Buddha Statue

I was always glad to live in New York City of all places, a city known for being a melting pot. While I appreciated this attribute a lot, I soon found out that in reality, there are certain drawbacks to the upsides. I was 5 years old when I came to the city, old enough to remember bits and pieces of my native country, Bangladesh, but young enough to allow the city to become a part of my identity. In the beginning, we lived in a neighborhood with a strong Bangladesh community. It was a comfortable experience where spoke similar dialects and held block wide celebrations for any holidays. It didn’t matter that we had different religious backgrounds. We all stuck together knowing we all had each other to hold onto our cultural identity. 

A few years later, we had to move to a new neighborhood. I was worried about fitting in, more importantly, I was worried about my parents. They were barely able to communicate in English, how in the world would they understand Spanish or any other language. I was worried about being judged because when you’re a preteen in school, kids can be ruthless and soon you become wary of everyone thinking you’re different. You think being different is bad.

I briefly recall a moment in my childhood. I must’ve been four years old. My mother dropped me off at our next-door neighbors. I was intrigued by the difference in the layouts of rooms in her home versus mine. It smelled different; I notice the incense burning in the corner of the living room. I trod into the bedroom and was surprised to see an entire wall covered with framed images of a small man. I didn’t ask any questions and watched her pray in front of the Buddha pictures and statues. I didn’t understand at the time that she was praying. In my Muslim household, I had prayer rugs and sacred texts. My neighbor was a gentle person. On her window sill, there was a tiny kitten laying peacefully, barely a day old. I wasn’t sure how it got there, but I watched the woman put out droplets of milk on a tiny plate. I was in awe to see her nurse the kitten because I’ve never seen anyone take in a barely surviving baby animal they found on the street. We ended our time together by watching a movie and me learning to meditate.

I got home and told my mom about my day. I asked her why our home didn’t have the same “decorations” as my neighbors home. She explained briefly that she prayed to a different entity than us. I knew we were different in some ways, but it didn’t feel like we were. The same peace and compassion I was taught in my household were the same in hers. Even in a country like Bangladesh, where we spoke one language, cooked the same dishes, and wore the same clothes, people still had a diverse identity. Reflecting back to that time helps me prepare for moments where I feel like I can’t identify or relate to anyone. Parts of me wish I spent more time with my former neighbor and see life through her eyes and experiences.