I recently got back from a trip to Canada, where my identity took a bit of a rollercoaster. The better part of my week was spent dancing and singing along to Bollywood songs at wedding events, playing catch-up with distant cousins, and playing on the foreign turf of uncles and aunties.
One particular moment stood out at lunch with my extended family in downtown Toronto. The Indian hostess at this Mexican restaurant mentioned the 30 minute wait, and asked for a name for the group, to which I responded with no hesitation: “Rish.”
My cousin, who sees me once a decade, chimed in to note that I don’t have to abbreviate my name for this clearly Indian person. He said, “You can say Rishab; she knows how to say Rishab. You can keep the last two letters, I promise.”
It was hilarious in the moment but sparked a rollercoaster of thought, as I hesitantly ate bland enchiladas. I re-evaluated how my identity has morphed as a result of my upbringing. Growing up in the Midwest and now living in Texas for almost a decade, I’ve gotten so used to folks mispronouncing my name - Rashib, Rishoob, Reesh, Rishi, Rishaaab, and so on. I’m comfortable with the shortened version of my name; I even prefer it in many scenarios. But there was an overwhelming feeling of authenticity, as I heard my full name repeated back to me. I guess in Toronto, I’m Rishab.
But I’m back in Texas now, so I’m just Rish. And this… is Loaf of Thought.
i’m feeling lucky
This month’s playlist is filled with weird song names; Kamikaze Mushroom Palace, Ayyayyo, Panopticon, Shutcho, Midnight Sextet, and more. The vibe is very much that of poolside drinks, wrist-watch tans, and rear-view mirror selfies.. Take this playlist with you on that bike ride, the beach afternoon or hammock hang - I promise it won’t disappoint.
[Archive playlist can be found here, and in my spotify bio]
abdul’s blue latex glove
When American Airlines decided to cancel our flight from Buffalo to Austin at 11pm on a Sunday night, my family and I were left with no other option but drive 90 minutes to Rochester and fly out at 6am the next day. My initial thought was to quickly rent a car and try my best to shave minutes off and avoid speed traps. Dollar Rent-A-Car was ready to give me a blue RAV-4 for $112. But my mom had another idea - Uber. Somehow the 61 mile trip was only $102???
My family quickly turned into a law firm at Gate 8, making a solid case for the Uber trip, which would prevent us from having to sit behind the wheel, gassing up at 4am the next morning, and spending time picking-up/dropping-off the vehicle. I still didn’t like the idea of a stranger driving us through New York at 11pm, but their case had compelling arguments.
I warned my mom that many drivers may cancel at this time of night, and we could be sitting on the curb for a while. I told her the RAV-4 was still an option. Sooner than I expected, the app notified us that Abdul would arrive in 4 mins, in a White Honda Pilot.
He had a warm smile and a slight South Asian accent, as he expressed understanding for our last-minute situation that called for a late-night roadtrip. After helping us load the luggage into the trunk, he had a quiet request:
“If you don’t mind, I can cancel the Uber and you can just pay me directly? No need of extra payment, just give me what the app told you.”
Sketchy, but we agreed. My mom, dad, and sister took the backseat and I got shotgun. I’m not even sure what I expected from the next hour and a half, but the social butterfly in me had no regard for my tired eyes or the long day of travel. The social butterfly in me knew there was no room for awkward silence, especially not in the front seat. The conversation began slow:
Where are you from?
Bangladesh.
How long have you been here?
Since 2011, I moved to NYC first. I’ve been in Buffalo since 2021.
How long have you driven Uber?
Many years now. I first worked at a Walgreens in the city, then started driving taxi. Now, I work full-time at USPS and Uber is part-time.
Why did you move to Buffalo?
There wasn’t enough space for my family in NYC. Buffalo has more space.
Tell me about your family.
I have 3 children; my son is 10, my daughter is 5 and my newborn is 17 months.
—
I sensed a level of comfortability ensue as I asked Abdul more questions. His shoulders relaxed, he took a call from his wife, and even smiled a few times. His chuckles sounded convincingly human and less transactional, as he put the car and our conversation on cruise-control. He asked me where I was from, and what part of India my family is from. Surprisingly, my familial law firm in the back seat sat quietly as I got to know all about Abdul and his life. Abdul asked why we didn’t just stay in Buffalo and I explained that the storms in the Northeast had grounded all flights for the next couple of days, except for this particular one from Rochester. His drive seemed to have a purpose now.
