Immigration Anniversary

This summer marked the thirtieth anniversary of mine and my parents’ immigration to the United States. Inay has now been in the States longer than she has lived in the Philippines. I am the exact age Tatay was when he immigrated. I recreated the moment we first touched American soil, with me riding on top of our luggage, our only belongings. Chicago, 1992. My daughter is now the age I was when I immigrated. Time is bizarre, the now and then.

Three years before I made my way through Terminal 3, an American family ran through this terminal to the song Run, Run Rudolph. Yeah, I was pretty excited when I made that connection. Also, the lady behind me to my left, I want her whole outfit.

My family reunited in Hawaii to celebrate. We reflected on the life that came to be because of their sacrifice at such a young age, our age. In that exploration of our family’s pivotal decision, complicated feelings were stirred for me. I’ve had these feelings for as long as I can remember and many times have those feelings been exacerbated when people say, “But aren’t you grateful to be here?” I’ve been hesitant to speak of that gratitude in fear of it being mistaken for patriotism. Although the amount of years in this country say this is my home, America never intended to make a home for someone like me. Yes, I am grateful for what my parents did for me. Being a parent gives me that perspective. We do our best with what we know at the time. Even then I wonder of what my life would’ve been and I compare it to what I have now. I do this to make sense of the gratitude I have. It’s not possible to see all the outcomes of our decisions, though we love to make movies about it. Still I imagine and when I do, I long for a home I only know through my parents' stories. I see the family I have now and the family I had then. The cousins whose lives I would’ve missed if I hadn’t immigrated. The cousins whose lives I missed because I did. The education and skills I have and the opportunities, as I’ve been told, that I would not have. As an immigrant and a child of immigrants, my life culminates in the highs and lows of joy in what I have, and mourning what was given up. These are feelings that will take an entire life to make sense of, but this gathering was for remembering and for honoring.

So we remembered on an island that isn’t our people’s (but it is home to over 300 thousand Filipino-Americans), and we reconnected with the things that reminded us of the land we left behind and that made us feel a little more at home in this country. That feeling of home became palpable when we saw other Filipinos. The Lola who swept the curb at McDonald’s drive-thru with a walis ting ting. The young couple behind me a the 7-Eleven who also had their arms full of Filipino goodies, “Yeah, I’m all for the ensaymadas!” Home was palpable as we swam in the Pacific Ocean. I recalled the photos of my one-year-old self bathing in the Pacific Ocean, Philippines side. Hello, familiar friend! I watched my daughter embrace the ocean, an ancestral bond. Home was palpable as we ate freshly picked guavas, bananas, and green mangoes dipped in bagoong. I watched my parents relive the joys of their lives in the Philippines as they ate. On Philippines Independence Day, we ate Filipino food while we listened to stories of my parents' pre-American life as rice planters and harvesters. On an island that isn’t ours, we felt closer to home than ever before and we honored the 8,602 miles my parents journeyed (with a two-year-old in tow and Inay who was seven months pregnant) and remembered the country we left behind.

That blue suitcase got a lot of use during it’s travels. Likewise, my kids love riding on our Away suitcases. We still have that blue suitcase from all those years ago. My sister who was in Inay’s belly at this time, has taken it into her possession. I have tried to claim it as my own, but no win. Regardless, it is stands as a symbol of our family’s immigration. Lastly, let’s wow at Lola’s rad outfit and Tito Abet’s shirt.