I was reading this book during my trip to Niger and Mali in West Africa. I was suffering from Malaria, staying in places without air conditioning where I slept under a mosquito net. The heat was stifling, the symptoms of my malaria coupled with my foreign surroundings conspired to create an altered state of reality. But every night, I would lose myself in this book. When I read of Moushimi's affair, I was angry at her. How could she? But envisioning the interaction she had with her husband Gogol, the frustration that's born when familiarity breeds contempt.. all of that reminded me of Mo. I had given him a bit of an ultimatum before my African adventure- marry me or set me free.
But as I read of her angst and the appeal of another lover who excited her in ways her perfect on paper husband was no longer capable of doing, I realized that my anger against her stemmed more from the recognition of something in myself than any self-righteous quest for fairness. As someone who had already married once for the wrong reasons to the wrong person, I saw myself headed for a partnership in complacency and I was suddenly aware of my capitulation. Even in that fog of malaria, I remember that moment of clarity. I prayed Mo wouldn't propose.
He didn't. Not then anyway. And when he did it was more out of a quiet desperation for something he coveted than anything really authentic. We looked so good on paper but were a match made for mayhem.
When I saw this movie today, I was unprepared for the effect it would have on me. Friends had said they were underwhelmed by Kal Penn's performance and the director focused less on the first generation characters than the book. But I was so moved by the parents' journey. This is something I doubt anyone who isn't the child of immigrants can understand.
I can't imagine moving to a new country, oceans away from the family and friends I knew. Worlds away from anything familiar where even the term "melting pot" was a foreign concept. But that's what my parents did. My mom has told me the stories of carrying groceries while pushing a stroller through the snow in Jamaica, Queens during the dead of winter but I never pictured it until I saw this movie. I remember the jubilation when literally dozens of relatives would greet us at the airport during summer vacations and how my mom cried almost nonstop during the long journey back to the States. We went every other year because making the trip annually wasn't financially feasible. The parallels between my mom and Gogol's mother were so poignant and accurately depicted that I wept for the plight I never understood or cared enough to examine. Many first generation Americans often lament the difficulty of reconciling two cultures, of assimilating without forgetting their roots. But at least those two worlds are familiar to us. For all their missteps, I have a new found appreciation for the pioneers who were my parents.
