Halim Mama

A few weeks ago I received a call from my sister. It was Saturday night, past 8 p.m.

My senses immediately heightened and I knew something was wrong. Through muffled cries, she said, "Halim Mama died." 

I shouted, "What?!” As I collected my thoughts, I turned off the oven mid-dinner planning and drove home, urging Susana to get Mom to take her anti-anxiety medication before sharing the news. 

When I came through the door, Mom already knew, shaking from grief and in shock. 

We were all in shock.

In a family of eight brothers and sisters, Halim Mama was the first to die. 

He was the kindest, the tallest, and without a doubt the smartest. 

Abdul Halim was born in Dhaka, Bangladesh in 1969. He was the third sibling born to a family of ten siblings, (later eight due to two SIDS-related deaths). He was the first son to be born and his spent his childhood, and the remainder of his life, listening more and
speaking less. 

Though a man of few words depending on the crowd, Halim Mama had a voice that bellowed with joy. "Hoo Haa!," he'd say entering homes, dawats, and rooms alike. 

When I began to learn how to write, my mom encouraged me to write him letters. Though I don't remember what I wrote in them, given that I was maybe five or six years old at the time, he surprised us with a one of those crumpled letters, carefully folded, when he visited New York in 2023. My heart was so full.

When he first visited New York City in 1997, he stayed for just one week after completing a scholarship program in Colorado. My father drove all of us in a small car to Atlantic City, the go-to vacation spot for most immigrant Bangladeshis in the late 1990s. We all walked to a casino and Susana and I ran ahead, excited to see the bright lights and slot machines. We were woefully unaware that these games were rigged and meant to empty the pockets of adults, not children. 

Mom stayed behind in the lobby with me and my sister, and the elder males played the slots. My dad lost hundreds, but Halim Mama didn't spend a single dollar. 

"Apa, eita shob faltu!," he laughed. Apa is the term used for elder siblings.

"Sister, these are all bogus."

He wasn't a fan of gambling, but witnessed first hand how my dad wasted money, despite the four of us living in a small, roach-infested one bedroom apartment.

While in New York, for the first time, Mama purchased a large black cowboy hat. When he wore it home, he opened the door of our long corridor in our tiny apartment in Jackson Heights. I didn't recognize him, and instead saw a tall, dark shadow with a massive head. I started to scream and cry in fear. 

He emerged from the shadows and said, "Ma, eije ami, tumi bhoypaila?"

"My love, it's just me, you got scared?"

**********

As the extended family grew bigger, Halim Mama sent us photos of himself, Mum Mami, (his wife) and their baby girl. We looked in awe at the photos of him cooing over her after their brought her home from the hospital. 

And the family continued to grow. First Neha, then Labib, then Rania, Jesse, Rudaba, Zuzar, Ereshva, Enan, Zubin, and Anahita in that midst. 

Each child with a story, with a different set of siblings, and despite the distance or the circumstances, Halim Mama, or Boro Mama they endearingly called him, always maintained a relationship with each one of us. 

My relationship had always been different. The eldest, immigrant daughter who was forced to grow up faster than most of the kids. Dealing with my father's abuse, infidelity, and gambling made me painfully aware that there was no room for me to make a mistake. I couldn't get a boyfriend, I couldn't get pregnant, I couldn't fail a single class.

I started to work when I was 14, tutoring middle-school aged kids. Halim Mama had done the same in his youth.

I found comfort our conversations about current events, politics, and life. He understood that kids were people. That we had feelings and understood more than we led on. And though I've found my voice now, as 30-something adult, I was that quiet kid for a long time. 

Halim Mama's trips to NYC became more frequent after my mother's first open heart surgery. 

In 2015, in 2016, in 2017, in 2018, in 2021, and finally in 2023. Like the rest of us, he always feared that we would lose Ma. None of us ever imagined that he would be the first to go.

He spent thousands upon thousands, traveling to and from Bangladesh to see my mom. His 6’3 figure crouched painfully into the plane seats, as he traveled over 24 hours, door to door, just to see us. He stayed for at least four weeks with every visit, and with each visit we grew closer.

This quiet person was seldom quiet in our home.

Our small, but cozy apartment served as a getaway from Dhaka. We no longer lived in our Jackson Heights, run down apartment, but a slightly bigger place in Rego Park. And this time - my father had moved out. (Well, forcibly removed but that's for another time.)

Halim Mama was able to be free with us, sharing his uncensored opinions on most happenings in Dhaka. We relished in his stories, and tagged along on his trips to Brooks Brothers, and Sephora where he stood confused, catering to the 2-paged lists of makeup requirements from the girls back home. 

With every museum, he painstakingly took hours to read every single exhibit's cards and walk through every floor. He rarely completed a museum in one day. 

When we went to the Intrepid together, he spent time speaking to each of the Veterans, asking them about their battles and specific details only a historian would remember.

He had a horrific habit of smoking and smoked cigarettes every day. After my mom explained to him that he couldn't smoke in the bathroom anymore, he walked down to the lobby in the cold, many times in just his sweatshirt and lungi - a sarong wrap traditionally worn by men in South and South East Asia.

Every time I came home from work, there he was, in front of our Rego Park apartment building, smoking a cigarette, book in hand, legs crossed on the floor in his lungi. He giggled when I told him to wear pants and he tried to convince me that lungis were a better clothing choice for men.

He was the only one who could convince my mom to get into a small, Schooner boat off of South Street Seaport. We were the only People of Color on the boat, so when my mom started to shout "Allah," and I told her not the scare the other passengers, Halim Mama giggled and reminded her to remain calm.

Though he appreciated our conversations, he appreciated Susana's patience even more. She stayed by his side in every store, and waited for the stylish, yet meticulous mama to get through every aisle. 

He loved tailored shirts with printed florals and bright colors. When I took him to Harlem, we walked into a Senegalese-owned shop, and he purchased a bright green shirt while discussing Senegal's rich history with the shop owner. He always reminded me of the importance of reading and constantly learning.

Halim Mama was a difficult person to shop for, because what do we gift to the Chief Auditor of a Bank? We relied on his likes and bought him personal gifts, like an etched wine stopper that said it was from “Your favorite nieces.”. 

I remember filming his reaction, and he replied, “They film everything, don’t they?”

And I am so glad I do.

The most special gift he enjoyed was of an art piece of himself sparring with the great Muhammed Ali. He was a huge fan of “The Greatest,” and read many books on him.

But perhaps, our favorite memories together were going to The Bronx Zoo. He loved every exhibit, but especially lingered with the gorillas. He was always amazed at how human-like they were. He was thrilled to find out that my partner and I had chosen the Bronx Zoo as our wedding venue.

When it came time for the big day, none of my mom’s siblings came, even with the two-year notice.

Halim Mama broke the news that he needed to stay in Dhaka for his daughter’s final exams, for her last year. I was heartbroken, but understood. He told me in-person why he couldn’t come, leaving me with a parting gift towards the matrimony. I offered to pay for his round-trip flight, but he knew he needed to stay in Dhaka.

It was Halim Mama’s integrity and humility that made him so special.

He didn’t claim that he had a court case he had to tend to. He didn’t claim that his daughter’s bideshi boyfriend was the reason he couldn’t come. He never shouted at us and left our home in a fit of rage, while claiming to know everything about American appliances. He never claimed there was a work conflict. He never said he would come, and then leave a voice message that he couldn’t. He never judged my clothing choices. He never dated around in his 20s and pretended to be religious after 50.

He never said, “Aar ki bolbo?” “What can I say?”

He wasn’t a coward. 

As the eldest brother, he ensured everyone was taken care of, even our cousins who need to live in the countryside, due to their father’s poor health. He made sure everyone had a piece.

To lose my father so suddenly was a pain I couldn’t explain. But to lose someone you wish were your father is a different kind of experience. Like losing a part of yourself all over again.

We both enjoyed reading. We both understood the importance of families. We understood the complexity of our loved ones. We both followed world events. And we both loved nature. 

