Creating Your Next New Normal: A post-Covid dream: April 2020

When your biology is shocked, all your cells fight to reject the outside intervention and wants to go back to it’s previous “normalcy”; similarly, when your system is shocked, your mind searches for straws of normality, some semblance of sanity. Typically, you don’t get a chance to think about and plan for a new normal. You may want to continue doing the same as you did before and dealing with the crucial pain of loss.

Invariably, the new place you have arrived, is different than where you were before. Often, that requires us to re-write the rules or, at minimum, change some existing norms.

In today’s pandemic stricken world, we keep wondering what our future holds. Especially after such a “group shock” to our system; when will we hug our loved ones without fear of hurting them? When will be able to touch a guardrail without wondering who touched it before? When can we go to watch a movie at a theatre again?

I’ve been through 3 significant traumatic events in my life; I have learned that my loss is entirely personal, and very few people can understand or empathize the pain I may have endured. Similarly, every time, I have arrived at a new state of mind, it took adjustments, and there is a lingering feeling of loss; however, I have learned to make this new “normality” my only reality and moved forward to accept the new rules, norms and roles.

Losing my dad, at the age of eighteen, migrating to a new country/continent/culture, and much later in life, going through a divorce – each one these new circumstances have created a personal “new normal” for me. At least two of these three “incidences” were beyond my control and migration, can be argued on either side of the coin.
One afternoon I left home to go to a theatre lecture and came back to find my young Dad being hauled away in an ambulance and the next morning, he died, suddenly. My world was jarred and I had to grow up quickly, make decisions on my own and carve my own future. I realize that my Dad’s death has made me more resilient – while making me anxious about relationships. I have also become acutely aware of the shortness of life and have understood that the only connections that matter are your close family and a few friends.

Within three months of my father’s death, I took a long journey and arrived to go to college in the US; leaving a doting family, friends behind, I set out on a journey to define and find a new home. It took me almost twenty years, after living in 8 states, to finally land in Florida where I feel grounded again. Earning my own right to exist in this hyper-competitive world of my new homeland and constantly proving that I can do it, without known connections, is the true test of being an American.

A decade after arriving in the US, I met my princess and proposed to her on our second date. We married, had two lovely children, traveled the world and lived our idylic life on a beach town.  Some 15 years later, another tragedy struck our lives, as my “picture perfect” life was shattered by mental illness and our marriage fell apart. I learned to become a single dad; and to connect with the two most important people of my life. This very personal trauma, also taught me who my friends are, and who suddenly went on an offensive, religious rant to discard me or my children.

I have often said to friends, “Most people don’t get one dream in their life – and I’ve had the privilege of 3 dream jobs in my life” – the only dream job left is to be an “awesome dad” to my girls – and leave them with some amazing memories – something I don’t have a lot with my own father.

Each one of these incidences, death, divorce and migration, are traumatic. Each of them changed me in different ways. I can’t clearly remember who I was before or compare with, who I am today. All I can say is that I know trauma leaves us as a different person Expecting things to be like they were, is unrealistic.

What I discuss with Daiyaan and Shania today, is that we know that things are going to be different in a month, two months or six months from now. We know school for Shania and work for Daiyaan is going to take on different dimensions. We know sports or leisure will be different for all of us. So will our dream to travel; while our tourist souls crave another touch of Barcelona or Mykonos, at least for a few months, we don’t know how we will sit next to strangers on an airplane, or sleep in a hotel bed where someone else slept a few hours ago.

Preparing for the new normal is the key. Not in an intense way, where we hoard food, or toilet paper. But knowing that many of the things we are accustomed to doing – even simple things like hugging each other, will take on a different dimension. Doesn’t mean that we love each other any differently. Just our expression of love may have to morph a bit.

After a week or so, I stop by at Daiyaan’s home and she asks me to wash my hands and sit a table width away.  In the past, during such short visits, we may have been sitting next to each other, on her comfy sofa, watching an old episode of Friends; today, a socially distant interaction is all we feel appropriate.

There will be normalcy again;  I am confident. I will hug my daughter freely one day.

For now, the little girl I brought back from the hospital, some twenty five years ago, sits across from me and tells me about the sushi burrito she ordered via Delivery Dudes or how delighted she is with her Shipt groceries and that she needs to return to a Zoom conference call in the next thirty minutes!

A post pandemic friends Wine Social

Upgrades of Life. March 2018

Late last year, I upgraded my IPhone and my car; same brands, just newer versions and different models; The IPhone X is a delight to switch from my news, to texting, and then to music, and my phone battery doesn’t die; the Audi Q5 overhead sunroof, along with Audi Pre-sense, which tells me about approaching traffic, and with Appleplay, makes my morning commute more productive and long distance driving definitely more enjoyable.

