I.
On January 29th, 2021, I became an American citizen.
After 17 years of living in this country, 8 of which as a green card holder, and countless hours spent stressing over my (and my family’s) immigration status and what freedoms it afforded me… it feels fair to say that it had been a long time coming.
After spending the majority of the last year stuck at home and isolated from people, I was instructed to attend my interview and test in person at a federal building downtown, global pandemic be damned. Apart from the strangeness of being around more people than I had been with all at once in the last year, every bit of the experience of making it official felt incredibly surreal.
As I sat in the waiting room in anticipation of my name being called, I frantically flipped through flash cards my partner and I had made for the test, and prayed to God that maybe, just maybe, one of the many Filipino employees I’d seen there would be the one to interview me. For this final stretch in my immigration journey, I wanted to be seen by someone who looked like me, had a similar story to mine, and perhaps would speak to me in our native tongue the moment she recognized that we were kababayan.
Instead, my fate rested in the hands of a (lovely and curt) white woman who called out my name in a perfectly polished American accent. For all of the time and stress that had led up to this moment in my life, it encapsulated how fittingly anticlimactic it all felt, all the way up to the makeshift ceremony two days later.
Certainly, despite life’s random hilarities, there was an overwhelming sense of relief. In the dark comfort of an underground parking lot, I sat in my car alone after passing the interview, tears streaming uncontrollably down my face as I exclaimed in joy, gratitude, and utter disbelief. At last, I exclaimed, over and over and over again.
II.
With the innocence and naïveté of a 10-year old immigrant, I can still vaguely recall the exciting sheen of newness that everything America was initially enveloped in in my eyes. I’m not sure how long that lasted, but perhaps it intersected with how quickly I’d started feeling conscious of being different, of being an other, of being Asian.
I started feeling embarrassed about my accent, brown skin, and my “foreign-sounding” name. I started getting embarrassed about how impatient store employees would be with my parents, who always came prepared with their questions and coupons, and how dumb, silly, and foreign they were always made to look out in the open, in front of other people. Anything that made me feel like I was sticking out like a sore thumb, anything that made people conscious of our otherness, made me want to run and hide.
In school, kids taught me who I was and what people like me meant to this country. They called me flip, FOB, chink, you name it; labels and insults I didn’t even think anything of until later. In high school, as I grew increasingly passionate about politics, I secretly felt a great sense of shame about not being a citizen. How could I care so much about what was happening around the world when I was made to feel so in between? How could I justify my passion when I couldn’t vote, and my peers were doing so for the very first time? I had been made to feel different for so long; I figured not disclosing that fact was easier than adding to the weight that my identity had already brought me.
As a young adult, I didn’t realize how much I’d internalized the stigma against immigrants like myself, that my worth as a person was less because I wasn’t born here, couldn’t vote, or looked and sounded different. Maybe deep down I always knew that; maybe deep down, my parents did too. Every day since first arriving here, every hard-earned win felt like proving ourselves against all the odds stacked against us. We were disposable and invisible; therefore, were made to feel as if we should simply be grateful and lucky to be here at all, no matter how much trying to survive took out of us, not to mention how much it took from us.
Little by little, as time would have it, this country chipped away at my Filipino-ness. My accent started to fade. My skin got lighter with less time spent under the sun. My name had suddenly become “cool” to people. And still, I see more clearly than ever before, and feel more pride in who I am than this broken country has ever allowed me to have.
III.
I don’t know about you, but I have a really hard time being good to myself. Even worse, being kind to myself. I’ve long attempted to perfect the art of being a competent caretaker, so much so that the thought of putting myself first genuinely makes me feel enormously guilty and ill. The last year of being forced to pause and actually have some capacity to process life in real time has made me reckon with my self in ways that I – perhaps all of us – had never been able to. It feels so new, fucking terrifying, and probably far overdue.
Late Bloomer is somewhere in between all of the chaos. It is about learning how to be okay with who you are and where you are. It’s about embracing every moment that led you here, for better or for worse. And, if I dare attempt to sicken myself just a tiny bit more, Late Bloomer is about making peace with being a work in progress.
You know, just the laundry list of things I’ve always completely struggled with.
This newsletter will surely evolve as I get into a rhythm, so bear with me as I find my footing, but I imagine a few elements to take shape as I continue screaming from the void:
Stories about life, my partner, but most importantly, my dog Bowie
Too many anecdotes on experiences that I’ve likely suppressed
Reflections on how we move through the world in this day and age, said like a true millennial
Ramblings on films/shows/books/music/art that I adore/hate/feel nothing for/need to discuss
Highlighting things that I think have been slept on, which is probably one of my favorite past times
Conversations with people far more interesting than I am
God knows I love a good playlist, so that also feels inevitable
8 Things, In Some Order
Derek Chauvin is on trial for the murder of George Floyd. He should still be alive today and Chauvin should be in prison. I’ll never understand why this country loves to overcomplicate the simple to avoid accountability and justice.
As someone who notoriously avoids finales, Sean and I finally finished season 2 of Pen15 last night and it was every bit as earnest, tender, and nostalgic as I’d hoped for it to be. Still such an underrated show.
This rather inspired tweet by Jim Belushi, of all people:
I know the internet moves fast, but Jessica Walter’s death genuinely bummed me out. She always seemed invincible to me. As someone who merely tolerated Arrested Development for her, and loved Archer more because of her, I’m really going to miss hearing her voice for the first time again.
Jazmine Sullivan performed “Pick Up Your Feelings” on Kimmel last night, and was flawless as usual:
This completely unflattering, but honest portrait of an artist, their muse, and pizza crust on the edge:
TW: This horrific attack on a 65-year old Filipino-American woman, which I’m still trying to process. “You don’t belong here,” the attacker said to her, as they kicked her around on the ground. Nobody came to help.
Obsessed with Bowen Yang and so damn proud to see him on SNL. Not even my side eye at Mr. Scarlett Johansson will take that away from me.
Thanks for meeting me here. I’ll see you again soon.
Nix