Part Four: It Takes Time, But Change Comes
Tony Haripersaud
Tony running for the Lehman Lightning Track Team at a Vassar College invitational meet in 2022.
In 2023, when Tony was completing the memoir-writing class, he wrote in the introduction to his collection, “Writing my [memoir] stories reminded me that I always moved forward even when I was grasping for air.” This spirit, aspiring not just for a better life, but for who he could make a better life, for himself and his brother, permeated much of his writing.
A Memorable Meal on a Hot Summer Day in the Bronx
The summer of 2021 in New York City was hot and the air conditioner in our apartment didn’t work because my grandpa wasn’t concerned with fixing it. He always said, “You kids have all this technology.” When he was growing up in Guyana his family was poor, and he slept on the floor. In America, my parents weren’t earning much, and he didn't want them to be burdened by a high electricity bill. He was used to the heat and expected us to get used to it as well.
One morning, my brother and I came into the kitchen and were alarmed to find no breakfast and no $5 bill left on the counter to buy breakfast. My mother had gone to work without leaving anything for us. The mornings when she left us $5, we’d go to the bodega to buy a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich and share it. This morning, Kevin rushed to the fridge, praying we didn’t have to fall back on our last resort: eating ramen. He hated ramen. Sadly, there was nothing but a bottle of milk and a slice of American cheese.
On weekend mornings when my father was around, he would give us money to get food because he couldn’t cook anything but rice or toast. In Guyana, the mother of the household did the cooking, so my father didn’t learn to cook. He usually gave us five dollars, like my mom. But on weekdays, he went to work at 5 a.m., where he worked in a warehouse and didn’t know my mom was going to leave us with no food or money. There were times I was upset, but I understood my mom wouldn’t want us to struggle. Most days, she was tired from working as a Home Health Aid.
Kevin and I drank water and hung around until we headed to the basketball park. The court was only two blocks away, and we loved playing basketball there. It distracted us from hunger.
The air was hot and humid as we walked. “I wish I had a slice of pizza and a cold iced tea right now,” I said. Kevin nodded. When we arrived at the park, we were happy to see our friends, twins, and they were already in a game. “We got next!” Kevin said. It is usually a long wait to play next, so we were glad that it was just us at the park. We started playing three-on-three. My brother and I were on opposite teams, plus the twins and two other players. After the first game, when I checked the ball up to my brother at the free-throw line, I saw sweat dripping down his face. His eyes were glued to the ground, trying to hide from the fierce sun. We could often predict each other's moves, but at that moment, I wasn’t sure. Kevin was smaller than me, but he never saw it as a disadvantage. His competitive drive made him want to win with either his shot or his speed, but I was always ready. “You got lucky on the last one, that's not happening again,” I said. Hours passed as we played six more games. I began to get cramps from dehydration. While walking home slowly I licked the salt on my arms, hoping not to catch a “charley horse.”
We got home at 7:10 p.m., 50 minutes before our curfew. Our curfew was 8 o'clock because the area we lived in, Wakefield, was too dangerous to be outside after dark. That’s when the park usually filled up with gang members and/or people using drugs on the benches.
As I opened the door I smelled curry. Our mom was standing at the hot stove, dripping in sweat in her home-aid uniform. My father was home and had cooked the rice.
My mother was making my favorite food, duck curry and roti. She usually made roti on the weekends, but she went out of her way to make it that day, a weekday. My mother felt sad about not leaving us any money for breakfast and wanted to make it up to us.
The scent of the curry made my mouth watery, and I couldn’t wait to eat. I forgot it was piping hot. The curry was spicy, but the soft potatoes and tender duck meat, combined with the roti, balanced it out.
“How was your day,” Mom asked. I was so mad at her, but I didn’t want to tell her. She struggled with being a mother because she was always working to provide for us financially. I knew my mother always made an effort to take care of us. “It was hot, ma,” I said. She smiled and that made me happy. Kevin and I ate so much we couldn’t talk; it felt like we were talking by eating. “Your rice tastes good too, pa,” I said to my dad, and he nodded. My father was quiet and didn’t say much, but he also appreciated his wife's hard work to take care of us.
