Eid-ul-fitr as a twenty-something

Eid-ul-Fitr is on a Sunday this year and I’ll go to an outdoor prayer in Jackson Heights, Queens with my father and brother. As the years pass, I can’t help but notice that I grow further and further away from the excitement this day used to bring. The first Eid-ul-Fitr's that I remember were spent in Astoria, Queens, when my mother would wake me up at 6AM to shower and wear the fanciest outfits we had. Usually we had spent the last weekend before Eid fighting crowds of uncles and aunties in Jackson Heights.  My mother would sort through racks in Indian boutiques that reeked of dyes and stuffy pressed fabric to find matching dresses for me and my older sister (her apparent wish for twins would be granted several years later). Outside the stores, my fasting mother also braved the smell of Punjabi food and sweets until my father came to take us home. He barely accompanied us, but this was mostly because he lost patience with the dire state of parking in the area.

My little sister Naurene getting impatient during 
Jackson Heights Eid shopping, 2009

After we dressed in our “finest” on Eid morning, my mother would get to work cooking up all the special Bangladeshi food we (usually) only got to eat on this day- roasted yogurt chicken, tunafish kabobs, beef and potato curry. She always had shemai (thin vermicelli noodles cooked in sweet milk; sevayyan if you’re an Urdu speaker) ready for our breakfast.
Around 8AM, the men in the family would head to the congregational prayer. In Astoria this was held at a field by the park, and I, being young, was allowed to accompany the males. I didn’t even know how to pray at the time, nor had I fasted- but I still cashed in on Eid money due to the size of my extended family in Queens.

Eid Prayer in Astoria Park, 1992.  My father is on a prayer rug bought 
by my grandmother in Mecca, and it's currently the rug I use 
everyday...it's older than I am

Eid money works just like Chinese New Year’s money, but without the red envelopes. To receive your Eid money in Bangladeshi custom, you can go to anyone older than you and reach down and tap the top of their feet. You then bring the hand to your heart and end at your lips. I learned years later that this Bangladeshi salam was a combination of both South Asian and Arab culture. To touch the top of an elder’s feet is a South Asian custom meant to show reverence and respect to one’s elders. It’s also done as a farewell, for good luck, or as a greeting when seeing an elder after many years. Although the meaning is beautiful, in my adulthood I realized this custom isn’t accepted in Islam because we're only allowed to bow before God. The second part of the salam (to bring your hand to your chest, and then your lips) is Arab influenced and signifies giving someone your heart and your soul. As far as I know, this is acceptable to do as a Muslim. Regardless, I haven’t done the salam in years now that I’m far too old to be receiving Eid money anyway.

After the prayer, we would return home to eat the lunch my mother had cooked while were away. Traditionally, Muslim women in Bangladesh did not always go to the mosque, although nowadays I see many Bangladeshi women here in the mosques in New York. I myself didn’t start participating in congregational prayer until I was in college.
The Eid feasting didn’t stop at our home- we visited the homes of every relative and family friend in the area, where we were prepared to be force fed by aunts (some with better culinary skills than others). Eid visits continued late into the night, and this was the only time we were able to stay up on weeknights if we had school the next day.

My mother's Eid cooking (:

The point of me writing about my Eid experience as a child is two-fold…I wanted to document its liveliness, and the effort my parents put into the celebration as new immigrants in a non-Muslim country. They always mention how as Americans, we’ll never experience the true meaning of the day. They’re right to some extent, but I think they did a pretty good job keeping Eid “alive” for us here in the States.

The second reason I wanted to write about this is because as twenty-somethings, it rests on us now to continue the traditions. By traditions, I am not referring to my Bangladeshi origins or any one culture, as Muslims obviously come from every background and of course the U.S. itself. I realize how cheesy it all sounds as I am typing this, so bear with me. I mean to say that if I feel disconnected from the festivities of Eid, I only have myself to blame.

As I grew older, and eventually moved to Boston for college, I distanced myself from my family. When I returned to New York, I found it hard to relate to the aunts and uncles I had grown up with. At the same time, however, I was growing closer to the deen. I began to pray more, to study the religion and to attend more events for the Islamic community. As fulfilling is it is to feel closer to one’s religion, I lacked the camaraderie and love with my relatives that I had during my childhood celebrations. And that is an essential and important part of Islam itself- to honor and love our family, our elders, our friends and our community.

