The Promise That Brought Us Here

Guest Post – Jason Lacsamana, Director, Programs and Partnerships

My family’s immigration story is deeply intertwined with the larger context of U.S. history. My parents came to the United States in the late 1960s, shortly after the passage of the 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act, also known as the Hart-Celler Act. That law was monumental. It abolished the national origins quota system, which had restricted immigration from many parts of the world, especially Asia. In doing so, it opened a pathway not just for people seeking refuge or family reunification, but for professionals, like my parents, who were essentially recruited for their expertise and skill.

My father was a mechanical engineer, specializing in elevator and escalator technology. This work brought them to the U.S. in 1968. That move, across oceans and cultures, from the Philippines to New York, was a leap of faith. While the move was for employment, it was also about opportunity, about hope, and maybe even a little adventure. It’s strange to think of them in their youth, full of dreams and ideas about the world. I mostly think of my parents as they are now, wise and established. But I forget that they were once young and very brave.

When they arrived in the U.S., the country wasn’t very welcoming. Before the 1960s, there was very little Asian immigration. This led to stereotypes, misnomers, and deeply embedded narratives that painted Asian people as foreign, as other. Navigating that wasn’t easy for them. But they found and built a community of peers, relatives, and other Filipino immigrants going through the same things. At that time, there weren’t formal programs or safety nets that they could rely on, just people supporting people. Their friends, family, and coworkers offered a sense of belonging. That network of mutual aid and resilience was everything.

Although they were respected professionals in the Philippines, in the U.S., they had to rebuild and completely start over. They had to adjust to a new climate, literally and figuratively. Winters in New York were brutal compared to the tropical climate they were used to. But they endured. And more than that. They thrived. Their story became part of a growing Filipino American presence in the U.S.

And now, more than 50 years later, their story is still relevant. When I see immigrants today, whether they’re arriving from the Philippines, Mexico, Africa, or somewhere else, I see the similarities with my family. They all have the same hopes, the same drive to build a better life, to secure something more for their children. That’s what my parents were doing. My brother and I were a big part of their decision to give up everything and come to the U.S. We weren’t born yet, but we were the dream they carried with them.

Now my kids are third-generation Americans, growing up in a country that my parents believed would be full of opportunity.

Of course, the reality is complicated. Not every door is open, and not every voice is heard. But although the promise and the idea that this country could be a place of welcome and possibility are faltering right now, there are still people holding on to those ideals as my parents did. That’s what I try to honor in my work.

Their journey is one of perseverance, passion, and deep community responsibility. It shaped who I am. They instilled in me a duty to serve, to lead, to empathize. They showed me what it looks like to give back and to show up for others, especially for immigrant communities who still face barriers, who still feel the weight of being “othered.”

In many ways, the people I serve now through philanthropy, public health, and partnership are my parents. They are reflections of that same journey. And I never forget that.

My family’s story is an American story. It’s a story of courage, of connection, of believing in a promise. And I’ll keep telling it, because it deserves to be heard. It belongs here.