This meal is my most memorable. We felt what it’s like to be hungry and have nothing to eat, so we were grateful for this food and for our mother.
~
Chasing Tony Was My Goal
My love for running started when I was in Tain Primary School in Berbice, Guyana. I ran during recess with my friends because it freed my mind from the mental prison of school and let me feel like a kid. But my passion for running flourished when I came to America.
My experience in America was not easy at first. Classmates at my high school, in Wakefield, a neighborhood in the Bronx, often asked, “Why is your skin brown but your hair straight?” I was one of two Guyanese kids in the school which was mostly filled with Hispanic and Black kids. I was reluctant to speak because everyone laughed at my Creole English. But when I ran, I didn’t worry about anything else. There was no thought about what kids would think about me, what I wore, or what I sounded like. Plus, I was good at it.
My high school didn't have a track team, but luckily, I found Coach C. He coached a track club team at Van Cortlandt Park. It was a nonprofit club where he coached neighborhood kids, and they competed against each other. The first time I saw Coach C he was yelling at his runner to pick up the pace; I was intrigued.
“What high school are you coaching?” I asked him nervously. He told me it was a club and wondered if I ran long distances because of my slim body. At first, I wasn’t sure what he meant, but he asked me to come to the practice the following day. I was excited that he gave me an opportunity to run with his team.
I brought home countless medals. My favorite medal was in the 800-meter race because it was my first-ever medal with a time of 1:59. The 800 was my favorite race because it was a race for the strongest mind. I was always anxious but mixed with excitement whenever I walked to the line, waiting for the sound of the starter pistol, because the race always pushed my aerobic capacity and took me out of my comfort zone. During the entire race, my mind was saying, “Slow down,” but my passion for running overcame the pain.
My family members couldn’t attend the track meets because of work, but I felt like I had another family in my track club. We would push each other to our fullest instead of bashing each other. Whenever I had my head down, a teammate would talk my energy up. We trained three times a week, rested on Monday and meet days were Wednesday and Saturday or Sunday. I enjoyed heading to practice at Van Cortlandt after school at 3 p.m. or waking up at 6 a.m. for meets on Saturdays or Sundays. “I think you have a shot at a really good college,” Coach C said. His words brought joy to my heart, but the words didn’t prepare me for what was to come.
The disaster all started with the pandemic in 2020 when I had to stop training. The pandemic took away many things from my life, and running was one of them. When the announcement of quarantine happened, I didn’t dare step outside to risk catching and spreading the virus to my family. It was painful to give up running. All my endless hours of working to be in shape went to waste. I remember sitting sobbing when my mom walked in and said, “You will run again soon Tony.” It brought me reassurance, but I knew I was never going to be the same. I lost contact with Coach C and many of my track club friends.
A year and a half years later, when I was a student at Lehman College, I was running on a treadmill one day when Coach Hugh saw me. He asked me to come to practice with the track team. At first, I was hesitant, but I thought this could be the chance to get back to my old self.
I wanted nothing more than to be in shape like I once was and I knew I would do anything to achieve that goal. At my first practice with my new team, we were hitting four 1000-meter repeats. I pushed my body to the point that my eyes were blurry and leaking tears from the wind rushing at me. My knees burned, while I swallowed my saliva to hydrate myself.
“Your heart rate is 200,” Coach Hugh said. I was a college freshman, but I felt like a race horse. I had to keep running, even though the voice in my head wanted me to stop. I was chasing the time I ran in high school.
“One more coach. I got one more in me.” I took off at the start of the watch and passed out 20 meters later, on the track.
When I came to, I was lightheaded and dizzy yet fighting with myself to get up off the track and keep my eyes open. At that moment, I knew my passion for running was fading. The feeling of not caring came back, and I was in a prison of my mind. I was no longer running for the freedom to be happy. I only wanted to beat my 16-year-old self and regain everything I once was.
