Chapter 7: To Assimilate or Not To Assimilate?

Growing up in the countryside of Lancaster, Pennsylvania can be quite an interesting experience, especially when you’re a minority in every sense of the word. I was the only Muslim in my school, the only Pakistani in my school, and the only non-White girl in my entire grade. In fact, there were only a handful of minorities in the entire school district, and this is exactly why I ended each school year with the promise of no return! (And because a ten-page petition “to get rid of all minorities” would circulate the hallways on a regular basis.)

I begged my parent’s to send me to the inner city school, but the idea of gang violence scared them a bit. Even though I warned them that the scars of physical violence wouldn’t last as long as the emotional scars of racist petitions. Yet I'm sure the thought of their innocent Muslim daughter, surrounded by minority (hormonal) riff-raff didn't help my cause either. (Remember, I was “a minority in every sense of the word,” meaning, I was probably the only virgin in my school!) Sadly, in their minds, I was safer going to school amid Penn Manor High School’s eclectic mix of All-American Yuppies, Red-Necks, and Artistic Nobody’s (Read: Rich Snooty White Kids, Future Farmers of America, and My Circle of Friends! Sorry guys, but we were pretty much straight-up dorks!)


My parent's were in such denial about suburbia. They simply couldn't fathom that kids in my school took drugs -not prescription drugs - actual street drugs, and I’m not talking about chewing tobacco either! (Even though many of them lived and worked on tobacco farms.)

Can you imagine their horror if I’d told them they were sexually active too? I may have ended up like my grandmother, in an all girl’s school in Pakistan. Thank God I didn’t tell them then, or I would’ve ended up a “user” of other harmful substances! Not of pot or acid like the kids in my school, but of “Pan Parag.” A desi form of chewing tobacco that has turned many of my relative’s mouths a scary shade of orange-brown. It’s also been proven to cause cancer in lab rats! But hey, anything’s better than the side effects of marijuana which will only kill a couple of brain cells and make you feel mellow. Oh no! My highly-strung, emotionally exhausting, over-worked, immigrant people would never experiment with such a substance. Because in their opinion, it’s much better to have betel nut juice spewing from your mouth while you scream at your kids for being too westernized for living in the West. (A little repetition never killed anyone!)


My grandparents also grew up in the country side, in a small town in India called, Jaora. But they weren’t farmers. Or Pan Parag users! In 2006, my parent’s recently went to visit this (at-first-glance) sad and desolate place, which like most of rural India, is steeped in abject poverty. And during their journey to the mother land, they reaffirmed their belief that prosperity is not found in the sky scrapers of ambitious, wealthy nations or in the homes of the highly educated masses. This is not to say that the people who live in Jaora arn't ambitious. They are, but not in the way we define the word ambitious here. Most of my relatives moved after the only factory in town closed. (A sugar mill where my grandfather had worked.) The handful of people who refuse to leave are known to be the salt of the earth, and my mother came back in tears, describing to us their meager living conditions. She was also in awe of the fact that their mouths displayed permanent smiles. Humility in its finest form.

There are two city parks in Jaora. “Chota Bagicha and Bada Bagicha” (Or, “Small Park and Big Park”). That alone describes the simplicity of this quaint village and its 65,000 inhabitants.
There is only one hotel in town, and I suspect the reason for this is that residents -my relatives in particular- would be greatly offended if a visitor didn’t stay with them in their modest one or two room homes. They'd insist on giving up their best sleeping quarters, which in most cases is located on the cement floor, in the farthest corner of a tiny room. For your privacy of course! Hence, the permanent vacancy sign in front of the hotel.

I’m quite certain, that if I’m ever fortunate enough to visit Jaora, this spot on the floor will end my search for warmth, and hopefully my greed for worldly comforts.
(Although I must admit, I'll need some lessons in humility before testing out this theory!)

There's much to admire about the world of simplicity and its uncomplicated lifestyle. One day, when I'm brave enough to leave my comfort zone, I'll let you know what it's like! It seems to me that the people who remain in small towns have grown accustomed to a life where time stands still. A life that does not demand attention to the self and its endless desires. Another lesson that us multi-tasking-egotistical-overly consuming-morons of the West could benefit from. If only we knew how.

Kahlil Gibran who is far more eloquent than me, wrote:

"Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow.
Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.
But these things are not yet to be...

And tell me, people of Orphalese, What have you in these houses? And what is it that you guard with fastened doors?

Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power?
Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind?
Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain?
Tell me, have you these in your houses? Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?"

The Prophet, 1923

Truer words have yet to be written. Greater teachers have yet to be born.

