Finding the Picture

Understanding immigrant fathers beyond the immigrant narrative

I have never seen a picture of my Baba (father) when he was a kid. I wish I could though, because I find it hard to believe that he was ever a child, and that he ever had a life before marrying my Ammu (mother) and moving to the US from Bangladesh.

But immigrant fathers are such an enigma. Sometimes, it feels like their stoicism is a shell that they wear to protect themselves. Yet, I wonder if “shell” is even the right metaphor here when their stoicism only serves to protect them from themselves, their own emotions and traumas. I think about how immigrant fathers like mine grew up in an underprivileged community still facing the residual effects of colonialism, then immigrated to a new country and assimilated into a self-aggrandizing culture without much money, and strained to provide for their families.

It makes sense that confronting their thoughts and feelings is not only scary to them, but it’s inconvenient. So they numb, compartmentalize, and compress themselves and worry about it later, because someone needs to put food on the table. Introspection and feelings are a luxury. They adhere to this way of living until they realize that, even after achieving the success and stability they sought, the pain still lingers due to all the years of self-avoidance. Was it pursuing the immigrant dream, or was it running away from something else? Eventually, when it has all caught up to them, it’s scary. Like a silent killer you couldn’t outrun.

But my Baba is not enigmatic because of his traumas or his self-avoidance. What is enigmatic is the man concealed behind the narrative of an immigrant father. I will never truly know him if I can only understand him through the lens of his immigrant success story. But humanizing a stoic father was difficult, especially when the emotion most easily expressed was anger. Consequently, we would have our fair share of disputes when I was younger, frustrated, and rebellious. We both projected our suppressed emotions and internal struggles when arguing, because there was no room for empathy without self-compassion. But in retrospect, I realize that my father and I were fighting the same fight. We both needed to feel seen and heard, but neither of us were able to do that for each other. 

Now, as I get older, life becomes increasingly fleeting, and it feels like I’m racing against time to reach those I love. I have made a conscious effort to spend more time with my parents. And I have not let the past or my father’s stoicism discourage me from seeing and understanding him. There is something special and novel about understanding someone through ephemeral moments instead of their explicit vulnerability. You might not learn of their past, but you may get a glimpse of something far more visceral. I like to think of it as their spirit. As much as your mind might instinctively fortify itself by numbing, silencing, and confining you, the spirit remains unbounded and liberated. It will always make itself seen and known. 

There was a moment when my parents, my brother, and I were in line for our gate at the airport, waiting to depart for our family vacation. To pass time, my brother showed me a simple game he had recently learned in college called “Ish / Shadow Boxing”’. The game’s premise is two people face each other and take turns either pointing left, right, up, or down. The objective is to trick your opponent into turning their head in the same direction as you are launching your point. A game almost akin to rock, paper, scissors. 

As my brother and I played, my father was intrigued. He silently observed from the side. After our game, he asked my brother, “Ki babe kelo? // How do you play?”. My brother explained it to him, and they began to play a round. And as I spectated, I couldn’t help but notice how much fun Baba was having. And how much time had indeed passed.

It was the first time I witnessed such a beautiful juxtaposition. Baba’s child-self had appeared before me, and I promise that I saw him, and I heard him. I saw the pure spark of a curious and playful boy through the very eyes that had fallen from bearing the weight of responsibility. And I heard the timeless, resonant laugh of a child through the same voice that was unable to vocalize any pain or suffering. I finally saw and heard my father how I should have a long time ago, but I think the boy helped me. And despite all the time spent fortifying the walls that were built to shut himself out, that boy never left. He was always there, unscathed, still filled with the same playfulness and love for the world, waiting to come out again. I am grateful that I was able to see him.

I wish I could break the barriers that confine him and set him free, but I know it’s not my battle. It’s his. I’m not worried, though. Immigrant fathers are an enigma, but I don’t think it’s because of their stoicism or callousness. I believe it’s because they have a love and passion for life that is so pure and untouched despite feeling the brunt of prolonged, silent battles. It seems concealed and almost nonexistent, but it is very much there. And when you see it, you might discover it’s their first time living life too. Now, I don’t need a picture to believe it.

P.S. - I did end up getting that picture though lol

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