So this year, I had a wakeup call. I realized that if I can’t keep Eid “alive” for myself, how in the world would I do it for my (future) children? 
What I’m proposing for myself is pretty simple. Sunday morning, I will wake up for Fajr (the dawn prayer), shower, and wear one of the nicer outfits given to me by an aunt. I haven’t gone Eid shopping in a few years as I don’t wear South Asian clothes much. I’ll eat an odd number of dates, walk to the prayer one way and return from prayer with another (which is something our Prophet, peace be upon him, used to do). It’ll be tougher this year since my mother, younger sisters and several relatives are in Bangladesh for a wedding this summer. I won’t wake up to the smell of pulao and roast chicken in my own home, but my family and I will head to an aunt’s house in Astoria around noon- and I’ll probably visit with several friends during the day.
In a way, I’ll be coming full circle to the Long Island City Eids I miss so badly.

An Asian Alumna's Perspective on "Black at Stuyvesant High"

The Times' "Black at Stuyvesant High" article was all over my Facebook newsfeed today so I thought I'd share my two cents.

As an Asian American alumna of Stuyvesant High School, I strongly believe that the specialized science high schools admissions test should not be eliminated. As we like to say, the exam makes Stuyvesant one of the only places in the world where you can have the daughter of a cab driver attending high school with the daughter of a Senator (the daughter of US Senator Chuck Schumer was a senior during my freshman year). While it is unfortunate that black students feel isolated, the attendance problem is beyond color and has more to do with socioeconomic background, parenting and drive on behalf of the students themselves.

Socioeconomic Background & Isolation:

Comment from the Times: Steve1946 - NYC

"I taught Biology, AP Psychology, and mentored many Science Talent Search students for twenty two years prior to my retirement. When I first transferred to Stuyvesant the student body, as pointed out in the article, was more diverse, but so was the socio-economic pool of entering students. Over the years, middle and upper middle class African American parents opted to send their children to private schools or move to affluent suburbs.
 Furthermore, working class families can't afford to live in the city anymore, which diminishes the economic diversity of the student cohort.
 Given these realities, the Stuyvesant entrance exam is fair, colorblind, and screens for the academic attributes that students need have in order to master Stuy's rigorous curriculum."

A top commenter makes an excellent point- that Rudi, the student in the article has "lived in the suburbs, has lived a mostly privileged life and attended some of the better schools, with parents who seem to care deeply about her."

I can't particularly sympathize with her complaints of isolation. One could argue that a white, gay student felt isolated at Stuyvesant because straight students would not attend educational events put on by the LGBT organization. Or one could argue that I felt isolated from the numerous affluent Asians at Stuyvesant. I woke up at 6AM Monday-Friday like the rest of my classmates, but I woke up even earlier on Saturdays and Sundays to head down to Park and 23rd for my shift at Dunkin Donuts.

I rarely met students who could be grouped in the same "income" class as my family's. But the thing was, in the classroom, that didn't matter. I may have felt different the minute I left the grandness of Tribeca and headed back to my difficult family situation. But at Stuyvesant, I felt just as smart and just as entitled to the education there. Although the school had areas where Asians, South Asians or Blacks hung out- I had friends of all races and we did not view each other as different.

If we are concerned about diversity and social mobility, I would be happy to see more low-income kids excel on the test and make it at Stuyvesant regardless of their race. I say this because I truly believe that the school's reputation allowed me to improve my family's living situation down the line.

Parenting & Student Motivation

Comment from the Times: Sitruc - New York, NY

"A meritocracy is fair; it doesn't discriminate by race, gender, or income. You may point to low percentage of blacks and say that it is discriminating against them, but how are they disadvantaged anymore than Asians are? How is it that students of low-income immigrants who often do not speak English (like mine) excel despite these barriers? Meanwhile, how is it that blacks, whose parents often have been in this country longer and actually speak English, not excelling? It's because Asians make education a priority--parents make significant investments in education. It is a cultural thing. 

