What happens when the American Dream fails you?

My father probably never studied much for anything in his life.With photographic memory and a penchant to just get it, I guess he never had to.

He holds a degree in Civil Engineering from the Mapua Institute of Technology, what he calls the MIT of the Philippines. I swear it's not just him; it's widely regarded as the best engineering institution in the country.

As is the trend with Pilipinos, his degree didn't really translate when we moved to the US. He parked cars for minimum wage at the Marriott in Downtown Los Angeles. What he would receive in tips my mother used to put food on the table every day. From Anaheim, he would catch three buses to get to LA. On late nights, if he missed the last bus to take him from the Fullerton Park and Ride to Lincoln Avenue, he would walk.

After the parking stint got tiring, he started working at Commerce Casino. He started off as a chips runner, then worked his way up to be floorman at the casino's top section. His job required 8 hours of continuous standing and walking around, sometimes fighting with patrons who've had a little too much to drink but hadn't raked in enough winnings. Celebrities roamed that floor constantly, and he would share to his awestruck children who among Jerry Buss, Manny Pacquiao, and Bruno Mars would tip the least. That job, too, paid minimum wage, and when the economic crisis hit, people stopped giving out tips and going to casinos in general.

One fateful night, his fraternity brothers from Mapua came to Commerce Casino to look for him. These men, unlike my father, had struck it big in the Philippines (mostly, I assume, by sticking to elected officials). They offered construction projects for my father back home - enough, really, for him to quit his miserable job altogether.

He's there now, trying to start anew. From scratch. From nothing. Nothing really came out of his American Dream. All this bullshit that if you try hard enough you'll get to where you wanna be. It doesn't really exist.

Inconsolable

I dropped you off to work about ten minutes ago, and for two whole minutes now I have been inconsolable. I blink repeatedly, forcing the reds, yellows, and greens back into focus.

Twenty-two years. All of them you spent in one company. Your connections across Luzon were unquestionable. Ask the folks at the Head Office and however many regional branches - it didn't matter; they all knew your name.

Prestige and competence is one thing, but the friendships you made were more precious. The antics you and your co-workers would pull in the office: staring down little children when their parents weren't looking, sending the messengers to the market nearby to buy fresh seafood to fry for lunchtime, cracking jokes here and there, and counting down the days until Irma's retirement because damnit, she doesn't have to be so cranky all the time.

I love your stories. Your eyes light up, and your voice gets louder. It's like you're transplanting me and you back to that space and time.

But I hate your stories, too. As much as I love seeing your face become animated in a story-telling frenzy, I stop halfway because I know you always tell your stories in the past tense.

Now when you talk about work, you revisit the long, long year when you were unemployed. You talk about the many, many companies you walked in and out of. The Pilipina women who mistreated you, were insecure of you, and spoke ill of you to your superiors. The age difference between you and your co-workers. The frustration you build up in your chest when you see young people without college degrees talking over your head, disregarding your Accounting degree and years of experience. The loneliness. The lunches you took by yourself facing the blank wall. The embarrassing moment when your co-worker handed you his iPhone to take a picture, but you didn't know how. The constant defending and proving yourself, just because English isn't your first language.

When you tell your stories, you always tell them in two separate batches. The happy ones, and the ones that you can only complain about. They're always separate, but I see the thread that ties them together. It's an unspoken despair that you'll never speak about because you want me to think you're okay.

Once again, I am inconsolable. I feel a heaviness that I know will pass but will never really go away. Not unless we leave.

Mom, I love you. I promise to bring you back home.

For her, tulips in mid-bloom
Like from thirty-something years ago
When he first coaxed that smile.