Coach Hugh ran to me, reassuring me that I was okay. “Why are you pushing so hard?” I replied because I wanted to run fast like I used to. “That will come later. For right now take it one step at a time.” While lying on the ground, I didn’t want to listen to that bullshit. I wanted to hear how I could get fast, until he asked me what was the first thing I liked about running. The thoughts flashed in my head, as I pictured my young self in primary school, having fun with my good friend, Rossana. I remembered the freedom that I had when I didn’t look at the time that I ran, but rather the chance to run. There was never any weight on my shoulders that slowed me down, and there was never a moment when I compared myself to anybody. I was free to run slow or fast, wherever I wanted. Those memories made me realize I didn’t want to race myself anymore. I wanted to run to be happy.
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*Tony Haripersaud graduated from Lehman College with a B.A. in 2025. “Growing up, I benefited from the support and assistance from friends, parents, teachers and family, and it inspired me to do the same. I am still on the journey to support and help others.” Email: Tonyharipersaud@gmail.com
© 2026 Tony Haripersaud. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.
Tony Haripersaud (right) and his family.
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Diana Navarro Lopez
Diana Lopez Navarro (middle) and her family.
Diana Lopez Navarro: “The market crash of 2008 detrimentally altered the lives of working-class folk. For my family, it took our house and directly defined what home meant and what life looked like for the next 10 years.
The Blue House on Harding Avenue
Moving into the blue house on Harding Avenue in the Bronx when I was 13 was a liberating moment for me and my parents. It meant that we could finally unpack our things from the moving boxes we’d had them in for the previous five years and relax. This was our new home, but funny enough, we had lived in this house before.
The childhood home that I remember -- we lived in it from when I was three until I was eight – was a two-story, two-family home on Wayne Avenue in Battle Hill, just far enough away from the busy downtown streets to be considered “kid-friendly,” but close enough to a Bee-Line bus stop so my mom could get to her housecleaning job.
This home was unremarkable, but extravagance was not on the list of essentials when my parents went house-hunting. My parents were both raised in Guatemala in homes that were filled to the brim with children. My mom was one of eight kids, and my dad was one of 10. They both were raised by their older siblings, who taught them to raise the siblings who were born after them. As they were both forced to work on their own family farms, their own education was an afterthought.
Impoverished and often hungry, they moved to New York with the same goals in mind. They were just looking for a place to settle down after a long day of work and a safe place that ensured their child would be able to enjoy “la niñez” (their childhood). This house provided them with that comfort.
In the Wayne Avenue house I had a bicycle in the backyard and a small bookshelf for my school materials. I was able to walk down the block to visit my friend Dakota after school. We would draw with chalk and jump rope on the sidewalk, knowing our parents were just upstairs watching us through the windows. This was the kind of freedom my parents worked for every day. They wanted to see me grow up in a place where I was free to run around outside without constant chaos endangering me.
It seemed like everything around us was solid, but we were wrong. In 2011, when I was eight years old, after months of ongoing struggle to pay the mortgage, the bank foreclosed on the house, and we only had 40 days to move out. This was the beginning of the next five years living without unpacking our boxes.
Our first apartment after we moved out was a particularly difficult adjustment. The old brick building was across town and was always either unbearably hot or, in the winter, ridiculously cold. The corridor lights gave off a dim, eerie feeling that made me want to run to my second-floor apartment as fast as possible. Even when I got inside, the unfamiliar walls did not comfort me.
It was hard not to become hyperaware of the strangers outside of my locked door. My parents both worked two jobs during the week, so most days when I came back from school, I was only met with the strange sounds around me. While I was alone, I could hear all the arguments from the neighbors through our shared wall. I heard neighbors talking on their cell phones in the small corridor, and I heard their keys jingling as they came and went. There was not a familiar face in this entire building or the entire block that I could go to if I needed something. That single thought terrified me.
