By Rex Catubig

 

MY American journey took 8 long years of my mother’s life. She had to shuttle back and forth from Dagupan to Los Angeles to maintain her petitioner status—spending 10 months in the States and 2 months here in the Philippines. It was hard on her because she was used to living by herself with her maid, while in the States she felt like being potty trained.

But my older brothers were believers of the American dream, and thought my emigrating, because I was deemed a slacker, would put me in the right path.

So, I packed my dreams and desires in two suitcases and joined the thousands hoping for a second spring. But tearing oneself from the soil I had dug deep my roots in was not easy. I assured myself that nothing was ever too late, but reality poked me in the face and reminded me I wasn’t young anymore to take on a brave new world.

I would just buy a car, I consoled myself. Work a couple of months and be back by Christmas.

But in the dead of night on Christmas eve, I sat alone shivering at the bus stop after work. I thought of the merry yuletide back home but the biting winter cold kept shutting off the reverie.

I was in dreamland America yet my soul was freezing and pined for the warmth of home.

Luckily, the car I flagged stopped to give me a ride but the driver gave me a stern advice as well. Be careful. There are bad people out there, he warned.

True enough, I was held at gunpoint one time at work and mugged twice in the streets—with the second incident awarding me with five souvenir stitches on my eyebrow.

But in this land of plenty, the bad and ugly are outnumbered by the good.

Going back to the car I planned to buy, I never bought it.

Irretrievably hooked on the ubiquitous American sale, I squandered much of my paycheck on impulse goods, ending up with boxes of useless stuff once the fancy wore on.

But I saved up on valuable friendships, on non-expiring memories that nourished the heart, and stocked up on pots of chicken soup for the soul to last a lifetime.

Has America made me happy? Maybe–but it made me realize the many possibilities of happiness within arm’s length. The caveat being, you have to earn and create it yourself.

Just like the proverbial lunch, there is no such thing as free happiness in America.

Happiness is a premium that comes with a steep price tag. But it’s all worth it–the sacrifices, the self-denial, even the pang of homesickness.

After all, it is your dream come true.

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