Sometimes heâll tell me about his college days, about an Afghanistan I have never known and very few people would believe ever existed.
âIn the College of Engineering, there was this lecture hall, with seats for 1,000 students,â his says as eyes begin to get bigger. âAt 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.â He continues to describe the construction details, then sighs. âI wonder if itâs still around?â
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. âYou see, even your old-aged father was once part of something important.â
When he says things like that I want to scream. I donât want to believe that the years can beat away at you like that. I donât 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 donât see him in me. I wish they would. I walk in with a doctorâs white coat or a suit or my Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. High heels or sneakers, it doesnât matter, people always seem impressed with me. âPediatrician, eh?â they say. âWell, good for you.â
I wonder what people see when they look at him. They donât 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. âAnother Abd-ool fââ-g foreigner,â 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.
âHer English is excellent; she must have grown up here,â I hear a lady whisper. âBut why on earth does she wear that thing on her head?â
âOh, thatâs not her fault,â someone replies. âHer father probably forces her to wear that.â
I am still searching for a quick, biting response to comments like that. The trouble is that things Iâd like to say arenât quick. So I say nothing. I want to take their hands and pull them home with me. Come, meet my father. Donât look at the wrinkles; donât look at the scars; donât mind the hearing aid, or the thick accent. Donât look at the worldâs 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 dayâs 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 cabdriverâs daughter.
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