a speech, a dream, some tears

Does there come a time when some of us look at our actions and realize with a faint sense of irony, that we are becoming more and more like our parents? Not all my actions are an echo of my parents, for example in the last few weeks, I have been glued to the TV watching the mesmerizing feats of the athletes participating in the 2008 Olympics with rapt attention and sleep a forgotten memory. I watched in awe and frequently held my breath for the athletes as they crossed finish lines in record time; demonstrated steely control on narrow bars and beams; performed poetry in motion from diving boards or in floor exercises; defended goals; vaulted dizzying heights and so many many other feats. I accompanied the winners in my own victory laps around the room as my dog looked on in puzzlement, or shed tears with the ones who just missed getting a medal. No it was not the Olympics that made me wonder how much of me was evolving into my parents, watching any kind of sports was a waste of time for them. But it was the Democratic convention that did me in. The convention was broadcast live every night for the past week and I did not miss a speech or any piece of action from the audience that was broadcast to home viewers like me. Now granted that this is no ordinary convention, we were after all nominating our first African American candidate for the President of the United States of America! But still, to watch it as if I was reading a fascinating novel from end to end? Certainly this was something that I must have picked up from my parents. Since I remember vividly how they would come alive and participate in the Indian elections with fervor and dedication towards getting their candidates elected.

I must admit that my remote participation in this historic event has touched and moved me so much that it really does not matter if I can attribute it to either me imbibing my parents characteristics or to the importance and enormity of what I was watching unfold on my TV screen. It was only important that I watched and experienced the events. As I watched Barak Obama's passionate but controlled delivery of his acceptance speech, his remarks towards the end prompted this post, as it triggered a very real sense of connectedness within me. I truly felt that this exceptional nominee and so many others like him or me are connected by the similarities in our life stories, of successes against terrible odds in the pursuit of a better life for ourselves and our children in a land that provided a fertile soil that allowed immigrants to plant themselves, push down roots and reach for as high as they could.

Towards the end of his speech Obama spoke about America’s promise, a sentiment that resonates with all who have immigrated to the US or the first generation that has witnessed their parents strive for and become living proof of this promise. The words so true to my experience brought tears to my eyes -

This country of ours has more wealth than any nation, but that’s not what
makes us rich. We have the most powerful military on Earth, but that’s not what
makes us strong. Our universities and our culture are the envy of the world, but
that’s not what keeps the world coming to our shores.

Instead, it is that American spirit - that American promise - that pushes us
forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our
differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen,
that better place around the bend.

That promise is our greatest inheritance. It’s a promise I make to my
daughters when I tuck them in at night, and a promise that you make to yours - a
promise that has led immigrants to cross oceans and pioneers to travel west; a
promise that led workers to picket lines, and women to reach for the ballot.

I am an immigrant, a single mother who has spent the last twenty five years living this American dream. Due to the nature of my entry into single motherhood, life on my own in the US began with no assets, a liberal arts education from another country and two young daughters ages 1 and 3 for whom I had to provide for. The kindness and generosity of strangers got us through the very early days but what helped me move forward with our lives was the safety net from social services. With food stamps and fees for child-care computed at a sliding scale supplementing the paychecks earned after working long hours at minimum wage. I found a an America very receptive to hard work and ambition. I did not even notice when survival issues like paying the rent every month and having food on the table every day turned into the joys of thriving in this world that gave back most of what I put into it. I found inspiration from all corners, one of my first employers told me that I could do or be anything I wanted to, her words have carried me forward since. I have proved to myself and my daughters that I could pretty much do anything I wanted to and set my goals accordingly. Better jobs came quickly, followed by a degree, and even better jobs, a house in a nice neighborhood, and all the things one wants to lead a comfortable life. There were ups and downs, brief periods of unemployment as result of shifts in the economy or by choice as my vision of what I wanted to do changed. Yes, I was making decisions based on choice - this is the true realization of the American dream - having choices and the freedom to pursue dreams. Today, my daughters having grown up in a nurturing, happy environment, have completed college and are now pursuing their own career and life goals.