I asked him if he enjoys Uber and he responded with delight, boasting about the 28,000 trips he completed in New York City, maintaining a high standard rating of 4.96. He seemed very proud of that, but also remiss because he had to make a new account when he moved to Buffalo due to NYC’s taxi commission rules. I told him that because we cancelled the Uber request, we can’t even give him a rating now. He chuckled, and said it doesn’t matter to him as much nowadays. When I asked him what does matter, he had a simple answer: his children.
Abdul explained that his son is in fifth grade now and his daughter is becoming a sassier by the day - she sometimes claims that his wife is a better driver than he. He disagreed. I asked him if the kids speak Bengali and he said, “ofcourse they do, we only speak Bengali at home.” I told him how rare that is, nowadays, for children to speak their immigrant parents’ mother-tongue. Abdul seemed familiar, and told me how he felt pieces of his own identity were washing away as he became more American. He had a rough theory that your identity changes drastically after 1 generation of being an immigrant in this country. We shared that sentiment, as I too struggle to speak my mother-tongue at times, losing that bridge with my extended family in India. I was curious as to why Abdul came to America then, if he foresaw this identity shift. Again, he deferred the reason to his children, and also this time, God. Abdul believed that God would tell him what to focus on and prioritize. And at some point, God told him to come to America.
I could feel a tightness to the conversation, as we got deeper into identities and beliefs. Abdul’s eyes were generally glued to the road while my eyes would wander between him, the road, and my phone. At one such glance, I caught that he was wearing a blue latex glove on his left hand. It was unusual, enough that I wasn’t sure if I should ask him about it. But after a few more shared thoughts on being American and working multiple jobs, I let my curiosity slip. I pointed to the glove and politely asked for an explanation. He responded in a much quieter tone with a sly smile, “Oh actually, it’s a bad habit. I sometimes smoke and my wife doesn’t like it.”
We both laughed.
Abdul and I chatted a bit more about his kids and the interesting things about being a father. The GPS read ‘4 mins to destination’ as I asked Abdul a rather difficult question, which brought our conversation to a close:
At what point did you know that your life’s purpose was to be a father?
*nervously chuckles* - Um… I’m not sure. Too difficult to know. I just listen to God.
—
What was supposed to be a lonely or rather awkward drive from Buffalo to Rochester on a Sunday night, turned out to be a lovely conversation with a very honest man. Abdul shared raw and beautiful sentiments of the immigrant story, the likes of which I had heard in New York City and on HONY. I saw pieces of Abdul in myself and my parents; we’re all just chameleons in ever-changing habitats.
If you enjoyed this piece and would like to read similar biographies, here are the Stories of Moka: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3.
through my eyes
I caught this tender scene as my dad and I took a long walk one afternoon along the shores of Lake Ontario. I still believe you don’t need big fancy equipment to take nice photos, but I felt handicapped on this trip with a now-ancient iPhone 11 and a tiny Sony point-and-shoot. Note to self: carry a camera that encourages you to shoot more; for some that could be a Sony alpha9, for others that’s a Leica.
touching grass
Remember when neighborhoods were living, breathing ecosystems of childhood adventure? When 'go touch grass' wasn't a desperate plea but a daily reality?Those days seem as distant now as the tinny ring of a payphone or the satisfying click of a casette player. I still remember the days where I’d bike to the community park for a game of ‘man on woodchips’ and on the way I’d bump into 3 friends who were busy scraping knees on ad-hoc skate ramps and cracked sidewalks.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the ways that modern children use public spaces; specifically parks and streets. My youth was a utopic re-enactment of the Sandlot, where the neighborhood was our oyster and we were the pearl-diving kiddos jumping over the fence at the community pool. Sure, video games and computers existed, but they were more of a rainy-day backup plan than the digital opiates they've become. Plus, accessibility to friendly spaces wasn’t part of the issue. Treacherous freeways and intersections, ugly retention ponds, and sprawling shopping complexes add to the mess. The illustration below really sums up the sentiment.
Just the thought of raising hypothetical children in concrete jungles sends shivers down my spine - less for the sake of safety and more for sanity. I live a mere 10-minute drive from Austin's drink-too-much-on-a-Tuesday scene, and let me tell you, it feels about as kid-friendly as a mosh pit at a metal concert. (Never been to one, but I assume) I wouldn’t send my kid to the neighbor’s house, let alone to the park down the street.
