Sometimes he’ll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.
"In the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students," his says as eyes begin to get bigger. "At the end of the lecture, the seats would move. The whole auditorium would shift as you spun along the diameter. The engineering of the building itself was very interesting." He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. "I wonder if it’s still around?"
There is a pause. For 25 years I have tried to fill that silence, but I have never quite figured out what to say. I guess silence goes best there. He is the next one to speak. “You see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.”
When he says things like that I want to scream. I don’t want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I don’t want to know that if enough time passes, you begin to question what was real or who you are. I am unconcerned with what the world thinks of him, but it is devastating to know that he at times thinks less of himself.
We are the same, but we are separated. People don’t see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctor’s white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesn’t matter, people always seem impressed with me. “Pediatrician, eh?” they say. “Well, good for you.”
I wonder what people see when they look at him. They don’t see what I see in his smile. Perhaps they see a brown man with a thick accent; perhaps they think, another immigrant cabdriver. Or perhaps it is much worse: Maybe he is a profile-matched terrorist, aligned with some axis of evil. “Another Abd-ool f——-g foreigner,” I once heard someone say.
Sometimes the worst things are not what people say to your face or what they say at all, it is the things that are assumed. I am in line at the grocery store, studying at a cafe, on a plane flying somewhere.
"Her English is excellent; she must have grown up here," I hear a lady whisper. "But why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?"
"Oh, that’s not her fault," someone replies. "Her father probably forces her to wear that."
I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things I’d like to say aren’t quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Don’t look at the wrinkles; don’t look at the scars; don’t mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Don’t look at the world’s effect on him; look at his effect on the world. Come into my childhood and hear the lullabies, the warm hand on your shoulder on the worst of days, the silly jokes on mundane afternoons. Come meet the woman he has loved and respected his whole life; witness the confidence he has nurtured in his three daughters. Stay the night; hear his footsteps come in at midnight after a long day’s work. That sound in the middle of the night is his head bowing in prayer although he is exhausted. Granted, the wealth is gone and the legacy unknown, but look at what the bombs did not destroy. Now tell me, am I really oppressed? The question makes me want to laugh. Now tell me, is he really the oppressor? The question makes me want to cry.
At times, I want to throw it all away: the education, the opportunities, the potential. I want to slip into the passenger seat of his cab and say: This is who I am. If he is going to be labeled, then give me those labels too. If you are going to look down on him, than you might as well peer down on me as well. Close this gap. Erase this line. There is no differentiation here. Of all the things I am, of all the things I could ever be, I will never be prouder than to say that I am of him.
I am this cabdriver’s daughter.
Currently watching the second episode of PBS’ documentary, Latino Americans. While discussing the US takeover of Puerto Rico, there’s a single line about how schools are commanded to teach in English, for benign assimilation. The violent act of taking political power, cultural identity, and then hiding the truths from the children so as to indoctrinate the next generation - “Benign.”
but it totally isn’t. Not for me, anyway.
I’m on medical leave from work for at least the next month, and while I’m very fortunate to have health insurance, I was already cutting things close with my monthly budget, and doctors’ co-pays plus out-of-network costs have taken a real bite out of me.
I don’t like asking for help without being able to offer something in return, but I don’t really have much. I can copyedit stuff that you email to me, or provide help with writing a paper if that’s something you need… I’m open to that.
If you’re willing to help out, or wouldn’t mind paying this-here odd stranger for doing writerly-assistant things, I’d be so grateful. There’s a link to my Paypal on my page [edit: would insert link here but formatting hasn’t been working right for some reason], and if you’re interested in copyediting/paper help/whatever, shoot me an email at crankyskirt [!at] gmail so we can work something out.
Thanks so much - I really do appreciate that you’ve read this far, even if you are not in a position to give. ^_^
i form attachment to mobility devices really quickly. when i first got my cane, even on days when i felt like i wouldn’t need it, i would use it anyways because it comforted me in believing that i could have more mobility freedom than when i didn’t - and for the most part, that was true for every day that i used it.
i just got a bike like 2 seconds ago but i am already feeling attached to it and really happy i did this for myself. i am thinking about the freedom that comes with believing that i can do whatever i want, get to whereever i need to get even if sometimes i can’t. being able to bike across campus or even just down the street is much less intimidating than walking there. i am grateful for all of the things my body is and is not capable of doing.
i want all of us to have the kind of mobility freedom that we seek. i want all of us to be able to feel like superheroes with our canes and wheelchairs and walkers and bikes and cars. i want us to be able to get where we need to get even if we couldn’t get inside (for now). i want the things that help our body move be as legitimate as our body, be considered as a part of our body, be as valued as a part of our bodies.
i want it all
(In fantasies of democracy, the enslaver rescues the savage from barbarity, and the abolitionist saves the savage from the enslaver. Afrarealism sees both forms of “salvation” as captivity.)