With his light gone from the world, I can only pray that he will be forever in our hearts.

As I kneeled in prayer during All Saints Day, I could only hope that he is with his parents, watching over us today. And that I can continue to emulate that kindness and grace he carried.

May he rest in peace. We love you, forever.

Being Bushra Apa Part 2

I don’t think words can describe what it felt like for the website to launch. I spent months preparing.

I took the day off from my regular job to hit “live” the morning of. By the end of the first month, I had a Facebook reach of more than 400,000, 900 followers, and 5,000 visits to the website. It was clear…there is an absolute need and interest in sex education in Bangladesh. 

With the fast growth came more responsibility, more questions, more criticisms, and self reflection. My inbox was swiftly flooded with inquiries:

“How can I increase my penis size?”
“Why do I have hair on my vagina?”
“Are you married?”

The first email I received asked me if I was a “feminist, liberal, atheist,” and “Why are you ruining the country?”

I would be lying if I said my stomach didn’t sink. I knew that I would be ridiculed, mocked and questioned, but I think I was naive in believing that wouldn’t happen so soon. “Mohammed” and I went back and forth in our email exchange before I gave up. 

I would have a lot of people questioning me and my choices, but I can't make every person understand if they are not willing to understand. Sex education is scary, and sex is scary to a population that considers dating taboo. I had to be mindful and tread lightly.

The first version of the website was strictly clinical. It covered consent, the definitions of sex, graphics of the reproductive system, information on how to protect children, basic definitions of different sexualities, pornography addiction, and sexually transmitted diseases. I avoided covering intimacy because Bangladesh is a largely Muslim and conservative country. I knew that including information on intimacy could trigger people, so I avoided it.

Despite that concern, I received thousands of questions on intimacy specifically.

“How can I stop premature ejaculation?
“Is masturbation bad for me?”
“How do I know that my wife orgasmed?”

I was overwhelmed by how many people were interested in intimacy, but I shouldn't have been surprised. Bangladesh boasts a population of more than 170 million people, so clearly people were having sex. 

But procreation is not an indication of pleasure, and what is the point of marital pressures if we aren’t realistic about sexual pleasures?

The inquiries forced me to challenge my own misconceptions and biases. There were men in my inbox who, contrary to popular belief, were invested in their partner’s pleasure. There were women in niqabs asking personal intimate questions. After some time, I realized this might be the only platform where people were able to ask their most personal questions…without getting shamed.

I decided to hire a few freelance translators because my poorly Google-translated posts were no longer resonating. With their support, my following grew and I began answering more intimate questions and created additional web pages based on the messages I received. I later added a page on puberty, one on pregnancy, and one on how sexual health changes as we age.

My Lack of Lajja

Despite the growth of my website, I could sense that some of my loved ones were apprehensive, if not ashamed, of the work I was doing. Though my mom supported my work, she regularly asked me to make sure that none of her friends could see my content. I was surprised because some older women were the very ones who messaged me to post about menopause and aging. In fact, one of my translators is an auntie!

Learning about sex education is beyond sex. It is about protecting yourself, your children, and understanding your body. What do you do if you have an undescended testical? What do you do if you find a lump in your breast? What do you do if you never get your period? 

Sex education is a public health issue and it quickly became my life mission to spread the word. Bushra means “messenger of good news,” after all, and here I am bridging the gap in ensuring that this content was accessible to the masses.

Though the response has been overwhelmingly positive, I have my fair share of bullying. I've been called a “magi,” whore, and received countless images of shrimp-like penises and pornographic videos. Some men have questioned my gender, asking if I was trans. (for the record, I am and was born a female. My broad shoulders and large frame came from my tall parents.)

Despite these negative messages and the lack of support of some loved ones, I persevered. The traumas and abuse I experienced as a child made my skin thick enough to bear the brunt of these often anonymous messages.

My childhood was far from easy. My parents had a tumultuous relationship for the entirety of their marriage and I was on the receiving end of my father’s abuse as well.

When I was six, I watched him grab a butcher’s knife and hold it to my mother’s face.

When I was ten, I woke up to the sound of drums, only to realize it was him grabbing my mom by the head and hitting it against the kitchen wall. When I threatened to call the police, she used her body to shield me from him attacking me next.

When I was twelve, he shoved her against the bedroom dresser and grabbed her throat. 

These memories are just a fraction of what I'd witnessed and received. In the midst of these memories, I've had a growing rage inside of me against the very man who spent years beating my mom. When I was tall enough to fight back, I stood between him and her.  When he cursed out her family, I retorted by mentioning his brother and his illegitimate child. He spit on me in response. 

When I was 18 and mom was hospitalized with her first open heart surgery, he sued her for overpayments on my child support case. 

When the very person who is supposed to raise you and protect you and your family instead beats you, abuses you, and calls you a prostitute, the virtual bullying you receive in adulthood has no effect. 

In some ways, it feels like the decades of abuse were meant to haze me for this position. Because not every person has the strength to deal with the magnitude of what I’ve experienced, nor would I wish it upon them.

Baby Bushra had always been creative. She read a lot, and always wanted to give back. I knew I was strong and I knew I was special and meant for a life that was not simple. Despite the depression and the years of crying myself to sleep, I knew something better would come. 

Even in the darkness, there is light. I recognize that if any Bangladeshi person were to create this platform, it would have to be me. Women are generally the victims of sexual violence in Bangladesh, and how could we end rape when we don’t even teach consent? 

Though there were grassroots organizations that covered specific niche gendered topics, there were no central sex education platforms. I couldn’t wait any longer for someone else to create this, because I knew I could do it.

I wasn’t afraid of the backlash because I'd already been disappointed by my community.

My extended family did not protect my mom from incoming punches, I did.
My Bangladeshi neighbors did not support my mother’s decision to kick out my father, I did.
Who helped heal my mom post massive surgeries? My sister and I did.

You cannot begin to imagine the ridiculous and obnoxious commentary and questions I've received from pea-brained aunties and uncles. Based on my weight, my height, my relationships, my singlehood, and my mother’s decision to kick out my father.

Who will marry them now that their father is not home?
My husband does not want me to be friends with you because you are single.
No one will marry an alcoholic’s daughter.

Despite the reputations, the backbiting, the rumors…I did okay. I am doing good. And I am creating something that is so important. 

Why I Chose to Post Myself

After launching the site, a lot of messengers referred to me as “bhaiya,” or brother. They assumed I was a man. After all, what kind of decent women would know so much about sex education?

I knew I wanted to “come out” as Bushra Apa, but I was unsure how. Was it worth plastering my face on social media? I knew sharing who I was would lead to even more harassment and hate, but there were a few things I considered.

My following, despite its size, were mostly men, and I wanted more women and girls to follow the page. Representation matters, and I wanted Bangladeshi women to see a sex education expert that looks like THEM. My brown skin, my dark eyes, my jet black hair. Make no mistake, I am of South Asian descent.

In order for Bengali women to follow my page and understand the importance of sex education, they would have to see me, to see Bushra Apa. And so, I decided to change the original Facebook page name from Bangladesh Sex Education, to Bushra Apa. 

Bushra Apa is the Ms. frizzle, the Dr. Ruth, and Linda Elerbee of sex education in South Asia. I knew my presence, my photos would encourage, intrigue, and entice young women into liking, following and subscribing. 

There is no shame in public health. Women make up half of the country, so it is integral that they also have access to these resources. 

One year later

Since the launch of bdsexeducation.com, the website has had more 160,000 visits. The Facebook page has reached more than 1.2 million people, with a total of 16,000 followers. In about 18 months, I now have a combined 25,000 followers/subscribers.

As the platform grows, I continue to look for ways to create my brand. The “Bushra Apa” brand represents the elder sister you wish you had. I'm here to answer any questions you may have and I will not judge you.

As the brand goes, and I look for funding, I will find ways to sell merchandise, whether they be intimacy products, or basic sex education books, and online PDFs to help bridge the education gap.

