The Comfy Corner

I'm a Southern boy through and through (with a touch of Sriracha, of course) and thus I have done my darndest to avoid the New England traditions for as long as possible. Ne'er have I stood 'pon yonder Hampshire white peak proclaiming myself a Yankee doodle dandy, but I did, as of last week, partake in the one fall tradition that all New York parents drag their children out of the concrete jungle to enjoy: apple picking. But, in true Chang fashion, I performed this tradition of traditions in the most non-traditional way possible.

I recently befriended a middle aged man from Bangladesh. And for our purposes, let us say his name is Sumon. Sumon and I became friends at work and one day some co-workers left to go apple picking for the day. I sighed with jealousy and casually mentioned that this was an activity that I have sadly never partaken in. He turned to me and admitted that he too had never been apple picking and, with a fervor that only Bangladeshi people possess, asked if I would take him. I was taken aback by this request. So few people ask me on such romantic dates, I was not prepared. As I usually do when I'm caught off guard or afraid, I said yes (It's a dangerous habit, I realize). I learned over the next few days that Bangladeshi people do not share the American people's reputation for broken promises. They are a people of persistence. Thus he kept reminding me of our impending apple picking excursion and insisted that I set a date, so I eventually gave in and said, "YES, Sumon, Wednesday morning, we will go." Feeling the need for a buffer of some sort I invited some other coworkers and friends so that I could have a full car for the journey. But when I mentioned to Sumon that I was bringing some friends he looked at me perplexed and said, "But there is no room in the car!" I said, "Yes, Sumon, I have plenty of room in my car, what do you mean?" To which he casually responded, "Well, there's me, my wife, my daughter, my mom, my dad... no room, full car!"

My jaw dropped. I admit that in the heat of the moment, I was not happy that Sumon had invited his entire Bangladeshi family without asking. So I put my foot down, "No, Sumon. It is my car, I decide who goes. Only you, not your whole family." But then one by one each of my friends canceled so I thought, "YOLO!" and I told him he could bring his whole family. What the heck, at least Bangladeshi people are reliable. So Wednesday morning I overestimated the drive to the Bronx and arrived at Sumon's residence - half an hour early. I sat in his living room and ate oranges and mangos that Sumon had peeled for me while his amazing old, amazingly tiny father stared at me smiling his very-few-teeth smile. Then, when the whole family was ready, we all piled into my tiny Honda Civic (2 door). Sumon and I in the front. His wife, his one year old daughter, his mother, and his father in the back seat. How did they fit you ask? Well, his ancient, tiny father essentially sat on his mother's lap for the entire hour and a half journey. It was a sitcom episode y'all. You can't write a scene like this. None of them spoke a word of English except Sumon. So I listened to them talk and talk in a language I did not understand as I drove them through the beautiful land of New Jersey. As I drove, I thought to myself, as I often think to myself, "What events in my life led me to this moment?" And then we arrived at the apple orchard.

We all exited the tiny car like clowns in a circus. The waspy, manhattanite families stared at me (the clear outlier in the group) in confused judgement as we made our way to the counter to get our apple bags. But when we got to the orchard everything clicked for me. I saw the incredible smiles on Sumon's parent's faces. I saw his daughter running through the orchard. I saw his wife eating the apples with pure joy. I saw myself running through the orchard and tasting, for the first time, the beauty of a fresh picked apple. I later learned that this was the first time Sumon and his family had ever seen an apple tree. And, for his parents, it was the first time since they moved to America that they had ever left New York City. I watched Sumon lift his daughter up to pick apples from the trees and an incredible feeling of pure joy flooded through me.

I've been living in Manhattan with blinders on. Just laser focus on myself and complete ignorance to the reality that surrounds me. Bangladesh, I learned, is just east of India. If New York were India, Bangladesh would be like Long Island. And Sumon won some sort of immigration lottery that allowed him to move to America on a working visa. For him, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. And he has worked so hard to bring his family here. One person at a time. And what have I done? I write blogs, make silly videos, sing songs and complain about my family. But this tiny gesture of taking Sumon's family to an apple orchard meant the world to them. His wife cooked me an incredible picnic lunch of tandoori chicken, hard boiled eggs, and basmati rice. She made it "not too spicy" just for me and even brought me a fork to use (they ate with their hands, a tradition that didn't necessarily warm my heart). She even apologized for not making me a salad (which you better believe I was furious about). The kindest and gratitude they expressed toward me for doing this for them was not a kindest that I've ever experienced. And I can't help but thank him for taking away my blinders and helping me to see that I'm not the only person in this world. It was an experience I will not soon forget. And now I always have a Bangladeshi family that I can have dinner with. And you better believe, I'm bringing a set of utensils. Stay comfy y'all.