I have a recurring dream. I am on my way Home and the universe is vehemently against it. Everything is going wrong; I displace my passport, I forget the address, I reach the wrong destination, and I am stuck between all the other absurd dream-like mishaps. I am utterly confused but, determined. I try my best. Then somehow, magically, everything is resolved. I am almost home. Almost. But, I never reach home. Instead, I wake up. Waking up from a dream like this feels like a betrayal, like running a long marathon over and over again but never making it to the finish line. Home isn’t just Zakir Nagar, it’s also unit L108, Phoenix, Arizona.
 

Family isn’t always blood.

At this point, as the writer of this blog, I think I should give you some context. If you know me from school, you’re aware of this major year in my life. If you know me from any year after that, then it depends on my willingness to share it. I could talk about myself, my heart, and my passions and still, gatekeep the people/moments/places that are the most precious to me. Anyway, today, I will open the door a bit to show you a glimpse of one of the kindest, best men I know.

I was 16 years old when I first stepped foot into his house. I was a foreign exchange student (FES) in America, specifically in the city of beautiful skies, Phoenix, Arizona. This was the first time I was moving away from my home in Delhi, India and I was petrified; of the whiteness of America, of the Islamophobia, of drugs and alcohol, of leaving my mother tongue behind, of realizing that I am after all not a ‘good’ Muslim and lastly, of the high school jocks that I had only seen in movies. However, this fear was overpowered by the immense excitement and the fresh air of opportunities that had knocked on my door. So, with my fear and elation held close to me, I took the flight. The flight that would transform my entire life.

In one flight, my world had completely altered. New culture, new school, new education system, new transportation, new food, new people, and new relationships. I was starting everything from scratch. Once the jetlag hit and the excitement dissipated, I was simply clueless. I was assigned a host family; the Nash-Jimenez family. It included an American mom (Amanda), an American dad (Jose), a Thai sister (Gil), and a Dog (Sophie). For the next ten months, this was my family and my support. Some people ask me if they get paid or receive any other special benefits for hosting. I must tell you that they don’t. It’s out of love. For humanity and people. In today’s day and age, this love seems absurd and even dangerous, but not to them.

The first day I landed in their house, the entire family was going through a tragic loss. A loss I couldn’t empathize with, then. I didn’t know how to navigate their grief along with my excitement. A day later or so, Jose, my host dad, (maybe just dad) swept and mopped the space in his garage, came to my room, and gave me his colorful thick rug to pray on. “This is my favorite rug. You better keep it safe,” he laughed. I had never said anything to him about my praying habits or that I needed a clean space. He just knew. Maybe he Googled. The point is, he made sure that his home felt like home to me. I think he understood what it felt like to be an outsider and he did his best to take that feeling away from me. Barely new in the city, having made a hundred mistakes, big and small, my host parents realized that this was an entirely new environment for me.

 

This one time, I had to catch a bus to someplace and he told me the specific bus route ten times. Repeatedly. Even after I understood it, memorized it. He drew the bus route on paper. He counted the steps and even ended up role-playing the entire journey. He told it to me again and again, without a frown on his face. He was very patient with me. He was also worried for me and how America could see my Muslimness so he often told me “Don’t let anyone talk down to you for any reason, or make fun of you, or put you down in any way. I don’t care if it is a teacher, the school, police, anyone, you call me on the cell if you need me.” He had my back. Always. He defended my faith more than I ever did. He introduced me to Ms. Marvel comics and Kamala Khan in 2015. He understood the importance of representation, of empowering the 16-year-old girl and instilling in her the belief that someone like her could have superpowers. A few years ago, right before the pandemic, he mailed another issue of Ms. Marvel to me. When the show was announced, he quickly shared the trailer with me. “You always my Ms.Marvel,” he said. He took me to my very first rock concert. Puscifer’s. We have a song too and that we can all agree is very special. During the pandemic, he bought tickets for their online concert for me. As he watched it in Phoenix, I watched it in Delhi. A moment shared between the two of us, 12 and 1/2 hours apart.

Another fragmented memory comes to mind. I was not eating any non-halal meat in America but at the same time, I was a vegetarian who despised salads and he was a chef. I often felt like I was missing out on his amazing food (I did miss out). He introduced me to new vegetarian recipes and cooked many for me and there is one that I remember very well; Braised Jackfruit. Once he realized that I loved it, he got it for me every other day from his diner. Before I left for India, he got the recipe printed and gave it to me, in case I missed the food. I still have the recipe but I am no cook. I always thought that he will make it for me when I go back, but God had different plans.
On November 5th, after finishing his shift, Jose left for home at around 10pm but he never made it home. As Amanda says, “someone took his light that shined so bright on all of us.”

 

As I type this, I am in shock again. It is hard to believe that it is our reality. It comes and goes. It is going to be a month now and the reality still hasn’t sunk in. When AFS India sent the young wide-eyed students on this exchange program, they told us stories of people building everlasting connections with their families and finding homes in strange countries. They also had measures in place in case something happened to our family in our home countries while we were on our exchange program. It was perfect. I couldn’t point out a flaw. However, when I got the news of Jose’s death and felt my heart sink deep into my chest, that’s when I found it. The flaw. This was a grief that I couldn’t share with anyone. As I sat alone in my house, my surroundings became strange to me and all I wanted was to run back to Amanda, to eat all the food cooked by Jose, to ride the bike with him, to watch another Puscifer concert, and to not be silent around him.

I was always surprised by him, by the man he was. A man who was not afraid of showing love or weakness. I wish I had used more words with him. I wish I had asked him questions about himself, his life, his ideas, and his beliefs. I had questions for him. Of course, I did. But my surprise expressed itself through my silence. I thought we had time. We always think we have time, don’t we?

A few months ago I was attending a conference with a few other exchange program students. As we started sharing our stories, some people told me of their encounters with people who had assumed that these students were Muslims and on finding out they weren’t, they were relieved. There were stories of how some people refused to host Muslim students. Together, Jose and Amanda have hosted 8 daughters from all over the world, a few of them Muslims. People like Jose and Amanda make this world a place worth living in.

Jose is gone and the world is much worse without his fearless voice, kind eyes, and beautiful heart.

With Love,
Goofy.

P.S. I will always see you in the moon.