I used to think that girls were supposed to feel wanted, like our sole purpose in life was to get married in our mid-20s and have lots of kids for our parents (their grandparents) to then spoil. I would keep myself small and quiet because being loud was a manly trait. They didn’t like loud women in Bangladesh, at least not until they got married and took control of the household. It’s actually quite ironic: to be told that you must be obedient before marriage but then be expected to have a dominant presence in your new home.

Nanumoni—my maternal grandma—got married when she turned thirteen. She hadn’t even gotten her period yet. She was still a child, someone whose personality hadn’t fully developed. So, of course she was quiet, and of course she was small. She hadn’t had a chance to be otherwise.

It’s been over fifty years since, and her story is a bit blurry, but it’s one that’s never been put on paper:

Nanumoni was born a princess, surrounded by gold bangles that would fit her in coming years. She opened her eyes to a mother adorned with nose rings and gold earrings that draped over her outer ears. Her first meal consisted of sugary milk, fed to her with a miniature gold spoon. Even as a newborn, she could taste her family’s determination in the precious metal. It was a determination to remain in power, a hope that diminished with each daughter born in the family. With Nanumoni, it diminished three-fold, and by the fifth daughter, five-fold.

They kept gold in the house to distract from the impending doom that came with not having an heir. Nanumoni took refuge in the glimmering fields of wheat. The determination she had tasted was now toxic, and the soil sifting through her toes returned her to the world’s purity. She could plant herself next to the colossal katal (jackfruit) trees, where the shadow would hide her small body while the earth would provide nutrients she could never receive from piles of gold. It was possible to grow and remain unseen.

The roots took over her imagination. They traveled through the soil, going up and down but never moving from their place. Nanumoni followed them with her nimble fingers, learning their intricacies. There were thin stems scattered on the ground, flexible enough to be woven into bracelets. She would use them as her own roots, twisting and bending them into shapes that kept her occupied for fortnights. Nanumoni would walk back to the house of gold late at night, but it wasn’t her home. The house only wiped her of the soil that would at dawn cover the soles of her feet. She belonged under the canopies of towering trees.

While she made root bracelets, her eldest sister had left. Heavy dowry made the piles of gold grow smaller. There was enough for years, but the gold didn’t trouble Nanumoni. It was never a part of her, and she never a part of it. Life was as simple as the summer rain that softened her hair, as simple as the rainy season storms that could never hurt her in the fields. She didn’t trouble her mind, not even when her second sister went off, the husband taking his own share of the family gold.

One morning, Nanumoni was told she could not wander in the fields. A maid led her into an outdoor shed, where a bath was drawn. The maid scrubbed her using a special kind of smooth rock with embedded bits of gold. The bath went on for what felt like hours as the maid attempted to lighten Nanumoni’s skin by a few shades. The pigment was relentless; it refused to let anyone forget that the sun brought it alive. The maid eventually gave up, dressing Nanumoni in a darker red that would make her appear lighter.

Nanumoni was led into the bedroom, where a few modest gold pieces were set on the vanity table. She sat on the stool next to the table, peering into the trash bin to the right of her. The maid had thrown out her root bracelets, and with them her knowledge of the fields. She was only permitted to know gold, to understand how it would buy her a new life. Looking like her mother did when she first saw her, Nanumoni walked into the main room, where a balding man looked up at her with gentle eyes.

***

I love the look of gold. It shines against the brown of my skin. But I rarely wear it in public. Maa (my mother) has told enough stories of girls being kidnapped for their chains. I’ve stored away any jewelry made of real gold, but it hasn’t stopped me from finding alternatives. I currently wear three rings on my fingers, all stainless steel but plated with gold. I don’t eat my meals with miniature gold spoons, but every time I lift a spoon to my mouth, I use fingers that carry a golden familiarity. I reminisce in a lost history, but I never forget to also spend time under the trees.

Maa received plenty of love letters, most of them from her closest boy friends. She never wrote back. It was a sign of power: to be wanted but never wanting. She didn’t know that. Boys just weren’t her main concern, not until she received a call from America.

My parents’ anniversary is on April 21st. They’ll be married for 25 years, a quarter century. Maa’s story is awfully common, but it’s not one that I’d ever like to forget:

Maa was born on a cool October day, at the end of Bangladesh’s rainy monsoon season. She looked up at a mother who understood the struggles that were to come with her future. But Maa refused to be held back from the very beginning. Kicking her finally free legs, she let out a scream powerful enough to shake the earth.

Strong legs were needed for walking long distances to the nearest school. The miles were no problem for Maa, a born athlete. The women of the community were worried. “A girl walking alone. It shouldn’t be.” There was no danger for Maa. She had super hearing, acute enough to hear the jinns that would drag her away by her hair if she let her guard down. It didn’t matter to Maa; she kept her hair short.

In coming years, Maa’s journey home took longer. She walked with friends, stopping along the way to follow lingering scents of samosas. Maa had super smell, and with it, she discovered the secret food vendor. They surrounded the man who stirred pots overflowing with special spices. It became their spot: a sandy field where they would spend afternoons playing football until their stomachs churned loud enough for the man with the spices to hasten his stirring.