If you remember “Mohammed,” from earlier in this peace, he did reach out to me weeks later after I stopped responding.

“Apa, can you tell me about the uterus?”

Love,
Bushra Apa

Being Bushra Apa Part 1

Whenever I’m overwhelmed, or feel like I need to find myself again, or my mission, I write. 

Being Bushra Apa isn’t easy.

Like most South Asian gals growing up in the West, my parents gave me little to no guidance on sex and sex education, other than “Don’t have a boyfriend.” I respected, and was scared of, my parents, so I waited to have a boyfriend until I was 20 (which, of course, led to its own plethora of problems, but I digress).

As a child, I always gravitated towards what wasn’t meant for me. I can’t have a boyfriend? Fine, I’ll have one vicariously through the adult fiction novels from the Queens Public Library. This is where I learned more about sex and sex education. My interest in sex education peaked at the Bronx High School of Science, when I finally took my junior year health class with Ms. Sutnitsky. 

Yes, I was just as traumatized from the miracle of life video.

Things took a different turn for me and my values in 2012, following the brutal gang-rape, and murder  of 22-year old Jyoti Singh in Delhi, India. In December, 2012, Jyoti and a male friend took a private bus home after watching a movie together. There were six other men on the bus, including the driver. 

When the bus took a different route, an argument ensued between the driver and Jyoti’s friend. The six men quickly overpowered him, and then beat and raped Jyoti. The violence she faced was so brutal, that they disemboweled her with two metal rods. 

Though Jyoti died from her injuries, her rape and murder led to a revolution in India and around the world. Protests shook the nation as women, and men, marched in honor of her. It was, perhaps, the first time many had come to terms with the prevalent sexual violence that women face in India, and South Asia.

A photo of protesters following the rape and murder of Jyoti Singh.

Jyoti was one year older than me. I couldn’t help but wonder how many of us could have been her. I started to follow the sexual violence news stories in South Asia.

Why is sexual violence so common in South Asia?

South Asia seemed like such a hypocritical place. The dichotomy of perceived conservative values, while some of the most brutal, sexual violence is regularly carried out on women and children. Why is it that Pakistan, India, and Bangladesh have such conservative, patriarchal values, and yet some of the most heinous stories of rape come from these very countries?

• In 2001, 12-year-old Purnima Rani Shil was attacked and raped by a group of 30-40 men in Sirajganj, Bangladesh following an election.

• In 2017, a father in Madaripur, Bangladesh was arrested for raping his biological daughter.

• In 2018, 6-year-old Zainab Ansari was raped and murdered in Kasur, Pakistan.

• In 2020, a group of teenaged boys in Lahore, Pakistan gangraped a kitten to death. 

• In 2022, four poachers in India filmed themselves raping a monitor lizard. 

These articles are just a tiny fraction of the sexual violence people face. But why? 

1. Lack of sex education: sex and sex education are considered taboo in south asia. Though it is traditionally believed that it is the parents’ duty to teach sex education to their children, this does not happen in practice. Without these necessary conversations on consent, bodily autonomy, and puberty, most South Asians move through life with warped views on sex.

2. Consent and the patriarchy: Consent is a foreign concept because consent does not need to be required between husband and wife. Because South Asia is a largely conservative group of peoples, sex is only to be enjoyed between a heterosexual couple that is married. Many believe that sex is a right of the husband and a wife cannot contest that. In fact, marital rape is still legal in india and women are fighting to ban it.

   But how can marital rape exist? The very concept that a woman is allowed to deny sex to her husband is considered taboo altogether. Wives, and women, exist to serve their bodies to men, so anything less is considered blasphemous to traditional beliefs. This is upheld by the patriarchy.

3. Sexual repression, pornography, and hypermodesty: Sex is a biological need. It is healthy, and normal, to have a sex drive. Because sex, and sex for pleasure, is seen as “dirty” and a sin, due to cultural and religious beliefs, needs are repressed. However, now that more and more South Asians have access to cell phones and the internet, people meet their needs with pornography.

   Excessive levels of pornographic consumption effects views on sex and creates unhealthy expectations on what sex could, and should, be like. In other words, imagine living in a small town in Bangladesh, using an old iPhone to watch free porn videos and believing that a woman’s vulva should be hairless, pink, and sex should include choking or other non-consenting kinks.

   Hypermodesty culture largely polices the clothing of women. Dependant upon the town, village, or city, women are excluded from public spaces. They are either encouraged to stay home, or avoid public spaces altogether to deter jeering, or sexual harassment. When women who enter public spaces, many feel encouraged, or are coerced into wearing more traditional, and modest clothing such as the burqa, or niqab, or additional layers of clothing. Hypermodesty culture leads to hypsexuality because when women are hidden, or erased from public space, men are more likely to jeer, gawk, sexually harass, or “eve tease.” 

Because sex is repressed, and due to the patriarchy, anything goes. Men and boys will get their needs met whether it means raping an animal, child, or other non-consenting person.

In fact, sexual violence is so common, that I believe there are higher percentages of young boys who have been molested than girls, and that’s simply because the family structure is more invested in protecting a girl’s “honor,” and that boys “can’t” be raped.

When sexual violence is so rampant, so violent that it affects the livelihood of every living being, it is clear that this is a public health issue and a South Asian sexual revolution is desperately needed.

How the Website Came to Be

Any one who’s ever been Facebook friends with me knows how depressing and annoying my statuses can be. I’ve regularly written essays on crime, rape, sexual violence, annoying auntie dynamics, and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. (#FreePalestine)

In my 20s, in the midst of these horrendous news stories and my long, winding, stories, I began to think about how wonderful it would be, and how important, to have a centralized, free platform that would teach sex education.

Rapists now face the death penalty in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Sri Lanka, but simply teaching “Don’t rape,” is not enough when layers of misinformation, societal structures, and ultra-conservative religious values help sexual violence proliferate. Consent had to be taught at the source. From the beginning. 

I spent my time working full-time from ITN Networks, to NYC Emergency Management, and spent the remainder arguing with random people online, advocating for sexual education.

And then I lost my dad in 2019, and the pandemic followed in 2020.

How death shaped me

I lost my dad suddenly. And though I haven’t entirely forgiven him for the decades of domestic abuse, gambling, and infidelity towards my mother, I was still heartbroken. Like I had lost a part of myself. What no one tells you about death is that when one parent dies, you are suddenly much more wary of losing the other parent. (Especially when you love them more…sorry pops!)

The pandemic was a huge “Fuck you” to society because the entirety of our world learned, simultaneously, that life is fleeting and it is short. We all faced death, many for the first time, together and there went our drive to dedicate our days to long commutes, useless, underpaying, politically-driven, 9-5 jobs, and other stupid practices that did little to enrich our lives.

I began to think about my life, my journey, and the impact i want to leave on this Earth before my time comes. I mean, we’re all going to die anyway, do you really think this bad bitch wants to work an office job for the rest of her life? No, thanks. 

I realized, quite quickly, that if anyone were to build a sex education platform for South Asia, it would be me.

I mean, “Why not me?” I spent years secretly reading about sex education, I knew how to create marketing plans, social media content, and how to build a website. After all, I did most of the social media messaging alone for my agency at the height of the pandemic. I knew I could do it.

One night, in 2020, drunk off of a few beers, i began writing outline of the website. What would the tabs be? What topics could i cover? Which website building platform could I use to create this? How will this be translated?

It took over a year to build, and translate the website. It covered consent, the various definitions of sex, reproductive health, good touch vs. bad touch, sexually transmitted diseases and more. I knew there was much more to be done, but this was a good start. I managed to balance covering the basics while being mindful of the conservative community I was serving. 

The first variation of the platform would have to be in Bangla because i was born in Bangladesh. Though i am American, I am ethnically Bengali, and with more than 210 million Bangla speakers around the world, I knew this was an untapped population that desperately needed this resource. 

