“Papa,” Juliaa Anne whimpered as she rubbed my shoulder to wake me up from my slumber. “Wake up Pa. Sariah and I will be late for school,” she said in a somber tone. Life has been really hard on all of us ever since we moved here last October to the quiet suburb of Milpitas from a poor province in the Philippines. I, Celso Dela Cruz, and my wife Susan, felt it was necessary to come to America to give our four children better futures.

I slowly crept to the side of the bed, knelt down, and offered a silent prayer of thanks in my mind. As I finished, I noticed my daughters Ladesa, 20, and Hannah, 18, still asleep, curled up next to each other. It still amazes me how all six of us can sleep inside this tiny run-down bedroom every night.

As I entered the living room, the smell of longanisa and white rice caused my taste buds to salivate. Aside from my love for my family and faith in God, it is Susan’s cooking of traditional Filipino foods that get me going everyday.

After I finished my breakfast, I swiftly escorted my other daughters Juliaa Anne, 14, and Sariah, 16, to the old Honda Accord we borrowed from Mr. Tolentino, the 70-year-old owner of the four bedroom house. The sputters from the Japanese engine that was put into decades of use still bothers me but we have no choice.

“I don’t want to go to school anymore,” Sariah whined. “They are always making fun of us.”

She complained to me everyday about wanting to go back to the Philippines where her peers won’t make fun of her thick Tagalog accent. She is saving every possible allowance dollar she can for a plane ticket back to the motherland. We pity her.

Arriving back at the house, I noticed Ladesa and Hannah already at the kitchen table eating breakfast. Lucky for us today, all of us have work: I’m working part-time as a jeweler, Susan as an under-the-table caretaker, Ladesa as an associate at a fast food chain, and Hannah as a part-time sales associate at a retail store. We are a family that functions as a team; we combine our paychecks together in order to pay off the rent, utility expenses, and our $300 phone bill.

As I sat on the couch and pondered today’s agenda, a naked Jose Tolentino strolls into the kitchen with a twitch in his eye. “Fuck this shit,” yelled Mr. Tolentino’s grandson. As his half-erected penis hung in front of my daughters’ faces, he grabs a longanisa sausage and stuffs it in his mouth. Then, believing what he has done before was morally correct, he begins to stroke his penis in front of Ladesa and Hannah. My daughters looked away and gagged as Jose’s unbathed, landfill-like odor, fresh marijuana smelling stench begins to fill the kitchen and living room. I was about to order the abomination to leave when Mr. Tolentino called his grandson to his room. This behavior is actually quite common for Jose, but our ultra conservative standards have forced us to consider his actions unbearable.

Aside from living with Mr. Tolentino, his wife, and his shamefully perverted grandson, we also share the space with Susan’s sister and other relatives. The whole house can feel like a zoo sometimes by living with all of the family: Susan’s sister Candie, her husband Oliver, and her 18-year-old son Joshua; Auntie Cita and Uncle Virgil. Privacy is nonexistent.

I glanced at the antique clock on the wall it was 8:32 am. I then asked the girls to take their showers early as usually; there is only one shower and Ladesa takes roughly 30 minutes to get ready. While waiting for Susan and my daughters to get ready, I quietly pulled out a copy of the Bible and began to read the verses to myself. My daily readings of the writings of the apostles and the miracles of Jesus Christ always fill my heart with hope.

After we all got ready, I began to drop each one to their individual destination. I arrived at the jewelry store at the mall 10 minutes early, though my boss never notices my punctual habits. He seems to be more concerned about the sales in this depressing economy.

As I opened the store along with the rest mall, I began to reminisce about my past occupation in the Philippines. Being a past store owner, I can quickly identify the differences among the people here and those from my native home. In Tarlac, a province in the Philippines, people tend to be more conservative and peaceful while dwelling in a state of poverty. I feel that some Americans are not content with they have, as I was thinking this, a high-class lady strode into the store and asks me about our most expensive watches. The American way of life still feels alien to me. I noticed wild teenagers constantly lip-locking each other in open places, children yelling and undermining guardian authorities, and high-end expressive materialism, all of which is rarely to been seen in the Philippines. But on a positive note, the air over here is clean; I can actually smell the freshness of the oxygen that plants produce. Also, opportunities are widely available, unlike the Philippines which lack jobs, food, and medication. Sacrificing my old life for new one in America will hopefully benefit my family in the long run.

The things we put up with in order for us to have a chance at a prosperous life. Why is life in the Bay Area so challenging? All I know is that through faith in God and hard work, we may one day reap the benefits we so rightfully deserve.

Contributed by Truth Esguerra