The myth of the English-speaking nation

By Noel Galon de Leon

I don’t know if our president has finally lost his sense of reality, but according to yesterday’s news, President Ferdinand Marcos Jr. has vowed to strengthen social programs, improve education, and make the Philippines the best English-speaking country in Asia before his term ends in 2028. The funny thing is, in a country where English has long been a symbol of class, power, and colonial memory, it seems the president still doesn’t understand the very language he’s so eager to perfect.

Every few years, a viral headline or a social media post proudly claims that Filipinos are the best English speakers in Asia. It sounds like a compliment, something to uplift our national spirit. We share it on Facebook, add heart emojis, and feel a little taller for a moment. It is a comforting thought that even if our nation struggles with corruption, economic hardship, and social inequality, at least we can speak the language of global power with ease. But perhaps we need to stop and think about what this actually means. The truth is that Filipinos will never be the best English speakers in Asia. And the deeper truth is that we do not need to be.

From the beginning of a Filipino child’s education, English is positioned as a measure of intelligence and class. The first years of schooling are filled with alphabet songs, spelling drills, and endless corrections of grammar mistakes. English becomes the gatekeeper to academic success. Yet when that same child goes home, everything shifts. The parents speak in Tagalog, Cebuano, Ilocano, Hiligaynon, or Waray. The television shows are in Filipino. The neighborhood gossip flows in the local tongue. In this space, English becomes a visitor rather than a resident. The child learns early that English is a language of authority and formality, not of comfort and emotion.

That tension defines the Filipino relationship with English. It is not a native language, and it never will be. It is an adopted one, shaped by history, survival, and ambition. Our version of English, what linguists call Philippine English, is not inferior. It is simply different. It carries the rhythm of our islands, the melody of our regional dialects, and the warmth of our cultural expressions. When Filipinos say, “Can you open the light?” or “I will go home already,” they are not being wrong. They are being Filipino.

But the problem is that we have been conditioned to see English as a mirror of worth.

We measure social status through accent and vocabulary. In many offices, an employee’s confidence in English can outweigh their actual skill or intelligence. In call centers, workers spend months neutralizing their accents, replacing their natural tones with American ones. In classrooms, teachers sometimes shame students for mispronunciations instead of encouraging confidence. On social media, people mock others who speak English with grammatical errors. It is as if language has become a form of class warfare.

This obsession is rooted in history. For more than three centuries, we were colonized by Spain, and for nearly half a century, by the United States. The Americans used English as a tool of control, a way to reshape our minds and culture. They told us that English was the key to progress. And for decades, we believed them. We built our educational system around it. We built our dreams around it. Speaking English became a symbol of modernity and success. Those who could not speak it fluently were seen as uneducated or provincial. We inherited not just the language but also the hierarchy that came with it.

Today, English proficiency still determines opportunities. Many Filipinos depend on it for their livelihoods. From call center agents to overseas nurses, teachers, and seafarers, English has become a survival skill. It is the passport to employment abroad and the currency of globalization. But behind every fluent sentence uttered by a Filipino worker in another country lies a hidden sadness. It is the sound of someone adapting to survive, someone who had to leave home to earn a living in a world that values English more than their native tongue.

Yet there is something remarkable about how Filipinos have made English their own. We mix it with Filipino words in everyday speech. We switch languages mid-sentence without hesitation. We can say, “Grabe traffic, I’ll be late for my meeting,” and everyone understands perfectly. Linguists call it code-switching, but for us, it is simply how we live. It reflects our flexibility and our comfort with complexity. Our English is not pure, but it is alive. It is proof of our ability to adapt without losing our identity.

Some countries have taken a more assertive approach. Singapore has Singlish. India has Hinglish. These nations have accepted that their versions of English belong to them. They have stopped chasing the idea of “native” fluency. They have turned the colonizer’s language into their own cultural property. The Philippines, on the other hand, still carries the burden of perfection. We still dream of sounding American or British. We still think that to be truly good at English, we must erase the traces of our accent, our humor, and our soul.

Perhaps this is where we need to pause. What does it even mean to be the best English speaker in Asia? Is it the ability to imitate an American accent flawlessly? Is it mastery of grammar? Or is it something deeper, like the power to express humanity and emotion? If it is the latter, then Filipinos are already among the best communicators in the world, regardless of accent or syntax. We speak English not just with our tongues but with our hearts.

The English we speak may not be perfect by Western standards, but it carries something more meaningful. It carries empathy, humility, and a sense of humor that no textbook can teach. It carries the pain of millions of migrant workers speaking English in foreign lands while dreaming of home. It carries the laughter of friends who shift between languages without losing connection. It carries the creativity of storytellers, vloggers, and poets who play with English words and Filipino emotions. It is imperfect, yes, but it is human.

So let us stop trying to “win” at English. Let us stop treating fluency as a measure of intelligence or worth. Let us see language for what it truly is: a bridge that connects people, not a fence that divides them. The greatness of a language lies not in its purity but in its power to carry life. Filipino English does that beautifully. It is messy, emotional, flexible, and real, just like the people who speak it.

We may never be Asia’s best English speakers, but we are something better. We are storytellers. We are survivors. We are people who can speak in multiple tongues and still sound like ourselves. And that, more than perfect grammar or accent, is what truly matters. So please, someone tell the president that we don’t need to be the best English speakers in Asia. Fluency won’t fix corruption. What this country truly needs before he steps down is not another empty promise, but the courage to jail and hold accountable the very thieves sitting comfortably within his own government.