I made sure not to delve too deeply into certain topics because it is integral for my community to trust me. The last thing I needed them to do was to consider me a liberal, Western, atheist trying to infiltrate Bangladesh. (For reference, i have already been called this).

Preparing for the launch meant not only creating the platform, messaging, graphics, and social media accounts, but I needed to warn my family. Public perception is important in Bangladeshi society and I have no intentions of dishonoring my loved ones. In an effort to soften the blow, so to speak, I shared the site with my favorite loved ones so they were aware of my efforts to receive their blessing. 

My mom was cautious, but I had her support, which meant the world. 

I officially launched the website in December, 2021.

To be continued…

Abba

It was busy at work and cold outside. I was probably worrying about the weather. Though I wasn't “on call,” I knew there was a chance that I'd have to work late because of the unpredictability of the forecast.

Snow? Sleet? A squall?

My phone was dead, so I had it plugged in to charge. I’ve always had a bad habit of letting my personal cell’s battery run out.

My work phone was next to the mouse. It began to vibrate and rang loudly. It was my sister, Susana. 

She knew to never call my work phone, unless it was an emergency.

"Bushra, dad had a massive heart attack", she managed to say through hysterical cries.

I couldn't hear the words after those because it felt like everything had stopped. 

There was a ringing in my ears. I asked her which hospital and looked around frantically from my desk to see if I could let someone know I had to leave. A few of my colleagues noticed I was physically distressed, but I didn't see them. I couldn't see anyone. I was shaking and everything looked out of focus. I looked for the staircase and rushed outside. I had one goal in mind and it was to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.

Anyone who knows me personally, or has read my content before, knows I've had an estranged relationship with abu for years. The years of abuse, gambling, cheating, and overall lack of parental guidance led to it. But the truth is, I loved him, love him, and have always loved him. That's what makes estranged relationships, especially between parents and children so difficult. We are a part of each other and now that he was in pain, I felt pain too.

In those moments, I didn't think of all that he'd done. I needed to be with him. I needed to be by his side.

Within minutes of getting outside, a few of my close colleagues surrounded me and offered to help. They told me they got me a ride.

Jon* asked me to confirm which hospital abu was in as we got into his car to head towards Queens.

"Flushing." 

But which one? There’s Flushing Hospital Medical Center on Parsons and New York Presbyterian (NYP) on Main Street. I called Flushing Hospital Medical Center and he wasn’t there. I called NYP and was quickly connected to one of the doctors who treated him. 

“We've been trying to reach you, but your dad said he didn’t want us to call his family. We tried our best and I’m sorry to share that he’s currently brain dead.”

I think that’s what he said verbatim. I don’t know. The ringing came back.

I hung up and started hyperventilating. Jon asked if we should pull over, but I asked him to pick my mom up on the way to the hospital. He tried his best to keep me calm and listened carefully as I went through a rollercoaster of emotions from sadness, anger, and even maniacal laughter. 

“He abused us for years,” I cried. 

“I love him so much,” I sobbed.

As we were on the highway driving home, I was thinking of Susana, where she was, and how long it would be before I saw her.

I started swaying back and forth to calm down. 

I called my mom and told her in my sternest voice to grab her clothes and medications and to  come downstairs. “It’s an emergency.”

Bengali mothers do not listen to their children, so she went downstairs in her pajamas and asked me why she needed to come downstairs.

“Ma, ki hoise?” — “Ma, what happened?”

She collapsed in my arms once I told her. I held her up and told her we needed to go to the hospital and she needed to take her anxiety medications before we left. 

Mom has suffered from heart disease since 2013. She underwent an aortic valve replacement, but never fully recovered from her procedure.

As I was hugging my mom and calming her down, Susana came through the entrance of our lobby. I don’t know how she knew to come home first, but I’m so glad she did. 

“I saw your car zoom past mine. I had a feeling it was you.”

The two of us helped amu into the elevator and grab her things from our apartment.

Ma was suspiciously quiet, and I worried that with her heart problems, she too would have an anxiety attack or worse.

Jon waited for us downstairs this whole time. He drove us to the hospital faster than a cab would have taken.

“Let me know if you need anything. We’re here for you.” We exchanged goodbyes.

We rushed to where he was kept. The ICU? I don’t remember.

When I saw him, I knew he was gone.

There was no soul. His face did not move. His skin looked dull and was cold to the touch. He was attached to a machine with tubes linked to his ears, nose, and mouth. Dry blood crusted the entrance of the tubes into his body. 

In those moments, I thought about every good memory we had. The time he waited outside our apartment building with a cane because some neighborhood boys bothered me after school. The times he sang me to sleep. The times he picked us up from P.S 12 and had mini photoshoots before we got home. The times he got us ice cream when mom said no.

Dad and Susana at my 7th birthday at P.S. 12 in Woodside, Queens.

“We’ll need to monitor him for a full 24-hours before you make your decision.”

There was nothing we could do. We knew he was gone, only technically “alive” attached to the machines.

Susana stood on his right side, and me on his left. My mom stood at the foot of the bed. 

“Why didn’t he call you?”, my mom asked Susana.

Susana was my dad’s favorite. He talked to her daily and told her never to get married. 

The doctor pulled us aside. We spoke to several doctors that day, but this was one of the few who tried to save him in the emergency room. According to him, dad felt unwell and called an ambulance from his apartment in Flushing. He walked into the vehicle, clutching his chest, and walked out of the vehicle into the ER, without assistance.

“He’s very strong, we were very surprised,” the doctor said, “We did an EKG and saw he was having a massive heart attack. He kept trying to stand up and said, ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’”

I don’t know why my dad didn’t call Susana or me or my mom that day. He asked the doctors to call his boss at the Taxi and Limousine Commission (TLC), who then called Susana. 

Susana, me, and ma sat in the waiting room surrounded by other stressed, and maybe grieving, families. Dad had died, and we needed to start planning his funeral. First came the calls — notifying his friends and our loved ones of what happened. My mom made some calls to her friends and my sister called her best friend, Shyla*. Her father, like ours, is closely connected to other members of the Bangladeshi community. He could help make funeral arrangements. 

I made some calls too, but i don’t remember who. I honestly felt useless, because I didn't really know who to call for this. I spent most of that time sitting in the waiting room in shock. I couldn’t believe that any of this is real. I went through waves of sadness, anger, and regret.

Did I try hard enough to be there for him when he was alive?

I called my partner to research burial grounds for Muslims. Abu was agnostic, but we didn’t know how else to bury him. How much does a Muslim funeral cost? Where would his body be kept? This is the first funeral we had to plan. We needed help. 

My youngest maternal uncle, Yaqub Mama, booked a flight in from Toronto the next day. Two of my mom's best friends from her Biman days, came to the hospital to offer support. 

It was a lot of waiting, a lot of silence, a lot of calls, and a lot of crying.

We went through my dad’s wallet and found a wad of lottery tickets and three faded photos of Susana. We stayed late at the hospital and returned in the morning. 

My dad’s wallet and three photos of Susana.

In a lot of ways, the second day felt worse than the first. The initial shock passed and the sadness had time to sink in. January 9th was the day of the heart attack, but the 10th would determine what happened next.

Was there a chance of recovery? Was there a miracle overnight? 

My dad had no sign of improvement. His body relied on the machines for his organs to function. He looked the same as the day before. Still, like stone. Gone. 

Paperwork, social workers, and more paperwork. My aunties were back. Yaqub Mama was in a cab from John F. Kennedy airport. It was in the afternoon. We made the decision to pull him off life support. 

Amu initially wanted to be in the room with us, but I think she was scared. She tried to convince us to let the doctors do it alone, but Susana and I resisted. This was our final goodbye and we needed to be by his side.

I held his left hand and Susana held his right hand. The lead doctor nodded and we nodded back when we were “ready.” The staff members looked away when they shut off the machines. The ringing came back, but this time from the machines. Then, there was silence. It was over.

