In Filipino culture, young women are traditionally thrown a huge party for their 18th birthday. We call it a debut where the debutante dons a ball gown, attendees come dressed to the nines, and there’s a whole ceremony comprised of choreographed dances, speeches, and gift-giving—think of something like a quinceñera or a bat mitzvah. A debut is our way of welcoming girls into adulthood.

Leading up to my 18th birthday, my Mom brought up her desire to throw me such a party, but said it would cost a lot of money that we could otherwise save up for our upcoming move to the States. I had always been aware of my family’s challenges with finances, so having my own debut wasn’t even something I had fantasized about. Our immigration was also something I had been anticipating my entire life. I was onboard with whatever it took to finally make it happen.

On October 30, 2009, my high school best friends, along with my family, threw me a small surprise birthday party. My Mom made my favorite party dish: Filipino-style spaghetti, one that would make Italians mad because it was sweet and had slices of hotdog. In place of a cake, we had cupcakes, and instead of an entourage, I had my little nieces and nephews running around our garage in their sweaty clothes. I’d barely call it a party, but it meant so much to me especially because I had been feeling isolated since I stopped going to college earlier that year to save money. My life had been on pause for several months while waiting for our immigration papers to finalize.

About a month later, my best friends came over again, but this time, to say goodbye. I don’t recall much from that day. The next thing I knew, I was on a one-way flight with my parents from Manila to San Francisco. My parents were heartbroken to leave their 3 older kids behind, but I was mostly excited to leave the country for the first time. I couldn’t wait to finally make our American dreams come true.

Sixteen hours later, as we were pushing our carts full of heavy balikbayan (homecoming) boxes down the hall to the arrival area at SFO, we heard people cheering. It grew louder as we got closer to the exit, and as we emerged from the hallway, I saw about 15 familiar faces. Almost every single one of my relatives who had been living in the Bay Area came to pick us up at the airport. We were all smiles as we hugged each other, forgetting how exhausted we were from our long flight. They mentioned waiting a few hours for us to come out, but that seems insignificant compared to the 23 years it took for our immigration to be approved.

It was heartwarming to see my Mom reunite with my Lola (grandmother) and her younger siblings—the people she grew up with. The excitement and energy was electric, but it was also a lot for me to take in. My cousins approached me confidently in their American clothing, speaking with their American accents. I felt intimidated. I grew up in a culture that viewed itself as inferior to Western nations. One of my uncles must’ve picked up on my uneasiness because I remember him saying that eventually, I’d find myself dressing and talking like my cousins. Now looking back, he was absolutely right.

The thin knock-off Burberry coat and gladiator sandals I was wearing were definitely not appropriate for a chilly night in San Francisco. I sat quietly between my parents as my aunt and uncle, our immigration sponsors, drove us to their home in the East Bay.

“You’re finally in San Francisco!” said my uncle. My eyes searched for any sign to convince me that we were no longer home, that we had finally arrived in the States, but it was so dark outside. All I could see were the faint lights of other cars and distant buildings, twinkling as we drove past them on the freeway.

My aunt and uncle’s house was spacious yet humble, and it smelled of Filipino food. Apparently, they had a Thanksgiving feast a few days prior. I had no idea what Thanksgiving was. It would take me a few more years to learn the real horrific story behind this American tradition. The abundance of food was impressive, but also overwhelming. There was so much leftover, as if someone just had a huge party, like a debut.

Looking back now, after almost 14 years of living in the States, I can see how my immigration was my own initiation into adulthood. There were no ball gowns or elaborate ceremonies, but I was up for something even grander: a profound journey of self-discovery and growth, while uncovering the complexities and truths about the United States along the way.

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My American Debut