A Moment Captured

I can spend hours flipping through the dozens of films and photo albums kept around my house. Dust may collect on top of them after sedentary years on the shelves, but every now and then, I take a trip down memory lane. The pages dance open, a sea of smiles reveal, and nostalgia plays a vivid movie in my mind. From my baby years in the Philippines, to birthday parties in the States, it’s a comforting feeling being able to hold memories in its most tangible form. And while today my strained relationship with the camera reflects my dislike of being perceived, I appreciate being able to look back at my younger self’s toothy grin with a smile. However, the picture that evokes the most emotion out of me is one that neither stars me nor a memory of my own. Instead, it’s a photo of Dad in North Dakota, smiling with a snowman he made out of snow and beer bottles. The special thing about the photo isn’t the big picture itself either, but the small details surrounding it. The snow—foreign like the tongue spoken everywhere he turned—or the building behind him—his single bedroom apartment that later housed him, my mother, and my brother. And then my personal favorite detail—the bike propped against the wall in the background, resting until its next chilly ride to the hospital he worked at. 

At 33 years old, my father accepted a job offer in the States and immigrated to North Dakota, leaving my mom, my brother, and myself to get us started in the US. With only a bike that was generously given to him as his only form of transportation, my father soldiered through North Dakota’s chilly winter and American life by himself. But as one can imagine, it was especially rough on my father to chase “the American dream” alone.

 “He would call me crying, wanting to give up and come back home because he was so lonely over there,” My mother would say. “Be glad your father never gave up on you guys.” And as complex as my relationship with my father is as the only daughter of an immigrant household, my mother’s point stands true. My brother and I’s success here in the States started with my father’s and my mother’s resilience. So I can’t help but chuckle now at the photos of my younger self, blissfully unaware of the man thousands of miles away in a completely different country, trying to build a better life for me. 

Today, my father pays no mind to the falling snow and even casually goes out with his friends to mountain bike for pure enjoyment. But the more I stare at his photo, the more my curiosity grows. Who took the photo and do you still keep in touch with them? Was it lonely seeing snow for the first time? How does the slip of the mud on your bike rides with your friends compare to the crunch of the snow that used to accompany your way to work? And how would you feel visiting North Dakota now, years later? These are just a few questions I can ask him myself, but then again, there’s fun in wondering about a moment captured.