"Where's Your ETA? Where's Your ETA?"
On travel, study abroad, immigration, and families.
Leading up to my Europe trip and London program, my family has been asking me about the ETAs and other clearances they needed before we headed off to France and the UK. For the unaware, the UK requires non-visa travelers to hold an electronic travel authorization before entering the country. France and the rest of the European Union is said to require one, but it’s been delayed until October 2026. (Something about IT stuff for EU citizens first.) They were mostly worried about that one because they didn’t know the process for France and since it was my study abroad, they really wanted to see me off because it’d be harder to come back home frequently.
It’s the least I could do for them. I mean, they’re the ones paying for me to go abroad anyway. And this kinda stuff isn’t cheap. The average cost of a study abroad program for a single semester is between $7,000 and $15,000 according to NerdWallet. Again, average. So many factors go into study abroad, like location, the provider, affiliation with the school, and the types of experiences that might cost extra. It’s a hell of a bill to cover, but that’s just the unfortunate reality.
I wish my tuition for this coming semester was that low. It would’ve saved me a ton of money that can just go to my daily living expenses. But enough about me. I don’t want to think about my tuition any more or else I’ll start crying writing this.
My family, like many people, are immigrants. That’s a fact. No denying it. I, like many people, am a child of immigrants. That too is a fact. I am also first-generation Americans. That’s (supposedly) a fact.1 No matter where I go, I and my family will be the “other” people. There’s no denying that we won’t look like the crowd we’re in except back where my family moved from: the Philippines.
This isn’t going to be about feeling disconnected from your culture and heritage and from the environment you’re growing up in. Lord knows there’s enough of that from children of immigrants on the Internet. There’s another thing that comes with being a child of immigrants, especially if one or neither of your parents or other people in your family didn’t become a citizen of the country they live in…
You know it. You love it. Drumroll please!
*dududududududududududududududududududududududuuuuuu* *clang!*
The dreaded visa appointment.
For as long as I can remember, I would accompany my mom to her visa appointments on the weekends and after I got home from school. It’s only more recently that I can actually remember specific details like going into the city, waiting in a bland waiting room while she talks to an employee behind an acrylic wall, and then getting ice cream (or go shopping like we did for her last appointment).
There’s a sterile feeling that comes to these kinds of bureaucratic activities for the regular person. The DMV often comes to mind. The last time I was physically in a DMV office I was in this gray building with linoleum flooring in a chair three feet away every any other chair waiting for at least three hours before hearing my number called up.
After my name got called up, I went to a clerk from across an acrylic screen under a slip with a little tray between the screen to give to them. And heaven forbid you forget something either, or else you have to come back another day or pray that there’s an open appointment just a few hours later. (True story, happened to my aunt.)
Since I grew up, I stopped accompanying my mom to these appointments. I had school, work, a life outside of my own family for once. I do miss the days of sitting at the consulate with my mom and then getting lunch to get for the family at home, but a lot of the memories I associate with that include simply sitting in a gray box for three hours. Honestly, I don’t remember what I did to keep myself entertained before smartphones were mainstream and I got an iPhone in middle school.
Still, it’s a core part of my childhood and relationship with travel. Every trip outside the U.S. would include my mom being held up in a separate line from the rest of us (or my dad forced me and my sister to join my mom while the rest of my family used the fancy e-Gates at some airports). I can’t lie, I didn’t really understand why we all had to be together. I guess I would’ve looked suspicious if you saw this little kid walking up to the immigration counter if you were an immigration officer, but this kept going on until I was an adult. I remember seeing side-eyes from the officer who processed us when I was like 15 and taller than both my parents.
Either way, there’s this demoralizing feeling that comes from crossing through immigration, even when you’re coming back home. You can’t look too jittery or else you look suspicious, but then you can’t look too calm or else they’ll question why you’re so calm. It’s a damned if you do, damed if you don’t. There’s an edge to immigration officers that only come from working in public service like that. It’s weird.
Travel is always going to be a big part of my life. I have family in the Philippines, dreams of visiting countries I never knew existed, and I just have places to be. And if that means the little inconvenience that comes from having a bad first impression of the country you’re in from the airport, then so be it.
*The Immigration Initiative at Harvard defines first-generation immigrants as those not from the U.S. who immigrated as adults and second-generation immigrants as Americans born to parents who are abroad. They also have a term for immigrant children called “1.5 generation” originally coined by University of California Irvine professor Ruben Rumbaut in the 60s. Do I agree with these terms and definitions? No, not really.