“What would you like?” asked a barista in Dunkin’ Donuts when it was my husband’s turn to get his coffee.
“Large coffee with milk and two sugars, please,” replied my husband, Omar. When the lady went to make his coffee, however, he noticed a wallet on the counter. Looking toward the door, he saw that the man who had been in front of him was leaving.
Deep in the intimacy of my soul, full of darkness, fears, and sorrows, there is a tiny light of hope, a very thin but strong string that suspends me in the infinite waves of my despair and doesn’t let me fall all the way down. It is this little force inside that helps me overcome the tumbling days of my history. It leads me to go forward one more day, to continue on the road; it makes me accept my mistakes, defeat my fears and convert my sorrows into calm. It turns me into a survivor.
I was traveling with my family to Key West, and we decided to stop for paddleboarding. We were very excited about that because it was the first time for each of us. After instructions, we got our paddleboards, and the owners also provided us waterproof pockets for our cell phones.
I never thought I would be a restaurant owner before I moved to the United States. For six years I have owned and run a fancy dine-in Thai restaurant on Long Island. When I first became a restaurant owner, it was not easy. I felt very stressed every day in the first few years, but eventually everything started to run smoothly. Despite the long hours and often feeling exhausted, I was happy because my restaurant paid my bills and took care of my family. I thought my life would continue like this until I retired, but one day everything changed.
I used to work in a medical clinic with two floors, and because of the equipment, there were a few compressed gas cylinders. One day, we were working when a noise started (it sounded like a whistle), and someone shouted, “It’s the gas; the clinic is going to explode!”
I like to sit on my porch and look at the pink trunks of pines and the tall, dark-green pyramids of cypresses. I watch the birds quarreling in their branches, and then my eyes move to the background and follow the hazy blue gradient of the forests and hills dissolving at the horizon. The colors, the shapes—what a gift to see them. I am scared to think that I could have ended up in the darkness.
Life can be challenging in many ways. I remember the first time I came to New York. Finding a job was hard. I did not know much English or any people whom I could ask for help in the city.
We grow up hearing, “Why is your skin color like that? Why is your hair like that? Why are you fat like that? Why are you short like that? Why is your voice like that?” Day by day our confidence decreases. We forget we are beautiful. We become very shy and then afraid to speak, afraid to go anywhere, especially wherever there are groups of people.
I arrived in America 11 months ago.
The fact that I had no return ticket in my pocket made me feel lost and uncertain.
I do not know now, one year later, where I got the strength
to take that first step.
* A 2004 R&B song called “Spirit” transports me to another time and place. I was being admitted to the hospital for a scheduled spinal surgery. I thought I had the strength to continue, but the more pain I felt after the surgery, the less faith I had that God would help me. This song …
One beautiful night, I went riding in the park. As I rode, a fierce gust of wind pushed the leaves off the strong branches of a tall oak tree. Leaves scattered everywhere: across my face, my clothes, my bicycle.
When I finished my last class, it was 9:30 p.m. I walked down to the bus stop and waited for the bus. Thirty minutes later, the bus came. Luckily, I caught the last train before 11:00 p.m. and got home at midnight. I took out my key and opened the door. The light was off, the stove was cold.