Thirty-Two Dollars and Fifty Cents

My granddaughter, Leilani, she came to me, oh, maybe a few months ago now. She said, “Nani, my teacher wants us to interview an elder about their life. Can I interview you?” And I said, “Interview me? What for? My life is not so interesting.” But then she gave me this list of questions, and some of them made me think. She’s a good girl, very smart. She kept asking about when I came here. She said, “How did it feel, Nani, to leave home?” And I said, “Well, Leilani, it felt… like leaving home.” She laughed. She didn’t understand. She’s never been anywhere but here, Sacramento, maybe San Francisco once for a school trip. It’s different, you know, when you’re leaving for good. Not just a holiday. So I thought, okay, I’ll write it down for her. She can show it to her teacher. Maybe it’s easier to read than to listen to me ramble. My English, it’s good now, but sometimes I forget a word, or mix up the tenses. It’s okay. I try my best.

I was born in Lautoka. My father, he worked at the sugar mill. My mother, she was a seamstress. Not in a factory, you know, just for the neighbours, making dresses for special occasions, school uniforms. We weren't poor, but we weren't rich either. There were six of us children. I was the third. My older sister, she was always very clever. She went to nursing school first, then she got a scholarship to go to New Zealand. That was a big deal. New Zealand! It felt so far away then. After a few years there, she met a man, a Fijian man, also a nurse, and they decided to come to America. His cousin was already here, in Sacramento. They said there were good hospitals, plenty of work. This was, oh, 1985, maybe. Everything was changing in Fiji then. It was getting harder for young people, even with an education. The government, the coups… I don't want to get into politics. It was just a feeling of uncertainty. People were leaving. My brother, he went to Australia. My other sister, she went to Canada. My parents, they stayed, of course. My mother, she always said, “We belong here.”

I followed my older sister’s footsteps. I became a nurse. I worked at the Lautoka Hospital for three years after I qualified. Then I moved to a private clinic for a bit, then a nursing home for the elderly. It was good work, important work. But I saw my friends, my cousins, they were all trying to get out. It wasn't about money so much, not just that. It was about opportunity. My sister, she wrote to me, “Anaseini, you should come. It’s different here, but good different. You can find work. The children, they will have more.” She meant her children, my nieces. They were getting older. I missed them. And she said, “Our family is here now. It’s hard to be so far away.” That resonated with me. Family is everything. So, that was my reason. Family reunification. That’s what it says on the forms, right? I filled out so many forms. I still have some of them, in a box in the garage, yellowed paper. My niece, who is a lawyer now, she laughed when she saw them. “Nani,” she said, “these are ancient history!”

The plane ticket. That was a big thing. My sister sent me money. She worked extra shifts. Her husband, too. My parents, they sold a small plot of land they had, just to help with my papers, the fees, the medical checks. It was thirty-two dollars and fifty cents for the visa application, I remember that exactly. Thirty-two fifty. It felt like a fortune then. And the medical exam, another fifty dollars. Then the ticket itself. It was over a thousand Fijian dollars. A huge amount. I remember going to the travel agent, a tiny office near the market. The woman there, she had a pile of brochures for Hawaii, Australia. She looked at me, a young woman, on my own, buying a one-way ticket. She didn't say anything, but I felt her eyes on me. I felt nervous, excited, scared. All at once.

My flight left on September 14th, 1990. It was a Saturday. I remember the weather. It was a beautiful day, hot and humid, just like Fiji always is. Clear sky. My whole family came to the airport. Not a big airport like you have here, just a small terminal. Everyone was crying. My mother, she held onto me so tight. My father, he just looked at me, nodded, put a hand on my shoulder. “Be good,” he said. “Don’t forget us.” How could I forget them? I had a small suitcase, a carry-on bag, and a plastic bag with some food my mother had packed – roti, some taro, a piece of chicken. She insisted. “For the long flight,” she said. I knew I couldn’t take it all through customs, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I just carried it. The plane was an Air Pacific flight to Honolulu, then a connection to San Francisco. I had never flown before. It was… loud. And long. So many hours. I tried to sleep. I read a book, a romance novel my friend lent me. I didn't finish it. I was too anxious.

