The night my mother left the Philippines for New York was one of the most difficult nights of my life.
I remember standing on the gate of Ninoy Aquino International Airport, clutching tightly onto my Lola’s (grandmother’s) dress because I couldn’t bear to see my mother walk through the departure gates and disappear. I hid my tears from my mom, who tried to remain strong for us when, deep down, I knew that she was fighting her tears back as best as she could. I watched my mom bid my dad a final goodbye. She held us as tight as she could, and promised that we would all be reunited again soon. With a heavy heart, she walked towards the gate and disappeared in a crowd of “overseas Filipino workers”, who like her, endured a similar final goodbye.
The next few months were challenging as we accustomed ourselves to a new life with an absent mom. My sister and I moved upstairs with our Lola, who, in a way, became our surrogate mother. She listened to our tales of elementary school crushes and the unforeseen burdens of being the class president of Grade 3 Galatians. At night, we slept beside her on her banig, a woven sleeping mat. My dad, on the other hand, pursued a solitary life. He moved into the smallest room of the house and surrounded himself with books and slept soundly beside his guitar at night.
We spent our Saturdays at our dingy local Internet Café surrounded by caffeine-induced gamers as well as other families contacting loved ones abroad. For a brief forty-five minutes, my mother entertained us with stories of snow days and gigantic New York-style pizzas, and ended with a promise that we would be together again soon. Seven months later, our dream became a reality as we boarded a one-way flight to New York in pursuit of a better future.
At the mere age of nine, I couldn’t have known how much our lives would change. My mom showered us with hugs and kisses upon our arrival, and surprised us with a welcome party. We were given warm welcomes, and everyone assured us that we would have the most wonderful time here. Our first wave of homesickness hit later that night when my sister cried for our Lola as we prepared for bed. My mom tried to soothe her melancholy cries as she whispered, “don’t worry, Bunso, Mommy’s here,” over and over again, her eyes glistening with tears.
The first month was particularly difficult. Not only was New York drastically different from the balmy 80-degree weather in sunny Manila, but we had to make tremendous changes to our daily routine. The four of us were alone for the first time ever, and things around us became unnaturally quiet. I no longer heard the call of the rooster at dusk, the barking of stray dogs, or the cries of my cousins as they fought over their toys. My Lola, who has been my rock for my entire life, was nowhere to be found and I felt lost.
A month later, my sister and I started school at our local public school in the Bronx. It was pure hell. I wasn’t fluent in English, and I was constantly teased for mispronouncing the simplest words. When answering a math problem in class, a classmate teased me in front of everyone for saying “chree” instead of “three.” I didn’t have anyone to talk to at recess since no one really wanted to be friends with the weird new kid who couldn’t speak English. At home, I watched cartoons such as Arthur and Magic School Bus, and mimicked their accents until I sounded exactly like the characters of the shows. My dad encouraged me to read in order to become more comfortable with the language, and took my sister and me to trips at our local New York Public Library. With a turn of the page, I became friends with Junie B. Jones and Amelia Bedelia, went on adventures in the “Magic Tree House” and solved mysteries with Nancy Drew.
As years passed, I can sense a part of my identity being stripped away as I became more American than Filipino. There were days when I preferred eating pizza over home-cooked adobo, watched American shows instead Filipino telenovelas and struggled to understand my mom as she spoke in rapid Tagalog. However, the blending of my two cultures made still me unique. I still point with my lips instead with my fingers, which my friends found hilarious, and refuse count a meal without rice as a “full meal.”
I sometimes imagine what life would be like if I stayed in the Philippines. Sure, I might be happier, but I would not have as many opportunities there as I do here. I might feel homesick from time to time, or feel the sudden urge to cry because I miss everyone back home, but I know that I can’t go back just yet. I’m here to make them proud, and I will try my hardest to do just that. As my grandmother always says,
“Ang pagkakataon sa buhay ay madalang dumating. Kapag narito na, ating samantalahin.”
Opportunities in life come rarely. Cherish them when they arrive.