---

Losing a parent is a pain I can't explain. Grief comes in stages, This was different. It was sudden and aggressive. I didn’t get a chance to see him one more time. I can’t even remember the last time I told him I loved him. He wasn’t sick and dying. He died suddenly. There was a heavy pain and sunken feeling in my chest, and when I think about now, that emptiness comes back. Every time I read about another loved one lost to COVID-19, I replay what it was like to lose my father again. Aggressively, and quickly. There are, of course, differences in that I didn’t lose my dad to a pandemic. And unlike so many people, we were with him when he passed.

The rest of the day was dedicated to planning his funeral. According to Islam, the dead is to be buried within 24 hours. His janazah was scheduled for the next day, Friday. After jummah namaz, or Friday prayer.

We connected with Ali* from Washington Memorial Memorial Park Cemetery. He would meet us at Bergen Funeral Home in South Ozone Park, drive the body to Jamaica Muslim Center for the janazah, and then drive to the cemetery to complete the burial.

The morning was hectic. Our ride to the funeral home overslept. We took a cab, and after some traffic, we made it. My dad was already washed and cleaned. He was wrapped in a white cloth, placed in the wood coffin, and shrouded with a black shawl with multicolored surrahs over it. I can’t read Arabic, so I don’t know what it said.

He looked at peace. It was calming to see him cleaned up, without the tubes, or the blood, or beeping noises and stress from the hospital. My mom, sister, and I took turns praying for him. In retrospect, I wish that was all we had done. 

Ali drove the hearse to Jamaica Muslim Center and we stayed behind to complete additional paperwork. We were running on schedule. When we arrived to the mosque, there were cars double-parked all down the street.

We didn’t know how crowded the mosque would be, especially during jummah. We were overwhelmed. This was our first time at this mosque.

The men were entering it from the front of the building and the women had to enter from the back. My dad’s body was placed behind the mosque, outside, in the cold.

I was overwhelmed by the number of people, the freezing temperatures, but also by the disorganization of everything around me. Why was his body outside? Why couldn't it be inside? Why did I have to enter through a completely different entrance? I thought he would be placed inside, like in the funeral home. 

The three of us took off our shoes and went up the long, thin staircase to where the women were praying. I started to pray, but I stopped. I couldn’t focus knowing my father’s body was outside in the cold. Who was watching him? A few friends stood by him, but I knew they wouldn’t be as vigilant as I would be. 

I went back downstairs. No jacket, no shoes, and stood at his coffin.

One of his friends kept telling me to go back inside.

“Ma, bhithuri jao. Tanda lagbe.” “Ekhene thakte hoye na, bhithuri jao. Meder upure jethe hobe.”

“Ma, go inside, you’ll get cold.”

“You’re not supposed to stay here, go inside.”

“Girls need to go upstairs.”

A janazah is the name of the prayer performed during a funeral for the deceased. It is led by an imam, surrounded by the men of the family. 

Women are excluded from this prayer.

The men outside the mosque were uncomfortable by my presence. I felt completely left out. They didn’t want me to be a part of the janazah. They didn’t want me or Susana to stand by my dad.

I continued to stand my ground by him. My mom stayed upstairs, and Susana went back and forth to check on us both. 

My colleagues started arriving in groups. I shared the location of the funeral, but I never imagined so many of them would come. They’d never seen me so vulnerable. It was so comforting to know that so many of my colleagues cared about me. It is a very intimate thing to share such a moment with those you work with. But I wasn’t ashamed. We spend more than 40 hours a week together and I'm thankful to work with so many incredible, caring, and loving people. Even our former commissioner came to pay his respects. I knew the spirit of my father was ecstatic when he saw how many people came out to see him — family, friends, colleagues. 

And while I was surrounded by love, there was so much confusion and anger. One of the uncles turned to me and said, “When the imam comes, make sure to cover your face.” I glared at him and did not move.

I was standing between a crowd of uncles, confused by my visible anger and my male colleagues who were all forced to wait outside because there wasn’t enough room to stand on the first floor.

Susana, me, and the “uncles”.

I later found out, after the funeral, that several of my father’s friends gave eulogies on my father’s behalf. No one asked me, my mother, or Susana, to speak. Susana and my mom were upstairs, and I was still outside, shielding my dad from nosy mosque-goers, pleading with them to stop taking pictures of him. My face was red from the cold. My tears felt congealed.

I was angry and livid. This was the worst day of my life and I was being told to cover up, go inside, and stay away. Be voiceless.

I wouldn’t dare. Dad would have hated this.

In a wave, the imam came outside with my dad’s closest friend. Susana marched outside, too. The imam paid us no mind and began the prayer. We stood side by side with the men, just as Abu would have wanted.

Our livelihood.

Golam Mollick moved to the United States in 1991, shortly after my birth. He was a cab driver for much of his life, but also wrote for both the Weekly Bangalee and Bangla Times. He was closely connected to the Bangladeshi community as a photographer, journalist, and friend. He loved to go out and spend time “adda mara”, talking trash, after chai, but also probably owed you money.

We drove to the ceremony, and helped to bury him. Traditionally, the men in the family are supposed to help bury a loved one. I know it’s clear by now that my family does not abide by these outdated rules.

Susana and I took turns dropping dirt onto his casket. Even before this procession began, we noticed a stranger among us filming. I asked my partner to make him stop before there was another funeral to prepare. 

The days that followed were just as busy. In a way, it was relieving to know that his funeral was over and he was buried. But we had guests coming over every day, but only one or two dropped off food. Biryani, daal, bhaat, and I remember some of the best paneer.

We still had to host a milad — another prayer ceremony to add to the myriad of events surrounding death. But we knew this would be different. Susana ordered catering. We invited loved ones who knew us and knew him. People who loved and cared for us.

We had more than 40 people sitting on every possible surface in my two-bedroom apartment. An imam came, who had seen both Susana and me as children. He was kind and ecstatic to see that we were both grown and now even physically bigger than him.

After he recited his prayers, ate, and left, the rooms divided. Some of the men lingered in the living room, aunties in one bedroom, and the “young ones” in our room. I took out the bottle of Jack I’d kept hidden under my bed.

“A toast to my dad.”

I called ma into the room and she gasped when she saw each of our glasses. Mom no longer drinks, but she had to be present for this. And so we all prayed, said bismillah, and took the shot, just as abu would have wanted.

---

Grief, In Stages

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I took a social media hiatus after the denial passed. I was angry to see my friends enjoying themselves instead of checking up on me and my mental health. I started looking at photos on Instagram and Facebook through a lense of hate.

“This is all fake,” I thought.

I scoffed at every, “Thinking of you,” “You will get through this,” text. 

Must be easy to be supportive from far away. I needed help, someone to talk to objectively about what I was going through. I needed a friend to hug.

“Aren’t you happier now, now that he’s gone?” — that was probably the worst text I had received.

It was a hard time. Grief, and understanding how many fairweather friends you truly have.

I stopped drinking for some time. Because every time I did, I would end up crying and heaving on the floor.

Death is ugly.

It took me seven months to find the right therapist who helped me through my grief. But before then, there was still healing to be done.

I stopped going out. I spent all of my time with my loved ones. I also started working more and more. I stayed late often, without anyone asking me to, to finish projects, work on videos, or even do something as trivial as organize my desk.

If I did everything “right” at work, and helped my family, then that’s it right? I’m fine? I’m all better?

Eventually your body catches up to your mental state. I was pushing myself too hard, holding in my grief, and trying my best to serve everyone else except for the most important person in my life — me.

In August of that year, I was admitted to the hospital for an intussusception. A part of my small intestine began to swallow itself. The doctors couldn’t tell me why it happened or explain what the cause was. This is something that typically happens to babies and sorts itself out.

The pain was so bad, the nurses gave me morphine. I can’t imagine how infants deal with this pain.

The hospital stay was the first time I slept for 12 hours straight in months. I wasn’t looking at my phone. I was alone with my thoughts and started breaking down again. It was the wake up call I needed to seek help and find a therapist. I found the “right” one after my dismissal.

