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Mita’s son Swagata

This evening we celebrated the end of the school year with a big bright Carnival on the blacktop in the school parking lot. The Ethiopian moms brought samosas and big bowls of hot, spicy lentils. The Latina moms brought huge sheets of cake with sticky sweet frosting, and all the rest of us white mothers on Weight Watchers brought leafy green salads and then spent the evening eating anything but. The kids, of course, ignored it all–opting instead to stand in long lines for the ice cream truck parked out front or the cotton candy machine tucked away in the back of the playground. Even all the activity in the Moonbounce could not counteract the amazing amounts of sugar consumed in one short hour.

As things were winding down, I ran into Mita–a thirty-something young woman who won the diversity lottery and emigrated here from Bangladesh a few years ago with her husband Sadat and two boys. Mita has long black hair that she wears in a loose bun at the nape of her neck and a bright smile that stretches across her lovely face. Tonight she was wearing a bright orange and red cotton shirt and round gold earrings that jangled and sang as she talked.

“We have good news,” she told me, lowering her voice and glancing at Sadat. Sadat is as sweet as Mita is good-looking. “A baby?” I asked. “A new job?” Each guess made them laugh harder–no, no, no! “You’re going back to school?”

“No,” she said, leaning in so she could almost whisper in my ear.

“We bought a house.”

People buy houses all the time, but most of those people are not two somewhat newly relocated immigrants working 80+ hours a week at the local GNC. Oh that, and that other job in the worst part of town at a very scary check cashing store. We hugged and then stared at each other for a long moment, before laughing again.

“Look at you two–poster children for the American dream!” I said, tearing up a little. I don’t know if I could have been happier if I was buying a house myself.

We stood in the stairwell and talked some more–about what a relief it would be to be out of their apartment, about how I would need to visit them soon, about what their work schedule would look like now in order to make their mortgage.

“We cannot take even one day off,” Sadat said, very serious. I tried not to worry about the circles under his eyes or how tired he looked already.

“It will be expensive for us,” Mita added. “And we will need to get better jobs. But we can do it.”

I know how huge this is, how much hard work that achievement represents. I admire how steadfast they’ve been in working towards their goals, even when it’s been lonely. Even when their new American friends like me don’t always return calls or pick up the phone. Or ever find time to go over for a good homecooked meal.

After awhile, Madeleine came over to lean against me while I chatted.

“Does she want ice cream?” Sadat said, immediately concerned, seeing so many yummy cones all around. “Oh, no, no!” I protest, “She’s had plenty!” and even Madeleine agrees. I can tell she is so, so tired now from playing that she doesn’t even care about ice cream anymore, that all she wants to do is go home and quick, but Sadat has other plans.

“Please, Jen,” Mita says, giving me a puppy dog look with her amazing brown eyes. “We have no daughter. Only these boys who are getting so big. Please let us spoil her.”

I love Madeleine so much in this moment. With one look, I know she understands–that sometimes to love is to let someone love you first. That to love is to receive, to be the guest–even when you are tired. Even when you have already had two bags of cotton candy and one cone, not even one hour before. It’s a sacrifice designed by the Universe to entice second graders into the Life of Love. You want to spoil me with ice cream and kindness even though I am full of sweets already? Okay, okay. I will do it just for you. Who could resist such hardship? Who can stare down such unadulterated affection?

Sadat steers Madeleine around to the ice cream truck, just as it pulls away. Madeleine hardly cares, but Sadat is so disappointed. “I cannot give up. My feeling is so bad! We must go right now, someplace very nice. We cannot leave Madeleine like this!”

Before I know it, he is pulling around the car, ushering us in like royalty. Mita sits in the back with us, stroking Madeleine’s hair, telling me about her mother and her sister back home in Bangladesh. Madeleine perks up a little and takes her place as the missing daughter in this sweet family. She tells stories about wearing Bindi dots in kindergarten, about loving Indian fashion. Mita smiles and laughs, the way aunties do when you tell them daring and childish secrets.

We drive down to Ben and Jerry’s which happens to be Madeleine’s favorite. This makes Sadat so glad. Mita and I eat sorbet; Madeleine, cookies and cream. I wonder how these things happen–how two people from Bangladesh can feel like your long lost family in one night, how simple things like having a daughter or eating a meal together can be just enough glue to create a bond that brings so much joy. I wonder how tiny forgotten accidents of kindness become seeds of friendship that do not die–even when life takes you down another path.

Sadat drives us back in silence. He is happy now, even though he has had a long day. “We have to get Madeleine home quickly,” he says. “She will be so tired.”

Mita reminds him our house is further down–on the right, do you see it? He pulls up slowly, then jumps out to open our door like a gentleman.

“You can come to our house anytime,” Mita says as we get out of the car. “We have time before we go.” I agree and turn to Madeleine, wishing she’d say one more time what a lovely time we had, but it’s too late. She’s already flying across the yard to Nick and Jess’s to tell her story–about someone needing to love her. About being a girl, the long lost daughter Mita and Sadat never had, if just for one ice-cream filled night.

This entry was posted on Friday, June 8th, 2007 at 12:19 am and is filed under Blessings, Journal, Stories, bliss, childhood, compassion, friends, hope, inspiration, kindness, love is all around, love thursday, madeleine, neighborhood, neighbors, writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.