Blog: Between Here and Somewhere

Exactly two weeks ago, I wrote about my two labels: mother and poet, in response to the murder of Renee Good.
Two weeks ago, I also got sick — and I’m still trying my darndest to recover from the flu. In that same span of time, my coworker shared her decision to resign. I sat in a continuation ARD that ended in disagreement, and our reconvene ARD has now been pushed to next month due to weather. Two weeks of hugging my babies, cooking, cleaning, smiling at my students, and pretending the world isn’t currently on fire.
And of course — another name. Another murder. Videos I want to look away from. Narratives that keep spinning until days turn into weeks again. A cycle of brokenness and heaviness that feels too much to bear, but too important to ignore.
Tonight, I decided to share my immigration story. Because at the heart of all of this is immigration.
I am a child of an immigrant.
I am an immigrant.
My mother was a nurse who came to the U.S. when I was little. I remember having a map in my room in the Philippines and tracing the distance between where I was and where she was — though I didn’t truly comprehend what that distance meant. My childhood was spent tormenting my older sister and bossing my younger sister around. I listened to my Lolo tell stories about the devil in the trees and the ocean. Later, I realized this was his way of creating boundaries without ever naming them — a way of keeping us from wandering too far into danger.
I remember the balikbayan boxes my mom sent home, the chocolate kisses I gobbled up. Memories of a lifetime that sometimes feel surreal. The older I get, the more I wonder which parts of my childhood are memory and which parts are reconstruction.
At some point, my mom came back for us. I barely remember the journey itself. On May 12, 1992, we landed in Houston — my parents, my sisters, and me. I was nine years old. I remember driving through our new East Texas town, watching the curve of the road open into the horizon and endless pine trees. To this day, it’s still my favorite drive, especially at sunset.
From 1992 to 2001, I was immersed in American life. English was spoken more and more at home as my Filipino accent slowly faded. We did have a small, tight-knit Filipino community, so we never completely lost touch with our roots. Our church hosted a multicultural festival every May where our mothers showcased traditional dances and dresses. Sadly, our generation didn’t take the time to learn them — we showed up for pancit and lumpia, then ran off to join our American friends.
During those years, I was very aware of how different I was — the only Filipino in my grade, one of only a handful of families in a town of 32,000 people. I was semi-conscious of microaggressions: Where are you really from? The jokes about Asian women. I chose to ignore them. Ignoring was surviving. Most people didn’t realize I was still an immigrant — still on a visa.
I remember trips to Houston to see our immigration lawyer. Helping my parents study for their citizenship test and realizing we had learned most of it in school. I remember the naturalization ceremony — hundreds of people in one room, pledging allegiance, crying, holding flags, pinning their hopes and dreams to a country they believed in.
I remember 9/11. A month later, I drove to a recruitment center after a dentist appointment, curious and afraid all at once. I remember my first vote in 2004. I’ve voted in every primary and general election since.
What people often don’t see from the outside is how deeply patriotism and nationalism are woven into American culture from the beginning — the Fourth of July celebrations, the history books centered on exceptionalism, the promise of the “American Dream.” It’s why so many immigrants come here and dare to hope. My mother worked long hours. I can’t begin to quantify the sacrifices she made to bring her family here and give her grandchildren opportunities she never had.
While it still makes me laugh that I cook more Mexican dishes than Filipino ones (thanks to my husband), I remain the closest link my children have to our homeland. They know their grandmother’s sacrifices. They know their mother’s culture and language. They come with us to vote. My son loves history and is learning the full story — not only the polished version.
We’ve taken our children to walk the grounds that shaped Texas history: the Alamo, San Jacinto, Goliad. We’ve taken them to Washington, D.C., to see the Constitution, to walk past the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, to witness the changing of the guard. I want them to understand the weight of the names etched into stone.
All of this to say — my heart is heavy with what I am seeing. I am afraid for my children’s future, and frustrated that my nine-year-old understands the Constitution better than many adults who speak recklessly about tearing it apart.
So the question remains:
What happens now?

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*​My immigration story goes like this:

I once belonged 
somewhere.

And now I don’t belong
anywhere.

*excerpt from love, lumpia & words (work in progress)