Last Friday, I received an email from the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services, also known as the USCIS or to take a cue from Prince, the government agency formerly known as the INS.
They were happy to inform me that my Petition to Remove Conditions of Residence aka Form I-751 has been approved and that I should be getting my spanking new green card in 30 days. For those not savvy with the intricacies of immigration, this simply means I can stay in the US for good and that I am eligible to apply for citizenship in three years, should I be inclined to do so. The temporary conditions on my residency have been lifted, Randy and I have proven that our marriage is not a sham and it also means I don't have to deal with immigration and its hefty fees anymore-- at least until 2011 when the citizenship carrot is dangled in front of me.
I have been in this country for almost seven years. I have lived in Los Angeles all that time. When I first got here, I was defeated, lost and angry. I had no money, no friends, no career to speak of. The only light in my otherwise dark and cold tunnel was my family. But even they, because of my stubborn, independent streak, could not, at times, fill the void that sat miserably in the pit of my stomach. The loneliness was palpable. If tears were a commodity, we would not be in a recession now.
I had a few relationships, most of them laughable, others, particularly one, was devastating at the time of its ending. I had to get used to the ways of L.A. but quickly, I learned -- by God, how quickly I learned. If assimilating were an Olympic sport, there would be no need for trials -- I would win that gold for you in my sleep. It amuses me to no end, when people ask me how long I've been here and I answer, "Almost seven years." The inevitable jaw dropping and gasps of disbelief would ensue, to be followed by, "No shit! Really? That's it? Seven years? You speak better english than most Americans!" I laugh modestly and thank them but inside, I am preening my feathers, swishing my coattails, buffing my fingernails on my collar and grinning with unabashed smugness. Damn straight, white boy, damn straight...
Los Angeles is a tough city to live in. There are some places where your body fat ratio is more important than your intelligence quotient. Being stupid is the new black and it dnt mater if u spel or tok like dis coz, hey, 4 az long az u gotz d bling, u r d shitz, ya hrd?!? This is paparazzi country, reality show island, where Botox Barbie reigns supreme. This is the place to go shopping -- for a new wardrobe, a new home on the hills or even a new face. This is the place where it does matter what you drive, what zip code you live in and where the only size that matters is zero.
Then there's the dark, dank and downright depressing side of LA. There are places where you would be stupid to be driving around after seven at night. Gangs abound, homeless people wander, crackheads scratch their arms while their eyes dart furtively as they scrounge for their next hit. Illegal immigrants run this city. If the government did a crackdown on all the restaurants, car washes and factories in LA, we would all need to learn how to cook, wash cars and make all sorts of things all on our own. Illegal labor is cheap and there will always be some hapless illegal, fresh from crossing the border, who would be willing to do back-breaking work, for way below the minimum wage. There are some cities in Los Angeles where the streets are so filthy, the buildings are so dilapidated, where no one speaks a peep of english, that you would have to constantly remind yourself that yes, you are still in Los Angeles and yes, you are still in the United States of America and no, you did not magically cross some border to some third world country.
Los Angeles is a city that is easy to hate. Fake people, road rage-inducing traffic, high cost of living, a dismal school system, smog and pollution -- name it and it will be served to you on a sterling silver platter.
On the other hand, this city gave me back my family, introduced me to the love of my life and his son, taught me to be more independent, showed me that I have more courage than anyone could shake a stick at, allowed me to fall and rise again with grace, ingrained in me that saying "no" is always an option and that backing down does not always mean conceding defeat. So, for all those reasons and so much more, to me, Los Angeles is a city that is easy to love.
I might have chosen to live in a different country. I might relinquish my citizenship in the future. But my brown skin, bridge-less nose and unwavering pride will always make me a Filipino. In my heart, I will always know who I am. My husband knows it. Our children will know it. Things might change in the future, but for now, Los Angeles is my home. I look around me, I look at the life I am building with my husband, the friends I have made and I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
During the first two months of this year, Randy and I did a little bit of traveling. At LAX, as we walked wearily to the baggage claim section of the airport, a souvenir shop caught my eye and made me smile. It was called "I LOVE L.A."
