My father arrived to this country in 1971 with seven American dollars in his pocket. He landed at JFK airport with one suitcase, a thick Indian accent, and clothes made by a Hyderabadi tailor to accommodate his particularly slight South Asian stature. As he was exiting the airport, confident, arrogant even, in his new homeland, he saw a man sitting on a curb playing a guitar with its case splayed open on the sidewalk next to him. My father briefly paused and watched as other Americans walked by and tossed change into the musician’s guitar case. And because he was now in America, and very eager to assimilate as quickly as possible, he approached the musician, handed him his only $5 bill (the vast majority of his wealth) and awaited change. The musician took the money, briskly thanked him, and turned back to his music. My father was shocked. Not only was he not receiving change, the remaining $2 that meagerly lined his billfold was all that he had left on him to get him to El Paso, Texas for an awaiting job. He was just twenty-two years old.
My father tells this story often and I am always eager to hear it. It is a tale filled with adventure and suspense, anecdotal evidence of the American dream, and it is the string that links my brother and me from this nation to another. And although his two children are only half Indian (my father married a mixed Austrian-Puerto Rican), my father has a saying, which he believes most accurately conveys his contribution to our heritage. “A pinch of sugar makes a whole glass of water sweet.
