On a cold winter night, Mama and Papa arrived on the coast of the San Francisco Harbor. At 18 years old, they traveled for 65 days on boat to start a new life in America.

We're going to America!

Mama and Papa said home was scary and that it's different there.

I don’t know what that means. 

But here I am.

My name is Pag-Asa. I was born in San Jose, California, on June 26, 1925. A place foreign to my parents and 7,000 miles away from Mama and Papa’s home.

I am a Filipino-American!

When I started my first day of fourth grade, I felt different. 

Everyone around my was different from me. 

The way they dressed, the way they talked, and even their skin color was different. 

But that doesn’t matter. Right?

We introduced ourselves today too.

“What’s your favorite food?” asked Ms. Lawerence.

“Pizza!” said Emma.

“Hot Dogs!” said Hunter.

“Fries!” said Abigail. 

“Sinigang na Baboy!” I said. 

Everyone’s heads turned in confusion.

“What’s that?” Hunter said while laughing.

“It’s a filipino dish with rice, pig, tamarind, and soup!” I exclaimed. 

“Ewww. That sounds so gross,” says Emma. 

The whole class echoed with laughter. 

HAHA!

YUCK!

*RING RING*

When Mama and Papa picked me up, I sobbed saying, “No one likes Sinigang na Baboy!” 

“Be quiet. Wipe your face. No crying. You’re being an embarrassment to me right now and it’s only your first day of school” Mama declares. 

The car ride home was silent. Until Mama says, “Why did you talk about Sinigang na Baboy at school today? Next time, say something normal like chips or pizza if they ask for your favorite food.”

“But why?” I asked. “That’s my favorite food!” 

“I know it is,” says Papa, “but Sinigang na Baboy is not common here in America. So, a lot of people don’t know what it is. Next time just say you like pasta so people don't make fun of you.” 

“Okay,” I replied in confusion.

One Month Later...

After the first month of school, I became best friends with Clara and Abigail. 

“Mama! Papa! Abigail is inviting me to a sleepover with Clara! Can I please go?” I begged. 

“Ay, no. You know you're not allowed to. Something bad might happen. I don’t trust Abigail’s parents,” Papa declared. 

“But-“ 

“No buts. You cannot go. Do not make me repeat myself. It’s unsafe,” Mama yelled

After slamming the door, “You two are the worst parents ever!” I yelled.  

Once I entered my room, I sobbed. 

“Why are they always yelling at me? Why won’t they let me do things? Why do I always disappoint them?” I pondered to myself.