For Uncle T
My master’s program is related to education. A lot of what I study and its practices emphasize creating a sense of belonging in the classroom so that students, regardless of their culture, home situation, residential status, trauma, and appearance, feel safe and feel as though they belong in my classroom. It was a couple of weeks ago that I began noticing the irony in this philosophy; How do I create a sense of belonging when I myself don’t know what that feels like?
I’ll start this off on a positive note. I have three good friends and two amazing roommates with whom I do most of my socializing. Now, it’s not that these people know me inside and out, but the bond I have with them comforts me and gives me a sense of friendship. One of my three friends, with whom I share a ten minute car ride with every Monday and Thursday after class (because they’re kind enough to drop me home), is someone I feel was one of the first few people I could talk to unfiltered, be my childish self and at times, go to for advice. In fact, as my finances depleted and I began living on banana bread, Monster and coffee, they’ve fed me mandarines and crackers, and have even offered to take me grocery shopping, which in this economy and weird world of distance friendships, is very special to me. Let’s call him Uncle T.
Now, off to the heartbreaking part. I’ll start with the most recent.
When I started carpooling with another student from my program this Spring to my teaching placement which is 20 minutes away from my home by car, it started hitting me how aloof I am here, even if I tried not to be. This person, on our first ride, asked me, “What was your second option if you didn’t find someone to carpool with?” to which I humorously replied, “Oh, I’d just start walking at 4AM and hope I get there by 7AM.” We both laughed a bit about my answer but I was dead serious because I really don’t have much options here. He said, “How funny would it be that I’d be driving and I’d be like, ‘Is that Puja on the side of the road?’” There was a pause. I immediately thought to myself, “Such a lie,” and then I remembered my first encounter with this person. We were in a class together during Summer and we sat next to each other. We were asked to turn to the person next to us and discuss the reading for that week, and I hated pairing up (I still do). Partly, because I have an accent and have to enunciate everything, and partly because I felt no one wanted to speak to me. When the instructions were given, I did a mental headcount to find out who I’d have to pair up with and it was the person I’m currently carpooling with. As I turned, he turned the other way as our eyes briefly made contact. I saw that he was in a group of three. I didn’t need to think of this more. I sat there quietly in a room of chatter and laughter going through the reading until the faculty herself came and spoke to me. That was the day I had my first panic attack in the States, during class.
When I began thinking back, I began picking up on more cases where things were a bif off. I remember this one time when I texted another classmate asking why she wasn’t in class that evening since it was quite uncommon for her to miss classes. Her response to my check-in was simple, “I’m sorry I won’t be able to drop you off, maybe you can ask someone else today.” At that moment, I laughed it off saying that I was simply checking in without any intentions, and yet her assumption of my selfish intentions alluding to the only reason I’d only text her wasn’t a nice feeling.
As classes began this Spring some things stood out to me more than normal – the seat next to me tends to remain unoccupied if there are other empty seats in the room, if the people next to me momentarily form a group and share snacks, I’m automatically left out even if I was speaking to them right before class started. And again, it hit me, no one sits next to me, I sit next to them.
There aren’t any social groups or friends groups in my class but I can’t help but notice I’m the only one on my phone or spending the entire break in the bathroom waiting for the 15 minutes to be over so that I have a reason to not be part of these chitchats.
So, among all this, when someone reaches out with an orange and offers to take me grocery shopping, I can’t help but wonder what’s going on. Perhaps, the only sense of belonging I get is when we have our ten minute ride after class twice a week, and that too feels fabricated or forced.
No one ever talks about how difficult assimilating to American ways is. The concerns are always making sure your grades are good and trying your best to live the quintessential American dream. All of which is fine, but if you’re someone like me – wakes up, goes to class, has a spoonful of peanut butter for dinner, works and goes to sleep at 8PM, sometimes 4AM – things don’t feel so great. You entertain questions about why people would either talk to you about coursework or trauma dump on you only to not see you in other times. You wish you could disappear because you cease to exist to every other eyeball in your proximity and occupy any physical space.
I won’t say Uncle T and I are best of friends, but they are the first person who I’ve felt is genuinely kind. We don’t always sit next to each other in class but I wouldn’t hesitate as much to sit next to them. The car rides happen because 99% of the time they ask if I need a ride, otherwise I’d wait 2 hours for the bus. I hesitate to ask and at times, feel a little awkward that they always ask me. Last thing I’d want is for one of the few people with whom I’ve had lunch with at a graveyard, shared delicious cookies with, and a number of card rides with, to feel that I’m taking them for granted and for my own benefit. So, I try. I try as much as I can to ask about their lives, to ask about their family, to give them baked goods, and share my beloved chanachur with them.
All this is to remind you that it’s difficult. The social dynamics in Bangladesh is much different from that in America. In Bangladesh, if you start choking up in front of a friend they comfort, in America you could have a waterfall on your face and they’d pretend like it’s not evident in your voice. The line between being compassionate and nosey is sensitive, the line between being friendly and self-centered is intertwined. That’s what’s scary. I’m yet to give you solid advice about how to get through this or even understand how these situations work, because unfortunately, I too am seeking that advice.
Uncle T, unknowingly, has taught me a lot about talking joy in small things and learning to let go. It may be because they’re older and have a better understanding of life or maybe because they like my vibes. But I’ll not question why they’re so kind to me, maybe they’re kind to everyone. Regardless, the 10 minute conversations Uncle T and I have is something I look forward to every Monday and Thursday, and a part of me wants to take them up on their offer to go grocery shopping just to spend some more time with them. This is me creating my own sense of belonging in a place where I stick out like a sore thumb yet become invisible.
For now, all I can say is, one day at a time. Sense of belonging isn’t for everyone and perhaps, what makes me capable of creating a sense of belonging for others is because I myself know what it’s like to not have that sensation.