To Go or Not to Go: That Is No Longer the Question

It's three in the a.m. and I can't sleep. I'm supposed to be going to the Philippines in seven weeks. The plan was to live there for two or three years, teach English while there, and earn a physician's assistant degree. With money issues abounding in the Rubio household, I can't afford to stay on-track with my writing plans (I wanted to leave NYC in order to pursue an MFA and/or PhD in fiction asap). But there's no money to be made by following my dreams, so instead I chose to follow my parental instincts and haul ass to bail my folks' asses from poverty. At this point, I'm used to putting my goals on the backburner to appease my engrained standards of the "greatest good."

The plan was going well - or so I thought. I attempted to do all the research - student visas, school search, financial research - on my own, but my folks insisted that I let them handle everything - and then they lied to me. Said straight to my face that there was a school near our Philippines house where I could get my bachelor's in physician's assistance. Said it would only take me two or three years and that it was accredited in the States. Said it was cheap and easy. Then I come to find out that there is no such school; they've only found nursing programs near our Philippines house. Physician's assistant programs might not even exist in the Philippines.

Now let me say this for you non-Flips. Nursing is cool. You save lives. You learn very useful information about the human body. You earn a good wage. But every other Filipino is a nurse; it's the default occupation for those who still haven't come to grips with what they wanna do with their lives. And even though I respect the career and I understand that some Filipinos actually want to become nurses, I never want to so easily fit into a stereotype. Becoming a Filipino nurse is like being a Korean grocer or a Chinese dry cleaner: although each position fulfills a necessary and viable role in the community, it's played out. My sense of unique individuality will not allow me to slip into starched white scrubs.

Kicking and screaming the whole way through, I decided that for the good of the family, I'd knock out the two years in nursing school. I got accepted into a program, my parents were thrilled at the low cost of tuition, and I shouldered on. In two years, I'd be making at least $80,000, I told myself. Not only that, but I'd do it by being useful. I'd be saving lives. I'd be fulfilling a necessary, respected and important role in the community. I thought of my large extended network of family in the Philippines and became even more set on the idea of leaving: I've never known what it's like to be a part of a close-knit clan, and seeing Rob's functional and large family made me long for that experience. The few times that I've visited the Philippines since hitting puberty, I'd bonded with my family and made unbelievable memories; I couldn't wait to do more of the same.

Then there was the issue of teaching English. One of my uncles had won a councilmanship and had mentioned an orphanage within his district. The locl government was in charge of finding caretakers and teachers for the children, and he asked if I'd be interested. The role would allow me to mold young minds, show off my passion and skill with the English language, and build up my resume. I jumped at the chance. I'm always seeking ways to fulfill my maternal instincts, and this felt right.

There were other "bonuses" to leaving the States. For one thing, I could start fresh. An overwhelming feeling was flooding the core of my bones: I wanted to erase all of my emotional and financial plights. I wanted to physically distance myself as much as possible from my parents, whose drama constantly weigh me down. I wanted to experience new cultures, to travel, to lose myself in the differences of the East. Japan, Malaysia, Singapore: these are all countries that are a stone's throw away from the Philippines, and I told myself that I'd take advantage of the low price of airfare and visit these places. I wanted to "find myself," and I felt that the only way of doing so would be to go where no one really knew me.

Of course, none of that's quite true. Starting fresh has very little to do with physical distance and a lot to do with emotional preparation. I can physically and emotionally distance myself from my folks while staying in New York City. I can experience new cultures when I'm in a better financial situation to do so (I'm incredibly broke right now). And lastly, and most importantly: I found myself these past few weeks. The old addage is right: you find what you most need when you're not looking for it.

So now I've landed an amazing job teaching with a non-profit organization. My bills are getting paid through promotions gigs. I've started writing, drawing, sewing, exercising, eating healthier - I feel like I'm fulfilling every New Year's resolution anyone could possibly have. And I feel so close to being complete. I feel so incredibly good.

I decided this past week that I'm definitely going to stick around for at least another year. There's a feeling in the pit of my stomach that says I have to see through the stuff I'm doing now: I have to continue teaching these amazing, bright, wonderful students. I have topay off all of my bills, save up cash and feel capable of taking care of myself. Most of all, I have to feel like I'm entitled to the amazing things that are out there in the world, and the only way to feel that way is to "repent" for all the mistakes I've made along the way. I have to leave my folks' house better than ever and let them know I'm here for them when they need me, but that I've stopped catering to their needs. I have to fulfill as much of my promise to be a writer as possible. I have to be satisfied with my academic education in the States before I travel elsewhere - if only so that I can truly compare and contrast the experiences. I must do all this If I don't, I'll always feel like a fraction of a person.

It's taken me a long time to realize that my parents are never going to learn to take care of themselves if I always bail them out of tough jams. I've always figured that because I know better than them, it's my duty to take matters into my own hands when they haven't the ability to do so for themselves. I've felt guilty about making them fend for themselves. I've sabotaged my own success and happiness so that I wouldn't have the opportunity to leave them.

But there came a point when I realized that the only way to safely ween myself from my family is to become filthy rich; in this ironic and paradoxical manner, their dependence and my enabling character do not lead to immediate stress. My guilt would cease because of the knowledge that I'm providing them with everything they could possibly want. Their vices - retail therapy gone very bad, gambling, narcissism, pride - would be fed by my money. Everything would be handled without disappearng.

And that's exactly the problem. I've been trying so hard to accomodate my mom and dad that I didn't want to listen to anyone who told me I had to take care of myself. My identity was wrapped up in their care, and my contemporary/feminist/rebellious personality would not let me admit this fact. All of the problems that had shaped my personality up until that point had been caused directly or indirectly by issues inflicted on me by my parents, and I was afraid of making a new personality for myself. Sure, my problems drove me crazy, but they were mine. They were understandable excuses for my many neuroses. They were comfortable and worn-in like a favorite T-shirt. They were easy.

This afternoon, between applying to jobs, emailing professors, cleaning up my room, "window shopping" online, and running errands, I thought of the amazing things I wanted to do in the Philippines: all of the traveling, the bonding, the teaching, the learning. I realized that it was no use in leaving the country as the person I am. I've got too many unresolved issues to take care of and I wouldn't be able to fully lose myself in every wonderful experience. There would always be a part of me that is ashamed for leaving so abruptly, for not making good on all of the opportunities I've had, for allowing someone other than Me to decide my fate.

I love my family and I always will, with every fiber of my being and every iota of my soul. I will do everything I can to make them happy, but there's a mirrored line which draws the distinction between what I will do for them and what I won't. I love my family and I always will, with every fiber of my being and every iota of my soul - that's why I can't let their needs overshadow my own anymore. I don't ever want to resent them.