| Editor's corner/Over a cup of tea My American Dream |
Many of us immigrants came to the U.S. for the proverbial green pastures. My mother did, just like millions of
others from various continents who left their homes and families when this country opened its doors in the last
century to foreign workers to pump up the growth of the American economy. Indeed, the U.S. continues to be a
“dream” destination for people who believe that given the same amount of work, they will be compensated much
more in this “land of milk and honey” — even a hundredfold — than what they would get back home. That’s one of
the reasons so many put their lives on the line to try to cross the U.S. borders by whatever means.
If the “American dream” means acquiring material possessions that make life comfortable, then, yes, many
immigrants have reached their dream, although without much sleep. Would it matter whether or not the American
society treated them differently or stifled their growth? Maybe yes, maybe no. It depends on the thickness of one’s
skin and one’s resolve not to let anything detract him/her from reaching that “American dream,” which, for many,
seems to be the sole measure of success.
You see, in poor countries, anything or anybody from the U.S. has a dollar equivalent — a perception that makes
a returning migrant worker feel more equal than others who never left home.
I immigrated to the U.S. seven years ago, though not for the same reason as my mother. I left an executive
position in the Philippine legislature to seek peace within myself and be closer to my mother and siblings,
hopefully to make up for lost time. But, like any other U.S. resident, I had to work. And work. And work. And work
some more. I thought my mom’s “American dream” was too hard to find.
I got a job in my field, and the experience helped build my community relationships and enhanced my
publishing expertise. But 9/11 came and the business took a nosedive that threatened our organization’s existence.
Workers were laid off, and the few who were left had to take on an additional workload. In time, my body realized
that the duties of three people were too much for one. One night, after a trip to the emergency room for severe
asthma, I had a nightmare. I was a migrant worker on a cotton plantation, exploited to the fullest by a haciendero
who wanted nothing but more profits for his land. I was in tattered clothes, emaciated, and my room every night
was in a dirty shack with no heat during winter and no fan during summer. My skin was scorched for too much
exposure to the sun. I woke up sweating and in tears. I prayed for guidance.
It was then that I decided to change my own measure of the “American dream.” My “American dream” is beyond
what money can buy. I now equate it with my happiness and my ability to share that feeling with others. I started
dreaming again, and this time I am not asleep. My dream is real. In fact, you are reading my “American dream”
right now.
others from various continents who left their homes and families when this country opened its doors in the last
century to foreign workers to pump up the growth of the American economy. Indeed, the U.S. continues to be a
“dream” destination for people who believe that given the same amount of work, they will be compensated much
more in this “land of milk and honey” — even a hundredfold — than what they would get back home. That’s one of
the reasons so many put their lives on the line to try to cross the U.S. borders by whatever means.
If the “American dream” means acquiring material possessions that make life comfortable, then, yes, many
immigrants have reached their dream, although without much sleep. Would it matter whether or not the American
society treated them differently or stifled their growth? Maybe yes, maybe no. It depends on the thickness of one’s
skin and one’s resolve not to let anything detract him/her from reaching that “American dream,” which, for many,
seems to be the sole measure of success.
You see, in poor countries, anything or anybody from the U.S. has a dollar equivalent — a perception that makes
a returning migrant worker feel more equal than others who never left home.
I immigrated to the U.S. seven years ago, though not for the same reason as my mother. I left an executive
position in the Philippine legislature to seek peace within myself and be closer to my mother and siblings,
hopefully to make up for lost time. But, like any other U.S. resident, I had to work. And work. And work. And work
some more. I thought my mom’s “American dream” was too hard to find.
I got a job in my field, and the experience helped build my community relationships and enhanced my
publishing expertise. But 9/11 came and the business took a nosedive that threatened our organization’s existence.
Workers were laid off, and the few who were left had to take on an additional workload. In time, my body realized
that the duties of three people were too much for one. One night, after a trip to the emergency room for severe
asthma, I had a nightmare. I was a migrant worker on a cotton plantation, exploited to the fullest by a haciendero
who wanted nothing but more profits for his land. I was in tattered clothes, emaciated, and my room every night
was in a dirty shack with no heat during winter and no fan during summer. My skin was scorched for too much
exposure to the sun. I woke up sweating and in tears. I prayed for guidance.
It was then that I decided to change my own measure of the “American dream.” My “American dream” is beyond
what money can buy. I now equate it with my happiness and my ability to share that feeling with others. I started
dreaming again, and this time I am not asleep. My dream is real. In fact, you are reading my “American dream”
right now.
Heidi M. Pascual