I wish I’d had the sense to ask Baba, my mother’s father, about his simple life in India while he was still alive. But like most teenagers, I didn’t comprehend the meaning of time. Time was what I had for talking on the phone to my best friend for 2 hours, even though she lived 3 houses up from me. Time was what I had to experiment on my hair in the bathroom, only to come out crying at the latest butchering of my bangs. Time was what I had to document bouts of mass-hysteria and self-pity in the pages of my diary. But sadly, time is not what I had to spend with my grandfather, who suddenly died at the age of 65 after suffering from a stroke. I was 15 years old. I was a freshman in high school. I was ignorant of time.

I have since learned to use this precious commodity called time more wisely; by asking my grandmother, Mama, questions about the “good life.” I’d already asked how young people used their time wisely before marriage, and this time I wanted to know what life was like after marriage. Specifically, my grandfather’s decision to immigrate to England in 1955 with three small children. My mother was only 3 years old when they moved to London, and was therefore spared the needle-point lessons, but not the art of rotti making! Something she resents having to learn now, because my dad won’t eat a meal without this hand made bread.
Probably the reason why she taught me and my sisters this dying art form, for which we are truly grateful. "NOT!" (A one-word phrase that was overly-used in the 90s by all the White kids in America. And another reason why my parent's should've extracted me from my school.)

So as it turns out, Baba had put in a transfer request with the tele-communications company he’d been working for in Pakistan. Mama said he was the adventurous type, eager to see the world, but would later settle for England and America! He was also a member of The British Royal Army and a prisoner of war during WWII. Thank God he voluntarily recounted his experiences as a POW, or we would’ve never known the horrors he’d faced when his battalion was captured by the Japanese in Singapore. (Someone should’ve warned him of the saying, "Be careful what you wish for" after he’d expressed an interest in globe trotting!)

I must say, that I am eternally grateful to my grandfather for his courageous and adventurous spirit, and for the bravery to leave his comfort zone - quite literally - to raise his children in a cooler climate! Umm, I mean a real democracy. Umm, I mean a constitutional monarchy? Umm, I mean a parliamentary system? (As you can see, England's political system can be quite confusing, but have no fear, I won't be boring you with details here! You're welcome!)


After finally realizing the role of the Queen, (basically a tourist attraction!) Baba settled in England, working as a telecommunications engineer for BT (British Telecommunications) and happily introduced his fellow immigrants and relatives to one of the most amazing inventions of his time: the house telephone. He installed these devices, free of charge, and was a hero to many, but mostly to my mother, who has nothing but fond memories of her father.

We all regret not cherishing our time with him, but my mother, being his only daughter, often misses his quiet, yet commanding presence.

I feel fortunate to carry the same sentiments for my father too, and I hope to use my time more wisely, by expressing my deep gratitude for his love and affection. I want the world (or my 11 blog followers and 104 facebook friends) to know that the epitome of manliness is not the ability to secure land or wealth, but in the ability to show a gentle side. A side that contrasts well with true masculinity. Such as a POW who can physically fight a war as well as shed a tear for the loss of his comrades. They don't make men like that anymore.

I'm eagerly awaiting the details of my father's past, but realize these details may be difficult to extract. My father is a deeply private person, unlike myself, and when I figure out how to charm him with my, "sharing is caring" philosophy, I will document his stories for posterity. In doing so, I hope to inspire future generations of Khan Men to rise up to the great legacy of their ancestors. My father, who was orphaned in his teen years, once revealed this tiny morsel of truth after I coerced him into one of my "sharing is caring" sessions: that his greatest lessons on manhood came from his father-in-law, Baba.

I'm truly grateful to my grandfather for being a wonderful teacher, and even more grateful to my father for being an amazing student. Yet I'm mostly grateful for their brave decision to move to England, (instead of Canada!) and then to America. However, I feel the need to spoil this moment, by sharing another deep, dark secret. Something that will cause my parent's to regret their decision to keep me in Penn Manor High...

…Where I once found myself at the age of 16, smoking pot with a couple of artistic girls from school. (You weren’t expecting that one were you!) I have one word for you: Assimilation!
Or maybe two words: Peer pressure! Or maybe three words: Divorced at 16! Take it, or leave it. And remember, marijuana is now legal in many states, and been proven to cure cancer rather than cause cancer like Pan Parag!

Let me also just state for the record, that after my brief introduction to (medical) marijuana, I had absolutely no desire to “use” it again. Mostly because it left a bitter taste in my mouth, not to mention a slight buzzing sensation in my head! In other words, it was as horrible as my experience with a desi bong. Or hookahs, as we like to call them!

It’s hard to be judgmental when I (so cleverly) put it that way, isn’t it?!

So "Bite me!"

(Another one of those of-so-lovely phrases, coined by Penn Manor's finest!)

© 2010 Rabiya Khan
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Message to the youth: JUST SAY NO TO (cancer causing) DRUGS!

PS. I feel the need to share more fun facts: I’ve NEVER tried to assimilate by drinking alcohol or by attending night clubs, or by painting my finger nails black. (Just in case you're wondering how far I’d go to fit in!)