Like most immigrants, my story is complicated…But sharing where I came from is different from telling the tale of what brought me here.
I’ve been called an enigma by friends – even by those who know me well – and I am, most often, perplexed.
“What’s your story?” they would ask.
“Which story?” is my usual reply.
Then it hit me: Like most immigrants, my story is complicated, so instead of telling people the whole story, I self-edit and fast-forward to the present years. But sharing where I came from is different from telling the tale of what brought me here.
I was born in Manila, Philippines, the eldest of three children. My dad was a business entrepreneur; my mother, a chemical engineer. They had planned to immigrate to the U.S., perhaps soon after I was born. In fact, they readied me by hiring an English-speaking nanny, who took care of me from infancy to my toddler years (I learned to speak English fluently before even learning a word of Tagalog). In addition to the nanny, our household included a live-in housekeeper, cook and driver, and a laundress who came in every day to hand-wash, starch and iron our clothes. This was the typical scenario for middle-to-upper class households – the wealthier the family, the more maids and servants they had.
I attended a private, all-girls school. It was so exclusive that it was built like a fortress and required two guards at each entrance, who checked IDs and took names. I would start each school day with a wake-up from my nanny, with just enough time to change into a school uniform already laid out for me, get my waist-long hair styled by one of the maids, go downstairs to a hot breakfast, and brush my teeth before being shuttled to school by the driver.
You could say it was a charmed life, but the Philippines is not perfect by any stretch. My parents did their best to shelter me and my younger brothers from what was beyond our compound’s iron gates: extreme poverty, crime, crowded and polluted streets, and government corruption.
But sooner or later, you grow up…or something forces you to do so. In 1972, President Ferdinand Marcos declared martial law, making it challenging – if not impossible – for many Filipinos to leave the country. My parents’ desire to come to America would have to wait. In the meantime, they nurtured their young family, working to ensure that my brothers and I would not want for anything.
In the summer of 1983, the entire country was filled with anticipation. Marcos’ political rival, Sen. Benigno Aquino, was returning to the Philippines following a self-imposed exile in the United States. My dad, along with millions of other Filipinos, saw hope in Aquino’s homecoming. It was their chance to establish a resistance movement to counter the government and its growing list of atrocities.
On Aug. 21, the day of the senator’s arrival, my dad and I joined countless other Filipinos in viewing the live news coverage from Manila International Airport. But in an instant, that flicker of hope vanished. Soon after his plane landed, the opposition leader was being escorted off the aircraft by government bodyguards when he was felled by an assassin’s bullet.
We watched in horror as pandemonium ensued on the tarmac. To say my dad was livid at the turn of events would be an understatement. He banged his fist on the furniture, spat at the TV, and cursed the Marcos regime.
With that rallying cry, it didn’t take long for my dad to help mobilize a grassroots movement. He became involved full-time with the opposition, taking the lead in planning marches and demonstrations, and appearing in various speaking engagements across Metro Manila. It was at this time that he also divested his various businesses and devoted his energies into a start-up newspaper, The Manila Hotline, a weekly that brought to light the gross injustices suffered by citizens at the hands of the government. He and his publishing partner also began a daily radio program of the same name, which went further in its exposé of the administration.
That year charted my course. I had lived a comfortable, pampered existence; but now, at age 11, I had a front-row seat to the dawn of the People Power Revolution that ultimately toppled the dictatorship. It was also at this time that I became captivated by the news and with becoming a journalist.
My dad’s visibility as an opposition leader was on the rise, and it wasn’t unusual to have reporters and cameras stationed at our home on a regular basis. There was an organized opposition march along Roxas Boulevard every Sunday, where you’d find my dad leading the charge, megaphone in hand. A few times, I’d accompany him on late-night runs to the printer as he oversaw the distribution of the newspaper for delivery. There were plenty of sink-or-swim instances when I had to take part in an assembly line to fold papers by hand in order to get them out. For me, the adrenaline was exhilarating!
It was inevitable that my dad’s “subversive activities,” as one government official put it, landed him on the “hit list.” In due time, he would come under constant surveillance by men in dark suits. Their intimidation tactics only served to embolden my dad even more, and he would taunt the snoops on his live radio broadcast. It wasn’t long until my mom, my siblings and I also became targets. We were followed to the mall, to church and to family gatherings, among other places.
Within two years’ time – and much to my parents’ surprise – my family was granted visas to leave for the U.S. It could not have come at a more critical time, as the political tensions were threatening to erupt. And so it was that my family started our new life, and I began to write the American chapter of mine. I was just shy of 14.
My experiences from one continent to another, from childhood into adulthood, from one chapter to the next, continue to form the layers of my personal history. While my story is inherent to my being, every day, millions and millions of immigrants are adding to their own narratives, enriching the social fabric of their adopted country.
It is with this premise that we at Gazelle welcome you to The Melting Pot – a new monthly feature that chronicles the stories of people who may not have been born here, but now call America home. Watch for more stories on this space, beginning in February 2018.
