A PRAYER FOR MY PRESIDENT

"A second plane has struck the second tower of the World Trade Center!" the horrified voice of the radio commentator exclaimed.  Our bedside alarm radio had come to life on the talk program that we wake up to every morning.

Don and I quickly made our way to the living room television, turned it on, and watched the first photos of the 9/11 terrorist attack in New York.  We were in shock as must have been the rest of the nation.  As the tragedy continued to unfold, my husband gathered our family together around the dining table.  Mom Major, our son Matthew, Don, and I joined hands and bowed our heads as Don led in prayer.  I no longer remember the exact words that were said, but they were all for the protection of the rest of the country, God's special care for the families of those who died and were hurt and wisdom for our nation's leaders.  Then it was my turn.

"Heavenly Father, please be with MY President.  Give Him wisdom and strength that he sorely needs during this painful time in OUR country," my lips uttered the words in prayer as my tightly shut eyes teared up.  My words echoed a hundred times in my heart. "MY president," I said, and closed it with "OUR country." Though I had lived in this country for a long time, I had never spoken this way before.

It was October 1969 when I arrived in the United States with my parents and an older sister. We left the Philippines just as the Marcos regime started turning into a dictatorship that controlled the country for 21 years.  We made new beginnings in this adoptive country that welcomed us and gave us opportunities that we probably would not have had in our birth country.  We fell in love with America and her people, but there was always a part of me that remained loyal to the Philippines, where I was born and raised.  In 1970 I met a young preacher in a little church, Don, an American and a native Californian.  Almost four years later, we were married.  I had to make a decision.  We were planning to go to Indonesia as Christian missionaries.  For practical purposes, it would be best for me to take on American citizenship, a big step for me that would take me farther away from my country of birth.  Could I turn my back on the Philippines?

When I married Don, I knew this was likely to happen.  Nonetheless, I was in such emotional turmoil about it.  But I loved him and knew he was the right man for me.  We got married on October 26, 1974, and it was intentional that our wedding favors had a little scroll that quoted the book of Ruth in the Bible:

 Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.  Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. May the LORD deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me." 

I kept my promise, and on May 1975, I stood in an auditorium full of people from all parts of the world, with right hand raised, pledging:

"I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state or sovereignty, of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen;   that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America .  .  . That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; . . . and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God."

It was a crucial decision.  I was turning my back on the country that gave birth to me, that raised me.  I loved my birth country.  I inherited an intense love of country from my family.  When the Philippines became an American territory, my mother's father was asked to pledge allegiance to the United States.  He refused.  For this, together with 31 Philippine heroes, he was exiled on the island of Guam. He paid the price to stay loyal to his birth country.

The immigrant's story is one of continually trying to belong, of continually seeking acceptance.  Most of us, especially those from Third World countries, who come to the United States, do not think much of this until we get here.  Too often, we look at our immigration as a move-up and welcome all the pleasant things that go with it.  We will no longer be identified as coming from poverty-stricken places which instantly bring up pictures of children with sad eyes and bloated stomachs or skinny brown people living in slums, or scavengers in "smoky mountains." We are now in the United States, home of the brave, land of the free, where we can live in beautiful three-bedroom, two-bath homes complete with the latest appliances to make life more comfortable than what we left.  We expect to have opportunities to build better lives for ourselves.

I remember how impressed I was by the modern, clean, and efficient airports where we landed 44 years ago. But it is quite interesting that in all the excitement of our arrival in America, the one remarkable memory I have is of the encounter with the friendly Custom's official who called my father "Pop" and the two handsome young Americans we met within minutes of our entry into the United States.  They mistook my sister and me for locals.  They asked us for directions to Gate 26. Whether I recognized it then or not, I was concerned about belonging.  How would a woman 5-foot tall, brown-skinned, black-haired, with dark brown Asian eyes and who spoke English with a Filipino accent, make it in America?  I felt like the proverbial round peg in a square hole.  The 44 years that I have lived in this beautiful country have somewhat slowly reshaped my round peg to fit the square hole.  However, as a transplanted Asian, I find myself always having to present my credentials to prove that I belong to this country.  To many, I don't belong here because I don't look "American." Just last week, I was in this scenario.

"Where are you from?" A Caucasian lady I met asked me.
"From San Francisco.  We have lived here for over 40 years," I answered.
"Oh, born and raised. . .?" she further inquired.
"Well, I'm originally from the Philippines," I told her.

Because I am always questioned about where I come from, I have never had a complete sense of belonging to this country.  The United States has been good to my family and me.  It has presented me with opportunities that I possibly could not have had in my birth country.  Indeed, in many ways, it has given me a better idea of life.  And yes, I have fallen in love with her, but just like my father, I've always had a part of me that I felt would still belong to my birth country.  When I go back there, though I have only visited twice since 1969 (once in 1976 and again in 2009), people I meet know I belong there. I've always called these visits as "going home." But 9/11 revealed what my heart has actually been telling me.  I have been falling in love with America.  When I felt the hurt and the pain for the people whose lives were snuffed out by the terrorists who flew their planes into the World Trade Center towers and the Pentagon, it showed me that I had become one with them.  I was kin, belonging to the family of Americans, people who have come from different corners of the world to live in this country, which is like no other.

As I felt anger, I was one with the rest of the country towards those who violated this place.  The United States has become a sanctuary for many from the ills that beset our birth countries be it poverty, political corruption, or the suppression of human freedoms.  They were trying to destroy the country that has so kindly and generously provided for me all these years.  I was no longer an outsider.  I now belonged to these great United States.  In my heart was the surge of love for this land and her people. As I prayed that morning, I found my heart finding its way to my lips. No longer could I pray for the President of the United States as I used to, but he has now become MY President.  Neither could I just refer to "this" country, but she has now become "OUR" country.

In the film Fiddler on the Roof, one of the most tender scenes is that where Tevye asks his wife Golde if she loves him.  Golde enumerates all that she had done for him and with him for 25 years. Tevye reminds her that the first time they met was on their wedding day, and their parents had told them that they would learn to love each other.  Golde asks herself if she loves him, and mumbles to herself that for 25 years she had starved with him, lived with him, fought with him, her bed was his.  If this was not love, what is?  It ends in a duet where they agree that it does not change a thing, but even so, after 25 years, it's nice to know.

Much like Tevye and Golde, I came to the United States because my parents thought it was best for us to do so. I worked, studied, made friends, got married, raised my family, found my community in the various places where I've lived, but refused to see that in a very real way, I had become part of this adoptive country. In spite of the insecurity brought on by questions about my nationality, the reality is I have fallen in love with this country. It took the national tragedy of 9/11 to reveal this to me.  On that day, I proudly wore an American flag pin on my dress and retired the Philippines flag pin I occasionally wore.  I may look Asian, but my heart had become American.  It did not change a thing, but even so, after 44 years, it's nice to know.