In September of 1987, my parents put me and my younger brother on a plane in Manila with two suitcases between us and exactly eight hundred and twelve American dollars sewn into the lining of my mother's coat. We landed at JFK and my mother's cousin met us at the airport in a Buick station wagon with rust along the wheel wells. We drove to Boston that same night. I remember the highway lights. I remember my brother falling asleep against my shoulder. I was twelve. He was nine.
My mother worked three jobs the first year. Hotel housekeeping during the day, restaurant cleanup at night, churches on the weekend. My father, who had been an accountant in the Philippines, could not get his credentials recognized here, so he worked construction for four years while he studied at night to retake his CPA exams. He passed on the third attempt. He was forty-six years old.
I graduated from Boston High School in 1993. Brother in 1996. Both of us went to the state university. I became a registered nurse. He became a software engineer. We both still live in Massachusetts, an hour apart. Our mother turned eighty-three this year. She lives in a house she paid for in cash in 2002. Our father passed in 2014, at sixty-eight. He never stopped working. I do not think he knew how.
I claim this hex in my parents' name. For the eight hundred and twelve dollars. For the rust on the Buick. For the three jobs and the night classes and the third try at the CPA exam. For every immigrant who has ever crossed an ocean with their children and a hope that this would be enough.
It was enough. It was always going to be enough. Thank you, America.