As an Asian Stuyvesant alumnus, I deplored the lack of diversity at times during my time there, but I would not advocate changing the admissions process. Changing admissions to let more minority students in is not the solution. It ultimately doesn't address a problem plaguing our nation--not prioritizing education. What we need is a discussion about culture and stereotypes. Why aren't some groups prioritizing education? How can we make education a priority for our youth? How can we create an environment where learning is preferable to hanging out? How can we teach parents to value education? How do we overcome stereotypes like the one in the article that blacks aren't good at math? There are an increasing number of black engineers, doctors, lawyers, professionals; we even have a black president. How do we make them (and not rappers and ballplayers) role models for the youth?"

It's definitely true that most Asian parents make education a priority. Throughout my entire education, my parents did not help me with a single school assignment because of their poor English (thankfully I had great teachers as advocates). You are just expected to succeed and do well, and Stuyvesant is so ingrained in NYC's Asian communities that it's a measure of family pride. There's even an annual feature in New York based Bangladeshi newspapers on the incoming students admitted to the specialized schools (although I think this is quite extreme and a whole different problem altogether, but I won't go into Asian family dynamics here).

When it comes to the education system's role, the only fair thing the Department can do is increase awareness of the exam and provide access to adequate preparation in all boroughs. When I was in middle school, the Department hosted a free summer preparation course for the exam, but I'm certain that this is not available in all NYC school districts.

Ultimately, the student's motivation would be the deciding factor. As Sitruc's last sentence suggests, real change may be achieved by reinforcing a student's aspirations. Despite having the same parents, my siblings and I have had different paths when it came to the test. I studied all summer to get into Stuyvesant, begging my father to invest in a preparation course which I would repay with a summer job. Despite coming from a failing middle school, my brother scored high enough for Bronx Science (the school ranked second after Stuyvesant) without any preparation. My older sister was not motivated by education in general at the time, opting for a GED later.

In her case, I think she needed to be shown two things: 1) what she could potentially achieve by investing in education and hard work, and 2) the real, lasting consequences of a present-fatalistic attitude (thank you Professor Meldrum!).

I'm sure we all realize that the issue is obviously much larger than Stuyvesant High School if we use something as subjective as "success" as a measure. There are plenty of non-Stuyvesant graduates who are viewed as "more successful" than some alumni. Our first day of high school, we were told of a janitor at Yankee Stadium in a Stuyvesant t-shirt- as a reminder that you get out what you put in. Perhaps some students could use access to mentorship on career paths and how they can be attained, regardless of the situation at home and regardless of the high school they attend. There are many mentorship non-profits in the city, but a concrete collaboration between the Department of Education and young professionals may help bring more role models into the classroom.

A little prayer

for this Bangladeshi I saw on a BQE exit, he reminded me of an unfortunate man in Greece (see third picture in this entry). I feel weird for taking the pics but it's a way for me to remember the sadness and their faces. May Allah grant them (and all others struggling in new and unfamiliar places) peace.

"What it is like to miss someone, very far away."

There's lots of different ways to start writing a poem. For me, the idea comes in a line or two. A couplet is good. When I was younger I used to keep a book where I physically wrote everything down, but right now I can't imagine being productive in my thought without a computer. I use Notepad, and not Word, because it's primitive, uncluttered, and doesn't Auto Correct capitalization or whatever grammar rules I want to ignore in poetry. I tend to use all lowercase more often than not.

I keep a file in which I save these "ideas," in the forms of lines or words. Over the past year, I've had about four "poem" ideas and one "story" idea saved in my file, one word each. It helps to keep tabs on them rather than lose the ideas altogether just because I don't have the time to write.

On the night of Monday, April 27th, as I scrambled to put the finishing touches on my senior culminating project, I realized that I needed a few more pieces to complete the chapbook I had created. I decided to pull from the file. For poems, I had noted the following: "brother, grandfather, heartbreak, the Bronx." For stories, I had written "Athens." I wouldn't have enough time to create quality writing that I would be proud of in one night for all of these ideas, but I knew that they were so important to me that they had to be included in my thesis.