Some upgrades, in accessories, are definitely good.

When you leave your birth land, to find a my new country, is that a good upgrade?

When one leaves a boss who is described as, the bear from the movie The Revenant, scratching your eyeballs out every morning, is that an upgrade?

When one moves on, from high-school friends, who don’t really understand or empathize, to build your own new community, is that an upgrade?

Our lives are full of choices; sort of “forks in the road”. I have written in the past, of being at an intersection or crossroads – with decisions to be made. Not every decision, is an upgrade. On the other hand, if one is willing to do the hard work of research, and is committed to the investment, one can choose to make that turn in the fork, an improvement.

I made a choice, some thirty years ago, to leave my loving, warm family, and move thousands of miles away, to a whole different land – and start fresh. Many of my friends stayed behind and made their lives in Bangladesh – and then others have gone to Europe or Australia. No one ever is in the position to judge, why or how someone makes that decision to leave home – and one cannot consider these decisions upgrades or downgrades – who am I to say that my life in the US is an upgrade from my friends who chose to live in Bangladesh, or, for that matter, move to Australia. What’s most important is that they are happy and content wherever they have chosen to live.

Even since moving to the US, I have lived in some 11 homes, in 8 states in 33 years. Once, my young daughter came from school and asked if we were in the witness protection program! At least twice during these times, in Denver and Fort Lauderdale, I felt that I found my home and was going to live there forever. Then life changed; an amazing career move led me to Florida, where I thought we had built permanence. Then disease struck our family and we had to make a drastic move out of Florida.

I always wanted to live in a real city, coffee shops and crazy restaurants in every corner. I wanted a walkability score of 90+, coupled with heady intellectualism. When we moved to Cambridge, we found all that and more. Museums, a vibrant cultural scene, beautiful green spaces, and access to a coastal town, Ogunquit or Provincetown, in 90 or so minutes. I meet the most curious and intriguing people here; our dinner conversations are often about Blockchain and artificial intelligence, and the number of new fusion restaurants here are beyond my count. From late April to late October, Cambridge is a wonderful place to live. However, I also crave those blue waters of Florida, palm trees and that afternoon drizzle, soothes my soul.

January 2017, on my 50th birthday, I finally decided that however many days I have, I want some Florida in my life. So, I took the plunge and decided to build something which I could eventually call my home, at least for a portion of my life. Sometimes, in life, upgrades are necessary, and then other times, you know you gave up something good, that you just want back, even if it’s for a portion of your life.

There are other decisions, that are quite easily made, even if someone makes them for you! No regrets about leaving that annoying boss who makes you cringe every day, or puts their feet up on the desk while talking to a customer in their office. No regrets about letting friends go, when they bring you down more than they lift you up – however long that friendship maybe. In my experience, work or friends, if they are not willing to listen, or be “additive” in your life – should be upgraded quickly – without regret.

After a long day of dueling decisions, argumentative employees, fighting crazy traffic, when you return home and your twelve year old asks you, what’s the highlight of your day Daddy?, and you respond, without hesitation, dinner with you, honey!… that’s when you know, that some things in life are best just the way they are, without upgrades.

The Sunrise Last at the beach by my home in Florida. Not Upgradeable.

Serendipity, Happenstance and Toast with Guacamole

I do believe in serendipity and happenstance.

And I believe that things happen for a reason. At that happening moment, often, we don’t realize what that reason maybe; over time, we understand why this just needed to happen.

Also, I see, that the series of experiences I have had, were just preparing me for this moment of time.  

Today, I closed on my first holiday-home (and possible final home) in Oakland Park, Florida. For seven months, I have been following the construction of this home; cinderblock by cinderblock, windows, doors, electric wires and tile work. As if, I am preparing for a child to be born. 

When you talk about serendipity or happenstance, on this same date, I arrived in the US, some 32 years ago. Maybe the date is just a coincidence.  

I started my new life in this new country, bursting with desire and ambition. Even after so many years, my heart and mind are just as excited by possibilities of love, friendship, a great meal, or a bottle of wine.  

This morning, Shania, my twelve year old and I drive to sign the paperwork at the closing office; all the way, I keep thinking of the first home I bought on Merrimack Lane in Toledo, some 24 years ago. I remember the night before the closing of my first home; my mom and I kept talking about the concept of buying a “home”. She was worried that if I bought a home in the US, I would never return to Bangladesh. She was right.  

She sat with me through the signing of papers, insurance and documents. At the end she asked me, “Bujhcho, shobkichu?” (Did you understand everything?)  

