A Year Outside of the Classroom: Chapter 27- To Baba

I am sitting in a coffee shop where I spent many days during undergrad studying, where my best friend and I played 20 questions to continue to find out about our deepest fears and dreams. It is also where I sat at the table that overlooked Lake Michigan as I wrote some of my best medical school application essays, where I renewed my intentions to accomplish my goals with each journal entry scrawled.

                Exactly one week from today is the first day of medical school orientation. Over the next week, I plan to write about the things and people that inspire me, or should I say write posts to them. So please forgive me for the emotions I am about to pour onto your screen. I have been an emotional mess with each passing day over the past week, and I feel it is only going to get worse. So the least I can do allow you to join the ride.

                Don’t fret though, I do not mean that I am a mess in a bad way. Instead, I am feeling overwhelmed with gratitude, shock, joy, oh-my-god-I-can’t-believe-it kind of feelings. So that has compelled me to write the first post to the King of our kingdom, to the greatest man who raised me with the greatest woman (sorry, I’m totally biased!!).

                My Baba, this is for you.

                You know how I love to tell stories to make a point, so bear with me.

                One of my most vivid memories as a child that defines what you mean to me goes back to the second grade. We had come back from Palestine after a summer spent there, but you remained behind to complete working on the family house. As soon as we returned with Mama, the Second Intifada began, the borders closed, and you remained longer than you were supposed to. I don’t recall this part, but you filled me in on this part as I grew older. What I do recall vividly is the day you came back.

                I was at school that day, and I remember I had my Wendy backpack (from Bob the Builder, duh!) and Barbie lunch box. It was the end of the day, so I was gathering my things and heading outside to meet Mama at pick-up. I walked outside of the building during the warm September afternoon and began making my way along the sidewalk through the kids of all ages, my Wendy backpack bouncing up and down with each step on my back and my Barbie lunch box swinging in my left hand at my side. I looked up through the crowd and recall seeing you walking toward me, with a boxed gift in your hand. I remember my breath catching, my vision blurring with tears, and I couldn’t completely utter the “Baba!” that was in the back of my throat. In my memory, this all happened in slow motion: I dropped the Barbie lunch box and began running in your direction. You kneeled down on the ground, placed the box at your side, and stretched your arms out quickly enough to catch me.

                You were back. You were there when I least expected you to be, yet right where I needed you to be. And you caught me.        

                Last summer, in the middle of the most nerve-wrecking time of my life, you proved once again to be right where I needed you to be. You were perfectly content with letting me sit with you at work-with an adult coloring book, might I add, my latest attempt at calming my anxiety. There was no need to speak. And when I wanted to talk, you listened. You listened over and over again. Can I just say once again what an OUTSTANDINGLY, PERFECT listener you are?! We walked by the lake in the evening and you let me rant and complain and tell you over and over again, “Baba, what if it’s not for me?” or “Baba, what if I need to think of something else?” or “Baba, I’m scared of failing, again.”

                Each night you disagreed. But before you disagreed, you let me rant, complain, come up with every worst case scenario in the book. And then you and I came up with a plan for how to deal with that worst case scenario.  I was calm for another day after that, enough to go to sleep, until the new fears were present the next morning, and we went through the same cycle all over again.

                My favorite part about that summer was learning more about you, though. You should know that in the middle of my complaints about my first world problems, learning about how you grew up gave me a profound appreciation for the struggles I was going through because they were nowhere near yours. It was interesting to share our different perspectives on certain times in my childhood, and sometimes reassuring you that my childhood was a million times better than what you give yourself credit for. You did a million times better than you thought you did.

                The best part about all of this is that each time I’ve gone through some situation that I panic and worry about, you have an unwavering confidence in me that I always wish I could have. After you let me tell you my worries and concerns and you agree with the possibility that they could happen, you eventually disagree with me and look at the bright side. But the way you do it is what’s most important.  You see, who don’t just say, “No, that won’t happen, be positive about it.” You always lean back in your chair, cross your arms across your chest, and say, “Yeah, but Manar it won’t happen. I know it won’t” or “Manar, you will get in. InshAllah, you will. And so what if it doesn’t? We already thought of your options. So what? Don’t worry though, you will get [blank].”

                And you know what? You were right. Every. Damn. Time.

                I am convinced at this point in time that parents have this weird and unique connection with Allah (SWT). If they want something badly enough for their children, or if there is something written for their children that they will receive, your parent will either be confident about it or lead you in the opposite direction. My point is they will know and even they won’t know it. And you knew every time. You knew about the scholarship. You knew about exams. You knew about medical school.

                This time I’m not denying you though. As I start medical school in a week, I am letting your confidence seep into me and convince me to believe what you’ve been telling me all along. And inshAllah in four years from now, I’ll be able to tell you once again, “Baba, you knew.”

                It seems silly to thank you because where do I start?

                How do I thank you for working hard and getting an education and inspiring us to become educated? How do I thank you for going out on a limb and coming to a country you knew nothing about? How do I thank you for investing over and over in us? For letting me go into a million different sports and art classes before realizing I actually sucked at all of them (except Tae Kwon Do!)? How do I thank you for making me confident in myself by reassuring me over and over again that I am more than okay? Where do I begin to thank you for traveling miles and miles across the states this past year and listening to me for 7+ hours each trip practice for my interview then talk about my interview? Most importantly, thank you for your endless humor that makes all my friends love you. 

                It seems silly to thank you for catching me on that September day years ago and continuing to do it over and over again in the years after. I hope you don’t get tired of catching me anytime soon.

                Success is from Allah (SWT), and I firmly believe that a huge part of blessing us with success begins with the kind of parents that Allah blesses us with.

                Baba, there is no room for failure when I have you and Mama at my side. This journey, this perseverance, this effort, this is all for you. This is how I thank you.