So I got to work and wrote for 12 hours straight without any breaks (or caffeine) until 7AM. I wrote an ode to my brother, I wrote an ode to the Bronx, I wrote about unrequited love, and I wrote a (short) short story about The Faridpur Man in Athens. I revised a few of my older poems, too, such as Daffodils in Acrylic (edited poem here) and the water-bearers (edited poem here). I weeded out my worst work and fixed whatever was worth fixing. When it was Tuesday morning, I wasn't even that tired, because it was past the worst part (when you get queasy around 5AM). But I couldn't bring myself to write about my grandfather. And it was really for the most absurd of all reasons- I couldn't write about my grandfather on that Tuesday because he was still alive.

There is a sentence in Jhumpa Lahiri's short story, When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine:
"Now I knew what it was like to miss someone, very far away."

There's really no other way to describe my relationship with my grandfather, and I'm grateful to Lahiri for that simple line. When someone you love is continents away, they exist to you as ghosts. You know they are there, at peace and alive, but it's like they're in liminal space. They're neither present nor unpresent. Communication is hard with the strong dialects they speak. So you hardly talk to them. You just know that that they love you (the best, as it often is with grandchildren that are the farthest away), and that you love them back because they raised and cared for your parents.

For this reason, I could not write about my feelings for my grandfather. As I mentioned before, most of my writing is struck by imbalance and pain. And that is something I didn't want to bring into the existence I had created for him. I wanted to keep my grandfather as that ghost, very far away, survivor of a stroke but still healthy and holding on to see us one last time. Writing about him now meant that I would have to think of him leaving me; that I would have to cry about him.

I handed in my thesis on Tuesday. The following evening as I slept, my grandfather died at 10AM in the morning, in Bangladesh. It's like he moved from one ghostlike existence in my life to the next. Perhaps there was some sort of connection between us, that had made me feel so strongly for him before he passed. Maybe over time I can write about more of the things that he told me- like how he acted in village plays, how Pakistani traders that came into Bengal fell in love with the women there and abandoned their families in Pakistan, how British men were very handsome, and my favorite, the tales of Rustam the Persian warrior prince. For now all I can say about him is that he was the only grandfather I knew, my anchor in the ancestral world that I am so fascinated by, the muse of all the imagery I could ever write about Bangladesh, one-fourth of my DNA, and someone who gave a beautiful adhaan for our village every day for as long as I've been alive, and tried with all of his heart to obey Allah.

Over 3,500 villagers, fakirs, and politicians came to pay their respects to him, a man who had been a poor farmer all of his life. When he died, he owned only his potato fields, tin house, plain white garments, and a watch my father had gifted him. He had refused everything else. His name was Aynjat Ali, and he named me. According to my mother, when I was born he said "Jasmin, eta tho behesther phul." ("Jasmin, this is heaven's flower.")
Before he died, about a year had passed since I had talked to him over the phone. The last thing he said to me was: "Togore sara mann laage naa." I didn't understand the Comilla dialect, so my mother translated: "I can't feel my heart without all of you."

The believers are only those who have believed in Allah and His Messenger and then, have never doubted and strive with their wealth and their lives for the Cause of Allah. Those! They are the truthful.
-49:15 Surah Al-Hujurat

"The Irish need not apply."

I encountered several Bangladeshi immigrants in Italy, and they were much better off and doing their own thing: waiting on tables, selling food at carts, and helping to run convenience stores. I didn't realize just how many immigrants (both legal and illegal) reside in Athens.

Street vendor demonstrating toys; March 14th, 2009

Denied employment from Greek store owners and the like on the basis of their nationality (and regardless of legal status), they sell whatever small goods they can get their hands on from suppliers. This usually ranges from bottled water and tissue boxes to cheap toys that barely bring in enough income to pay for housing. Their only desire: to raise enough money to return home.

Protest after the death in January - Getty Images (not my own)

I didn’t know how bad it was until I discovered that this past January, the accidental death of a Bangladeshi immigrant occurred in Athens when the police were trying to uproot the vendor. The man, who was in his mid-20’s, was pushed into a ravine and fell to his death. According to the Athens Independent Media Center, these immigrants are also subjected to harsh beatings, incarceration, and even deportation on the basis of accusations alone. A Bangladeshi man was imprisoned and deported for the theft of a cell phone which was later discovered to be his own; another was also incarcerated and is facing deportation for allegedly stealing a cell phone charger (Athens Independent).