Today, my strong Shania sits with me, quietly, for more than hour, while we go through some 30 signatures, deeds, titles, insurance….all of it. Later, she acknowledges, it was really boring, but she didn’t bring her headphones to the closing because she thought it was impolite. I am grateful she is here; I believe she is here for a reason more than, just that I asked her to be there. Just like my mother, twenty-four years ago, she is is providing me strength and support to nurture my dreams along.  

We get home and Daiyaan arrives; we unpack boxes and put things away. We are sleeping on air mattresses tonight, just like camping. Sheets are unfolded. New dishes are put in the new dishwasher; new towels are hung up. All to the girls’ favorite music – dancing, joyful and bright.  

In the evening, my friends Toby and Ray, bring champagne. We toast in our new glasses, nibble on tapas, listen to good music and break out into utter goofiness. I feel like I have been designing and planning for this day, all my life.  

The goal tomorrow is to make breakfast for my girls, at our new home.  

Multi-grain bread with Guacamole, sunny-side up eggs on toast, and a sprinkling of Sriracha. Orange juice, hot tea or coffee.  

This is a great day for my family. 32 years from landing in this beautiful place, to 24 years from learning to buy a new home, I am here today because I have been preparing for this day. This is no coincidence. This was meant to be; Guacamole toast for my princesses, and a hot cup of red-rose tea for me.  

Our First Drinks at our New Home

Fear in a Father-Daughter Conversation: Feb 2017

We find a great place in Delray for Dinner!

 

This is not the typical dinner conversation a father has with his twenty-one year old daughter on a Saturday evening.

Usually, when together, we talk about her friends, her classes, and her work. Within a few hours, we learn about each other’s worlds, and participate in our growth as a parent and a child. As my first born, she has taught me how to be a father. I experiment with her – bounce off politics, religion and familiar topics. Sometimes we roleplay in adversity and joy.

She knows that my optimism about America, borders on grandstanding; I have always been vocal about my aspirations about this nation. She knows, if one works hard and is willing to give our best, we can achieve everything possible, in this country.  I don’t compromise on this particular strain of feelings, and it’s been a consistent thread of our dialog, for life.

On this pleasant February evening, as the sun is setting, we walk west on the pretty bridge on Atlantic Avenue in Delray, and approach downtown, in search of a nice place for dinner.

I gently ask her if she has heard about Muhammad Ali’s son being subjected to harassment at Orlando Airport security for his last name and his religion. ” No Daddy, I haven’t heard of it”, she answers.

We go on to discuss that if she is stopped by the police, or any security personnel, how should she react. With a last name like Mahmood, this is more likely to happen now, than not. Most important is not to be surprised by the event – but rather to expect it.

If you expect the worst in life, and prepare for it, there are only two possible outcomes – either you’re prepared and deal with the calamity – or you’re pleasantly surprised (that the calamity never took place)!

I want her to be prepared; I don’t want her to be sad, confused or dismayed.  We discuss that if a cop stops and asks her whether she is legally in this country, she needs to be respectful and not get mad or respond angrily that she was born in Toledo, Ohio. We acknowledge that due process and the law-of -the land will ultimately protect her, but it could be nerve-wrecking and a complete waste of time.

We talk about the two Indian immigrants who were shot and (one) killed at a bar in Olathe, KS, this past week. She is stunned to hear the news; we discuss about being more aware, and not going out when I am visiting one of my plants in Middle America during the next few years.

The word, immigrant, has become such a flash point of discussion, in the land built by, with and for immigrants.

It’s unfortunate, but it’s true.

When Daiyaan’s grandfather came to this country, back in the late 1950s,  foreign scholars often carried a “temporary white” card, so that,  they could ride the front of the bus, or drink from a “whites only” water fountain. That was only sixty some odd years ago. Things may not be perfect today, but they are a lot better than those times.

In my thirty plus years, I have seen tremendous progress in this nation, the attitude of it’s people and habits.

I saw Barack Obama get elected twice – never thought, a minority with a strange sounding middle name, would be elected as the leader (anywhere in the world).

However, now we know, even after all that, it’s not possible to let our guards down. We need to still teach our children to be aware, that there are people here (and many other modern industrialized places) where people judge you by the color of your skin, or what you wear, or how you speak, or what your last name is.

On this beautiful evening, it’s just sad that, instead sharing our joy and colorful experiences, I am scaring her into reality.

In her twenty-one years, I have never had to inject fear in our conversation to have her submit; it feels like one of those movie characters of the sixties, who taught their children, not to look into the eyes of the policemen, and to address them as “sir”.