---

Our last photo together.

In the time that has gone since his passing, I’ve forgiven him. I don’t forgive abu for him or for him to enter “jannat,” but I've forgiven him for myself. 

It takes so much out of you to hold on to that sadness and anger. My dad is gone, and all I can do now is think about what would have been, and if things would have gotten better at some point. All I can be thankful for are the good memories and the lessons learned.

Rest in peace, pops. 

Motherhood

Motherhood is sacrifice.

When I think about the times, you've stood in harm's way for me and my sister, and for those you have left in Bangladesh, I shudder to think that I will ever be half the woman you are today.

When I was 13, I asked you why you couldn't be a doctor, or a professor like some of my friends' mothers. I know you were hurt. I regretted my words.

When I was 11, I woke up to a loud banging. It was a Wednesday, and I had class the next day.

He was standing over you, in our kitchen, with a fistful of your hair in each palm.

He shook your head back so hard that the sounds of your skull against the wall sounded like the drumming of the tabla.

I was wailing, and ran to the phone. 

"I'm going to call 911."

He turned his attention towards me, dark, scaly skin hanging, and eyes bulged like a predator fixated on his prey. He started to run towards me.

You mustered up the strength, within seconds, and leaped in front of him when he attempted to kill me next. I thought you were already dead.

He hit you a few more times, and left.

I wish he were dead, but then he came back. He always came back.

These are the unspoken stories of my mother's sacrifice.

I want to bring them to life. 

I am working on the story of my mother's life. I haven't even started the book yet, but her story is so courageous, and interesting, that I hope I have enough will to have it completed and published in the next few years.

Thank you for always reading.

2016 - Transitions, Hopelessness, and Growth

I entered the year with less resolutions and more goals. I think when we use the term, "resolution", we set ourselves up for failure because everyone knows that resolutions are meant to be broken. But I refused to be broken.

The easiest goal was the weight loss. I lost about 11 lbs. in 2016, and it was pretty simple. I didn't fall into the trap of crash dieting or silly trends like waist-training. I ate more vegetables, and completely gave up on consuming sugar. My skin cleared up, and my waist started to shrink. I made it a personal note to look at my unclothed body daily, because I could see the lines start to form on my stomach, even though the number on the scale didn't immediately affect that.

I woke up everyday at 5:15AM, and ended up at the gym by my job at 7AM. I spent the first 20 minutes running, and the remainder weight-training either my upper body or lower body. For me, working out wasn't just about being "thin" or fitting into a particular dress. I wanted to be stronger, fitter, and dedicating just an hour to myself almost daily became therapeutic. I spent that time thinking about myself, how to improve and what my goal was, even with something as simple as a bicep curl. 

"How can I make this muscle bigger?" "How do I perfect my form?"

I loved watching other women work out because I gained the confidence to also lift heavier weights. There was always something intimidating to me about working out in an area where I was the only female, but I quickly overcame that fear because I just created it in my head. Once I removed myself from the situation I saw that everyone was at the gym with an end goal - to workout and be fit. I had nothing to do with their end goal and with that I continued to work on myself.

 

Moving Forward in My Career and Becoming my Father

As February approached, I realized I needed to start looking for other jobs. I worked at ITN Networks for almost a year, and I couldn't see myself moving forward in the company. The skill set I had didn't correlate with what my position entailed as an Assistant Media Buyer, but at the same time I was happy with many of the people I worked with.

I tried my best to become close with some of the higher ups. Relationships are key to personal growth and although I didn't necessarily want to BE those I became close to, I needed to emulate some of what they did to move forward. I had some interviews with various news stations in the beginning of the year, but I never made it to the second round of interviews.

The beginning of 2016 was very painful for me because as I didn't receive any calls back from job interviews, and my relationship with my father worsened.

I hadn't spoken to him since 2014, but I did make it a point to help him when he needed it in 2015 when he broke his kneecap. I'd take the bus to his apartment daily to drop off groceries, when at one point I saw some beauty products on his counter that belonged to the mistress he almost left my mother for (my mother kicked him out shortly after learning about the affair, of course). I asked him to remove them when I visited. His response was cursing me out, so the grocery drop-offs ceased. Later my sister went upstairs to drop them off, while I waited downstairs. 

Some time in March, he drunk called me and left me a series of voicemails calling me a failure, and a "cunt."

I think his anger stemmed from me consistently calling him out on his wrongs. One of my earliest memories of him was holding a butcher knife to my mom's face, threatening to kill us and traveling back to Bangladesh alone. He said this so often, that at one point I just wished he would do it already.

His infidelity, abuse - both physical and mental, and gambling habits led to the end of our relationship, although many of the skills and interests I have are directly attributed to him.

He was a writer in Bangladesh, and a former journalist for a Bangladeshi newspaper here. He is charismatic, extroverted, and always the center of the party. He was a photographer, an artist, and I mirrored absolutely every skill he has.

I always replayed those voicemails before interviews because I used them to motivate myself to exceed his expectations. In his eyes, and the eyes of many conservative Bengali men I've encountered, my outwardness and strength was defiant to the submissive female trope. I refused to respect a man, kin or not, who treated his loved ones so heinously. Perhaps my upbringing in the "West" contributed to this, but I also contribute my strength to my mom, who also reminded me of the importance of self. 

Despite my rocky relationship with him, and beneath layers of anger, I'm still thankful for him. His failures contributed to my character and made me stronger. As long as I don't inherit any of his negative qualities, I should be okay for now.

Dating in 2016

Some things are best left unsaid, but maybe I've found the "one", if the "one" exists of course.

Only time will tell. Get back to me in about 50 years.

Moving Forward in the Face of Love

Amidst being a part of a friend's wedding, I quickly realized I needed to network more if I wanted to move forward in my career. Tania's wedding was absolutely beautiful, and I was asked to dance at her wedding along with my sister. We spent three weeks finding a song, choreographing our steps and perfecting the dance. Attending the wedding reminded me that perhaps true love exists, I just didn't find it yet. 

Instead of focusing on love, I focused on my next job shortly after wedding festivities ended.

In January 2015, I interviewed for a Press Assistant position for NYC Emergency Management. I interviewed with Nancy Silvestri, current Press Secretary for the department.

I prepared for the interview by reviewing all of the different tabs on the website, practically memorizing the biennial reports and even looking up the different names of all of the city representatives (although the latter later proved to be unnecessary). 

The interview went well, but I did not get the job. She emailed me back a few months later, explaining that the position was offered to someone else but that she saw me working in government some day. 

I remembered that "rejection" email because it gave me the little glimmer of hope I needed. I did not get the job, but there was potential some day.  I decided to reach out to Nancy again and ask for advice. I emailed her, asking to get coffee and discuss how to move forward in my career and she accepted.

I got to Caffé Bene 20 minutes earlier and nervously stirred my latte as I waited for her to arrive. This wasn't an interview but I treated it like one because she had interviewed me before. Luckily, once she came in, all was calm and it seemed more like a mentorship than an interview-like discussion.

I can write. I can edit. I can shoot, both photos and video. But none of these skills were applicable to ITN, so I was itching to get out.

Weeks after our coffee meet-up, Nancy reached out and emailed me about a job opening at the department again. I quickly applied and received an email about interviewing the next day.

Getting the Job

There were three rounds of interviews. Before each round, I listened to my father's voicemails because they reminded me that I can be "more", I can do "better." 

I lost weight during this time, because for the first time in months, I felt like I was close to getting a position that was perfect for all of the different experiences I had. I knew what it was like to be a Resident Assistant during Hurricane Sandy. I knew about the importance of handing out flood pamphlets in Nassau County when I interned for their Communications Department. I produced my own video when I hosted the Seawolves Food Show. I graduated a year later than all of my friends, and over two years later, I was close to getting something that I had worked hard for so many years.

