It was a moment that seemed to stretch indefinitely. Within minutes, the man regained consciousness. When I offered to call emergency services, he simply shook his head. “I’d just like someone to stay here with me,” he said, his voice tinged with vulnerability.
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As we sat together, he opened up about his estranged children and his wife, trying to navigate the wreckage left by war and the passage of time. It struck me how his identity as a Black man and Afghanistan veteran grappling with PTSD was worlds apart from mine, yet there was something achingly familiar in his tone. It was a weariness I had heard echoed in my parents’ voices—two immigrants who, until recently, had been adrift, searching for the elusive ‘American dream’ without a place to call home.
The following day, I relayed our conversation to my mother over the phone, making a solemn promise: I would take on various jobs while in college to save enough for her to fulfill her dream of homeownership.
Fast forward nearly three years, and after graduating this past May, I found myself on Staten Island in our first house—together. It felt surreal.
Childhood Aspirations
As a child, the concept of having a home felt almost abstract, an indulgence reserved for others. My world was confined to small Brooklyn apartments. Yet, those spaces were filled with laughter, toys, and makeshift birthday celebrations illuminated by grocery store candles. Each corner held a memory, each room a story.
Transitioning into my teenage years, that innocence morphed into frustration. Visiting friends’ homes, I marveled at their ornate chandeliers and spacious living rooms, seething with the unfulfilled desire for a life that felt so nearby yet achingly unreachable.
Living in New York, where the affordable housing crisis looms large, it pained me to witness my parents toil through endless odd jobs, their hard work overshadowed by rising rent. I often asked myself: what sacrifices had they made for my future?
The Work Begins
To bring that future closer, I worked tirelessly throughout my college years. With a total income of just over $110,000 by my third year, I recognized the privilege of being at Yale, where tuition and living expenses were covered, freeing me to allocate my earnings toward a joint savings account with my mother.
My income streams were diverse: shelving books, fixing printers, drafting op-eds, creating edtech videos, tutoring, and even working on public health campaigns with the United Nations Foundation. Each job, no matter how small, was a stepping stone towards our shared goal.
One summer in Washington D.C., I poured most of my paycheck into rent at Dupont Circle, while interning at the Ford Foundation, where I began to understand the nuanced world of philanthropy. Some jobs paid the bills; others fostered career dreams, one even materializing into a position post-graduation.
In moments of overwhelming stress, my thoughts turned to my parents. Each late night and each laboring weekend narrowed the gap between aspiration and reality.
The Reward of Hard Work
The day we finally stepped into our new home, I brushed my fingers against the freshly painted walls, a wave of emotion washing over me. I couldn’t help but envision a future where new families would make their own memories here—children tracing the wood grain of the floor with small feet, and teenagers sneaking friends through the back door. How beautiful to think that this house would be a vessel for countless stories.
But for now, my family finally had a stable home—an anchor amidst my whirlwind of attending medical school at Stanford University. It brought comfort to know that my parents had a space to return to, a refuge from the complexities of the outside world.
There was a deep desire within me to ensure that my parents would no longer ask for permission to exist in the spaces they inhabited, to break free from the feeling of being tossed about in a society where immigrants often feel like mere tumbleweeds.
Now, as I lace up my running shoes and prepare to step outside into our new neighborhood, I pause to take it all in. It’s a perfect July evening; fireworks still paint the sky, remnants of a holiday long gone. A memory drifts back to my first year in college, sitting with that man on the street. His reflections on fireworks evoked memories of Afghanistan, but he spoke of an undeniable hope—a willingness to face fears for a chance to reconnect with his sons.
He serves as a poignant reminder: each of us is on our unique journey, seeking connection and belonging. Though my parents are more secure now, countless others await their turn—at a payphone, listening for a voice on the other end, yearning for a moment of respite.
In that shared journey, we are all striving to find our way home.
Edited By Ali Musa
Axadle Times international–Monitoring.