I find my behavior and teaching method deplorable, shameful and very “un-American.”

But as a father, my first responsibility to her, is to teach her to survive, which requires moderation and modulation.

I am not proud of myself; just being pragmatic. I thought I was too liberal, too progressive for all this.

I never thought that I would need to speak to my children about the fear of being different.

I know this will come to an end one day. It doesn’t matter if its four years, or eight years. As a parent, however, you are often driven by a singular motive – wanting to see that your children are safe, happy and taken care of.

She calms me down gently, “Daddy, I know; don’t worry, I will be fine”.

I know you will be fine, Daiyaan. But I can’t be.

I am still mad, upset and just simply pissed. I want my America back where fear is not what I teach my children, but I teach them courage – to be the grand person they deserve to be.

The conversation continues the next day

Unicorns, Stars and Stripes: Recovering From the Shock of November 9 2016

About ten days ago, on the eve of US Elections, I went to bed with severe anxiety.

I had lots going through my mind; will the economy collapse, like it did in 2002 and 2007/8 and will I have to lay people off – or conversely, get laid-off myself; will marriage equality be reversed and I won’t be able to get married next year; will my daughter’s rights to choose, in their reproductive years, be snatched away by a lopsided supreme court; will there be public humiliation of my Muslim friends or family in the hands of a McCarthy style tribunal in days to come; how will they treat me – since I carry a Muslim name – but now an atheist, cohabitating with another atheist, and raising two daughters with no religious preference.

All of these heady, very personal thoughts coagulated into bizarre, dystopian dreams and a sleepless night. I woke up with a headache the next morning. My eleven-year old daughter, who had gone to bed at 8 pm last night, woke up confused and asked me, “Daddy, is it true – Hillary lost? What happened? ”

We hugged for a few minutes. The first thing I told her, “it’s going to be ok, baby. We are going to be ok. America is a great country. I have experienced America for 31 year and I know what it’s made of” Even as my heart was heavy with uncertainty, I was doing my fatherly thing, re-assuring her that life is not about to change dramatically.

I went to work like a mechanical drone, back-to-back meetings, and flew to Los Angeles that night for work. For about 7 days, I couldn’t bring myself to watch my comfortable NBC news with Lester Holt.  I felt the mourning of liberal friends on social media – it was a similar howling I had once before, from my family, on the day of my fathers death – somewhat bizarre, yet excruciating in expression. They needed to get their feelings out in the open.

The weekend after the elections, my sister came to visit from Canada, and it was easy to forget everything by wandering around beautiful Boston; she was also shocked. We tried to keep our political discourse to a minimum, and tried to take in the sunshine and fall colors surrounding us.

All throughout the week, I kept racking my brain to think, how could I be so way off in my projections – how did I completely misunderstand the American “way of thinking.”

During the Gore vs. Bush or Kerry vs. Bush elections, there were clear signs; I was actually very doubtful that a biracial man with a Muslim name would ever be President of the United States. But this time, I felt a level of certainty, that I had never felt before.

Early in my life, I lived 15 years in the rural hinterlands of Missouri, the Industrial rustbelt of Ohio, farmlands of Wisconsin and western hills of the mining country of Pennsylvania. I distinctly remember, how I always felt like an outsider there; I could feel people stare at us, as soon as we entered a restaurant – or some folks just moved a few feet away, as you walked by, at the grocery store.

It was only after I moved to Denver, and in Florida, that I felt as if I belonged there. A short tenure in Texas reminded me of the Midwest again – but then I quickly escaped to Massachusetts – the bluest of the blue states!

And of course, there were the 8 years of Obama, the unimaginable passage of Marriage Equality, the possibility of tilting of the Supreme Court.

Altogether, time and space has played a trick on my mind!

I had started to believe in this utopian fantasy of equality and morality. I felt, as if in my lifetime, I would see the transformation of America into an imaginary land of equity and equality.

While things have dramatically improved over thirty years and America, since last week, I have come to accept that there is still ways to go. The better way to think, there will always be the opportunity to improve here.

People may say it’s economic anxiety of the working class poor that drove our election results. But it’s not JUST economics. It’s definitely not one-dimensional. There is race, there is bigotry, there is misogyny, there is homophobia. It’s all kind of mixed together. In a lot of ways, it’s Malcom Gladwells Revisionist History: we voted for a black man twice, we have done our share. It’s time to swing the pendulum back for a while.

As I speak to Shania and Daiyaan today, I remind them of a day in Missouri, thirty years ago a particular landlord told me on the phone, that they didn’t have rentals available – but asked my friend with an American name/accent to come look at an open unit on the same day. I also remind them that when their grandfather, an International scholar, had a “temporary white” card so he could sit in the front of a bus, or drink from “white only” water fountains. That was only sixty years ago.

