To Leave or Not to Leave Is there another choice?

My father had a profile of a silent head honcho whose words are numbered with a quiet succinctness. Nonetheless, I asked: “Dad, would you also want to leave for America?” It was a lazy Sunday. The alarm clocks were off and no one was rushing. Since he was buried in the newspaper and the chaotic events of Plaza Miranda trapped his eyes, he ignored my question, or maybe he ignored me, a pesky kid filled with so many questions. My mother heard the fuss and she knew how dad was. So she gently told me that since she was the only daughter left to take care of my grandparents, it would not be good for us to be so far away. Dad continued with his paper. With his eyes on the black ink, he said in a hushed tone, “I am too old to start all over (although he was only 35). We have everything we need. The Philippines is our birthplace. It is our home. Why leave? ”
Back in the mid 60’s, it was a dream for the Filipino college graduate to find greener pastures in United States. I was a toddler at that time when my mother earned her degree in Psychology while my Dad held a top position as a regional bureaucrat in an industry eventually shut down by the patriarch of Martial Law. It was during that era when I witnessed one Aunt after another Uncle, after another cousin, board a plane until I realized that they were no longer around our extended family reunions. When they started sending me green colored pocket money with short notes, I realized they were not coming back. The 60’s were also marked with economic expansion. Philippines attracted the foreign market and with it, the American corporate world. Some Filipinos became part of the American ecosystem.
My own father, after having lost his good government position, was then employed by an American Company belonging to the Dow Jones Index. He slowly ascended in rank, authority and financial status. For him, there was no reason to leave for America since America was already in the Philippines. During this time, Hollywood and everything Americana possessed a big chunk of Philippine culture. Colonial values were at its peak. The “made in USA” icons proliferated advertising. My buddies wanted “Levi’s” and “Adidas” when these were not yet subcontracted to the dominant but less expensive labor forces of China, India or Mexico. English was made the official language of government, business, culture and class. The Filipinos were not only leaving for America; they were also bringing America to the Philippines – in our towns, barrios, and our private school system. The adolescent crowd rebelled against this, though. Maverick students clamored against imperialism. I lost my friend As Portes and Rumbaut wrote, “Professionals who earned enough at home to sustain a middle class standard of living and who are reasonably satisfied about their chances for advancement seldom migrate”. And so we stayed.
Despite all these, the call for a “better” or perhaps a different kind of life was just seductive. I have an Aunt who was a graduate student from the University of the Philippines and became a professor in another University for women. As my mom’s youngest sister, she was carefree and fun to be with, perhaps because of that fun free trait typical of the youngest kin. Since my mom was the eldest among three sisters, my siblings and I were my aunt’s only nephews and nieces. She used to bring us shopping when Makati only had Rustan’s while Shoe Mart was literally only a shoe store. And I loved it when she used to bring me to her classes where my chubby cheeks got smothered with smacks from her female students. She was my favorite Aunt. One day, I saw her too with her luggage. One sad day, off she went for the U.S.A.
The Immigration Act of 1990 made family reunification one of the many other the ways a foreigner could have legal entry to the United States. Fused with the provisions of the Immigration Act of 1965, priority was given to those with special skills and abilities; those with a College Degree or a professional specialization. This resulted into a wholesale recruitment of talents from the Philippines, mostly from the medical field. In 1993 alone, Philippines was second only to China in exporting highly educated individuals – the former having sent about 11,164 professionals while the latter providing approximately around 13, 954 workers (Portes, Alejandro and Rumbaut, Ruben. Immigrant America, a Portrait, University of California Press, 1996, pp. 15-22).
I was in 4th grade. After having been my best friend for four years, even Carl had to leave for America, finally being reunited with his own mother who opted for new horizons in a distant land to the point of breaking a home. Although we were only ten years old, we joined sit-downs against tuition hikes and were asked to hold placards to show our protest against the evils of Capitalism. Back then, we thought it was fun. On regular days, I often saw Carl reading letters; his eyes wet with tears. But on the day he finally got his visa, the day he said goodbye to our class, that moment when our childhood friendship took different roads, I saw him smile. His mother will finally have him back. In my innocence, I shared with his joy. Yet I knew I’d miss a friend.
For all these and for other strange reasons, I promised never to leave my family and never to leave the Philippines. America was stealing too much of our people. I will not allow myself to be stolen. The U.S.A. will be the last place I will go to. Like my dad, I was convinced that I will work in the Philippines, have a family in the Philippines and will grow old in the Philippines. But then, for some unexpected twists and turns, many years later, after my youthful rebellion took hold of me or a vocation lured my dreams. I broke my promise, boarded a plane, shed my own tears and left.
It was then that I worked with immigrants, and lived with immigrants, and became an immigrant myself. Although I deviated from my original ministry as a missionary, my indirect journey from Europe to Taiwan and then to the United States eventually became my anchor. While I embarked on collecting my own life stories, I heard the stories of others; stories that continue to preserve our pride as a people, a legacy for those who were not there. They are the roots of our ethnic inheritance and the structure of our racial tradition. Although many of us have already professed citizenship to a new nation, we does not eliminate our loyalty to an indelible past, a past that will always be an intrinsic part of our identity, a past that will ferry us through the challenges of an immigrant’s struggles – our lives in a home away from home.
The narrative conflict embedded in our hearts will still remain with the perennial question of why we left our home. Was there really a need to do so? Did we even have other options? And then the hypotheticals. What would have happened if we never left? What could have been of us if we used our profession back home and kept our talents among our people? What if we never accepted the job in Nigeria, the Nursing position in Houston, the medical internship in Chicago? What if we left our children alone to decide for themselves rather than shooting them the tough choice between family and patriotism?
To leave or not to leave, was there another choice? (Would you dare to share your story?)