Adventures of a Non-Resident Alien
Grateful for the Bubble
In two weeks, I will board a plane home to a country the leadership of this country has deemed a "very, very vital problem." At some point, I will be asked to retrieve my passport and present it to airport security for inspection. This time around, I will be more aware of how green it is. I will be more cognizant of the "Islamic Republic of Pakistan" branded onto it. When I return in January, if I am able to, the President-elect will have dropped the elect from his title and have unimaginable power at his disposal. The thought terrorizes me. I am angered that uncertainty and fear are once again uninvited guests in my life. While I was convinced I had successfully escaped the perils of unpredictability, the phrase “stay safe” has somehow managed to follow me. From marginalized minority to marginalized minority, I’m not quite impressed with the progress I’ve made. So, amidst times like these, a bubble is exactly where I want to be.
My father, an avid reader of my column, wrote to me last week. “Great job”, he complimented. “I have but one suggestion. Stay away from politics.” I smiled at his dad-like advice, albeit nervously. “I want to,” I thought to myself. In truth, however, it is the politics that refuses to stay away from me, much like everyone else. And, it’s always bad politics. The dirty kind. The inherently sad kind. The politics seeps into my skin and no amount of scrubbing removes it; its only emancipation comes through expression, though this requires bravery depending on what’s being expressed, where, and to whom. In the wake of intolerant atmospheres, policing myself comes naturally, for I am often on the periphery of what is deemed acceptable. It was at Harvard that I began unlearning that.
The Myth of Harvard’s Global Community
I’m sitting in class, fixated on the robotic exercise of hammering away at my keyboard, when a notification pops up on the right side of the screen. It’s New York Times reporting on breaking news of a terrorist attack. My eye catches the name of my country, and, in that moment, I know I’m a click away from swallowing news of the deaths of many of my countrymen. For once, I understand why it’s called “breaking” news, because it does break me. The lecture proceeds without interruption while my distress proceeds to consume me. I half expect someone to raise their hand and announce to the room that a city was just severely wounded. After all, it is a government class. I hold myself in contempt as to why I couldn’t be that person. But, for once, I don’t want to be the only person who cares about this. I don’t want to be the bearer of news from that part of the world; the sole representative of news that is blatantly trivialized simply because it isn't part of the Western consciousness.
Still, walking out of class, I expect to hear murmurs about the devastating news, but I hear no concerns voiced. Surely, a room full of government concentrators have their ways of staying updated. I could not have been the only person who just "happened" to receive a notification, and also "happened" to be Pakistani. Naturally, in the moment, I am enraged and disoriented. Suddenly, Harvard does not, at all, seem the global community it claims itself to be.
To Assume or Not to Assume: Transnational Identity and Experience
We stare each other down, both firm in our standing. I refuse to budge, and you feel the same way. I never signed up for such an encounter, the nature of which, it is true, I underestimated. After all, I had seen you many times on television, and as such had expected a level of comfort and easiness that is nowhere to be found. I contemplate walking away; not once, but at least a couple of times in the few minutes I stand before you. I have to admit, though, that I’m a little embarrassed at this point. We have also garnered quite an audience considering I’ve been stalling those similarly here to make your acquaintance. I’m trying to figure out my options; how to walk away with my integrity whole. Besides, I could really use that bottle of water. So, for the umpteenth time, I push a couple of buttons and smooth my dollar bills, all to no avail, before I decide to exit the arena. Who knew vending machines could be such a challenge?
I see the guy behind me wanting to help, but I guess to assume that I am unable to work the vending machine is ludicrous even to him, which explains his hesitance. Meanwhile, I never anticipated the profusion of buttons. Maybe it wasn’t my fault. I’d like to think it was just that particular vending machine. But, still, I’ll never know: I’ve systematically avoided all vending machines since.
An Abundance of Applications
Last week, while I was in the dining hall furiously battling a paper deadline, I overheard someone say, in good humor, that once you get into Harvard, you never stop applying, auditioning, or comping for things. Sheepishly, I glanced at my laptop screen and the minimized window of an application due that very night.
Whoever you are, you perceptive, random person from my dining hall—thank you for making me reconsider why I was writing that six-page application.
Long Way Home
I wish grieving was like math. Wrong or right, you’d still get to some sort of answer, perhaps without ever knowing how you arrived at it. The word problems would look something like this:
If you cry for a day, eat irregularly for a week, and sleep till the lines between day and night become indistinguishable, how long does grief last?