America has made tremendous progress. But everything is still not yet equal here.

I also remind my daughters, that I have traveled six continents and there is no other place on earth, where liberty and equality is respected more. Period.

America may not be perfect – but it’s better than any other place on earth.

America will always be a work-in-progress.

Thirty years from now, we will see and experience things, that we can’t imagine today. I am more confident of America than ever before.

We may have to put up with some theatrics and melodrama for 4 to 8 years. But if the government over arches and tries to scale back social progress, I know that there will be significant pushback from those 61 million voters who didn’t vote for that level of social change.

In eight years,  Shania will be ready to cast her first vote; the latest, on that day,  there will be another opportunity to swing the pendulum back. She will have that choice. And I expect to be there, to help her make that decision.

In the meantime, we need to remain engaged. When behaviors make us cringe, we need to speak up. When our civil and human rights are questioned or threatened, we need to understand and claim them back.

America is a continuum. A beautiful continuum where we have a lot to add

Thirty Years to Lose A Homeland : September 2015

The Crooked Roadsign of Gulshan

I walk the side streets of a prestigious Dhaka neighborhood; large quixotic holes, astoundingly high speed-bumps and crooked road-signs litter most streets. Everything seems crumbling, misapplied, and fractured – as if someone just haphazardly shoved a bunch of dirty clothes in their closet.

There is garbage and the smell of feces everywhere. People navigate this squalor and walk-around to get to their destination, as if nothing bothers them; this filth and stench, is a normal part of their lives. Drop an hour of monsoon rains, and these same streets become a combined sewer cesspool.

The roads here are so congested that it takes over two hours to go eight miles during regular business hours. Dinner parties start around 10 pm just to accommodate the traffic fiasco.

This is the same city I was born in. From the look and feel of it, it’s hard to understand why and how one would deliberately choose to live in a city like this.

I meet several groups of friends and family during my short stays; everyone acknowledges the development in the country during the last 3 decades; however, I don’t hear a single one taking a “stay-cation” in Dhaka. They can’t wait to escape to Bangkok, Singapore, Colombo or some Exotic European city for “a breather”, as they put it. Hope for improving Dhaka, as a livable city, seems to have completely gone out of the window.

Paradoxically, property values have climbed so high that sometimes a small apartment here costs more than that of Chicago, or even some areas of New York City.

I realize, I am frustrated, upset and anxious.

The last 9 months, I have been traveling back and forth to Dhaka to visit my convalescing mother from a debilitating illness. From the moment, I land at the cramped and moldy 80s style airport with a really long name, I am not myself.

I try to cheer-up her caregivers, work with the team of people, who help orchestrate the necessary infrastructure to provide care and comfort to my ailing mom.

And then, I swiftly run back to my home in the United States.

Because, I just cannot breathe here.

As if, just like my ailing mom, I am slowly, but painfully losing my city of birth.

Nothing appears the same here as I knew it. My close friends have all migrated to Europe, Australia or North America. There a couple who chose to stay, express their remorse and regret staying back.They are now in a hurry to make accommodations for their children somewhere.

The house where my parents lived has been replaced by a 11 story unremarkable, concrete monolith.

I don’t recognize my home, I don’t recognize these people, nor it’s filth, squalor or just abstract randomness.

Definition of home always includes a safe place, a warm place, filled with peace and love.

I feel no peace in this city.

Once my Mom passes, the biggest portion of that love that I have felt here, will also disappear. I can feel it’s imminence creep on my back, like one of those spiders.

It has taken me thirty years to lose my homeland.

Or maybe, just maybe, my homeland has lost me.

Rainbow Days and Sparkling Green Bows

Shania’s Sparkling Green Bow

There’s a sparkling green bow hair-clip on my kitchen counter-top; silently, it reminds of the day Shania and I found it in a boutique at Coco-Walk in Miami. I remember, Shania quickly put it on her hair and did a twirl !

Every time Shania is gone for a few days, I see this green sparkly bow, or her little flowery slippers, the stuffed toys on my bed, or her plastic juice glasses, that remind me of her big, beautiful smile – and her all-encompassing hug.

Next year, my seventeen-year old, Daiyaan, is likely to head off to college. While preparing for this inevitability, I cannot imagine when Shania (7) will move away from home!

Several of my friends have recently started experiencing their children leaving homes and heading off to college. This “withdrawal”, when a child is not physically present in your home any more, is a tough physical and mental experience to deal with, wherever you may be located.

