It's been an hour since my son's toy started whirring and making airplane sounds in the background. Our conversation occasionally drowns it. We were driving by Teterboro airport. It was May, and it was raining. It's one of the scenes I want to relive again and again: the car was cruising over the Hackensack River, dark and sleepy. This was the last night we would spend in Ridgefield Park: we would haul the luggages at the back of the car, and we would stay three days in Edgewater, and leave for the airport. Weeks after we've arrived, my wife's brother asked: Haven't you thought of staying there and live with your family?

It's complicated: there was Trump's immigration policy. My sister is already a US Citizen, and I believe my mom is undergoing the same process towards citizenship. My Dad's next.

But there's also uncertainty: it's not easy to live in the US as a Filipino, most especially in the Trump era. I've been in New York five or six times in the last ten years, and I find the city wonderful, and even if I've developed a certain affinity towards the city it will always be foreign land to me. Being a tourist is different from being an immigrant. For one, there are things to be gained and lost: maybe a Paris Review subscription, once and for all; a bare-bones apartment; fresh figs. But what about my career?

To take root in a foreign place is to deal with an entirely different set of problems, and I'm positive that no matter how first-world those issues are, they will be just as complicated and taxing.