Category: Unit 1 (Page 2 of 21)

The time is November 2016, when I first went to high school in America. It was a beautiful sunny day with a cold temperature. I was shocked to see that. It just has been a week since I came to this country and I was not used to this kind of weather at all. Where I am from in summer it is extremely hot and in winter it is less hot. So seeing cold weather on a sunny day was surprising. Two days later my uncle took me to the education board to get me admitted to a high school. I was not sure what is going to happen and started to feel anxious. I said to myself “why did not you watch any American TV shows in your entire life?” So that you could have a better understanding of the culture. And then the day comes, The first day at an American school. As I enter the building of my high school my anxiety got to me. I was terrified. So my first class begins. As I got to the class,  I sat in the middle row no longer anxious. I am more comfortable. I have never been so relieved after seeing some familiar faces. Not the faces I knew but they were the faces that looked similar to mine. As the class started the guy who was sitting next to me asked “are you Bengali?”. I said “yes”. (of course, I had to be in the wrong class!)

“Are you Bengali?” That might be the first thing that I thought of after seeing browns in hallways. The sentence might seem like it’s just a question about someone’s origin but it is not limited to that. It had a power to it. The invisible power to unite. To be able to trust just after getting the answer “Yes”. I remember a saying from our country, “Bengalis will take care of Bengalis in foreign countries.” Maybe it was rooted so deep in my subconscious mind I felt at ease after hearing it.

Now 5 years later I ask myself what does it mean to be Bengali. Can anyone just be Bengali if they speak the language? In my opinion, the answer is ‘No’.  You can learn a language but what makes you a part of the community is the culture. Is my white sister-in-law less Bengali than us just because her skin color is white?

Bangladeshis are the only people that had to fight and sacrifice their lives to be able to speak that language. Can you believe that! We had to fight for our freedom too. Many times! Crazy right? Maybe these are the reason why we feel so united and safe around us. Every year on the 21st of February we celebrate the Internation Mother Language day. Just saying that since we just celebrated like two days ago. What makes us Bengali would be these wonderful unique features. The unity that we built as a community and the unity that was passed down to us.

The last time I visited Bangladesh I met up with all my friends and one of them jokingly asked me, “Have you turned American yet?” I said, “No, not yet”. It is a complex feeling, to be honest.  It’s like having a wife at home and a secret lover. Where the Bengali culture is my wife, The culture I grew up in. And American culture is like my secret lover. Not going to lie I like this complex feeling. Let’s me enjoy both sides of the world.

When someone asks me “what are you?” I proudly say “I am Bengali”. I do not mean my race when I say I am Bengali rather I describe myself. What I mean is someone who is hospitable, hard-working, kind, has warm vibes, etc. I do not know how many of my readers know about The Rohingya issue in Myanmar. But Bangladesh let 1.1 million Rohingya inside of the country. Doing that as a developing Third World country with a population issue of our own is a huge deal. And these are the things that make us “Bengali”. These are the things that will and always be making us proud. The willingness to help someone in need.

I will never forget the first day of my school. Getting all the help from my fellow peers just by saying I’m Bengali. Looking back on that day I went from being anxious to excite just by saying I am Bengali. And I will keep on proudly telling that to whenever someone asks.

   La Calaca, La Catrina, La Dama de Negro, La Santa Muerte, these are just some of the beautiful Mexican names given to death. Like most people, I used to be terrified. When I was around 9, I remember I began to have so many sleepless nights because I was overwhelmed with thoughts such as; “ What happens after we die?” “What would I do without my parents if they passed away?” “Are we still conscious after death?” “Will I feel it if they cremate me?” I was in a constant state of existential dread and oftentimes I dealt with it alone since my parents worked all the time. However, the times I did cry to them they tried everything to put me at ease or help me in any way. They spoke to me about some of our beliefs and traditions such as La Santa Muerte and el Dia de Los Muertos, but nothing really seemed to help. I am not sure if it was because I was still too young to understand or because I always found more questions or negative things about each belief, but this paranoia was on and off for a while. Ironically enough my fear was finally conquered because of those same beliefs and traditions that made no sense to me. 