Sometimes, I wonder how my mother dealt with this emptiness, the day I left home. With extended family and friends surrounding her, I wonder, if it was any easier or more difficult to cope with.

Last weekend, I talked to my sister, whose only child left for college recently, creating an empty-nest for them. She described how, the large glasses he drank milk from, sit on the shelves unused, and how the dinner that’s saved for him, goes un-eaten and thrown away. There’s no longer a reason to rush back home in the evening – or a need to check-in and see how the day was, with a third person in the house.

First generation immigrants, sometimes, have a slightly varied perspective when a child leaves their home, to build her own life; often, they view their children as manifestation of all their hopes and as a fruit of all of their immigration “struggles.”

The complicated nature of immigration, makes it difficult to question the fairness of this burden on our children. However, I know many, in our minds, feel a special link with our children who were not born in the same land as we were. There is an expectation that, by osmosis, these children understand our struggle and often, the culture or religion we left behind.

Even if our children are completely “westernized”, they empathize with our habits of drinking milky-sugary tea in the morning; or often converse with us in their accented version of our native language. Somehow, they “get us”; they tolerate our listening to high-pitched music in the car; when we pray in one direction or another – sometimes, they take part with us, or at least don’t look at us with complete incredulity.

As if, they are our bridge to this new land, and a bridge to all our future aspirations.

When this “bridge” moves away, there maybe an emptiness in our lives that’s not easily explainable.

I know families, when their children moved away to build their lives, eventually, the parents followed them to far flung places. In some ways, their immigration continued, from little towns of Nebraska or New Mexico where they started their journey, to some new destination like New York or Nevada.

Jhumpa Lahiri captured this nuanced expectation on immigrant’s children in her masterpiece The Namesake.

On this Saturday morning, I await Shania to wake up from her sleep and snuggle with me for a few more minutes and watch cartoons together. While Daiyaan may leave next year, creating her own vacuum, for a few more years, I want to continue to build memories with my other “bridge”.  We will go to some new store, where we will buy our sparkly hair clips, enjoy a DreamWorks movie, or simply admire a beautiful rainbow together, after the rain.

Shania with her Green Sparkling Bow!

Memory of Home – Craving For A Place to Belong: From Merrimac to Marina Drive

Daiyaan sends a short text, “Daddy, I don’t want to come home because it hurts me too much, that we are selling the house.”

I take a deep breath and sit back; when I moved into this home, I imagined retiring from this place,  imagined Daiyaan’s wedding on the small patch of grass by our backyard; I had believed this as my final destination. In the next six weeks, we will be moving to a new place to live – smaller, more manageable for my new life.

I was in the pool last night– staring at the banana and coconut trees, listening to my favorite tunes – soaking in the happiness this home has given me.

A home has a lot of meaning; a lot of connections. When people move to new homes, sometimes they try to hold on, to their past, that has become the fabric of their souls. I have written in the past about Anchoring in an Uncertain Sea; as first generation immigrants, the concept of “anchoring” has a very special meaning, for many of us.

In my 45 years, this is the first home I have lived 5 years in one home; the first eighteen years of my life, with my parents in Bangladesh, we moved 6 times. In the last 18 years of family life, I have moved in-and-out of new homes, 7 times.

I bought my first home on Merrimac Road with a singular goal; to demonstrate to my family that I had finally attained “stability”:  I had a job, and I was pursuing the American dream. The small three bedroom home, without central air and only one bathroom, is where I moved into with my unstable sofa and a single mattress. The night before I signed the bank papers, my mother, coincidentally was visiting me in Toledo and complained incessantly about why I had to take on such a big “responsibility”.

Daiyaan and I at our first home on Merrimac Lane in Toledo, OH – Spring 1996

I started my career and family from Merrimac road;  I met my future wife and made her a cup of International Coffee one evening, the first time we met. I got married and brought her home here; we bought our first new car, a dark blue Toyota Corolla.  Our first child, Daiyaan came home and slept on my chest, the first night of my transition to fatherhood on a warm summer evening. There was a beautiful Dogwood tree on the front yard, which was in full bloom when Daiyaan arrived.

Daiyaan and I at our 2nd home in Perrysburg, Ohio Summer 1997

After 4 years of Merrimac Road, right around Daiyaan’s first birthday, we moved to our first custom-built home in Perrysburg, Ohio.  Since then, we have never stayed at a house very long. Fifteen years later, I arrived in South Florida; in between, we bought and sold, four other homes in far away places like Wisconsin, Pennsylvania and Colorado.

The first time I stepped into our new home on Marina Drive, I felt at peace; I believed,  I would retire and live in this home forever. Shania learned to swim, read and carve a pumpkin, at this home.