My parents would eventually come home and remind me that this move was temporary. I felt better knowing there was no need to get comfortable with the dim lights and weird noises. After the one-year lease agreement was over, we would be moving into a better place. But the better place didn’t come, and after the fourth move in 2015, my frustration began to turn into hopelessness. I would unpack with the one-year timer directing my actions. My books resided in a cardboard box under my bed. My winter coats weren’t taken out because we all knew we wouldn’t be here next winter. Trying to get comfortable in the new spaces felt pointless because this was not our home. My mom and dad grew more tired with every move, and we all grew frustrated thinking a permanent home would never come.
Then, one night, my mom got a call from an old friend about a house on Harding Ave. My mom was making dinner in the kitchen as I watched TV in the living room. The apartment was small, so I was able to listen to her responses without her noticing. I knew she had mentioned to her friends that we were looking to move, so at first I didn’t pay attention to her conversation. It wasn’t until she was silent that I realized that this news was different. She got off the phone with her friend and called my dad at work, this time taking the call in the bedroom.
Months went by without hearing about the house on Harding Avenue. It was not until April of 2016 that I was told that our next move was hopefully our last.
I found out much later that my mom’s old friend, who had mentioned the listing, was the realtor who rented the blue house to my parents before I was born. When my parents lost the blue house in 2011, my mom called her to ask about any potential listings in the area. The friend stayed on the lookout. I didn’t remember the blue house, but it was the first home my parents had together. It was the house that held my mom’s baby shower for me, and where we lived when I was born. My parents told me stories of when they lived there, and how coincidental it was for the owners to sell the house after we had contacted the realtor again. It was a true full circle for us to be given our second chance at owning a home in the place they began.
It obviously was not all smooth sailing from there, and we did not expect that at all. My parents recognized quickly after the call that the cost of the mortgage was too expensive for them to meet alone, but thanks to a close family friend who was also searching for a new place, my parents were able to accept the offer. The phone call we got that day drove us to get through the rest of the year with a different attitude. The tension had eased, and before the end of the year, we were all packed for our last move.
As we walked towards the front door, the over-grown weeds and bushes on the lawn poked at our clothes. The porch creaked from beneath my feet, causing me to examine the uneven wooden boards. The painted wood was chipped and swollen. It was obvious the house was old and was going to need some serious renovations. It could not have mattered less to me. All I saw while walking through the house that day were the pictures of my mom’s baby shower being held in the living room. The second bedroom was where my favorite picture of my godmother was taken. It was my third birthday party, and we were surrounded by the same dark, wooden walls. I don’t remember much of the blue house on Harding Avenue before 2016, but moving back here was freeing because it was my home, even before I knew it by that name.
~
In writing this piece, I had several conversations with my parents. Our conversations required all three of us to show up in the face of discomfort and make the choice to do so every time. So, when I told my parents about the possibility of my piece being published in the anthology, my dad’s first response to the news began with, “Diana, you have my permission to publish that.”
As much as this story is mine, it is theirs. Esto es para ti ma y pa. Gracias para su apoyo.
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* Diana is in the second year of the Hunter College Master of Social Work program. Her email is diana.lopez1013@yahoo.com.
© 2026 Diana Navarro Lopez. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.
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Mahim Rahaman
Mithila and Mahim in 2004
Mahim Rahaman has spent his life learning how to adapt, moving from a bright childhood in Singapore to the sudden challenges of Bangladesh before finally landing in the Bronx. With his roots constantly shifting due to absent parents and new countries, his story is about navigating unfamiliar systems and making the most of the chance that his mother risked everything to give him and his sister.
Journey from Bangladesh to the Bronx
Writing my memoir essays has made me realize, despite my initial resistance, the importance of reflection. I am a logical person, and reflection didn’t come easily. I found it time consuming and thought it didn’t provide concrete answers to questions.
This mindset changed when I enrolled in a memoir writing workshop at Lehman College in 2023 as a junior. From the beginning of the semester, my peers shared stories from their life experiences that were strong and compelling. But I struggled to recall any of mine. The stories that they shared were so heartfelt and emotional that I couldn’t imagine myself coming up with anything remotely close to theirs. The grade on my first essay mirrored my efforts so I convinced myself that if I continued to get terrible grades, I might as well just write what I recall and truly feel about my experiences. When I started writing more, I found myself enjoying thinking about the past.