    During the summer of the end of 4th grade my father and I took a trip to Mexico, my very first trip actually. Since it was my first trip my dad made sure to make as many stops as possible before getting from the city to our hometown. My dad likes to get the most of his time, so as soon as we got to town we checked into the hotel, left our bags, and got right back out to explore. I remember walking down the narrow cobblestone roads being in awe of all the different colors of the houses and stores, colors such as bright pink, orange, and yellow. Not to mention the colorful flowers and perfectly trimmed trees and bushes. I remember just trying my best to take everything in, when all of a sudden we got to one of the main avenues and we encountered what looked like a parade. There were so many people, it looked like almost the whole town was there. They were singing, some people played instruments, everyone was dressed nicely, there were so many flowers, there were even “monos  de calenda” and “toritos de cohetes” which are typically only used in parties or festivals. However, as the parade walked by us I noticed that amongst the crowd of people there was a small group of men in the middle carrying a coffin on their shoulders; I noticed that it was not a parade, but a death procession. I remember feeling the big smile fade off my face as the realization set in. I was so very confused. It was like a contradiction, here there was a dead person, a person no longer breathing, a person who is just laying there, asleep forever, and yet all these people are parading around like it’s a celebration. Like the death of this person was a good thing, something to rejoice. I guess I had kind of known before that often Mexicans celebrate instead of mourn a death, or so my parents said, but embarrassingly enough it wasn’t until this day that I began to believe it or understand it. 

   After that day in Guanajuato, I kept seeing other very odd things in Mexico. It is very common in Mexico to find small shrines pretty much everywhere, not only on the side of long roads but also in the middle of the street or outside some houses. Most of the time you see La Virgen de Guadalupe or La Virgen Maria but I remember walking around a different town and finding a shrine with what looked like the Grim Reaper. Like I said my parents had tried to talk to me about many things but please understand I’m more of a visual learner. So when we found this shrine my dad had to (re)explain to me the belief in La Santa Muerte. A powerful saint or deity, a representation of death itself, death personified. She is said to grant wishes and miracles for the believers and no ill harm for those who respect her. This also added to the consolation of my fear, since I could see that my people are worshiping the very thing I fear and they truly believe that she is good. That La Santa Muerte or death will protect them, but even though I felt better and understood more I was still uneasy. 

   In all honesty it wasn’t until about 6 years ago, when my grandfather died did i finally fully understand and comprehend that it is ok. You see as much as my parents had tried to tell me about things, I had to see it. So I had already seen that a funeral may sometimes look like a celebration, and i had seen that death is loved, worshiped, and trusted  in my culture, but i still had luckily never experienced one of my own, When I met my grandpa he already looked like he was in his dying days, he was so skinny his bones were all very visible, he couldn’t take more than 5 steps without being completely out of breath, he barely slept because of his cough, and he only ever ate alone because he was ashamed of the way he ate. My dad had only ever told us stories of when my grandpa was strong and hardworking and how he did so much for his family and town, and seeing my grandpa for the first time was shocking and sad.I tried to get the most out of my time with him and i’m glad i did because it was one of the only two times i would’ve ever spent time with him. When he died I remember everyone feeling a slight sense of relief, everyone would say the same thing, “finalmente puede descansar” he can finally rest. I was not there for his funeral but I was told there was a mariachi and the whole town stayed vigil with my grandma since she only has one daughter and one son in Mexico out of 8. They stayed and ate and drank and commemorated my grandpa. 

   Before my grandpa’s death my parents had never really celebrated the day of the dead, it was never a really big deal for us since we haven’t really lost anyone special, but every year since then we always have a small altar for him and the people we have lost since then. We try to decorate it with many flowers, candles, foods, and pictures. Every year we celebrate la muerte by remembering the lives of our loved ones, we celebrate their spirit, and what they mean to us, we keep them alive with the stories we tell and the prayers we say. I still don’t know what’s real or not, maybe it’s just oblivion, maybe it’s heaven and hell, maybe we reincarnate, or maybe it’s actually an afterlife where you reunite with your deceased loved ones and can visit your loved ones once a year. All I know is that I am not scared anymore, because “Nuestro culto a la muerte es culto a la vida ” (Our cult of death is a cult of life) death is just as much a celebration as life and I hope more people realize it.