Reflections of an Immigrant

After the company that my father worked for in Tokyo went bankrupt, we moved back home to Manila. My parents had to start over. Because it was hard to find jobs, they decided to start a small business. My mother is a good cook, so they opened a restaurant. My mother was in charge of cooking. My father was in charge of operations. They woke up at dawn every day. Because they didn't have a freezer to store large quantities of food, they went to the market every day to buy what they were going to serve that day. By the time they got home, it dinnertime. The next day, they did it all over again. Amidst of the chaos of running a restaurant, they still found a way to get to know their loyal customers, who affectionately called them "Mommy" and "Daddy". When they had to shut down the restaurant due to financial reasons, my mother once again used her skills to earn some money. She baked cookies and made quilted bags and pencil cases that were sold for a small profit. Th...

On Saturday mornings, my mom likes to do gardening. She’s been taking care of our garden ever since we moved to our home. She started with roses. She bought pots of different colored roses: yellow, pink, purple… She took the time to water each plant, and she experimented with various Miracle-Gro products to see which one worked best. When a plant got bigger, she transferred it to a bigger pot. When the plant grew too big to be contained in a pot, she planted it in a brick flower bed border near the side of our house. When we remodeled our kitchen a few years ago, we learned from our contractor that they needed to remove the roses that she planted by the side of the house to fix some rotten wood flooring near the dining area. At the time, Mom was disappointed, but only a few months later, the roses were in full bloom again and flourished even prettier than before. Mom also planted rosemary and other herbs. She has a large lemon plant and an avocado plant. And, she has a variety of other...

I grew up in the Philippines. Back then, on the first day of school, students crowded around blackboards in the front of the school, and each student searched for her name to find out her assigned classroom. Every year, I searched for my name, but year after year, my name would not be listed. Then, I went to the principal’s office to find out why. It was always the same reason – we didn’t pay the tuition. Instead, my parents gave the school a “promissory note”, a promise to pay, at a later date, when we had the money.   The principal reluctantly assigned me to a classroom.  Then, I awkwardly walked in the classroom late, ashamed and sad. I hated school. I never studied. My grades were barely passing.  When I was 12, my family and I left Manila to come to the US. We came to America to work. My brother, who had to stay behind because he was over the 21-year-old age limit, told me that I would have lots of opportunities if I studied hard and got good grades. I didn’t want to...

It was 1990... I walked off the plane and stepped into a world I never imagined. America. My aunt and uncle, who I never met, greeted my parents, and we loaded up their gray Dodge Caravan with all our luggage. Exhausted from the 14 hour plane ride, and with residual nausea from the turbulence on the flight, I decided to close my eyes for a few minutes. Next thing I knew my aunt and uncle were laughing at me because why on earth would a kid sleep on her first day in a beautiful country? I teared up, but didn't want to show it. I didn't really want to to come here. I wanted to stay home in Manila with my older brother and sister who were over the age of 21, and were not able to come with us because of the age restriction on US petitions. For my parents, this was the only choice. Looking back now, thirty years later, I realize they made the biggest sacrifice of all. They were in their fifties, and decided to pack up and move to California, in the hopes that we would have a better ...

In the fall of 1991, I started school in the US. I was seventh grade at the time and my mom enrolled me in the French school near our studio apartment in the Nob Hill area of San Francisco. I was a fan of the television show Beverly Hills 90210, and that was the image I had of school in the US.   In the first few weeks of school, I quickly learned the basics, like the Pledge of Allegiance and the words to America the Beautiful. I learned that when the teacher takes attendance, the response when your name is called is “here!” and not “present!” like we do in the Philippines. There’s a girl in my class named Marianne, and I learned that her name is pronounced like the name Mary Anne, not MAH-ree-ahn, like we do in the Philippines. My aunt gave me a pair of white K-Swiss, which I wore to school one day. I learned that these are called “tennis shoes” not “rubber shoes” like we call them in the Philippines. Marianne noticed them and said, “Those are awesome shoes!”  There were a fe...