All of a sudden, reflecting made sense. I dealt with emotions that I have been avoiding for years, and I started getting more clarity about who I am and what my story is. I adjusted and improved.
When I think about Block 111 Woodlawn in Singapore, I am flooded with feelings of fondness and nostalgia. This was the place where I spent most of my childhood. My parents migrated from Bangladesh when I was three, in hopes for a better life. They started a convenience store which became a vital part of our lives. In front of the store was a public space, 1000 X 300 square feet, where my sister, Mithila and I would spend hours playing, studying, eating meals and learning how to bike. Our family lived in the apartment above the store. We had to stay in the apartment or the public space until closing time. That way, our parents could watch us. Over time, that 1000 X 300 space and the surrounding blocks became my sanctuary where I found joy, companionship, and growth.
One of my fondest memories of this place is playing Carrom with my family and regular customers. Most of the customers came from the South Asian part of the continent, so communicating with them wasn’t hard since our languages were very similar. Carrom is a popular board game in South Asia, similar to pool, but played with wooden discs instead of balls. Mithila and I learned to play Carrom from one of my uncles and we grew interested in playing it after learning that our parents loved playing the game when they were back in Bangladesh. My parents, with their busy schedules never got the chance to introduce us to such traditions and games.
One weekend day my dad casually walked up to the board wanting to join. I couldn't stop myself from smiling, feeling hyped to show the skills that I learned. I knew it was my only opportunity to gather my full family for a couple of rounds, so I rushed into the store and begged my mom to join us for one game. My mom wasn't willing to leave the one store register and kept doing her work. Suddenly my dad yelled, “Leave her alone, she doesn't know how to play! And even if she knew, she doesn’t like losing.” That sparked a fire in my mom and she joined us at the board, leaving one of the workers to take care of the store. This was one of the most exciting moments of my childhood, gathering the family like this was rare and, for a game of Carrom, was unthinkable.
As my dad set up the board, we split up into two teams; my dad and me versus my mom and Mithila. Seeing the owners of the store outside playing, the regular customers became curious and gathered around. The competitive energy between the two teams was palpable, and I was determined to win. Our men’s team had a bad start; my mom with her positional understanding and Mithila with her great accuracy, kept us on our toes. Customers yelled suggestions left and right. Despite being down by significant points, my dad looked confident. On the other hand I couldn't balance my focus and my excitement. The pressure of being watched and fear of disappointment was crushing my confidence. My dad kept encouraging me and led with examples. Slowly we made a comeback and then the game was even. It was a 15-minute game, and it was coming to an end. I had the last strike and my nerves were at their peak. My dad told me to take the strike and not to be worried about the result. I went for the stroke and missed completely. I was ashamed and humiliated. My dad laughed it off and went about his day. I knew I was a better player than that; all I wanted was to show my parents how skillful I was at the game. From that day on, I practiced every day and kept on asking my parents to play again. But they were weighed down by responsibilities, so we never got to recreate that moment.
Growing up, Mithila and I were always competing with each other, and every sport we played became a battlefield. However, the one place where we both found solace and peace was Block 111 Woodlawn. We played badminton regularly there and often customers would join as well. Most of them were workers, who were away from their country and family for long periods of time. Seeing us play these traditional games was fun for them.
Despite our constant bickering, Mithila and I formed an unbreakable bond that remains to this day. My parents worked tirelessly to provide for us, and the convenience store was our lifeline. They woke up early to help us prepare for school and went to bed late at night after closing the store. During the day, after returning from school, it was Mithila and I alone. We would carefully put away our clothes, shower, do laundry when necessary, fetch our own food and do our homework. Only when we were done, were we allowed to go to our store front. We would often create our own adventures, from playing tag to exploring the neighborhood, learning how to ride a bike, and using leftover boxes from the store to build our makeshift tent.