When I landed in San Francisco, it was still daytime, but completely different. Cooler. The air felt… thinner, maybe? I don’t know. I just felt it was different. I was so tired. Immigration was confusing. So many questions. “Purpose of visit? How long will you stay? Do you have family here? Do you have money?” I had my visa, my green card documents, all neatly in an envelope. I presented everything. The officer, a stern-looking man, he stamped my passport. Welcome to the United States. I remember looking at that stamp. It was real. I was here. My sister and her husband, John, they were waiting for me at the arrival gate. I saw their faces, and I felt such a relief. John, he’s a tall man, very kind. He carried my suitcase. My sister, she just hugged me. “You made it, Ana! You made it!”

We drove to Sacramento in their old Toyota Corolla. It was dark by then. I remember seeing all the lights, so many lights, stretching for miles and miles. Bigger than anything I had ever seen. The freeway was like a river of lights. It was overwhelming. We got to their apartment, a two-bedroom place in South Sacramento, near the Executive Airport. Not a fancy area, but it was safe. My nieces, they were asleep. My sister had made roti and curry for me, my favorite. It tasted like home, but it wasn't. Everything was different. The water from the tap tasted different. The air smelled different. I remember going to bed, and the silence. No crickets, no dogs barking, no sound of the ocean. Just… nothing. It was so quiet. It made me feel very alone, even with my sister in the next room.

The next morning, Sunday, I woke up early. The sun was bright. My sister took me to the store, a Safeway, to buy some things. It was huge! So many choices. I remember looking at the milk, so many different kinds of milk. Whole milk, 2%, skim, almond, soy. In Fiji, milk was milk. You just bought it. Here, it was a decision. Everything felt like a decision. My sister said, “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.” I bought a small tube of toothpaste, Crest, because it looked familiar. That afternoon, my sister’s neighbours came over, a few other Fijian families. Everyone wanted to see the new arrival. They asked me questions, gave me advice. “It’s hard at first,” one woman said, “but you’ll make it.” “Find a job quickly,” another said. “America doesn’t wait for anyone.”

My first job. I was a registered nurse in Fiji, but here, my qualifications weren’t immediately recognized. My sister warned me. “You have to pass the California Board of Nursing exam,” she said. “It’s difficult.” So, I couldn’t work as an RN right away. I needed to study. In the meantime, I needed money. My sister helped me find a job as a CNA, a Certified Nursing Assistant. It was at a nursing home, Colonial Convalescent Hospital, on Stockton Boulevard. It wasn't what I trained for, but it was nursing work. And it was a job. My first day, I remember, was October 8th, 1990. It was a Monday. It was a warm day for October, I remember, one of those Indian summer days Sacramento gets. I wore the uniform they gave me, light blue scrubs. They were too big. I felt small and insignificant.

The pay was, hmm, five dollars and seventy-five cents an hour. I worked the evening shift, three to eleven. It was hard work. Lots of lifting, bathing, changing patients. Some of the patients, they were confused, angry. Some were very sweet. The other CNAs, they were mostly Filipino, Mexican, some Black women. They were kind to me. They taught me the ropes, the shortcuts. “Don’t take it personally, honey,” one woman, Gloria, told me when a patient screamed at me. “They’re not screaming at you, they’re screaming at their life.” I remembered that. Every two weeks, I got a paycheck. My first one was for about $400 after taxes. I remember cashing it at the Bank of America. It felt like real money. I kept a little for myself, bought some groceries for the house, and sent the rest to my parents. Every month, I sent money home. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I wanted them to know I was okay, that I hadn’t forgotten them.

That first Christmas here, it felt strange. It wasn't warm like in Fiji. It was cold. I saw snow on the mountains, from a distance, on the way to Tahoe with my sister's family for a drive. My sister, she tried to make it special. We decorated a small tree. My nieces were so excited for Santa Claus. I called my parents on Christmas Day. The phone connection was bad, lots of static. I could barely hear them. My mother cried. I cried too, after I hung up. It was hard. I missed the carols in the village, the big family meals, the church service in Fijian. Here, it was different. We went to a small Fijian church on Fruitridge Road, but it wasn't the same. The congregation was small, everyone knew everyone, but it wasn't my village.

