Coming to America

Pedestrian, New York. Photo: Ihtisham Kabir

Coming to America is a bittersweet experience for me. I once called America home - for three decades, in fact - yet it seems like a foreign country now. Living for a few years in Bangladesh has changed me in ways that only become apparent when I return to America.
America comforts me. The people have not changed in these years: direct, polite to a fault, and friendly - even in New York, which was once a gruff, unfriendly town. The burgers and the orange juice taste the same as always. I recall a family friend visiting here years ago. His warning: while on a trip to America, don't drink the orange juice. If you do, you will never leave.
America frustrates me with its obsession with size. When living here, I had enjoyed the large cars, houses and food portions. Perhaps now I have learned to live with less consumption? My dinner portion at a restaurant could nourish me in Dhaka for two days. One day, needing one pair of running socks, I search the stores but none will sell me less than three pairs.
America puzzles me. Everything here seems to be manufactured abroad. Even manhole covers in New York City's streets are made in India. Anything made in the USA advertises itself loudly because it is so rare. Yet the economy is humming and unemployment is low. The world's largest economy, back on the driver's seat, still attracts the best minds of the planet.
America surprises me. One day in New York, after a long wait, I finally get a taxi. The driver's face has familiar features. He tells me he is from Comilla. When I reach my destination, he refuses to accept his fare: “I cannot take money from another Bangladeshi.” A friendly argument ensues. At the end, he relents and I win, but his generous gesture stays with me.
America tickles my intellect. After two days immersed in the four floors of Strand Bookstore my appetite for new explorations, ideas and stories grows without bound. The breadth of the subject matter and the attention to detail is astonishing (and seductive.) Yet I miss something. These stories, photographs, detailed research and analyses, thought-provoking essays – they are by, for, and of the West. Where are the stories of the people and land I have immersed myself in the last few years? Will Bangladeshi literature and ideas ever make it to world stage?
America equalizes me. In this affluent society, I am an anonymous face walking in the street, driving in the highways, or standing in the subway train. America's wealth has created a large middle class which regularly shops, dines out and takes vacations and just about everyone owns a car. The country relies on the spending of this middle class to keep it going. No cooks, maids or drivers to be hired here, unless you are filthy rich.
But most of all America amazes me with her energy, creativity, dynamism and friendliness. What a country!

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