Yo Mista!

My mom played a significant role in my early childhood education. Despite our differences now , I have to give credit where credit is due. I learned first grade-level skills well before I entered kindergarten because my mother spent hours tutoring me everyday. At this stage in my life, my dad was brutally abusive and controlling; he would not allow my mom to make friends, much less hold a job. Perhaps if she'd been allowed to lead an independent and abuse-free life, she might not have spent as much time tutoring me. I guess I will never know. Instead, in between cleaning and cooking, my mom prepped and tested my mind. She believed her ticket out of this prison was my education and success, that maybe something good could come out of this tragedy of a marriage with my dad. After kindergarten, my mom decided to transfer me out of St. John Vianney (a private, Catholic school) and into Roy Elementary School, the local public school to begin the first grade. This would be her last...

In our transfer school, it's very difficult to find a teacher willing to chaperone students on a field trip, most likely because a day with our kids inside the building is already pretty taxing. Last weekend, I had the wonderful opportunity to chaperone this year's 3-day senior class trip to Virginia Beach, where students would get two full days of amusement parks, an evening of go-carting, and one beach day. In all honesty, I was really expecting the worst from the kids, based on how they behave in school. A part of me knew we were all going to get sent home, probably on the first day. Man, I was wrong. The charter bus was scheduled to leave at 5 AM sharp Friday morning. I woke up at 4 AM, threw on some clothes, grabbed my already-packed bag and hopped into the subway tired as hell. I was expecting to arrive a little before 5 AM to a half-empty bus and a stressed-out field trip organizer trying to figure out where our kids were. I got on the bus at 4:50 AM and was shocked to...

Several kids in my advisory class were discussing the possibility of a fight breaking out between students later in the day. One of the gossipers turned to me and said, "Yo Mista, you seem like the type of guy who has never gotten into a fight." Unfortunately, he was wrong. In the first grade, my mom worked at McDonald's part-time. She didn't have to because my dad was making plenty of dough as an electrical engineer, but she wanted to get out of the house as my father generally preferred she stay inside. My father wasn't all bad though, he allowed her to clean the house 24/7 and cook him three hearty meals a day: breakfast, lunch, and a packed dinner for work (he worked a later shift - 2 PM - 12 AM). Pretty nice guy, my dad. Before becoming corrupted by her own rise to power in our household, my mom felt pretty bad about the conditions I grew up in. My dad was drinking all the time, beating the shit out of her and ruining our weekends. To compensate, my mom d...

It's either sunrise or sunset, I can't tell. A mid-sized, blue car is parked outside what is probably our apartment. We're on the ground floor. I can see our back door from where we're standing in the parking lot. I'm in Mom's arms as she circles around and around the blue car. I'm crying. We're being chased by Dad, although I can't see him because my face is buried in Mom's shoulder. There is a lot of screaming. I spot blood stains on Mom's sleeve, but it's definitely not my blood. I spot her clothes and jewelry scattered all over the ground. "Stand clear of the closing doors. STAND CLEAR! DO NOT BLOCK THE DOOR!" I'm on my way back home from school and I've fallen asleep on the subway. I do that a lot. I wake up a stop before I'm supposed to get off, calm and refreshed. The subway always puts me to sleep after work. The gentle rocking of the train combined with chatter is New York City's version of a lullaby...

What am I thankful for? I imagine elementary school teachers across the country are getting their students to answer that question this Thanksgiving holiday week. My answer to this question never changed from year-to-year: I am thankful for my family, my house, my friends, school, food, money, and video games. Pretty standard. Of course, I wasn't really thankful for my family, but I couldn't really say that without consequences. It would be quite awkward to be the only second grader in class who didn't put family on his "What am I thankful for" list. I knew better. I was aware of the things that raised flags in the eyes of others. And so every year, I announced to the world that I was thankful for my mother and father with a big smile on my face. No Mrs. Robinson, those aren't fingernail gouges on my arm. Surely you're mistaken. I just fell into some bushes playing basketball outside.   What an idiot , I thought. You can't play basketball at my h...

Today, a student of mine commented, "Mista, what were your parents like? I bet they made you eat at the table with manners, and force you into conversation. No wonder you sound so much like white people." My mother and I are eating dinner in the kitchen. The TV is on: I'm watching The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers and thinking how fucking cool it would be if I had a magical flute that could awaken a giant green mechanized dragon and do my bidding. My mother is sitting next to me, lost in thought and drinking her tea, as always. I'm eating homemade pasta with marinara sauce. The baby monitor is on next to me. My younger brother is asleep in his crib upstairs. I was nine when he was born, so I took care of him as often as I played with him. Suddenly, my mom and I hear the garage door open from the kitchen. It's my dad. It's also Saturday evening. There's only one place he could be coming back from on a Saturday evening: the liquor store. In fa...

I picked up a pamphlet entitled, Adult Children of Alcoholics my freshman year in college . Believe it or not, I was suffering from anger management issues (I know, I was shocked too); I decided to seek therapy. Okay, fine. This shit is supposed to be honest: By decided, I really mean my significant other convinced me therapy was healthy and necessary. Logically her argument made sense. However, it still took a shit ton of convincing (and I'm forever in debt to her for that) because of the way I was raised. Born to Pakistani parents with traditional values, I was taught I can "will" myself to fix any issue. Does this sound familiar? And although this terrible ideology helped me develop some wicked will power, I learned some things can't heal themselves on their own. Off to therapy. Wait, WTF? Did he just admit to seeing a shrink ? Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I'm South Asian and I sought therapy on my own . That's in bold, motherfuckers. I guess I really mu...