I broke my phone before that last round of interviews. Interestingly enough, I couldn't hear my dad's voice before I went in. Maybe it was a sign from the Universe that I didn't need to listen to his negativity to motivate myself to do better. I only needed me.

I started as a Communications Specialist for NYC Emergency Management on September 6th.

Looking Ahead

I don't know what's in store for me for 2017. I've tried to focus on simply bettering what I already have - amazing relationships, moving forward in my position and continuing to grow as a person overall. I can only hope to challenge myself and spread love any way I can.

My phone broke again on New Year's this year. I wonder what the Universe is trying to tell me now.

Nudity, Mashallah.

I walked into my living room, getting ready to leave the apartment when my dad glanced over at me and told me to put on another sweater.

I was 14. I was still going through puberty, and I guess he noticed my breasts were further developed than he’d had liked, for his own daughter at least.

I was never allowed to wear shorts, even as an elementary school kid. My mom would pair jeans with plaid skirts and I would take the jeans off whenever I had the chance. When I was in the first grade, I ran, sans pants and scraped my knees. My mom asked me in her floral salwar if I was wearing my pants when I fell. I lied and said yes, but I knew she knew the truth because my pants weren’t torn, but my knees were bleeding.

I learned from a young age that showing any form of skin was "bad" or haraam.

When I learned in the 7th grade that I would have to change in front of other girls in the locker room, I thought of every way to get out of it.

“Maybe if I change in the bathroom, no one will notice.”

A special thank you to the dozens of other insecure girls who had the same idea. We had a mere few minutes to change, and interestingly enough, the time limit wouldn’t even allow me to glance at other girls, let alone let other girls judge my body and I.

I recall one moment when I looked at the rotundas Dominican (or Ecuadorian, I wasn’t sure, but it could have been either or since they always argued about which country was better) girl standing in front of me.  She looked embarrassed as I looked directly at her gut, but then I looked at the fear in her eyes and smiled.

Of course that worked against me because she looked away at me immediately and probably thought I was a lesbian.

I definitely wasn’t and am not a lesbian, I’ve had a different male crush every year in grade school until college.

When I was in high school, I judged the other Bengali girls who wore pants to school, only to change into denim short-skirts. I was secretly jealous because my legs never saw the light of day, and I always thought they were too thin.

I was hypersexualized and desexualized at the same time – like most of the South Asian Women I know, and most women in general.

I was never allowed to show any skin because doing so would make me heathen, and at the same time I always had to think about the next step in regards to modesty because my breasts were too big and my legs were too long.

There was a lot of hypocrisy involved in my upbringing. It was too much if my legs showed, but my father couldn’t keep his legs closed.

He drank and gambled and cheated and yet somehow, the character of our family relied on how much of my skin, and my sister’s skin, was visible to the naked eye – particularly to other aunties.

The first time I wore shorts was my senior year in high school. I was terrified and liberated at the same time. I forgot to shave the patch of skin over my knees and I couldn’t forget how ashy they looked without the extra lotion I carried in my oversized bag

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Awkward, high school Bushra.

When I moved onto campus for undergrad, I finally felt free. I was away from the peering eyes of my neighbors and I continued to buy shorts and dresses. It was leg city. I went from taking every step to ensure my legs were covered to finding every pair of shorts that were at least 4 inches above my knees.

My sudden freedom worked against my better judgment sometimes. I made the mistake of wearing a long, pastel-pink tunic to a dinner as a dress. The top was not a dress, and my Dance Team captain pointed to the patch on my skin where the top ended. I got the message.

I made the mistake of sharing my leg-scapades on Facebook and family members in Bangladesh had an Astaghfirullah-kumbaya conniption.

I was suddenly more weary of what I posted, but instead resorted to blocking every family member on Facebook and beyond.

It was only after I was away from the peering eyes of aunties that I could truly feel free in the skin I was in. After a few slips of the thigh, I started wearing things that looked better on my body because I suddenly looked at my body as an extension of myself and not something to be ashamed of.

I slouched less because I was less cognizant of the people looking around me. The reality was, no one was looking at all. It was just that I was conditioned to believe that people would be inclined to stare at me all the time because I was a sex object but I’m obviously more than that.

When I forced myself to cover up because I was afraid of other people judging, I was also creating a barrier between myself and my body because I didn’t allow myself to love it.

I joined a gym close to my first gig after college, and was suddenly thrown into a locker room where women actually stood around in the buck. I thought I was mentally prepared but I resorted back to my middle school self.

I never looked up while I changed and used a towel to cover my groin as I put on my thong. I always put my bra over my sports bra and then slowly wriggled out of my sports bra just so no other women could see my areolas.

After a few months, I became accustomed to the other bared bodies, because again I realized, no one was looking at me. I recreated the idea that my body was a pedestal and everyone was judging. The reality was, everyone was there for a purpose and that was to workout and get fit.

I used to peer over at some of the women sometimes. Their different colored bodies, differently shaped bosoms and multi-colored tattoos reminded me of the beauty that is the human body and I relearned to love myself.

I started doing my make-up in my locker room in nothing but my undergarments. I could see the stretch marks on my hipbones, and the discoloration on my shoulders from some birthmarks, but at this point they were a non-issue.

Once I learned to look at my body as something that was just a body that was my own, I loved it more. I learned to ignore what my elders thought because although my ancestors would probably roll in their graves if they saw some of the shorts I’m able to get away with (and rock very well thank you very much), I realize that their negative feelings towards something that I own and control is none of their business.

Nudity itself was the very last thing my parents wanted me to find solace in. But I did, mashallah. 

M Train Free Writing

I'm stuck in a place laced with past present and future

I focus on the past and the lessons it has taught me - but if I focus too much, it'll adversely affect my future choices

I can't - you can't - let the past dictate your decisions in a way that inhibits your learning experience

How boring life would be if we lived exactly by the book and for the book.

It is better to read every book, than no books at all, and it's worse to live by only one book.

My book judges me on the basis of my skirt length and the coverage of my hair.

I don't really know which book to abide by but I'd rather abide by morality as I see fit.

I don't think the liquor that I drink is indicative of my goodness.

I would rather make someone smile on the basis of an unrecognized gesture, because anonymous goodness is still good too.

The Guy with the Man Bun

My Friday was typical. I left work at 5 PM, and had spicy steak tacos at the Flying Cock in Midtown. I hung out with some friends and made a pit stop at Home Depot to look at plants, and potential bedroom paints. It was about 9 PM, but I wasn't ready to go home yet. I texted one of my best friends, Matt, if he wanted to meet at our favorite local bar, Station House, to catch up on life, work, etc. etc.

We met outside the Chipotle on Austin Avenue and commented on the crowds. There was a Bob Dylan concert at Forest Hills Stadium, and the patrons at the bar were older than usual. We made friends with DJ, a bisexual woman in her 60s who had fierce red hair and a bright canary-colored flower tucked in her ear.

DJ left and Matt and I were leaning on the bar when he casually looked around the crowd. There were two men behind us, and one of them looked at him and said "Can I help you with something?"

The hostility was unlikely for a place like Station House - it's always been one of those spots where people hang after work for a good craft beer or a funky whiskey cocktail. 

We ignored them. We kept conversing.

A few minutes in, I felt a squeeze on my left buttock. I immediately turned around and it was them again. A slightly tan man with a navy blue shirt, facial hair and a man-bun, and his taller friend - a Caucasian male with a plaid orange shirt and spiked strawberry blonde hair. 

"Did you just touch me?", I immediately asked Matt, but both his palms were face down on the bar. I turned around again. The taller male with the spiked hair smirked and the both started walking to the end of the bar - one of them had violated me and I knew it.

I was furious. I turned red. How do I handle something like this? How can I prove that they just touched me? Should I confront them? 

My night was ruined. All I wanted to do was enjoy my Brooklyn Lager in peace and reminisce about Stony Brook. I approached the bouncers.

"Hi, what should I do if i know someone just touched me and I know who did it?"

