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My Turn by Maileen Hamto

From The Asian Reporter, V20, #3 (January 19, 2010), page 6.

Packing the house for my most recent move, I came across a box of old letters my mom had sent when she started working in the U.S.

Mom was among the first group of nurses from the Philippines recruited to work at a growing hospital in Tomball, Texas, then a small town north of Houston. Similar to many fast-growing cities in the country during the 1980s, the Houston area needed a pool of highly skilled, trained, and work- ready professionals to staff its hospital systems.

It was at a job fair at a hotel in Manila where she made her decision to go to Texas. The cost of living was an important consideration. She wasn’t impressed by the promise of an exciting nightlife in New York or the comfort of established Filipino communities in California. Her primary reason for leaving the family was to earn and save money. Texas, she determined, was the best place for that.

Mom had a four-week leave every year. Because she was new, it was harder to take leave during major holidays. But no matter when it occurred, homecomings were always big events filled with much anticipation. I remember skipping school one time just so I could be home as soon as she was picked up from the airport.

This period in our lives was filled with so much uncertainty. Without word from the immigration gods, it was unclear what the family’s next step would be. My parents wanted the family to live in the U.S., but there was no way of knowing when our visas would be approved.

Nearing the completion of high school, I applied for and took exams at all the schools I wanted to attend — the University of the Philippines in Diliman, the University of Santo Tomas in Manila, and DeLaSalle University in Quezon City. I received acceptance letters to all. But elation quickly turned to regret as I had to decline all invitations when we received word that the family’s immigration application had been signed, sealed, and delivered.

Before our family was reunited, we endured three years of waiting, separation, and uncertainty. We consider ourselves lucky. We’d heard of many families who waited many years before their visas were approved. And that was before stricter post-9/11 rules. Because so many people want to come to America, the system often has to "prioritize" who gets to come and how soon they can get here.

For many, waiting involves a great deal of sacrifice. Childhood friends who now work as professionals in other first-world countries shared the same experience of uncertainty. Whether it’s counting on an employer to sponsor a visa or logging enough time for residency requirements to be satisfied, it’s a torturous waiting game that can take years. Many friends delayed major life decisions — postponing marriage plans or having children — until their work status in their adoptive countries becomes more stable.

Finding my mother’s letters took me back to the time when the family did the long-distance thing for three years. Before webcams, texts, and instant messaging, it was harder to keep in touch. I treasured each letter that arrived every two weeks. She asked about my grades, wrote about how she missed us so much, and never failed to say she loved me. And she said to always — always — have hope we would see each other soon and things would be better for the family when we were together again.

Closing the box of notes, I realized I had been lugging the letters around for a long time — through several moves spanning several cities over two decades. Suffice it to say I’m more than happy to bring them along everywhere for decades hence.