Shania carves her first pumpkin at our home!

Daiyaan finished middle school here. We went away to Spain, Australia, Morocco and many other places from this home. But every time we went away, I  felt that I could come back to this blue-green home, where I felt safe – I felt that my soul had a place to rest. The little patch of grass in the backyard, surrounded by coconut trees is where my imaginary hammock rests.

Daiyaan, Shania and I when we first came to our “blue green house” at Marina Drive 2007

Heartbreak, success, anger, celebration, pain, glory and variety other emotions are commingled in this space which has provided with shelter and continuity during a very tranquil and subsequently, a very difficult “turning-point” in my life.

When I sit outside on the patio, listening to the sound of our inter-coastal waters, I  feel peace; I feel blessed that I was given the opportunity to have this as my home for this period in my life.

With my uncertain, anxious heart, I send a text back to my daughter, “Baba,  A house is just a box – it’s where people live – the people are more important than the box”.  

I know by consoling her, I am consoling myself as I start the search for the next stage of my life.

Our backyard in Lighthouse Point Summer 2011

Is this For Here or To Go? August 26 2009

First time I walked into McDonald’s on Lowry Mall,  Columbia, Missouri and ordered my favorite Big Mac, I faced with this critical question. “Would you like your meal for here or to go?” I was bewildered: go where?    

As a “furner”, even though, you may have learned English for most of your life, some idiosyncratic phrases and localized American intonations can be amusing to someone new here. It goes somewhat beyond the “schedule/SHE DUEL” distinction and you learn to adjust and say “GEE-AW-GRAPHY “versus just “JAWGRAPHY”.    

After a grueling flight on TWA, from London to St.Louis, I took a Greyhound to reach Columbia. There were a handful of  people on the bus; some smelling of alchohol or looking bland and depressed. This was not the impression I had of my newfound land of hope and prosperity; of course, my vision of United States was that of Dallas, Dynasty and Knight Rider!  I kept peering out of the bus window for looking for sports cars or a ranch gate like Southfork. All I saw were cars with unusual names like Chevrolet/Pontiac/Ford and barn steeples and lots of rolled hay. I arrived safely at the Columbia bus station with two bulky suitcases and a world of ambition.    

After a while, a large Brown Pontiac showed up with two unfamiliar Bangalee faces. Bangladesh is such a small gram (village) that you always find a “relative of a relative” in remote places, even in Columbia, Missouri. Razzaq Bhai and Elly Bhabi took me to their University Terrace grad student apartments, where a fresh meal and a shower were very much appreciated. In these pre-internet days, other Bangladeshis were anxious to meet this new undergraduate student and learn about “fresh” news from back home.    

My first college roommate, at Cramer Hall, was a 6’4”, 220 pounds football player; Mike Ceglinski was an undecided freshman from St. Jo(seph), Missouri. I had no idea that you could go to college undecided .    

In Bangladesh, in the mid ‘80s you were raised with some simple rules: if you have any sign of intelligence, you have to study medicine, engineering, architecture, or something in science. I had expressed an interest in economics; one evening, over a cup of dark-milky tea, my Dad sat me down and nudged me towards Industrial Engineering (as the closest thing to Economics!). At eighteen, that nudge was quite enough. Like many other decisions in life, Economics became a minor on my curriculum; it’s like a breakfast cereal that you don’t particularly care for, but it’s the easiest to start the day with!    

I am quite certain that my new roommate, Mike, had never spoken to anyone outside of his home town – let alone someone from another planet (well, being from Bangladesh to him was like being from another planet!). I was half expecting him to go “Nano-Nano” with me like Mork! Interestingly, he brought along his pet snake, Edgar. Edgar was harmless but had to be fed rats. Mike’s girlfriend, Stacy, who had met an Indian (the dot kind) once, folded her hands in a “Namaste” when I extended a hand for a simple shake.    

There were many introductions to the exact geogrphic location of Bangladesh; someone asked me once if it was in the Middle East; others pointed to its adjacency to China! I had to explain to people how there are bangs (frogs) in Bangladesh and not everyone there carried “bang-bang” guns!  The language is “BAH-UNGLA” … not BENGLA.    

My first Mizzou social event was a picnic, where it was re-confirmed that we had all come from another planet since we all had our own alien registration cards.  Everyone at the picnic had their understated vulnerability and doses of home-sickness. Over time, some of my best friends in college came from Brazil, Mexico, Argentina, Trinidad & Tobago, Iran, Indonesia, China, Turkey, Springfield, MO and over hundred countries! This shared sense of being “lost and found” and “unusual” accents, knowing that we are all “different” in so many ways, created a common bond and humor that lasts for a long time.    

