He stepped on the tarmac, the golden sunlight and the balmy, humid air of is tropical home country enticing him not to go. Halfway up the airline boarding stairs, he turned to look at his loved ones, now indiscernible specks on the outdoor observation deck, the goodbye hugs and kisses still tugging at his heartstrings.

It was in September, 1969. He was 21 years old, $13 to his name, on his venture to the vast expanse of the United States of America.

The plane gained speed. The vibration pulsated throughout his body. Being on his first flight ever, his sweaty palms gripped the armrests as the plane pierced the clouds, his squinted eyes seeing the sun-drenched islands disappear, one by one, from the tiny window.

Hawaii was his first port of entry.

“Hmm…just like home,” he muttered, the sultry Hawaiian air enveloping his face as he stepped off the plane.

He approached Immigration with measured steps, steadying his gaze at the inspector. A slight mix-up or suspicion could spell denial of entry and subsequent deportation.

“What is your purpose in entering the United States?” asked the inspector, eyeing him up and down.

“To undergo a Medical Technology internship training at a hospital in Illinois, Sir,” he replied with a dry throat, the delivery in deferential tone, exactly as he memorized it.

The inspector flipped through several empty pages on his passport. He eyed him one more time. He paused. He then reached for the “Admitted” stamp and thumped it on a page. The sound was so celebratory that a smile spread across his face, a big sigh fogging up his glasses.

“I am in the United States!” he rejoiced in silence as he walked through the narrow entrance. He was ecstatic that he was officially in the 50th State, a short stop to the mainland which, when growing up, was like a colorful postcard – a montage of celery stalks slathered with peanut butter, thick steaks sizzling on barbecue grills, gobs of ice cream, white picket fences, horseback riding, miles and miles of towering evergreens, soaring skyscrapers, majestic Grand Canyons, and, especially snow, all in technicolor!

The next flight was to Los Angeles for a brief layover, allowing the possibility of meeting his sister he had not seen in a long time.

He was getting comfortable in an aisle seat when an elderly, white American couple in Hawaiian outfits boarded to sit next to him, the wife to his immediate left. After settling down, she started fixing her headset. Noticing that she was having some trouble, he offered to assist.

“You need some help?” he asked.

“Why don’t you just mind your own business!” she barked without wasting a second.

He froze in an instant and then pulled his entire body as far away from her as he could!

It was his first personal interaction with a white American and her snapping rocked him to the core. The celebratory feeling disappeared, dread now in its stead. He lowered his head to avoid looking at any other white American for fear of a similar reaction.

“Are they all like her?” he fretted.

The plane arrived at the Los Angeles International Airport. His sister was nowhere to be found, compounding his dismay. Not only did he feel alone, but he also felt small and out of place, being the only Asian among tall Americans in the queue to board the plane for a late-night flight to Chicago, Illinois. Fortunately, the cool outdoor September air provided a pleasant distraction.

“It is like being in an air-conditioned room!” he marveled, his lips curling into a smile.

He eased into the assigned window seat, preoccupied with his thoughts.

“Will the nuns pick me up at the Chicago Airport? Where will I stay? Do I know anyone there? If I could swim back home, I would!”

Getting on was an elderly white couple, the lei’d woman in a muumuu and the man in a shirt with giant palm fronds and flowers. Clearly recent vacationers, they stopped to sit next to him, throwing him into an immediate sense of déjà vu.

“Why of all the available seats did they choose the ones next to me?” he asked himself. Bewildered, he scooted his body close to the inside wall of the plane as the wife sat to his immediate left. He fixed his gaze on the window to avoid visual contact, Stevie Wonder singing, “For Once In My Life” in a loop through his headset.

In the middle of the flight, the woman decided to switch seats with the husband.

“Why did she switch seats? Is it something to do with me?” he anguished, his self-worth sinking. He lowered his tray table to rest his tired hands and continued to watch the city lights appear and disappear in the darkness. Emerging into his peripheral view was a hand holding an orange.

“I am giving this orange to you,” the woman said as she laid it on his table, her voice almost a whisper.

“Oh…er…thank you,” he replied, turning his head slowly to acknowledge it.

“By the way, I switched seats since I have to go the bathroom often,” she hastened to add, her husband nodding in agreement.

As if by magic, the short exchanges dispelled in no time the negative feelings he harbored at length. His spirits restored, he warmed up to them. They listened as he poured his heart out.

“Don’t worry. We will take care of you,” they said in unison, the tone of their voices revealing genuine sincerity.

Chicago O’Hare International Airport was practically deserted when the plane landed at almost midnight. His luggage was nowhere to be found and no one from the hospital was there to fetch him.

“This young man’s luggage is lost. Could you please drop it off at our house once it is located?” she told the Baggage Claim attendant.

She called the hospital to ask for the administrator.“I can’t believe no one from the hospital came to pick up this poor, tired young man!” she exclaimed on the phone, not divulging whether the person was the hospital operator or a half-asleep nun.

They took him to their house, leading him to a room vacated by their newly-married son. He relished taking a first-ever bubble bath and snuggling down in a first-ever mattress. He slept like a baby.

He woke up to the smell of bacon, noticing his luggage at the door as he walked to the kitchen to have his first American breakfast – scrambled eggs, bacon, and toasts.

They made it to the hospital in an hour. The Sunday afternoon lull was broken by screams emanating from the nurse’s residence. He was quick to explain when he recognized the sources.

“Oh, they’re my fans while students at a nursing school near my university where I was a student radio announcer,” he said, adding that they knew he was coming.

Extremely pleased, he waved to acknowledge their enthusiastic welcome.

He turned to thank the couple for being good Samaritans. They exchanged goodbyes with a mutual promise of future get togethers. Their car now at a distance, he scanned the sprawling hospital complex. He felt light, his feet seeming to be inches above the ground.

It was in September, 1969. He was 21 years old, $13 to his name, his colorful postcard now slowly coming into view.