“Goodbye, America.”“I hate it here.”“I already have my tickets.”
These headlines – courtesy of The Guardian, Newsweek, and MarketWatch – capture the visceral reaction of many celebrities to Donald Trump’s return to power. From Taylor Swift’s soaring Spotify streams to Raven-Symone’s candid remarks about leaving the U.S., the collective sentiment seems clear: disillusionment.
My reaction was quieter, yet no less profound. I channeled my emotions into metaphor. The morning after the election, the following headlines greeted me as I opened my laptop:
“Trump Returns to Power” (NBC News)“Trump’s America: Victory Changes Nation’s Sense of Itself” (The New York Times)“Trump Just Ran the Most Racist Campaign in Modern History – And Won” (Huffpost)
Looking out the window of our Texas guest room, I wrote in my past ATABAY article about what I saw -- the vivid hues of late autumn -- amber and crimson, and a sky stretched endlessly blue. It should have felt beautiful. Instead, that beauty seemed muted and distant – like the weight pressing on my chest had dimmed the world itself.
For some, that weight was unbearable. Goddess of Pop Cher told The Guardian, “I almost got an ulcer the last time. If he gets in, who knows? This time I will leave.”
Actress Sharon Stone was just as direct, sharing with Daily Mail: “I am certainly considering a house in Italy. I think that’s an intelligent construct at this time. This is one of the first times in my life that I’ve actually seen anyone running for office on a platform of hate and oppression.”
Taylor Swift, meanwhile, found solace in her music: “I hate it here so I will go to a secret garden in my mind.” For celebrities considering life abroad, those “secret gardens” have real-life coordinates: Italy, Canada, the U.K.
I, too, have a “secret garden in my mind,” one I escape to during fiery arguments with my wife – a theme I explored in my ATABAY article Till Death or Divorce? Unraveling The Marriage Conundrum.
In the heat of an argument, words become weapons. We’ve all been there – adrenaline surges, voices rise, and then, the ultimate weapon unleashed. After over four decades of marriage, my ultimate weapon was this: “Maybe we need a breather. I’ll go home to the province to take a LONG break” -- a secret garden in my mind – that I always keep in reserve.
Unlike Sharon Stone or Whoopi Goldberg, who said, “Maybe it’s time for me to move. I can afford to go,” my “secret garden” today, isn’t about physical relocation. But Trump’s victory awakened a similar yearning – to escape, to retreat to something safe and familiar.
As a Filipino visitor in the U.S., I hold deep ties to this land of the brave and home of the free. American education, often criticized as a colonial tool, shaped who I am today. It sharpened my thinking, broadened my perspective, and, for my family, was a lifeline out of poverty.
My wife and I came here hoping to fulfill a dream: to experience our first White Christmas, the kind we only sing about in the Philippines:
I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,Just like the ones I used to know.Where the tree tops glisten,And children listenTo hear sleigh bells in the snow.
But when Trump won, that dream felt hollow. Each falling leaf outside my window became a quiet farewell, an echo of loss. The vibrant landscape seemed to mourn alongside me, shedding its colors and retreating into bare, indifferent stillness.
Homesickness crept in, like a shadow slipping under the door, quiet but insistent. It wasn’t just a longing for the familiar – a pull toward something deeper, a sense of belonging that had suddenly unraveled in the wake of the election.
The idea of staying for our first White Christmas, once so magical, now felt hollow. My heart ached for the comforting sounds of home: the gentle rustle of coconut leaves swaying in the breeze, the laughter of neighbors chatting over the fence, and the unmistakable scent of freshly cooked adobo wafting through the air.
Desperation nudged me to email our travel agent: Request reschedule of our trip Dallas-Istanbul-Manila. I knew it would cost us dearly -- especially during the holiday season – but at that moment, the price seemed like a small offering to reclaim a sense of normalcy. When my wife came up with the estimated sky-high cost, my resolve faltered. Reality hit like a cold water splashing against my face.
I stared at the figures for a long time, biting my lip. Unlike Whoopi Goldberg, I couldn’t simply say, “I can afford to go.” Instead, I found comfort in our gracious host Ed’s words: “I am not sure if the agency can fix your scheduled travels, but if not, then you both are welcome to spend Christmas with us.”
By God’s grace, we decided to stay, accepting our gracious host’s offered warmth and kindness, filling the gaps left by disillusionment with an unexpected sense of belonging. Yet, the ache in my heart lingered, not for the snow I had once dreamed of catching in my hand, but for the intangible sense of hope that had momentarily slipped away in the wake of the recent election.
It wasn’t just about politics or policies; it was about the soul of a nation, the ideals it promised, and the grim reality it now wrestled with. As my wife and I walked on the quiet street and looked at the houses adorned with holiday lights, there was a peculiar juxtaposition of beauty and loss – like a carol sung in a minor key.
America, a land that had once shaped my education, my worldview, and even my identity as a Filipino, now felt like a distant acquaintance rather than the vibrant friend I once knew.
Perhaps, that’s why Philip Pullman’s words echoed so deeply: Goodbye, America. It was nice knowing you. The farewell wasn’t just to a place but to a version of it that had existed in my heart and mind – a land of unbridled opportunities, boundless dreams, and resilience that once inspired the world.
Content & editing put together in collaboration with ChatGPT
Head photo courtesy of Adobe Stock
Still photos courtesy of Variety, Shutterstock, Getty Images, Dreamstime, & Bri Schneiter
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