“Compared to previous generations, children’s lives have become incredibly restricted, indoors, isolated and inactive, largely due to changes in the outdoor environment. Government could reverse this trend and hugely improve children’s health and wellbeing by making streets safer and neighbourhoods more child-friendly, enabling them to get outside and play every day.” - Alice Ferguson, in an interview with Sandra Laville, an environmental correspondent for The Guardian
And don't get me started on the vehicular monstrosities roaming the streets - it’s like “Mad Max” meets “Need for Speed Underground.” Heavily modded, lifted-chassis Silverados and sleek, tinted-window Escalades dominate the roads. These Stupid Trucks are Literally Killing Us. I’ll admit, my perspective on this is a bit skewed, considering I live in Texas, and the common car is more of a monster truck.
We’re starting to live in a world where the simple act of frolicking in freshly mowed lawn has become as elusive as finding phone booth or decent MP3 player. And while my point tends to advocate for children, it realistically pertains to adults too. There are a few things Austin does well: Zilker Park, a grassy oasis of lawlessness perfect for sports and picnics; the well-trodden Lady Bird Trail; and community centers that are actually usable (and free). But there's still room for improvement, both in city planning and at a domestic scale.
We could start by advocating for more pedestrian-friendly urban planning - think wider sidewalks, well-maintained and under-designed parks, protected bike lanes, and traffic-calming measures that make our streets less like demolition derbies. How about pushing for more community-driven initiatives? Neighborhood game nights, street festivals, or even good old-fashioned block parties could reignite that spark of local connection. (Even in my own neighborhood, garage sales and block parties are prohibited) Oh and please, can we start regulating some of these SUVs? It's time we reclaimed our public spaces from the clutches of car-centric design and digital isolation. It just feels like it has to be a grassroots movement. Pun absolutely intended.
Or maybe the argument is such that the city itself doesn’t need to change, but rather our approach to existing within it. Today's hyperindividualistic younglings (me use big word) seem more inclined to level up in Fortnite than bike to the community park for a game of Capture the Flag, to be followed by a communal walk back to Louie’s house for popsicles. I’ll stop myself there though; I’d rather not sound like a broken record - I feel like we complain about digital dependency enough.
Just go touch some grass, ok?
link dump
the unauthorized biography of Clippy
hire a boss to keep yourself accountable with personal projects
take a trip in the world’s first robotaxi
the best way to board a flight
two astrophysicists debate free will
The first six months of 2024 moved at mach-speed, and I’m very much hoping for a slowing of the clock as we move forward. I’ve been embracing this slow dance by watching almost all of the Euros and COPA America games live, while I work. It reminds me of the passion I had for soccer in my childhood. I’ve also been reading much more, engaging with incredible writers on Substack and sharing thoughtful notes when I can.
Thank you so much for making it all the way through; I hope this piece highlighted some notes of nostalgia and cultural identity in your tangled brain mush. As always, please like, comment, and share this post if it resonated in any way - the small gestures spark the deepest connections.
have a lovely July, folks.
Did you miss my last post? Look no further…
I prefer that Mexicans properly pronounce my name dah-veed than mangle the anglophone version of day-vehd. (Which usually ends up sounding like dahy-veeed.) But my wife is insistent that her name should be pronounced with the Castilian ee-řřees no matter where she is. (Some older people have gone years thinking name was Edie until they figure out it’s Iris, like the flower.)
I sense that my wife does’t want to feel compelled to adapt her cultural identity to someone else’s context. And that makes sense, I suppose, when she’s living in another hegemonic culture full of stereotypes about Mexicans, latinas, etc. For me, I have little attachment to my name wherever I am. Maybe I’m more individualistic, or maybe it is some kind of white privilege, or both. 🤷♂️I want to be recognized for my essence, my personality, my energy … something more ineffable than the pronunciation of my name. (Or worse, it’s biblical roots! I got curious and looked up the multiple meanings of Rishab; very interesting!)
When my great-great grandpa immigrated from Switzerland, they changed the spelling of his last name from Rickli to Rikli at Ellis Island. The reason, as passed down generations, was careless immigration officers. But I dug up later that he was also escaping some family drama, so I wonder. 🤔
Among my younger sister’s artist friends, it seems like half of them choose nicknames to emphasize their cultural heritage and others choose names without any cultural heritage whatsoever. Maybe we all hold those competing desires?
Inherent struggle between having people pronouncing G-au-tham or just saying fuck it and pronouncing my name as Gotham. At least I get a lot of Batman jokes from the second option. Loved this post machi ❤️