When I first sat down to fill out my academic credential assessment forms for Canada, I expected it to be straightforward. Submit transcripts. Check equivalencies. Move forward. But then I reached the part that asked for proof of English proficiency and I froze. Not because I didn’t have the skills. I’ve been speaking, writing, even thinking in English for most of my life. But because something about being asked to prove it, again, hit me deeper than I expected.
I was educated in English from the very beginning. Kindergarten teachers gave instructions in English. Science, Math, even MAPEH—everything, at every stage, was taught in English. At home, we spoke Hiligaynon and Filipino, yes. But English was there too—woven into church songs, cartoons, school essays, Bible readings. I never questioned it. That was just how we lived. The street signs were in English. Our exams were in English. Even arguments in school often involved “Shut up!” not “Maghipos ka!”
And yet, here I am, in a country that shares so many of those linguistic markers, being told that I still count as an ESL (English as a Second Language) speaker. That I need to prove—through a formal exam—that I can read, write, listen, and speak English. I’m not against the policy. I understand the need for standardization and fairness in immigration systems. I’m just… baffled, maybe. Or quietly stung.
It’s not that I feel entitled. We are outsiders here. I say that not with bitterness, just clarity. But I also know I’m not alone in asking this quiet question: If we’ve spent our whole lives learning in English, singing in English, even dreaming in English, why does it still feel like we’re being told—your English isn’t quite enough?
The Silent Test of Belonging
I ended up taking the IELTS Academic exam. Like most Filipinos I know who’ve taken it, I scored high. We often do. Our exposure, training, and even our pop culture set us up well for English exams. I remember preparing through the mock tests which are packaged with the exam fees. The phrasing wasn’t unfamiliar. The accents didn’t throw me off. If anything, I found myself annoyed at the artificiality of the scenarios. Like, why are we still being tested on this? Who exactly are these tests made for?
It made me think of all the classroom drills we did back in school. Reading comprehension passages about unfamiliar Western contexts. Writing essays on topics we didn’t relate to, but could navigate because we’d been trained to. Reciting in front of class, carefully avoiding any Filipino intonation. Even casual things like spelling “color” without the U, following American English to the letter.
When I started applying for jobs here in Canada, I never received direct comments about my English. People understood me. I understood them. Some even told me my English was good—mostly older Canadians who probably meant it kindly. And I smiled, nodded, said thank you. But later, I’d sit with those words and feel a kind of unease. It wasn’t exactly offensive. But it did remind me that my fluency is still seen as something surprising.
I sometimes catch myself adjusting how I speak in interviews. Not the words—I know the words. But the delivery. Slower. Firmer. A little flatter in tone, more “Am-speak,” less lilting Filipino rhythm. I don’t think I do it to hide. I think I do it to move faster through the steps. To make things smoother. Less room for people to doubt. Maybe that’s pride too. Or maybe it’s fatigue.
A Real and Evolving English
Philippine English is not broken English. Linguists have actually studied it—documented how it has evolved from its American roots into something uniquely Filipino. There’s even a whole category of vocabulary that exists only in our version: comfort room for restroom, aircon for air conditioner, jeepney, ref, salvage used differently, batchmate. And though these may sound odd to others, they are not wrong. They are part of what makes Philippine English a legitimate variety of English.
Some scholars call this process “nativization,” where English adapts to local settings. Over time, the Philippines developed its own norms—a phenomenon called “endonormative stabilization”[cm_simple_footnote id=1][cm_simple_footnote id=2]. It means we’re no longer just copying foreign Englishes. We’ve made our own. English isn’t just a second language for us—it’s a functional first in many settings.
The Philippine Classroom Experience
The truth is, our colonial history played a big role. When the Americans came in the early 1900s, they brought public education and used English as the main language of instruction[cm_simple_footnote id=3]. The system stuck. From that point on, Filipino students learned to write essays, debate, and memorize scientific terms—in English.
Even today, a student in the Philippines will read Shakespeare, answer math problems, and conduct biology experiments using English textbooks. English is used in exams, thesis defenses, and official school functions. That’s not ESL. That’s English as the default.
English is also one of the official languages of the Philippines, alongside Filipino[cm_simple_footnote id=4]. It’s used in government, law, medicine, and higher education. Our Supreme Court rulings, medical lectures, and international treaties are in English. We read the Bible in English. Our news broadcasts have English editions. It’s not occasional use. It’s systemic.
Still, despite this, countries like Canada often don’t include us in the list of “English-exempt” nations. Some schools accept Duolingo English tests in lieu of formal ones, but the bigger systems stick with IELTS or TOEFL. It’s hard not to feel overlooked.
A Language We Use Every Day
In most professional spaces, I’m confident with how I speak. I don’t stumble. I don’t worry that I’ll be misunderstood. In fact, I enjoy conversations with Canadians who strike up small talk with me. And yet, at the back of my mind, there’s always this mild awareness: You’re being heard, but you’re still being assessed.
I’ve been lucky. No one has laughed at my accent or questioned my vocabulary. But I know that for some Filipinos, especially those entering caregiving, customer service, or hospitality roles, the expectations around “neutral” English can be more brutal. We’re told our accents are “cute” or “hard to follow.” Some workers feel the need to neutralize their tone entirely, stripping away any trace of where they came from.
But here’s the irony: most Filipinos can switch registers on demand. It’s part of our training. We code-switch constantly. English in class, Filipino at recess. Hiligaynon at home, English on the phone. We adjust based on context. That’s not a limitation. That’s a skill[cm_simple_footnote id=5].
What It Means to Be “ESL”
So when I hear the term ESL, I don’t reject it outright. But I do question how it’s applied. Because if someone is taught in English from kindergarten, graduates college using English, and works in environments where English is the norm—what are we measuring when we still call them ESL?
We are not newcomers to the language. We are, in many ways, co-owners. We’ve lived in it. Shaped it. And I think it’s time for policy—and perception—to reflect that.
Final Words
To my fellow Filipinos preparing to migrate: you are more ready than you think. Our colonial history is messy, sure. English was imposed, not chosen. It was once used to suppress other languages, to break ties with our Spanish-influenced past. But it also became a tool for education. For mobility. For connection. And in that strange twist of fate, it made us excellent communicators. We adapted. We learned how to speak in ways that allowed us to thrive globally.
If you’re taking IELTS or TOEFL, don’t be intimidated. Review the structure, practice your timing, and go in confident. You’re not starting from zero. You have decades of immersion on your side. Don’t waste time polishing an accent that isn’t yours. Focus on clarity, on substance, on delivery.
And to the institutions and employers on this side of the migration story: please listen. When a Filipino speaks in English, you’re not hearing a second language speaker. You’re hearing someone who’s been doing this for years—maybe longer than you think. Don’t mistake familiarity for formality. Don’t confuse variation with incompetence.
Philippine English is not a lesser version of English. It is one of many global Englishes that reflect the lives, cultures, and histories of real people. It carries weight. It carries meaning. And most of all, it works.
Let’s stop pretending it doesn’t.