So yes, Mr Obama, I got your message today, with a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes, and a smile on my face as I felt connected to you and the many many others who have lived the success of a life in the US. As I write this, I am thinking again of the many way in which I act or mirror my parents with whom I seem to have more in common as I grow older. This is not a new revelation, but a generally common experience about which much has been written and that many of us go through, but it feels unique when I apply it to myself.

memory joggers

Rugby Road a small road in suburban Northern Virginia , it begins at West Ox Road, intersects with Fairfax County Parkway and ends on Route 50. It's an unremarkable road, with the usual mix of houses except for the fact that it links three major roads - Fx Cty Pkwy, W Ox and Rt. 50 in addition to a Hospital. I had known this road as the land mark for when I needed to move into the right lane to exit at Route 50 from the FFC Parkway until it became an actual turn I had to make to get to the Nursing home that housed my mother for a brief period before she breathed her last in the hospital which was on the same road. And for a brief period, the land mark that signified a lane change had become the doorway to my destination.

My mother was in the nursing home towards the end of a long drawn out end-of -life dance, during which she was consumed by periods of terror and pain and the ones who loved her watched on helplessly, wrapped in their own pain and despair as they witnessed the suffering of a loved one. I would go see her in the evening, after I had completed the mechanics of what the day required me to do - work, cook, clean, walk the dog etc. I would usually find her tired from her day, frequently lost and scared in a place where no one spoke her language.

The call from her doctor came with a feeling of deja-vu, mom has high fever and was on her way to the ER, I needed to meet her there as decisions would have to be made. I watched myself go through the mechanics of informing my siblings on what was expected of us. I still held hope that the denial and the thin layer of feigned ignorance on their end of how sick she was would be abandoned for the truth of the situation. Our mother was tired, treatment was painful and was extending pain and not any form of quality to her life. But the clarity of this situation seemed to loose its simple truth in translation, and the message that this was the end of the road for our mother translated to a much murkier one as I went through the several rounds of calls. My words and messages soft and kind at first, went to a tired but imperative- "Her doctors do not expect her to last the night, come now." Direct and clear I thought, but it still left them wondering if they could have time to settle the pressing demands of life and work before they journeyed to her death bed. What they really wanted to ask in their normal double talk was a request for the doctors to continue to keep her alive, but there was no direct question. If asked, I was ready with the response from my deepest conviction, "I will not authorize any aggressive or invasive treatment to keep her breathing just so you may have extra time to get here." Some things are to be understood, I would also not give them the odds of whether this was their last chance to be with her, it was left to them to choose to cancel what the could and abandon other important deadlines and be with her or not.

The hours between the decision of not continuing treatment and her passing were the most peaceful for her and for me. She seemed to be on the easiest leg of her long journey. It was as if after weathering so many squalls and stormy weather, she was smoothly sailing towards a calm harbor. Her face reflected this inner calm with a suddenly smooth brow and a serene expression. And this how she passed away, without a struggle for breath or a glance back, she had reached her journey's end.

So back to Rugby road, I continue to pass it on my way to the various destinations that lay past it. Now, when I pass the sign for this road, my mind quickly shifts back to her last days and a series of images from the nursing home or the last day at the hospital flash in my minds eye with quick succession and for a few brief moments I re-live those moments. I struggle for a few moments to find my center and bring myself to the present where she is no more but she is also without pain.

One of my co-workers, Chris who lives in the vicinity of Rugby road recently starting a walking regimen and uses it as his turning point for his daily walks. He does not remember the name of the road where he turns back, for him its the road with the big H sign on it signifying its proximity to a hospital. As we gather around the coffee machine in the mornings, and he is recounting his daily walks, Chris will usually say, "I walk up to this road not sure what its called, but it has and H sign on it" and and I chime in with "its Rugby Road" and as soon as I say the name, I flash back to the now familiar flashes of images of mom and her last days. As I walk back to my office, now with a tinge of loss and sadness, I tell myself that I should stay away from any conversations leading up to the naming of this road or driving by it. Not until I can re-live memories of mom without it triggering the sense of loss and a reminder of how helpless I felt as I watched her suffer.

But I realize some things I can not run away from and memories will continue to be jogged into appearance and someday healing will occur and I will smile at the flashbacks rather then feel sad and depleted. So when a few days later, Chris is talking to someone and calls me over with a "what's the name of the road that I walk up to?" I hear myself say "rugby road" as I walk back to my office in a cocoon of memories, but now I softly cradle the familiar sad painful feelings with the knowledge that the sadness will remain, but the pain will eventually diminish.