After six years, three months and ten days, I can truly and unequivocally say, that I do.
They were happy to inform me that my Petition to Remove Conditions of Residence aka Form I-751 has been approved and that I should be getting my spanking new green card in 30 days. For those not savvy with the intricacies of immigration, this simply means I can stay in the US for good and that I am eligible to apply for citizenship in three years, should I be inclined to do so. The temporary conditions on my residency have been lifted, Randy and I have proven that our marriage is not a sham and it also means I don't have to deal with immigration and its hefty fees anymore-- at least until 2011 when the citizenship carrot is dangled in front of me.
I have been in this country for almost seven years. I have lived in Los Angeles all that time. When I first got here, I was defeated, lost and angry. I had no money, no friends, no career to speak of. The only light in my otherwise dark and cold tunnel was my family. But even they, because of my stubborn, independent streak, could not, at times, fill the void that sat miserably in the pit of my stomach. The loneliness was palpable. If tears were a commodity, we would not be in a recession now.
I had a few relationships, most of them laughable, others, particularly one, was devastating at the time of its ending. I had to get used to the ways of L.A. but quickly, I learned -- by God, how quickly I learned. If assimilating were an Olympic sport, there would be no need for trials -- I would win that gold for you in my sleep. It amuses me to no end, when people ask me how long I've been here and I answer, "Almost seven years." The inevitable jaw dropping and gasps of disbelief would ensue, to be followed by, "No shit! Really? That's it? Seven years? You speak better english than most Americans!" I laugh modestly and thank them but inside, I am preening my feathers, swishing my coattails, buffing my fingernails on my collar and grinning with unabashed smugness. Damn straight, white boy, damn straight...
Los Angeles is a tough city to live in. There are some places where your body fat ratio is more important than your intelligence quotient. Being stupid is the new black and it dnt mater if u spel or tok like dis coz, hey, 4 az long az u gotz d bling, u r d shitz, ya hrd?!? This is paparazzi country, reality show island, where Botox Barbie reigns supreme. This is the place to go shopping -- for a new wardrobe, a new home on the hills or even a new face. This is the place where it does matter what you drive, what zip code you live in and where the only size that matters is zero.
Then there's the dark, dank and downright depressing side of LA. There are places where you would be stupid to be driving around after seven at night. Gangs abound, homeless people wander, crackheads scratch their arms while their eyes dart furtively as they scrounge for their next hit. Illegal immigrants run this city. If the government did a crackdown on all the restaurants, car washes and factories in LA, we would all need to learn how to cook, wash cars and make all sorts of things all on our own. Illegal labor is cheap and there will always be some hapless illegal, fresh from crossing the border, who would be willing to do back-breaking work, for way below the minimum wage. There are some cities in Los Angeles where the streets are so filthy, the buildings are so dilapidated, where no one speaks a peep of english, that you would have to constantly remind yourself that yes, you are still in Los Angeles and yes, you are still in the United States of America and no, you did not magically cross some border to some third world country.
Los Angeles is a city that is easy to hate. Fake people, road rage-inducing traffic, high cost of living, a dismal school system, smog and pollution -- name it and it will be served to you on a sterling silver platter.
On the other hand, this city gave me back my family, introduced me to the love of my life and his son, taught me to be more independent, showed me that I have more courage than anyone could shake a stick at, allowed me to fall and rise again with grace, ingrained in me that saying "no" is always an option and that backing down does not always mean conceding defeat. So, for all those reasons and so much more, to me, Los Angeles is a city that is easy to love.
I might have chosen to live in a different country. I might relinquish my citizenship in the future. But my brown skin, bridge-less nose and unwavering pride will always make me a Filipino. In my heart, I will always know who I am. My husband knows it. Our children will know it. Things might change in the future, but for now, Los Angeles is my home. I look around me, I look at the life I am building with my husband, the friends I have made and I know I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
During the first two months of this year, Randy and I did a little bit of traveling. At LAX, as we walked wearily to the baggage claim section of the airport, a souvenir shop caught my eye and made me smile. It was called "I LOVE L.A."
After six years, three months and ten days, I can truly and unequivocally say, that I do.
