NYC-Feature Story

Rookie Mistake
In my bid for freedom, I overlooked my mother’s love

By Mohammed Hussain

Gym was about to begin. We 8th grade boys sat in rows brimming with the blues, greens, oranges, and reds of our gym clothes. Suddenly our loud banter turned into a silent murmur. Mr. O’Hara, the gym teacher, was speaking.


	Parental Expectations/ Demands (discussion activity)

“Basketball tryouts will take place after school today in the gym,” he announced.

I looked at the other boys and could see the excitement on their faces. Making the basketball team would be a dream come true: You’d get to play one of the greatest sports in America while having the honor of representing the school. Most importantly, you’d gain popularity, and with popularity came something else: girls. Few boys in that gym class would give up a chance to get popular with females.

All of this meant that the competition at tryouts would be fierce, but I loved competition and I wanted to be a part of the excitement. Even though I was rather short for my age, and couldn’t play basketball well, by the end of the day my mind was set. I would try out—even if it meant staying after school without my parents’ permission.

Bengali Rules, American Dreams

Attending basketball tryouts would be better than going home. Home was the dungeon where my three little sisters outnumbered me. Any time I tried to watch my favorite TV shows, they changed the channel. Whenever I went on the computer, they’d ask me to show them episodes of The Simpsons. If I said no, they’d stay right there, giving me no chance to enjoy surfing the Internet alone.

And if I got annoyed and tried to hit one of my sisters, they’d all fight back: pulling my hair, throwing me on the ground, and punching me relentlessly. To top it all off, when my mother came to see what the commotion was, I was the one who’d get in trouble because I was older.

I also knew that at home, I’d have to deal with my mother’s constant shouting to clean the dishes and not stay on the computer for long. Though my parents and grandmother came to this country from Bangladesh to chase the American dream, they never chased Western ideals. They brought their rigid standards with them, and expected me to be devoted to my religion, my family, and my education. They expected me to spend less time on the computer than I wanted and generally obey their commands.

Although I was born in Bangladesh, I feel more American than Bengali because I’ve grown up around this society and its more lax nature. But I’ve never felt completely free to enjoy this laxity because of my family. I used to imagine what it would be like to be a typical American teenager, who did whatever he wanted—going home late, always hanging out with friends, indulging in materialistic desires.

Independence Day

This idea was in my head when I decided to stay for basketball tryouts. Just for today, I thought, I want to be away from my mother’s constant pestering. Just for today, I want independence.

I was fairly sure that staying after school for academic reasons would be acceptable to my parents, but staying for basketball would be out of the question. So I made up a lie to tell my mother: I would say I fell asleep on the bus and missed my stop. This lie would keep me from getting into trouble when I finally did get home. Reassured, I decided it was time to have fun playing basketball.

After school, I went into the gym for tryouts as I had planned. I left my jacket on the benches with my book bag and went to stand in line with the other boys.

Queasy Feeling

For a moment, my eyes turned toward the window. I saw the gloomy, gray sky; it gave me a queasy feeling and seemed to foreshadow something bad. Guilt was creeping up on me; I knew I shouldn’t be here, and that lying to my mother was immoral.

But as all those boys and I stood straight as soldiers, I had the feeling of belonging that you only get with people who truly know you. In my home, I couldn’t find that feeling: My mom seemed to want to mold me into a perfect boy, and my younger sisters just thought about what they wanted. No one at home asked me about my day; no one bothered to try to understand my life.

My peers, however, shared my goals. We all wanted to compete and have a good time. Each of us understood the others’ feelings. Knowing this made me feel powerful and confident.

Mr. O’Hara told us to do some general exercises—like running around the gym—and gave us tests that measured our abilities, like shooting the ball while moving through an obstacle course. I wasn’t any good, but I was having so much fun. Even if I missed shots or bumped into other students, it was great to be away from the responsibilities of home.

Benched

Even as I enjoyed myself, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. My mother had the right to know where I was. Still, I thought, she didn’t have the right to boss me around all the time. It was really her fault, I rationalized, that I hadn’t called. After all, if she didn’t make me go through hell with all those chores, I wouldn’t have to stay away to escape the madness.

