My mom came to the United States in the summer of 1986. She’d left her hometown, a small fishing village in the Philippines, to look for opportunities that would help her support her parents and nine siblings back home. She was introduced to my father through a pen pal service, and they wrote letters back and forth for a short while before deciding to get married. They had never met in person prior to her coming here. There was a small ceremony for my dad’s friends and family. Our home in Bucktown was a shocking sight to behold upon her arrival. There were holes in the roof and pigeons living in the rafters of the second floor. Two summers later, I was born.
My mom worked at our family-owned dry-cleaning business during the day and attended nursing school at night. We spent our days together at the cleaners, with me entertaining customers in my diapers and helping her fold laundry as soon as I could walk. At 4 years old, I remember crying one night in the living room. My mom was spending the night in the hospital after having given birth to my sister. My dad lay on the carpet a few feet away from me; sleeping, snoring, smelling of alcohol. The TV was on. I still remember how that brown carpet felt, how it smelled, thick and plush against my face, my tears disappearing in its softness. It was the first time in my life that I remember feeling scared and alone.
On January 2, 2006, during my senior year of high school, I was burning mix CDs for friends when I got a call from my mom at work. Pack your bags. Help your sister. We’re leaving your father. My world immediately came crashing down. We slept in other people’s homes for the next few nights. A night on the church gymnasium floor. A night here and there, I slept in my car or at a friend’s. That spring we got word from a family member that my dad had left the country and was living in SE Asia. We moved into a tiny apartment with our dog and cat. Plumbing issues caused our sink water to run black. My mom couldn’t take it anymore and drove us to the Humane Society. My sister and I screamed and sobbed in the back seat of the car. First dad. Then our home. Now the dog. Our life and everything that was familiar to us was falling away, piece by piece.
I graduated and went away to college, and my mom slowly put the pieces of her life back together. She bought a small house in the suburbs. The garage became packed to the brim, a storage space for all the things left over from our old life. Furniture. Clothes. Heirlooms. Books. Grandma’s paintings. Dolls. Old notebooks from school and things we drew with crayon when we were babies. My mom housed women missionaries from her church and anyone who needed a place to stay. She worked 12-hour shifts at a hospital in the city and commuted almost 2 hours each day. She cultivated a lush backyard garden which was her passion and sanctuary. The garage remained full despite our insistence on cleaning it out.
When I heard the house was being put up for sale, I knew I had to try and document this story in some way. I procrastinated for a very long time. You see, I distanced myself from it all. I put oceans between my mom and I emotionally- in the way my dad did physically- to try and forget the pain of my parents’ divorce. I couldn’t leave for college fast enough because home no longer existed. I focused on building my life while my mom was quietly, painfully rebuilding hers. Now that I’m older I can appreciate the incredible story that is my mom’s journey. She came to this country on a leap of faith, and her faith is what sustained her all those years on her own. Those who know me know that my mom and I don’t see eye to eye when it comes to religion. But one doesn’t have to be religious to have faith. Looking back, there have been several instances in my life where I’ve packed my bags and uprooted myself to a new place on nothing but faith that things would work out the way they were supposed to. I used to attribute it to an innate sense of adventure, but now I recognize that I inherited my mom’s unwavering ability to have hope when facing the unknown, when facing the deepest depths of despair.
Almost exactly ten years after our unforgettable phone call, she married her forever partner. They are now retired and planning a missionary trip overseas. The house is gone. The garage was finally emptied; the last items catalogued and sold.
As we stood there taking pictures next to the for-sale sign, I thought about how my mom wants to leave the country that was once the harbor of her dreams. As this 34-year chapter comes to a close, I don’t have to wonder why. Just have faith. It’s time for the next adventure.