A man sells tissue boxes to drivers; March 14th, 2009

One man I spoke to during my visit was actually deceived by the person that issued his visa, as he had guaranteed him employment. He now lives on a day to day income derived from selling his toys to tourists. Even though he is a legal immigrant, our conversation was cut short due to the police arriving on the scene as they don’t recognize street vendors. I'm a bit embarrassed to say that I was crying on the streets of the Plaka District for a man I didn't even know. I managed to tell him that he looked like my father.

His story is one that touched me personally. No one wanted to hire my father initially when he came to the States- which is why we spent a few months without a home in Brooklyn, why so many immigrants become entrepreneurs, and why my father went on to become a self-employed cab driver. Regardless, the treatment of immigrants here is still ages ahead of many countries in Europe.

Bangladeshi men living in a cardboard "house" await deportation- Getty Images (not my own)

I wish I had gotten that man's name but I didn't have the time as he disappeared so fast. In my prayers he is the "Faridpur Man in Athens." Faridpur is actually my mother's home district. All I could really give him were a couple of euros I forced him to accept for a toy he gifted me in the midst of my tears, but when I can write something that I deem good enough, I'll give him a poem.

Greek, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi flags in downtown Athens

Boston Intercollegiate Poetry Festival (April 2008)

"Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree."
-Rabindranath Tagore

When he was fourteen,
lying shirtless
underneath palm fronds
at the height of the Liberation,
did he imagine, cities
larger than Dhaka?
He said,
"One day, I will be saluted
by men of Britain, and the people of Africa
but for now my feet are bare."

Traveler, protector
born of incessant rains in the foundry
of Bengal to arms
that abandoned him
at Lexington and 51st
on an island that is dense,
sullen and lone
13.4 miles of steel boundaries
held fast in his heart

Below, the grit of subway tracks lives
in slivers of moonlight crackling
through the grates
I am indebted not
to a father but to the world
for he has given himself
in language and breath
and blood to the earth
so much that he and the soil
have become joined.

One day, I will be your protector,
a presence as light as a whisper
in the grooves of aged trees,
and carry you with the pride
your words have brought forth across
three continents

but for now my feet are bare.

Red (February 2007)

Seventeen, in brilliant blood silk
that clung unwillingly to her pale skin
in the damp heat of the East
when I wear rouge it is always 1983
rose water permeating the air of Dhaka streets
and mother, feet deep in scarlet dye
leaves wet footprints from a car
to an unfamiliar place and life
She is a simple, privileged woman
in love with her children and the man
that fate had chosen for her
she often reckons life is over past thirty
I remember her at the dressing table
stark pink on her olive cheeks
and the trained dabs of talc and Dior
the only pleasures in which she's obliged
When I dress up I am too much like her---
blue pearls against the flash of my veins
that belong to countries I don't remember
I was blessed with a good marriage
She told us, and it was true
in the same way that I am also unlucky
with a mother, I will never truly know

For my Mother (2004)

(somewhat a predecessor to "Red")This poem is different from Red because it's about an immature me. Red is about being unable to connect with your mother due to the whole culture barrier, but it is also about how we will never completely be able to share ourselves with our mothers. This poem is about the guilt I felt looking back years later, at being "ashamed" in elementary school of having an immigrant parent that didn't speak English. It was really difficult to write back then (hence the fairly simple vocabulary) and I've never been able to read it out in its entirety.  The one time I did have to read it in an 11th grade poetry class, my friend Dayna got up and finished it for me.

For my mother

The forgotten days I have spent
countless hours over fading pictures
begging for forgiveness
from the inanimate woman
in explosive colors,
magenta lipstick
an unwelcome sight on American streets
For the nights I cried in silence,
remembering how she held me
For this cherished bond,
as sweet as blood
that envelops me in tenderness
intangible, but felt ever so softly
For innocence,
the breath of sleeping children
against a mother's cheek,
as painful as salty tears
streaming down a mother's worn cheek
For my wretchedness
hiding from a beautiful mother
neglecting a caring mother
feeling shame when kids saw my mother
For the love
she will never understand
the days she will never get back
the youth she will never have lived
For my mother.