My family’s immigration story to the United States is relatively average. With half of my family immigrating in the mid-1900’s and the other half immigrating in the late 1800’s. Those who immigrated earlier assimilated easily into the United States as it was still a growing nation, with less of a national identity than today. Those who immigrated later retained their cultural identity for a sizeable amount of time, however that may be because my mother was the first generation of her family to be born and raised in the United States. Never forced by terrible circumstances, they came to this country in search of new opportunities by in the end elected for the journey.

On my mother’s side both of my grandparents were born in Ireland, immigrating to New York in the 1940’s. My grandmother, Emily Noble, is from Daulkey, Ireland, a suburb of Dublin, along the Southern coast, which is now considered the “Beverly Hills” of Ireland. My grandmother grew up in a strict Catholic household, where there were certain expectations of who she would marry and how she would live her life. However, refusing to bend to my great-grandparents’ will, Emily left the house one night, literally climbing down from her window using a bed sheet as a rope, when she went and signed up for the Army Nurse Core. After registering the commander told her to return in two weeks which she answered “if I go home I’ll never come back” (due to her parents’ strictness), and therefore left that night for London. In London, my grandmother worked as a nurse and became engaged to a British officer who, to the shock of her Irish Catholic family, was protestant. Not to be outsmarted, my maternal great grandparents convinced Emily to come visit them in Ireland, as they were leaving for America in the coming week, when they trapped her and forced her to immigrate to New York with them, leaving her fiance and job behind in London. My grandfather, James Walsh, was born in Ballyhaunis, a small city in Co. Mayo, Ireland. He was one of thirteen children, and was formally trained as a butcher in a small meatpacking factory on the edge of Ballyhaunis. James joined the Merchant Marines when he turned 19 in an attempt to see the world. Besides his desire to escape a small farming city in Northwestern Ireland, James left in order to pursue opportunity that wasn’t available to him in Ballyhaunis. Being the fourth son meant that the farm and the butcher shop were given to my grandfather’s two eldest brothers. During his work in the merchant marines, when he found himself in New York he decided that New York was where he wanted to be. He deserted, never returning to the Marines, however after six months, since he was there without papers, James was deported to the Canadian border where he applied for citizenship, returning to New York as soon as he was let back into the country. Emily and James met at a dance in New York City, and to the despair of my grandmother’s parents, James Noble was also protestant.

My father’s side of the family has lived in this country for much longer than my mother’s, with his family arriving here in the 1890’s from both Ireland and Denmark. Our knowledge about my father’s side of the family is limited although we do know that the Irish part of our family worked as farmers and the Danish relatives were electricians.

My mother’s family was fortunate enough to have immigrated to this country not out of necessity, as most of the Irish did during the Famine, but out of personal desire. That side of my family worked as businessmen in Dublin, and were living very comfortable lives. Hands down, the most interesting member of my family, the one whose stories were told about at family reunions, is my mother’s grandfather, or my great grandfather, Louis Noble. Louis Noble was in the Irish Republican Army in the early 20th century. He maneuvered his way into the British National Army seeing as he was born in Henley, England and used this position to expose the British ammunition routes, which he then relayed to the IRA. Louis Noble was also an accomplished bagpiper, winning the Irish National Piping Championship in 1910 and 1914.

Once in this country my family stayed in the New York area, but did not really take on the persona of being a “New Yorker”. In regards to my maternal family, my mom was raised in a very Irish household. As a young child in public school, my mom was mocked as a child for her accent and general way of speaking. For example, some differences in the way the Irish speak that my mother still retains to this day includes pronouncing the letter “h” as “haych” and the letter “z” as “zed”, as well as using the phrases “in hospital” and “in military” instead of “in the hospital” or “in the military”. Unfortunately due to years surrounded by people who saw being “Irish” as negative, my mom learned to speak like an “American”. I personally think of my maternal grandparents as immigrants, as they lived in the United States for twenty years until receiving a status of  full citizenship. Like in Ireland, my grandfather worked as a butcher in Rye, New York, as his family did for generations before him. My personal conception of being a “New Yorker” is definitely different than what it was when my grandparents first immigrated here. Firstly, when they immigrated to New Yorker it was a much whiter city, with Irish citizens being considered a minority or not white, facing widespread discrimination throughout the latter 19th century and the early 20th century. While today, New York is far from a singularly caucasian city, being one of the most diverse cities in the United States.

