to find the perfect image of culture, but to recognize that it cannot be simplified. It is not a prize. It is not a reaction. It is a lived interior. And it does not need permission to exist.
When Cultural Appreciation Replaces Filipino Voices Instead of Uplifting Them
It is easy to say that cultural appreciation is always a good thing. When someone from another country celebrates Filipino food, learns our history, or travels with curiosity, it often brings pride. For many Filipinos, especially those in the diaspora or in historically overlooked communities, being seen by outsiders can feel like a long-overdue recognition.
But there is a line between appreciation and replacement. And we are crossing it more often than we admit.
The internet is filled with content that celebrates Filipino culture – but the voices leading the most visible narratives are not always Filipino. Foreign YouTubers gain millions of views for discovering street food or reacting to OPM songs. Travel influencers are praised for visiting remote islands, while local creators from those same places struggle to gain traction. People from abroad are called “honorary Filipino” for speaking a few Tagalog phrases, while actual Filipinos are criticized for not speaking “well enough.”
This is not just an algorithm problem. It is a symptom of something deeper. The collective belief that Filipino culture needs external validation to matter. That it becomes more exciting, more beautiful, more legitimate, when it is presented through someone else’s lens.
At the root of this is still colonial mentality, the lingering mindset that foreign recognition is more valuable than internal affirmation. When a tourist praises our cuisine, it feels like a win. When a foreigner speaks our language, it feels like progress. These moments are not wrong to enjoy. But when those moments are the only ones we celebrate – when they begin to drown out local voices, lived experiences, and uncomfortable truths – we have moved from appreciation into displacement.
This is where utang na loob returns as a powerful undercurrent. We feel indebted to those who amplify us. When someone praises us, we want to give back. We offer excessive admiration, loyalty, even silence, because we feel like we owe them something. We elevate their voices, sometimes more than our own, because it feels polite, grateful, or strategic. But over time, that debt shapes our judgment. We hesitate to speak up. We hesitate to center ourselves. And slowly, we begin to hand over the microphone completely.
The result is a strange imbalance. Outsiders become the storytellers of our culture, while many Filipinos remain background characters. Those who live the experience every day are told to wait, to soften, to be more entertaining, more palatable, more grateful. Pakikisama plays a role again here, pushing us to maintain harmony even when we feel erased. We do not want to make a scene. So we celebrate others while shrinking ourselves.
This is not a call to gatekeep joy or block connection. Cultural exchange is valuable. Recognition is not the enemy. But when foreign praise becomes more amplified than Filipino presence, we must ask who is being centered and why. Who is building the archive of our culture? Who is shaping how the world understands what it means to be Filipino?
Appreciation should uplift. It should expand the stage, not replace the performers. If we are not careful, we risk applauding others for reflecting our culture back to us while slowly becoming strangers to ourselves.
How to Be Proudly Filipino Without Needing to Be Seen
Filipino pride has often been shaped by reaction. It rises when others notice us, when someone from abroad praises our culture, or when we find ourselves trending on the global stage. In many ways, we have been conditioned to express identity only when it is visible. When it is liked. When it is validated. But there is a different kind of pride that exists beyond the spotlight – a quieter, deeper pride that does not need to be clapped for to be real.
To reclaim Filipino identity, we need to shift our attention inward. Not toward how the world sees us, but toward how we see each other – and how we see ourselves when no one is watching. This begins with loob, the inner self that holds our emotions, contradictions, integrity, and truth. Filipino-ness is not something that lives only on the surface. It is not limited to gestures, accents, or appearances. It is built on memory, struggle, compassion, and the daily choices we make to care for community even in silence.
We do not need to perform our culture to belong to it. We do not need to translate it for algorithms or package it for outside understanding. Our pride does not have to look good on camera to matter.
This also means refusing the belief that identity must always be proved. You are not less Filipino if you speak another language better than Tagalog. You are not less Filipino if you were born abroad, or grew up away from ancestral land. You are not less Filipino if you do not fit the model of joy that is exported to the world. To be Filipino is not to fit a single image – it is to be in relationship with history, with others, and with self.
In Filipino psychology, this connection is expressed through kapwa – the shared inner self that exists between people. To return to kapwa is to remember that Filipino identity is not a solo performance. It is collective. It is relational. It is something we strengthen together, not something we wait to be handed.
So instead of measuring our pride by applause, we can measure it by presence. By how we protect each other. By how we tell our stories, even if no one reacts. By how we continue to show up in the face of invisibility or erasure.
Being proudly Filipino does not require being visible to others. It requires being honest with ourselves. We are not here to entertain the world. We are here to carry something sacred – and that does not need permission to be felt.
Who Are We Giving Our Identity To and Why Do We Keep Asking for Ours Back
The phrase “You’re more Filipino than most Filipinos” is easy to say. It rolls off the tongue, often with affection, sometimes with pride. But the more we repeat it, the more it reveals the complicated relationship we have with ourselves. It is not just a compliment. It is a confession. One that quietly tells us where we still feel small, still feel unsure, still feel like we need someone else to confirm what we are afraid to claim on our own.
We do not hand out Filipino identity because we are generous. We hand it out because we are still trying to believe that it is enough. And when someone else reflects it back to us with admiration, we feel validated. We feel chosen. But in doing so, we forget that we never needed to be chosen in the first place.
This is the quiet cost of foreign validation. It feels good in the moment, but it keeps us in a cycle of performance and permission. We give identity as a prize to outsiders and turn it into a burden for our own. We create conditions for belonging that can only be met from the outside looking in. And we forget that identity was never meant to be performed or traded. It was meant to be lived.
To reclaim Filipino identity, we must stop asking others to define it for us. We must stop measuring our pride by attention, applause, or approval. We must return to what is already within us – to loob, to kapwa, to the quiet knowledge that we are not Filipino because someone else says so, but because we have carried it even when it was hard, even when it was questioned, even when no one was looking.
We are not mirrors. We are not reflections. We are the source. And it is time we began to see ourselves that way.
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