The bouncer was this brolic African-American man who always had a book in his hands every time I went to Station House. I gave him a detailed description when he looked at me wide-eyed. I could tell he knew I wasn't lying. He called over a manager, Bobby.

"Are you sure he didn't just graze you by accident?"

I asked if I could pinch his arm the way the person pinched my cheek. He obliged. He reacted with the same disgust I did when it happened. He looked at me empathetically and walked me back to where Matt was standing and told me stay there for the time being. 

At this point Matt's mom made a lovely appearance and we all talked about our day, and how long it had been since I had seen her. I tried to focus on the conversation, but I was skittish. All I could think about was how badly I wanted them kicked out, and how badly they needed to know that touching someone without their consent is fucked up. 

There's really no other way of putting it. You cannot put your hands on someone who does not want to be touched.

I watched Bobby talked to a group of about 4 men, and they all walked to different corners of the bar. 

"I just need you to stay here for now. We can't kick them out since we didn't see it happen, but we're keeping an eye on them in case it happens again." 

Steve, the bartender, at this point noticed that a few of the managers kept approaching me. Matt and I told him what happened, and he bought me a tequila shot for the time being. It was kind gesture, but it didn't eliminate how badly I felt at the time.

Matt and I kept hanging out when we bumped into a few more friends from Stony Brook, our Alma Mater. That's the thing about local dive bars, you'll always bump into old friends.

We were all catching up when I noticed the guy with the man bun walk to the men's restroom. Bobby immediately followed. There was another security guy by his creepy strawberry blonde friend. 

I don't know if the man-bunned guy knew he was being followed, but he left. At some point he left and I felt lighter, like the weight of his perversion left my shoulders.

I wasn't free yet because the other one was still nearby. He was standing precariously close to two drunk blondes, when Bobby said something to him and he left. It was over.

I thanked Bobby and Station House's owner for trying their best to kick them out. At the same time, I still feel bad about it. I wish I could tell them that I know they did it and they should know that it's not okay.

This was a small victory for me, but a loss in the long run. I know this wasn't the first time they groped an unsuspecting female, and it probably won't be the last. 

1,001 Failed Relationships

When I found myself suddenly single at 24, I didn’t think it was a big deal. We all mourn the end of relationships in different ways – going on a “Eat, Pray, Love”-type vacation, deleting all social media, or shaving the side of your head.

I used the newfound freedom as a way to find myself again – except one problem. As the eldest daughter of Bangladeshi-Americans, I was a cause for concern.  

“Who is she supposed to marry now?”

I didn’t think about wedding vows at all by this point. I just always assumed I’d marry whomever I was in a long-term relationship with at the time. I mean, that’s love right? You like someone, you date each other for a few years, he proposes by the ocean and then you over share pictures of your massive princess-cut diamond on social media until the wedding is over.

But love is much more complicated now, and it’s even more complicated when you’ve grown up in an immigrant community, like I did. As an American, my idea of a husband was a person who completed my sentences, shared similar interests, and was my lover/best friend/soulmate. As a Bengali, a husband was someone I was supposed to marry to help meet society’s standards of what a South Asian woman should do by her mid to late twenties. This didn’t even include the man himself, but included his parents, siblings, aunts, uncles and late grandparents.

“Bushra, akta notun chele ke kujenao, aste kore khujo”

“Bushra, find a new boy – slowly find a new one.” – a soft-spoken command from my mom, which was essentially a euphemism for finding a new potential husband.

I was forced to join Shaadi.com, an online dating community reserved for South Asians looking for the chai to their latte – it was an arranged-marriage dating site. To keep myself slightly sane, I joined Tinder too – the hookup app that required me to shallowly swipe right or left on a person’s face. In the months that followed I connected, matched with, and rejected almost a thousand different potential suitors.

The World's No. 1 Matchmaking Service

Bengalis are incredibly hospitable, extremely hardworking, and apparently do very well in groups to find you the right partner.

My mom was sitting next to me when I opened Shaadi.com and began my profile. I was immediately uncomfortable with the information they suggested I include.

“What is your skin tone? Very Light, Light, Wheatish, Dark, or Very Dark?”

To some people, skin tone wouldn’t matter, but by South Asian standards, the lighter, the better. We are the largest consumers for skin-lightening creams, so by Asian beauty standards, my caramel complexion is considered slightly acceptable at best. I left that answer blank, because my melanin levels are not indicative of my beauty.

“What is your salary?”

I kept that blank too. Unless I am discussing my salary with a co-worker or negotiating rates with a potential employer, suitors have no business in knowing how much I make. One of the ways I weeded out mates was by deleting anyone who included their pay.

I randomly got a text one night that said, “Salaam.” I responded with “new phone, who’s this” when Ali* explained that he and I matched on Shaadi, which is why he was texting me. I didn’t know that the person on the other end immediately had access to your contact information once you accepted their request.

We texted for a about five minutes before he sent me a picture of himself at Hajj, the holy pilgrimage Muslims make annually to Mecca, the birthplace of the prophet. Ali then followed up with a shirtless picture, flexing his biceps. He asked me how much I could squat and if I had any pictures of myself at the beach. I immediately blocked him on Shaadi and his number.

In the months I had my Shaadi profile, I rejected about 500 different profiles. I had a few specific guidelines for whom I wanted to date or be matched with.

I preferred someone from the tri-state area, or grew up in the United States at the very least. A lot of my suitors were from Bangladesh or the UK, and I don’t see myself traveling for love in the future, so I immediately clicked delete.

My final straw with Shaadi was when I had gone on a coffee date with Samir*. He grew up in Colorado, worked in midtown, Manhattan and was seemingly normal when we met. So when he texted me around 1 AM the same day of our Pret-A-Manger date, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”, my naivety took stronghold and I gave him permission to meet me in front of my apartment building.

I told my mom about the suitor when she immediately grabbed a bottle of holy water, poured half into a Poland Spring bottle, and filled the rest with tap. She prayed over it and told me to give it to him as soon as I met him. Now imagine her surprise when I came back upstairs 15 minutes later because he pulled his fly down and looked at me like “¯\_(ツ)_/¯”

Swipe Right If You Feel It

At first I was excited about Tinder. I would swipe on the train, on the bus, and even during lunchtime. I asked suitors to guess my ethnicity. I was always impressed if someone got it right, because it means they actually knew where Bangladesh was.

As the matches increased, so did my disdain for online dating. There were too many conversations to keep up with and I almost always forgot who to follow up with. I wasn’t interested in texting right away or meeting anyone in person immediately because I wasn’t sure who could’ve been the next Ted Bundy. The small talk was always the same, “What do you do?”, “Tell me about your hometown.” “What do you do for fun?”

The few dates I’d gone on were nice, but nothing felt meaningful. There was no chemistry most of the time, and usually the conversations fell after the initial meeting. There were also these gems.

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Online dating exposes you to different kinds of people; even the bigoted and prejudiced as there are no filters for those. By the end of my run on Tinder, I had already had about 500 matches, and it seemed nothing was going anywhere. There were too many options, too many “What If’s”.

I Do, but I Won’t

I was more at ease with myself when I deleted all of the dating apps I could think of. I even ignored requests from family members to meet men who expressed interest in marrying me. Simply put, I was being told to focus on an exterior facet that had no reflection of my happiness. I sensed my worth was based on my marital status.

Single is "bad", and marriage was the only answer, and for now I’m opting out.

Marriage doesn’t terrify but neither does being alone. Just because I am alone does not mean I am lonely. The difference is that when you’re forced to get married to meet some patriarchal structure that was built centuries ago, there’s an inherent fear that you will still be lonely. I don’t want to rush into an unhappy marriage. I want to love myself first and find the person that is meant for me whether it’s on line in a Starbucks waiting for a cold brew or in a grungy, underground club on the Lower East Side. I can’t predict my future but I do know that whenever I am ready, there won’t be swipes necessary.

Note from Bushra: An earlier version of this included images of Tinder mataches that were uncensored. Their faces are now blurred.