Now
The clock ticks and there’s a knock at the door. The door shifts and a head peers in.
“Are you ready,” Baba asks me. An aroma enters the room and I see him holding a plate of biryani . I nod and go to the big table next to the living room. The bright light casts a shadow on my paper and I notice a new placemat on the table. In an attempt to not soil the new mats, Baba places a napkin under his plate. The steam rises up and my vision gets foggy. What would I even ask? I hadn’t even realized that I’d been looking down, and as I lift my head up, Baba is sitting patiently, not touching a single thing on his plate. Before I can say anything, I hear something about an envelope. I guess it’s my turn to listen...
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Before
The big white envelope sitting at the big brown dining table catches Baba’s attention, but haunts him as well. It seems to crawl into his hands and before he knows it, the envelope is on the floor and the paper is in his hands. He has a smile plastered on his face as his mother walks into the room. Seeing the expression on his face, Dadu3 runs out to tell everyone.
“SHEHLU PAISE!” Dadu screams throughout the gram . “HE GOT IT! HE GOT IT!” Aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, and even strangers join in to celebrate. He got the OP-1. It was finally time for Baba to go to America. The first one of the family, but all on his own.
The packing starts right away. Unlike what others would think, Baba carefully folds his shirts and pants, placing only the best of what he has into two bags. He wants to wear a suit, just like the businessmen in the American shows.
As his eight brothers and sisters wait in front of the house, Baba goes through the door, hearing sniffles and seeing tears. The big white van arrives to take him to the airport, and the chauffeur throws the small black luggage in the back seat. Throughout the entire train ride, Baba fiddles with his fingers, dreading what America would be like but also excited for what was yet to come.
The van comes to a sudden halt, leaving Baba and his luggage on the pavement. Lugging his bags in the hot and humid weather, Baba arrives at the poorly made airplane terminal. He walks and climbs up the steps onto the plane, his luggage secure and all belongings with him. A lady walks by and pulls something out from the side of the seat. A table pops up and she places a plastic box on the table. Meatloaf, potatoes, beans, carrots. Who eats this kind of food? Baba thinks. He pushes it to the side and looks out the window. The plane lifts off and Baba’s eyelids feel heavy. Eighteen hours later, Baba wakes up to the plane landing. He steps out into a new world. Skyscrapers, big stores, malls...and everything.
***
1991 is a time of growth, but the Gulf War makes it hard to get any job. While living with his great uncle in a small, shabby apartment in the Bronx, he goes out to search for a job. Employers want experienced people, not immigrants. Finally, Baba gets a job in a cafe in Manhattan. At the time, the minimum wage is $3.25/hour, which is okay, but still not that much. He starts working at 5am and stops at 4pm for five days a week. Four checks come every month, two sent back home and two for America’s expenses.
It’s the same routine every day. Get up, eat, work, come home, eat, sleep, and repeat. Weeks pass, then months, and soon years. Baba studies at BMCC and soon gets his own apartment in Jackson Heights, Queens in 1994. Everything is the same until finally, in 1995, Baba receives a phone call from an unknown number. He hears a young woman’s voice, and before he knows it, he hears the voice daily. A marriage proposal comes, and soon enough, on April 21st, 1996, Baba gets married to the young woman from Bangladesh...my Ma . It’s different in Bangladesh, and not anything like Baba remembers. He wants to return to America, a better place. He goes back on May 19th, and on January 11th of the next year, Ma joins him.
Life gets a bit easier with someone else there, someone to help out with the costs and of course, someone to come home to. Dadu and Dada7 live with Ma and Baba, crowding their one-bedroom apartment. Months pass, and more people come to America. One by one, Ma and Baba bring their whole family. Their working lives completely change on March 23rd, 2003, when a baby girl is born. After seeing the light beaming from her small face, they name her “Lamia,” Arabic for “bright.”
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Now
I look up at Baba and see Ma standing behind him. They have specks of grey on their heads from the years of worrying and working for others, of helping anyone and everyone but themselves. A tear falls from Ma’s right eye, and she covers it up thinking I wouldn’t notice. She forces out a smile and nudges me with her elbow. I get up and push the chair in. Entering my room, I feel a breeze. What a story. Was it even real?