One day, I was at the nursing home, and I was assigned to a new patient. Mr. Johnson. He was a very old man, very frail. He had a big family who visited him every day. His daughter, Maria, she was there often. She was a few years older than me, maybe thirty-three or thirty-four. She was kind. She would talk to me about her father, ask me about my day. She was Mexican-American, born here. We started talking more. Sometimes she would bring me coffee from the cafeteria. One day, she invited me to her house for dinner. She lived with her mother. I was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. Her mother was a wonderful cook. They made tamales, rice and beans. It was delicious. Very different from Fijian food, but so good. Maria and I, we became friends. She helped me with my English sometimes, explained American customs. I told her about Fiji. We found we had a lot in common, about family, about caring for our elders.

We went on dates, just the two of us. We went to the movies, to the park, to a fair in Dixon. I remember one time, we went to a drive-in movie, which was a new experience for me. I didn't even know what a drive-in was! It was an old movie, I forget the name, maybe `Top Gun` or something like that. I didn’t understand everything, but it was fun. We talked a lot. I felt comfortable with her. She was funny, smart. She was also a nurse, an LVN, at another hospital. We understood each other’s work. After about a year, she proposed. Not with a fancy ring, just, “Anaseini, will you marry me?” We were sitting in her living room, watching TV. I was so surprised. I said yes. We got married in 1993, at the small Fijian church. Her family came, my sister and her family, and a few of our friends. My parents couldn’t come, of course. It was too far, too expensive. I wished they could be there. I showed them the photos. They said, “She looks like a good woman, Ana. Be happy.”

I kept studying for my RN exam. It took me three tries. The first time, I failed the pharmacology section. The second time, I was so close, but I failed the pediatrics. I felt like giving up. But Maria, she kept encouraging me. “You can do it, mi amor,” she’d say. “Just keep trying.” I spent so many hours in the library, at the community college. Finally, in late 1992, I passed. I got my California RN license. It was one of the happiest days of my life. I went straight to Maria’s work and showed her the letter. She hugged me so tight. My sister was so proud. I started working at Mercy San Juan Medical Center, on the telemetry floor. It was a good hospital. The pay was much better. It was, I think, sixteen dollars an hour to start. A big jump from five seventy-five. I could send more money home. I bought my parents a new refrigerator. It felt good.

Maria and I bought a small house, here in Sacramento, not far from where my sister lived. A three-bedroom house, with a decent backyard. We saved up for the down payment. It was a big step. Our payments were seven hundred and fifty dollars a month. It felt like a lot, but it was our own place. We planted fruit trees in the backyard, a lemon tree, a tangerine tree. We had our two daughters, Elina and Luisa. They were born here. They know nothing but America. They speak English perfectly, of course. My Fijian is still good, and I speak to them sometimes, but they mostly answer in English. It’s okay. They know their heritage. They know about Fiji. We visit every few years now, it’s easier. My parents, they are gone now, bless their souls. But my brothers and sisters, they are still there, and my nieces and nephews. We have big family reunions in Lautoka. It’s always good to go back, to feel the heat, the humidity, to eat the fresh fish and dalo. But it’s not home anymore. Not really. Home is here. With my children, my grandchildren. With Maria.

Leilani, my granddaughter, she asked me, “Nani, do you ever regret leaving Fiji?” And I thought about it. Regret? No. It was hard, very hard. So many changes, so many things I didn’t understand. I missed my family, my village, the ocean, the familiar smells and sounds. I still miss them sometimes. But I came for family, and I built a new family. I found a good life. I worked hard. My daughters, they went to college. They have good jobs. Leilani, she is doing so well in school. This life, this place, it gave us opportunities. So, no regret. Maybe a little sadness, sometimes, for what was left behind. But mostly, gratitude. I think that’s the word. Gratitude. It’s a good word.