written by: Sanzida Begum
I remember wanting to go home, wanting to go back to New York where my siblings were, where my friends were, where my nephews were. I remember feeling out of place because I was always confused about doing things my cousins have done a million and one times before. I remember struggling to speak in bengali, struggling to make my cousins understand, struggling to hold up a conversation with my aunts and uncles. I remember the looks I got when I stayed to myself when my cousins were at school, because I felt so awkward...so different. I remember refusing to accept this place as my own. I remember refusing to become a part of this village. And while I enjoyed my time with my cousins, I remember counting down the days till I would be on a plane with the final destination set as home. And I remember the one rainy day and burning night that changed it all.
I remember the hot sticky air of the morning and afternoon even though the rain was pelting down hard on the tin roofs. I remember my hair sticking to my face as beads of sweat gathered on my forehead and on the bridge of my nose. I remember the uncomfortable feeling of my clothes sticking to my body. I remember wanting to run into the middle of the yard as the rain poured down and left muddy puddles into the ground. I remember drinking as much water as possible since the heat has left me parched. I remember the sound of rain hitting the tin roof, the pitter, the patter and the calmness the sound brought with it.