The day we played Carrom with my family and the customers was a pivotal moment for me. It was the first time I saw my parents in a different light, as competitive and playful individuals. It was also the day I realized the power of community, of bringing people together through a simple board game. It was a moment of vulnerability for me, as I learned to accept defeat graciously and appreciate the joy of playing the game. We didn't know it then, but that was our final game of Carrom.
Before my formative years, I was uprooted from my birthplace in Bangladesh and raised in the orderly streets of Singapore. One day, my world was suddenly turned upside down as I was forced to return to the chaotic and unfamiliar land I had left behind. I was pushed into a world of uncertainty and found myself learning to navigate the rough waters of Bangladesh's society, culture, and language. I faced personal struggles that would forever shape my character.
My family had left Bangladesh in 2004, when Bangladesh was wrapped up in an unsettling storm of uncertainty and political crisis. With a caretaker government at the helm, chaos consumed the nation, and violent strikes created a menacing shadow over daily life.
Through my father's eyes, I came to understand the relentless struggles he faced trying to navigate the dangerous streets on his way to work. We were a middle-class family, and the rickshaw, a common and quick way to get around, was our lifeline. These three-wheeled carts, expertly navigated by their pedaling drivers, zipped through the narrow streets like agile dragonflies, offering an affordable way to ride around one of the busiest cities in the world. But even the simple rickshaw couldn't avoid the troubles that affected the nation. With emotions running high and tensions boiling over, rickshaw passengers were sometimes yanked from their seats and brutally beaten for not joining the strikers or bowing to their demands. These terrifying encounters motivated my parents to move to Singapore, where we hoped to find safety in a more stable place.
Growing up in Singapore, the stories my parents shared about Bangladesh seemed like a distant reality. Singapore was a strict and orderly country, where even spitting could result in a $100 Singapore dollar fine. Throughout our seven-year stay, I was so disconnected from my roots that the idea of visiting Bangladesh never crossed my mind. At times, I was ashamed about my Bangladeshi heritage when my school friends identified me as Indian due to my skin color and mocked me for the curry scent that lingered on me.
I hesitated to speak on the phone to my family in Bangladesh because they seemed like strangers to me. My mother would push me to talk to them, but I never felt compelled. Back then, without internet access and relying on old Nokia phones, communication was challenging due to frequent network outages, expensive call charges, and the tendency of elderly people to speak loudly. I didn't grasp the emotional connection, so I couldn't understand why my parents went to such lengths to keep in touch with them. Looking back, I can't help but wonder if today's technology, with its video calling capabilities, could have helped me establish a bond with them.
Aside from my struggles with my identity, I was living a secure and innocent life in Singapore, with a bright future ahead. The moment I set foot in Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh, I knew it would be a huge change in my life.
In April of 2011, I woke up at 7 a.m. expecting a normal school day. Instead, my parents dropped a bomb on Mithila and me: we were leaving for Bangladesh, and we might never come back. Mithila and I were shocked. I kept asking my mom, "Why do we have to leave?" Her eyes welled up with tears as she tried to hold back her emotions, and with a trembling voice, she replied, "Because we have to, son". Both Mithila and I shared the same feelings of frustration and confusion. Only as adults could we finally comprehend the cruelty of what happened. My mom confessed that our sudden departure was triggered by my uncle, their own business partner, who had turned against them, using the store's legal documents to destroy everything. Even years later, it was incredibly difficult to come to terms with this news, especially since he had been such a close member of our family. Since our stay in Singapore depended on our business visa, we were no longer eligible to remain. One week after receiving this news, we were on our way back to Bangladesh. During that week, the mood was somber. My mom talked tearfully with her family on the phone about the situation, her voice often trembling. In those final days, my dad kept himself busy with paperwork and getting the store ready for its next owner. We packed our belongings and had to let go of everything we had built over the past seven years.
When I first arrived in Bangladesh, the chaos outside the airport was overwhelming. The city was packed with people, loud noises, and the smell of local food mixed with the stench of open garbage piles along the roads. The air was thick with heat, humidity, and dust. The journey to my grandparents' house was a sensory shock; Dhaka’s infamous traffic and relentless noise quickly left me with a pounding headache. My first day in Bangladesh, and it was nothing like I had imagined.
