摘要：I grew up in the Philippines. I was there in the 60s. I was there in the 70s. I was an American, and a lot of us were around. Vietnam was not far away, and the American bases of Clark Air Field and Subic Bay were strategic. My parents had little to do with that war. Their "war" was spiritual. They were missionaries. A lot of us were around, enough to encounter protests rallied around a then-common theme: "Yankee Go Home!," "Imperialists Go Home!" As a young boy I remember our school bus cautiously driving through one freshly-ended rally. Through my window, I was looking at people not much older than I as they carried their expressive placards and banners. Some, noticing our busload primarily of white faces, yelled the slogans of those banners directly at us. I didn't understand. Imperialists. The Bataan Death March, Corregidor Island…those were the stories of Imperialism. General MacArthur, good on his promise, returned, crushing Imperialism. What was so bad about me, about America. We were the heroes. We now were the helpers. Why should they want us to leave
