When I Came To The US

Legends have it that “seven is a lucky number.” Whether that legend is true or false, I will leave it up to you to decide.

I was born in the suburban neighborhood of Gulshan-Iqbal located in Karachi, Pakistan. There were two-story homes and narrow streets. My school was just two blocks away from my house.

When I came back home from school, I placed my backpack in my room, changed out of my uniform, a half-sleeve kurta and a white salwar, into a t-shirt and pajama. Depending on my mood, I would either eat supper or take an afternoon nap. Most of the afternoons were spent doing homework, followed by Quran class and then playing ball with my friends. Right before I went to bed, my mom poured some mustard oil in the palm of her hand, smeared it between her fingers and then massaged my scalp.

That was my life. Up until I turned seven. Sometime in November 1999, we flew from Pakistan to the United States.

The seven-year-old me was brimming with excitement. I was looking forward to starting second grade. New place, new people, new school, new friends and a new home. It never occurred to me that I could not speak a single word of English. I was also not prepared for the morning frost. My teeth chattered from the cold weather. My mom dressed me in multiple layers. I wore about 10 garments to school every day. Around 6:00 am, my mom nudged me out of bed. I HATED IT. At 7:15 am the school bus arrived. And then I was off.

When I came to school, I felt like I was surrounded by a room full of Teslas. But I was the butchered up boxy Honda Civic, or worse...a U-Haul truck. No one wanted to be my friend. All the students glared at me. Some looked at me with pity, others with indifference.

With my shoulders slumped, eyes cast down, lips sealed in a grim line and palms squeezed in between my legs, I just sat at a desk, not knowing what to say or do. I never raised my hand. Thankfully, my teacher never called on me either. I was struggling. Struggling to fit in. Struggling to speak English. Struggling to accept that I was different. I tried my best to fit in, but I just could not. I was a F.O.B. The term fob stands for "fresh off the boat" and it's used for newly arrived immigrants.

I wanted to crawl inside a hole and sulk in the darkness, but I couldn’t. Each day felt heavier than the previous one. It was like instead of carrying one backpack, I was carrying ten. By the time Friday rolled around, I breathed a sigh of relief. The two days off felt liberating.

The last part of second grade ended with a report on a sea mammal. My dad wrote the report for me and my mom helped me in creating the sea mammal using construction paper. But that’s not all, we had to read out that report to the class in front of a video camera. My teacher wanted it all on tape. And that’s where I wished I could run back home. Not the home I moved into, but back to Karachi. But I couldn’t. So before things got more chaotic, I told my teacher that my father was the one who wrote this report, and I can try summarizing what he wrote in simple language. I did my best or the best I could do and after what felt like an eternity, I let out the breath that I was holding. And that’s how the first year of second grade ended...in a blur.