My first job was washing pots and pans at the Cramer Hall cafeteria. Eric, another native Missourian, introduced me to the art of using high-speed jets to spray off gunk from industrial kitchen equipment while screaming at the top of my lungs singing “I Love Sunshine on a Cloudy Day”. It’s unimaginable to survive this job without such entertainment. I learned to clean floors, using a squeegee and a mop, and of course to use the sanitizer. It paid $3.50/hour and I was allowed to work 20 hours/week. 

AT&T, my favorite phone company at this time charged $8/min for the first minute and $2.50 for every subsequent minute to call Bangladesh. The first time I called my mother, it was ~ $12 which was equivalent to 4 hours of standing in the steaming heat of the back of the Cramer Hall cafeteria. But I remember tearing up hearing her voice, “Babu, tumi bhalo aacho? shobkichu thik thak?” (are you ok, is everything ok?).

After a few mishaps, and with the help of some friends, I learned how to operate a coin-operated laundry. Of course, some of my white shirts turned into a unique tie-dye; quickly, I picked up on the miracles of bleach, the spin cycle and “separate” loads!    

Sociology 101 was my first under-gradulate class at 7:30 am at the Industrial engineering auditorium. I wore a tie and a blazer to this class; needless to say, I was the only person wearing a tie. Since my professor was technically blind, it really didn’t earn me any “brownie points” either. At the next class, the calculus teacher, who was a graduate Teaching Assistant, came in a pair of ragged shorts and insisted we call him by his first name, Matt. I was introduced to this amazing sense of constant informality in life that I had never experienced before. Back in Bangladesh, you rarely made eye contact with teacher! 

Jehovah’s Witnesses impressed me with their potential “targets for conversion”. Within a week of arrival, they were persistent in inviting me to social events (all of which involved some form of prayer) and a free meal. On Sunday evenings, when the dormitory cafeteria didn’t serve meals, some of these dinners didn’t seem as absurd. But it was rather amusing when one of them offered to do calculus homework for me, if I went to a Bible Study class. Due to some unusual questions about existence of God and banality of religions, I became a persona-non-grata on their list.    

1985 was the year when St. Louis Cardinals played Kansas City Royals in the “world series” (that only the US plays). Since both teams herald from the great State of Missouri, this was like a National soccer match between two serious leagues! With the drunken stupor of my dorm buddies, I got introduced to the rules of baseball. 

Fall was upon us quickly and I realized that the sweaters my mom hand-knit,  were no longer adequate when walking to class on a cold day from one side of the campus to another; this boy from the tropics discovered “layered” clothing and Kmart “blue-light” specials!

Walking by the Quad and around J School, I picked up my first red maple leaf as a bookmark. I was confused when my friends at the cafeteria asked me if we celebrated Halloween or Thanksgiving in Bangladesh; I tried imagining the pilgrims and Indians (the feather kind) sitting by a fire and exchanging curried turkey or some Bangladeshi vegetable (Korola), with a green flag/red circle flying half-mast by the fire.    

On a cold December evening, during my finals week, I looked out of my dorm window to see white snowflakes, coming down in a fury. It was pretty but somewhat disconcerting. I wish I could relate to the euphoria of Bollywood film stars singing and dancing in this weather paradox; I was worried that I didn’t have snow boots and wasn’t certain that my sneakers would make it through this winter.     

When I think back to those days, I wonder how I adjusted to these almost constant, series of changes in the dynamics of daily, ordinary life. For someone who had never written a bill, or done his dishes, cooking or laundry, it was like yet another “life lesson”. Over time, you understand that there is trauma associated with every change and Immigration, from one land to another, is always traumatic. With the hope of a better future, or different future, you absorb these shocks and learn to become resilient. And that carries you, for the rest of your life. 

Somehow the first semester passed; I did reasonably well (in my grades) and thanks to the generosity of my friends, learned to navigate around the streets (and sounds) of my new surroundings.    

Every day, I was impressed that you may directly drink tap water, or that people calmly wait in line (no shoving or inadvertent touching) and do get served at the bank or the post office; I discovered that pedestrians have the “right of way” on street crossings and people do make eye contact, even if you don’t know them and often they greet you with a “hi”. I am still impressed when I see cars pull away to the right of the street, when an emergency vehicle sounds its siren, … or that your PhD professors treats your stubborn-teenage opinion with respect!    

I came from an emotional landscape of love and colors to this rational, first green, then grey land… from complete homogeniety to multi-colored, multi-flavored dexterity……a protected shell to a world of opportunity…    

For Here or To Go?    

I have decided to Eat In.