Over time, I adapted to everything Bangladesh had to offer. The four years I spent there felt like an adventure. Looking back, it seems like a separate life, with a different character and personality. Adjusting was tough, finding a school, adapting to the culture, and learning a new language were just some of the challenges. On top of that, I faced bullying at school for not fitting in. My classmates often picked on me, trying to assert their dominance over the newcomer. But I tried not to let anything bring me down because I didn’t want my parents to see me struggle.
One of the amusing stories my mom loves to share about my time in Bangladesh involves a gift from my grandma. One day, she rewarded me with money for my efforts in adjusting to our new life. She handed me a 10-taka note (Bangladeshi currency), and I stared at it in disbelief, asking, "Why are you giving me so much money?" My grandma, mom and other relatives burst into laughter. In Singapore, a 10-dollar bill would take care of five days’ worth of full school lunch. That was the moment everyone made me realize that different currencies have different values in their respective countries. While 10 takas wouldn't buy anything extravagant, it was enough for a simple candy treat.
Living in Bangladesh taught me tough lessons. It wasn't all fun and games when I went out to play with other kids on the streets. Sometimes I was robbed by older kids who would take my pocket money, even the ten-taka gift my grandma gave me. It was frustrating, but I didn't want to tell my family about it, fearing they might not let me go out to play anymore. Luckily, I started being friends with classmates who lived close by, and we began to play cricket after school in our block. Playing outside was a way for me to adjust to life in Bangladesh and forget about the bad things happening around me. Eventually, the kids who were picking on me realized that I had friends who cared for me, and they stopped bothering me. It was a relief, their kindness made me feel like I was really a part of the community.
As I look back on my time in Bangladesh, I realize just how much it taught me about perseverance, growth and about Bangladeshis itself. At first, it was tough for me to adjust to a new place, but it was even harder for my parents, who struggled to keep their relationship intact while also enduring the stress of setting up a new life. One of the biggest challenges I faced was when my parents separated. The problems that they had been able to ignore in Singapore started to resurface in Bangladesh, and things got to a point where there was even violence involved. Due to several personal reasons, I had to cut contact with my dad.
It was a deeply traumatic experience that took a toll on both my mental and physical health.
Before the separation, I had been a healthy child, but afterward I started to lose weight and never fully regained my previous state of wellbeing. It was a struggle to adjust to a society where parents weren’t supposed to separate, and I found myself becoming the target of ridicule from people who didn't understand what I was going through. It was a heavy burden to bear, and I had to rely on my close friends to get me through the tough times. Despite the difficulties, I refused to let the stigma and shame of my parents' separation define me. It took years, but eventually, I learned to let go of the negative emotions and focus on the positive.
In 2016, my mom once again had to make a tough call. She wasn't satisfied with the education system in Bangladesh, which was riddled with corruption and lacking in quality. She decided to pack us up and move us to the USA in search of the American dream. My mother grew up in a traditional way of life, in the village, with minimal education. The goal of every girl was to grow up to be a perfect wife. It is remarkable that she had the vision and guts to start over again in a new country. Once again, we found ourselves needing to adjust to a new way of life. The strength I gained during those tough years was invaluable, and I found myself using those same coping mechanisms to navigate the challenges of our new life in America.
There were times when I felt overwhelmed and uncertain, when I missed the familiarity of home and the people I had left behind. But I also felt a sense of hope and excitement for what the future might hold. I was eager to learn new things and experience all that America had to offer.
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*Mahim Rahaman is a Lehman College Computer Science graduate, now focused on turning his drive into a leadership career in tech.
© 2026 Mahim Rahaman. This is an open access work distributed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution—Non-Commercial—No-Derivatives License (CC-BY-NC-ND), which permits use, distribution, and reproduction, of the full, original text for non-commercial purposes, provided the original author and source are credited.
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