Suddenly, late into the tryouts, I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker calling one Mohammed Hussain to the main office. Once again, I had a queasy feeling. I had never been called to the office. My footsteps made an eerie noise as I ran out of the gym and through the deserted halls. My hands were numb and my heart beat rapidly. Time seemed to have stopped.

I had a feeling I had been called because my parents were looking for me. They would find out I had acted selfishly and foolishly, which would mean punishment. I hoped that my mistake didn’t result in fewer freedoms at home: no more Playstation 2 or going on the computer.

But when I got to the main office, Playstation slipped from my mind entirely.

Tears of Pain

There was my mother in her black coat, her embroidered scarlet scarf on her head. My older sister, Farzana, stood next to her. I had expected anger, but my mother’s face surprised me.

It had blotches of red, and tears were carrying away what little mascara she wore. The way she looked at me—with a mixture of agony, relief, and joy—knocked some sense into me.

“Mom, Mom, what is wrong?” I asked her in my native tongue. She hugged me tightly, as a blind man would hold a strand of light, but said nothing. Then Farzana looked at me in her usual, chastising way—like I was a 2-year-old caught with his hand in the candy jar—and said: “I told her, ‘He’s probably at school doing something,’ but she wouldn’t listen. She thought you’d been kidnapped.”

The outlandishness of what had gone through my mother’s mind would have brought me to laughter in another situation, but not now. As I held my mother tightly, as though I was the parent and she was the baby, tears for the pain I had caused her began to flow freely from my eyes, too.

A Familiar Feeling

I felt like a miserable, worthless child—I had left my mother to suffer for the sake of my own selfish pleasure. Sharp knives of guilt cut through me. I didn’t think about it at that moment, but maybe the reason I felt my mother’s pain so much was that I had once felt the same worry about her, a few years before.

During the blackout in August of 2003, my sisters, grandmother, and I were at home when, suddenly, the TV turned off and all the power went out in our building. As the evening wore on, my sisters and I sat on our heater by the window, watching night fall. Darkness came and my sense of worry grew. Many people’s parents had come home, but mine had not. I was 10 years old and terrified that my parents had died in an accident, unable to see in the pitch darkness of that night.

Now I had grown older and become so wrapped up in my own life that that it hadn’t occurred to me that my parents might be worried in the same way about me. When I saw my mother the day of the tryouts, I realized how stupid I had been. I had forgotten what it’s like to worry about a loved one’s safety.

I had also overlooked an important fact: My mother loves me. Her nagging is a sign of caring. Because she wants me to become a better person, she makes me do chores and limits my time on the computer.

Gradual Freedom

I didn’t make the basketball team, but if I recall correctly, I didn’t get in trouble because my mom was so relieved I was OK. Since that day, whenever I get frustrated by constraints in my life or by my sisters’ pestering, I remember this experience and how lucky I am to have a family.

I may crave the freedom that American teens have, but I’ve also seen how freedom can cause problems. I have a friend who has become addicted to drugs and sex; he is not even 18 years old yet. When I think about him, I’m grateful for my parents. Maybe he could have avoided the wrong path if someone had watched him closely like they watch me.

I’m now a high school junior, and I’ve matured. I’m older, taller, and smarter. My voice has deepened and a few months ago, I shaved for the first time.

My relationship with my parents has developed, too. They are still protective; when I first came to work at New Youth Connections last summer, they accompanied me to the Manhattan office to make sure I found my way. I’m still expected to do chores and limit my computer time (although they’ve been less austere about these expectations).

But my parents realize I’m getting older, and they now let me stay late after school and hang out with friends, as long as I let them know ahead of time.

And as they’ve learned to respect my need for greater freedoms, I’ve learned to appreciate my parents’ excessive care. I know it’s taught me good morals and proper behavior, which will make me more independent and responsible in the long run. Had my parents not been so strict, I might not have learned how to take good care of myself.

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