Everybody is scared of being alone in the city. There is always that sparkling energy and nervousness of constantly wanting to meet others. There is that need to be loved. A need for connection, for intimacy and friendship. Everybody’s alone, including you and I.
As I walk through the crowd, wherever I am, wherever I am going, I try to hold my head up. I am not weak, I remind myself. I made my way here. I am walking here. I belong here. And then I think of all the places people leave behind because they have to, not because they choose to. I think of the ones who are in places where they are miserable and sad, where they are not welcomed, where they are only trying to survive. I think of Maman and Baba, their journey to America, their love, their sacrifice. Baba used to always say he would never go back to Tehran because he hated living there. I never believed him.
I know a part of him must miss something. He has happy memories too, like the trips he used to take as a young man, and how he and his friends ate kabobs with butter and egg. That was his home. He must have some of its parts still within him.
I think of Daddy as I walk through the busy streets of Manhattan. I think of how he brought me here, how he raised his children, how he was always content, always humble, always grateful. He was proud of me. I just knew he was proud when he hugged me and said I would do great things.
I think of Daddy. When I am alone in the midst of the crowd, lost and happy in my thoughts, I think of him and push myself forward.