The brown envelope filled with hope, snapshots of dreams and fervent prayers was the emblem we carried, we who stood beside this iron gates, milled about while the hawkers plied us with their trade – black ball pens, instant photo id, dreams – for we were in the market. We were flushed with the chips we have cashed in –we had sold our land, we gave up everything and willing to pay at any price for a dream. We are in pursuit of a fantasy, a vision that seized us- a land of plenty beckons us -so far and yet so within our reach. Like many other Filipinos that early morning, I was at the U.S. Embassy hoping to receive the stamp of approval – the take off of our flights of imaginations. It was cloudy that morning – Manila bay obscured by metal gray mists, and palpable desire. At the crack of dawn we were here: the hopefuls, the dreamers, the desperate and me. We were waiting for our numbers to be called, and in the giant lottery of life we just might be up for the grand prize. There was an air of camaraderie in the air, a sense of belonging. We were all in this together. Strangers talked with strangers as instant single-serve friendships were made. Silences and nervousness were overcome with small talks, and jokes about the country they wished to leave.
I had to quell the need to ask these people their stories – what brought them here, what lead them to these gates, and whose doors have they knocked in order to get here. I was dying with curiosity. Here was this woman – there was no need to ask her, for she was telling anyone willing to listen, or in fact anybody within earshot why exactly she was there that morning. Her fiancé was petitioning her. She’s pretty sure she’ll get the approval of the embassy. An awkward young man with an awkward haircut was wearing the most awkward necktie stands there, well, awkwardly, hoping I guess, that the necktie would impress the consul, or at least take pity for that heroic effort of wearing a stifling accoutrement. Some came in their office/company uniforms. I saw one with a hurriedly sewn-on company logo on his shirt, and around his neck worn like a necklace of pearls, his company I.D. You might think he snuck out of work to be here for the interview. A whole family came, the two little boys in matching animé shirts, the dad making last minute instructions while the mom was silently smiling. I noticed most of us were not rich people with money to spare if they were rejected, that the price alone for getting the appointment is more than half of an average person’s monthly salary, and there is just no way that this will not hurt. But who wants to think about that.
I am not making any judgments here. I no longer have the interest to rail and rant, denouncing the reasons why earnest and talented people would have to ply their dreams to foreign countries. While not giving up the fight and the hope for a better future for our country, I also understand the need for a few more bucks for the family, for the down payment for a future held in deferred payment plan. I understand. After all, I was with them this particular morning, although not for the reason of trying to find a job in the land of proverbial milk and honey. I wanted to attend a conference, and to get there means I need to get a visa. I have always been fortunate in my travels – travel arrangements and visa applications to the countries I’ve been to so far did not necessitate the need to queue, or it has always been facilitated by accommodating hosts and others. No such conveniences here. This line is the great equalizer – the noble and the ignoble were all in this together-to be rained on, or burn with the fierce tropical sun. The wait was both short and long. Short enough to be spared the infernal limbo of anticipation, but long enough to fray at the already frayed nerves from tension and desperate expectation.
There is an air of efficient bustle the moment you stepped on the grounds- probably from years of having to facilitate the American dreams of so many Filipinos. The embassy people know what they do, and they do it well – a gracefully choreographed ballet that flows and glows and steps on no one’s toes. Forms were scrutinized, corrections made, and numbers dispensed. Mercifully short, we sit at a great hall and I eavesdrop on conversation. I watch people. Captivated, I pass the time looking at people as they come and go, the well-dressed, the casually-dressed and the over-dressed. Soon enough we were ushered in to the inner sanctum – where dreams are made or broken, where copious tears are shed, and where the hum of the air condition and the silence of the waiting crowd belie the thousand nagging thoughts, the wildly beating heart. The muffled conversations that take place between the glassed-in consuls and the person standing outside it is both fascinating and horrifying. Finally, the bell rings, you see your number flash and the window where you are supposed to have your interview. You stand up, take a breath, and take those steps toward your dreams.
