By Rex Catubig

 

MY reluctant 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–10 months there and 2 months here. It was hard on her because she was used to living and doing things by herself; although, my eldest sister and a maid kept her company. In the States she had to depend on family for every move.

But my older brothers were believers in the American dream, and because they see me as a slacker, by emigrating, they figured I would be on the fast lane.

And so, I packed my dreams and desires, crammed them in two sad suitcases and hopped on the universal bandwagon to a second spring. But pulling oneself from the soil I had dug deep my roots in was not easy. I took comfort in the thought that nothing was ever too late. But reality poked me in the face and reminded me I was at no age to take on a brave new world.

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

But in the dead of the night on Christmas eve, I sat shivering alone at the forlorn bus stop, after working a mid-shift. My mind wandered and I imagined the merry Christmas back home. But the biting December cold pierced and shattered my day dreaming.

Great. I was in dreamland America but my soul was freezing and pined for the warm comfort of home amid the lilting sound of “Ang pasko ay sumapit”.

Luckily, the driver of the first car I flagged down gave me a ride but gave me a stern warning as well not to risk the chance. There are bad people out there, he warned. True enough, a robber held me up at gunpoint at work; two homeless mugged me on the train station, and a bunch of joyriders beat me and left me with five stitches on my eyebrow.

But the harrowing experiences also brought out the goodness of people out there. The phone rang right after I called my work to inform them about being attacked, and couldn’t make it to my shift. It was the worried hotel General Manager no less wanting to know if I was okay and offered to lend me his cell phone (because I never carried a phone) so I could easily get help. Next minute, the stern Director of Front Office Operations, called to tell me not to hesitate to seek his assistance. And when news about the incident broke out in the hotel, even the VIP guests, who I dealt with regularly, called to express concern.

See, there are the bad and ugly, everywhere; but there’s plenty of the good to go around in this land of strangers.

So, I stayed on till I retired. And the car I planned to buy? I never bought it.

Because I was hooked on the continuous siren song of American sales, that sequestered much of my paycheck, succumbing to the devil-may-care promise of platinum cards. Consequently, I ended up hoarding boxes of worthless stuff– a shameful souvenir of my profligacy.

But I saved up other valuable goods: lifelong bond and friendship, moments that nourish the heart, non-perishable canned memories with no expiration, and cauldrons of unlimited chicken soup for the soul to last a lifetime.

Has America made me happy? Maybe not quite–but it made me realize the many possibilities of happiness that are within arm’s length. Not only in America, but elsewhere–where your dream takes you.

But one need not really take even a single step on the yellow brick road. Sometimes we lose track where our happiness lies. Dip your hand into your shirt pocket:  Feel your heart, there is something left there that you tend to forget—happiness is there.

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