My parents often tell me, “Kristian, we don’t regret moving to America. Life is much better here than if we stayed in the Philippines.” As a middle-class first-generation American born and raised in the suburbs, I compared myself to others I knew from my own world. Thankfully my parents gave me accounts of their lives growing up in the Philippines, so that I might have more perspective on life. Their lives are easily divided into two halves: pre-immigration and post-immigration. Their transition to new life fuses their graduation from college, their marriage, their first child, and their move to the United States. From childhood in the Philippines, to a new life in another hemisphere, to acclimation as Americans, my parents have lived eventful lives and will continue to do so.

My father, Noel Mosquito, and mother, Lourdes Bautista, grew up in the Philippines in the late 1960s. In some respects my dad had a better life than my mom: he grew up the second of three children of an engineer and his wife. My dad would always tell me stories about his childhood, such as his experiences climbing trees, catching spiders for spider fights, or eating too much food cooked by his aunt. My mother, on the other hand, was the youngest of seven children, where her eldest sibling was already married. My mom had to do all sorts of chores to help out in the household with her aging parents.

In their adolescence, my parents led two completely different attitudes. My mother worked hard both at home and in school. Though hard work, she managed to graduate salutatorian of her high school and went to college for Chemical Engineering. In contrast, my father mostly slacked off in school, letting his mom do his homework and relying on his natural talent for math and standardized test taking to pull him through college. While my mom was an upstanding good student, my dad was known to smoke and hang out with a “bad” crew. They met at my mom’s 18^th birthday party (her debut, the Philippine equivalent of a Sweet Sixteen or a quinceañera), started dating, and got engaged when he was 18 and she was 19. When they were 22 and 23, my mom became pregnant with my sister and a hastily arranged wedding was set for March 1990. In August of that year, my mom gave birth to my sister.

In preparation for the economic situation of the time, my dad had studied physical therapy to take advantage of the need for physical therapists in the United States. Thankfully, by the time my sister was born my dad was guaranteed a job in New York City. Now graduated, married, and ready for a new job, my dad quickly matured from a teenager to an adult. He departed for New York City in 1991, while my mom remained in the Philippines to take care of my sister.

My dad’s arrival in New York City was not overwhelmingly difficult because of connections, but it had its troubles. First, he spoke English well, albeit with an accent, because of the high frequency of English usage in Philippine colleges. Second, he had secured a job before he boarded the plane, guaranteeing him financial stability. Third, his job as a physical therapist at Goldwater Hospital on Roosevelt Island found him meeting with other Filipino immigrants, working the same job he did. As such he had a group of friends to associate with and the logistics of immigration were taken care of. Troubles, however, came in the form of a new culture and distance from family. My dad was barely an adult when he moved to NYC, and already he had to adjust to a new world with new customs. He told me the story of how disgusted he was at food waste in America. Leftover food would just be thrown out and not even be given to the homeless. He also experience racism from some Americans who felt immigrants were taking up jobs in the 90s. The greatest difficulty was not being able to see his wife or daughter, while he sent money back to Philippines until they could come over too.

In 1993 my mother and sister moved to New York to meet up with my dad, officially completing my family’s immigration to the United States. They got an apartment in Astoria due to the convenience of travel to work. My mom had difficulty transitioning to her new life: like my dad, she was young, immature, thrust into responsibility with a child and living away from friends and family. Furthermore, my mom’s Chemical Engineering degree did not apply for chemical engineering in the United States. Financial need meant she had neither the money nor the time to go to American college to affirm her degree, as she had to work odd jobs for an income.

As time passed, my parents slowly adjusted to life in America. That was it: they had left the home country and would forever live in the New World. My sister, who had spent three years in the Philippines, had to begin school in America with a mix of Tagalog and English, along with inexperienced parents who decided to be safe than sorry when raising her. Conservative parenting grew some resentment in my sister from her youth until she moved out of the house just last year. My family moved to Jackson Heights in 1995, and I was born as the first American citizen in my extended family in February 1996. The final major change in lifestyle happened when, in 1998, my family moved from semi-urban Jackson Heights to suburban Bellerose, Queens, where they bought the house we have lived in for the past 16 years. From then on, life no longer meant transition to a new world but rather meant raising two children as Americans, and adapting to the changes in technology.

Today my parents hold citizenship in one country: the United States. They speak English at home the majority of the time and only speak Tagalog about 25% of the time when seeing other Filipinos. To this day I have no other relatives on the East Coast. My closest relatives live in Ottawa and after that come my relatives in California. Instead of growing up with actual cousins or uncles or aunts, my family consisted of the Filipinos my parents met in the early 90s and the Filipinos from our church. I consider myself American, but I realize the changes my parents had to go through to bring me to this point.