my grandpa and I chatted yesterday about healthcare over triangular-cut pieces of paneer and grapes, he asked for a black tea bag and I looked over at my mom and asked where she keeps them. another telltale sign of how I am almost never home and rarely step foot in the kitchen. now that I am working a job that partially sucks the soul out of my days, I have health insurance. great health insurance at that. my grandpa sips his black tea and tells me about how hard it’s been to get seen by a specialist. and I did the eldest granddaughter thing of offering to add him onto mine, while lying & saying that the cost won’t go up.
my grandpa uses egg cartons and milk cartons as pots for his cilantro and tomato plants. he has built a makeshift greenhouse in his backyard, using wooden brown chairs to hold the entire thing up. recently, he has been telling me about one of his tomato plants. this is the second season that this specific plant has produced flowers that aren’t as strong as its counterparts. my grandpa considered reseeding the plant, but blinked back tears when he expressed how he has realized that he has hurt the plant for the last two seasons when reseeding it, essentially killing it for not being enough. and to think that these are the Afghan men the world has villainized.
I drilled my mom last night for hours, she had an interview for a part time position at a daycare center and we were practicing potential questions and responses that the interviewer would ask. we both sat crosslegged in her room as she wrote and rewrote the questions and answers in my little sister’s spiral notebook. this morning, she hopped on Teams and the interviewer asked her one question, and one question only. “do you have a college degree?” my mom responded no, that she has taken classes but didn't get a degree. being a mom of three, sacrificing many of your dreams to raise your kids so that they can chase theirs will do that to you. the interviewer hung up in her face, and she texted me after. wondering why the interviewer was mean, “maybe she’s having a bad day?” my mom said to me in her text after. I started bawling my eyes out.
many things in the world are unfair, people being mean to your parents is one of them. my afghan immigrant parents, for better or for worst, have given my siblings and I everything they have. and as flawed as familial relationships can be, as we continue to stretch and wear each other’s patience thin, I remind myself that we come from places of love always.
(slight interlude): I am finally implementing benefits for paid subscribers, one of them being access to paywalled parts of posts, and a monthly virtual writing class/club where i’ll present prompts from an immigrant/displaced perspective to allow those of us to think and write essays/poetry in that manner. a form to enter your availability if interested will be at the bottom of this post. thank you so much for supporting this rubble is ours.
