Coming Full Circle: My move to Africa revisited

Moving to Africa for me was very different than it was for Peter. For him, this was a dream come true. But I had never wanted to live in Africa. I liked animals, but unlike Peter and Macallan, that wouldn't have been a reason for me to relocate. What I would learn later about myself is that this trip was as much about me as it was about Peter. In many ways, my moving my children to another country was like my parents moving my siblings and me to the USA. This trip would bring me full circle.

During that year that my parents spent in the USA without us, my sister had learned to talk, calling our mother’s sister "Momma" instead of her true mother. She also took her first steps but fell and badly scraped up her face. My brother, the oldest son of the oldest son, the golden boy, was playing on the top of the steps when he fell. He cut open his cheek and was bleeding profusely. They rushed him to the hospital but the Dr’s there did such a poor job of stitching him up that he wore a scar across his face for the rest of his life - a constant reminder of my parents’ abandonment, or so we all thought.

It wouldn’t be until I was in my 30’s that my siblings and I would find out the truth. Our parents wanted us with them during that first year in the States. The pictures of them holding other children, playing in the snow, at parties with their new friends were not joyful times as the photos portrayed, but frustrating, anxious and regrettable weeks that became months and then a year, with our mom begging our grandfather to let us come to America.

When we did finally board the plane for the two-day journey from the Philippines to Japan, our grandparents and our mother's youngest sister accompanied us. It was 1968, our first time to travel in an airplane. Back then, airplane travel was a big deal for everyone, not just three young Filipino kids who were going to emigrate to the United States. People dressed up to board the planes. Think Mad Men International, that's the timing for this leg of my journey.

On the plane, the three of us, aged 5, 4, and 2 were fussy. The food was unfamiliar. There was a big slab of meat on our tray, something we'd never seen before and the milk in the containers tasted funny. We cried and were irriatable on the long transatlantic flight. When we were disembarking in Japan, I remember a finely dressed women with a handherchief around her perfectly quaffed hair having to help me up when I fell down the aluminum stairs onto the tarmack. I was groggy when the plane landed in Japan and don't remember much more than this.

I remember spending the night in Japan. There was a time difference or we slept on the flight and weren't sleepy so we jumped on the beds and created a ruckus. Our grandfather was quite annoyed and kept telling us to go to sleep. We must have finally but I have no recollection.

As I said, it was a two day flight and when we finally landed in the USA, I'm sure my grandfather and parents were relieved. Was the flight supposed to take two days? Were we supposed to stay the night in Japan? If it was an unexpected layover, would our parents have known or were they waiting at the airport only to finally give up and go home alone? Back then, remember, flights were rare and communications entailed switchboards, expensive long distance rates, unreliable service and ungodly lag-times...thinking about the whole ordeal, it must have been a nightmare, really...

But we would eventually land. We were going through customs at JFK when our grandfather instructed us. "When I tell you, run to your parents." he said. As we made our way, we wound up in a long corridor where way far away people stood looking for their overseas guests. We stopped to collect ourselves. Maybe our Lolo wanted to find our parents' faces. When he did, he instructed my brother and me to "Go. Go now." our grandfather nudged us and typical Filipino, pointed down the hallway with his lips and nodded his head. "Run." So my brother and I looked at each other, shrugged and ran. But, I wanted to know, "Which of those people were our parents?" We had forgotten what they looked like. But we ran, I guess, hoping someone would step forward to claim us.

At some point, my brother stopped running. He told me years later that he had to pull up the zipper in his pants. In any case, I got out ahead. Searching the faces of the people who were standing still as I whizzed by, I was caught by a man kneeling down with his arms outstretched. I could only hope it was the right guy, because to me, he was as much a stranger as the next one.

He hugged me and picked me up and kissed me on the cheek. My brother made it and he was embraced by our mom and after a few seconds, they traded us off. When my aunt arrived carrying my sister, Carolina wouldn't go to her. She clung to our aunt, refusing to let go. These people were strangers. She began to cry. Our mother began to cry. At the time I didn’t know why.

Years later, in 2003 in Cold Spring, NY, my mom was helping me with the kids, with the packing, trying to spend as much time with us before we left. My father had died several years before. She was alone, but doing well on her own. I was very proud of her.

I didn’t think for a moment, how our move would affect her. I didn’t see how.

Teary eyed, she helped me seal a box that would come with us on the plane. “Why would you move your kids to a third world country,” she began tentatively, “when your father and I sacrificed so much to get you out?” I honestly never thought of it in that way. I wanted to say, ‘it’s because you gave us so much, that now we could afford to give back.’ But I didn’t say anything. I glanced at her and we moved on.