Football and samosas were irreplaceable, and they stuck with Maa through college. She wore her bright blue uniform on the field, passing the ball with only one thing in mind: a samosa celebration. They never lost, and they definitely weren’t losing the last game of senior year. Maa had super sight, and she spotted an opening from across the field. With her speed, she got to the other side in what seemed like seconds to the crowd. The man with the spices arrived just in time to see the girl in blue score her final shot.

School was no longer in session, and Maa’s journeys ended. She still ate samosas and played football, but it was all done in the narrow space between her bed and that of Appa (her older sister). No one had left their room in days. The family was in a panic. A phone call had come for Maa, but Appa was not yet married. Maa didn’t understand. Why couldn’t he marry Appa?

He was younger, much too young for Appa. His skin color was light, like the Americans he went to work with every morning. But the family knew him well. He was a good man, respected in his community. More importantly, he had a future in the New World. So, Appa said it was okay, and Maa began a new life. She left behind football and samosas for the nice man with the light skin. The boxed spices in Apna Bazaar would never match the ones from the secret vendor, and she wouldn’t play football again for a long time, but Maa would never let anything hold her back.

***

I watch football with my parents. My eyes dart back and forth with the checkered ball that flies into the net. But I only watch. I could never play, not with my dislocated knee. Maa says my bones are too soft for sports. I like to think it’s not true, but I’d rather watch than risk my leg snapping in half. And anyway, when we’re watching, we can still eat samosas. It took years, but Maa perfected her recipe. We make them together, letting the strong smell of spices waft into the living room, where the volume of the game is never turned down.

I’m not even 18 yet, and I definitely don’t have my life figured out. I’ve kept my head down, focused on school, and never even had a boyfriend. I could have hid things from my parents, but it wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere. By my age, Nanumoni already had two daughters, and Maa was receiving her love letters. I’m not sure how it’ll work itself out.

All the earlier generations of women in my family grew up in Bangladesh. Their vast experiences don’t apply in America; so, I’ve had to figure it out for myself:

It was 2:26pm on Sunday, March 23rd, 2003. Lamia opened her eyes for the first time and saw a strange woman in blue scrubs. The air was far too intense, and so Lamia cried. Her tears lasted for but a moment. Soon enough, she realized that she would have to adapt. Things were always changing, and she would have to change just to keep up.

Maa and Baba could speak in English, but they only spoke in Bangla around Lamia. She watched Bengali dramas, memorizing all the funny lines from shows like Ekannoborti. She had a friend named Bonnie, but no one else could see her. Bonnie was an American name; Lamia spoke in Bangla to her too. Then, school started.

Lamia’s first class was in a large red trailer, separate from the main building. She had plenty of books at home, but this place was like a real library. Actually, it was even better than a library. It had a toy house, a sandbox, a section with blocks, a corner full of dinosaurs, and a pantry stocked with snacks. It was perfect…almost. The other kids spoke in a language that Lamia didn’t understand. But it was okay. Bonnie was still there, at least for a while. Soon, Bonnie told Lamia she had to start speaking in English. Bonnie taught her the important phrases, and she cast a spell to make Lamia’s accent disappear. Once she sounded fluent, Bonnie left. She never came back.

It was the spring of fifth grade, time for a parent-teacher conference. Maa walked into the classroom, only expecting to hear great things. There was nothing wrong with Lamia’s grades; she knew when to work hard. But the teacher didn’t even mention grades. She focused on speech, and in particular, a stutter. She said that Lamia hesitated when speaking in class. It had been years, and while Lamia didn’t have an accent, English never felt like home. She had to dig deep to remember what Bonnie had taught her, but even the memories of Bonnie were hard to translate. Lamia wasn’t fluent in Bangla anymore.

In sophomore year, Lamia joined the debate team. Sure, she was passionate about ethics, but she believed that perhaps if she spoke more, her English would sound strong. So, Lamia learned to debate at 600 words per minute. When she spoke in other contexts, she was complimented for her clear voice. But in recordings, she never recognized herself. The sweet tone she once had in Bangla had diminished; it was replaced by an indestructible and thundering English presence.

At family events, Lamia was stuck. Her English didn’t matter there. She tried desperately to hold onto the Bengali phrases, but they were slippery. They ended up in a part of her mind that she couldn’t reach anymore. And with each year, a wall had been built around that part. The words were lost on her, and she couldn’t learn her way out of it.

The aunties said Lamia was too American. She hadn’t even turned 18, and there was already talk of marriage. She couldn’t marry a boy from Bangladesh; there would be a communication barrier. She couldn’t marry a boy from America; it was shameful. They blamed Maa and Baba for not teaching her well. Lamia blamed herself for listening to Bonnie. She never should have stepped into that red trailer.

***

I think in Bangla all the time. I try to speak in Bangla as much as possible, but it’s not the same. The simple words I use in my head refuse to come out of my mouth in the same way. It wasn’t Bonnie’s fault. Sometimes, I miss her. I still have the toy phone that I’d use to call her. She was a great friend who taught me survival. But now I’ve got to figure out whether to be sweet or indestructible.

I used to think that it was a matter of being quiet or loud. Nanumoni was quiet, and Maa was loud. But they both had their fates decided for them. It feels a bit hopeless at times, like my fate may be decided too. Then, I remember that their experiences don’t apply here. Nothing applies in America. I am constantly changing and figuring it out. I have to rely on myself, but first, I’ve got to figure out who I am.