Life in the US - My First 60 days

November 15, 2015 Shah R. Alam

It is now approximately 60 days since I arrived as a new immigrant into the US, settling myself in the Dallas Metroplex area of North Texas. This is my second emigration so far. The first was in 1975 when I moved with my mum from Bangladesh to England. Now, I have moved to the US to be with my wife, Melissa.

Having been in north Dallas now for two months has given me insight into life in the suburbs and a US one at that. My prior life in England, apart from a very short stint in the Midlands from 1975 to 1979, has been one of a city slicker. I have lived, breathed and intoxicated myself on city life. It has not been any old city on this planet of ours, but one of the greatest ones on Earth.

London!

London has been my physical and spiritual home for the last thirty-five years. Again it wasn't the suburban avenues lined with poplar and ash trees in the outer boroughs that I called home. It was the gritty, dirty, unloved and neglected borough east of London's financial Square Mile.

My childhood home was a stone's throw away from the old Roman city wall of Londinium. I was a fifteen-minute walk from Tower Bridge and the Tower of London. I also traced my footsteps along the same cobbled streets graced by the murderous Jack The Ripper. History oozed from the buildings, the streets and the air itself was breathed by millions of immigrants from the Huguenots of France, to the Jews fleeing Europe and lately the Bangladeshis.

So I left England, excited and happy to be joining my wife and starting a new life in the United States. I arrived in early September having already shipped all my belongings over on previous trips. Where I live is a thirty-minute drive north of DFW Airport, in the suburb of Plano. Our home is a detached 4-bedroom house, a cookie-cutter design that is synonymous with suburbia in America. Plano a vast sprawling suburb-city has its downtown about six miles east of us.

Why did we choose to move here? Well, it was primarily for the schools. My two step-children are 14 and 11 years old, and Plano schools are some of the best in the US. Plano itself is clean, safe and convenient. Even the DJs on one of the Dallas radio stations call the city "rich-ass Plano", as some of the Dallas sports teams players own million dollar mansions in West Plano.

Now that I've been here a good couple of months I thought I would share my insights on some of the biggest differences I've experienced.

Transportation: This is the land of the automobile. Without a car to get around you become like Robinson Crusoe on a desert island with no way on or off. Walking is not an option to go to the shops, gas station, library or anywhere else. In the summer months, I wouldn't want to walk as a five-minute exposure to the Texas sun would turn me into burnt toast. At home one is cocooned in the nice air-conditioned interior, then you jump into your car and drive to wherever you may be going to hurriedly enter the cold interior of another building. The DART transport system has a train that runs from downtown Plano to Dallas city centre, yet a car is required to get there. A bus service runs on some of the roads but again a car is needed to get to a bus stop. So I now must get my Texas driving licence for which my test is booked for Monday 16th November in Fort Worth. Fortunately I love driving and I have my wife's stick-shift VW Jetta to share until I get my own set of wheels.
Exercise: With driving being the main mode of getting out and about, this impacts greatly on one's physical mobility of the natural kind. Since arriving here, there has not been a single day where I have walked 10,000 steps (however I can reach 5,000 steps trundling within the interior of my home). Those daily steps were the norm back in London. With little or no walking, I am finding my mid-riff begin to expand. It's not so easy in my mid-forties to keep the bulge at bay. However, I must say there are recreation centres, private gyms, walking and hiking trails, parks and other paid for sporting activities that can be engaged in to avoid liposuction. So I find myself visiting the local recreation centre more times a week than I would have in London, which is a good thing considering my age. Going to the gym and making a concerted effort to workout is a must here, if I were to lapse then I fear within two years I could become clinically obese. Shudder the thought. The gym is my new second home.
Food: Welcome to the land of high fructose corn syrup. Anything and everything that is processed contains this ingredient. It is a cheap substitute for cane sugar. It is used liberally in all soft drinks, in bread and in every other food item that requires sugar. It is sweeter than cane sugar and akin to any sugar can cause diabetes, obesity and other health issues. I cannot stand the product but you cannot get away from it. Being South Asian where people are prone to diabetes, I have to be careful of my sugar intake. Luckily I rarely drink any of the toxic sodas such as Coke, Dr. Pepper, Pepsi or Mountain Dew. Apart from that I am finding my palate does not like the taste of other food products. Milk here is fortified with so much 'stuff' and comes in so many varieties, yet it tastes so bland. Butter also leaves an aftertaste and the bread here is fluffy and aerated which I consider a non-food of no nutritional value. What is even more strange is that I can go to a restaurant, fast food or otherwise and get served a portion that could feed a family of four in Europe, but is intended for one in the US. Yet when I go to a grocery store to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, they are far more expensive than the UK, which is puzzling considering in the UK, a vast majority of the produce is also imported. I am now careful what I eat. I choose to eat a mainly vegetarian diet with occasional fish or chicken - of the free range variety. Red meat I will consume once in a blue moon and only if I have to.
Social Life: When my wife and I rented our house back in early 2014, we decided to go out and meet our fellow neighbours. We introduced ourselves to seven households; three across the street, two either side and two behind us. We went visiting with gifts and cards and said hello. If I recall correctly only two neighbours reciprocated. Even today if I see someone next door or across the street, it's a forced smile and a hello. Plano, with its good schools, has created a strange transient populace. The demographic is very diverse which creates a wonderful multicultural environment, but once people have educated their kids they move on. Take the streets and front yards of the city where there are never any children playing. The parks are more often than not empty. You may ask the question about the extended family and where are they? Our situation which must apply to a vast majority of people is that grandparents, uncles and aunts live hundreds if not thousands of miles away. Friends are not within walking distance but a good drive away. It's no wonder social media is such a big thing in the US. It is one of the best ways to stay in touch. Without social media, I would have been cut-off from my siblings, nieces and nephews back in England. Not wanting to sound like I'm plugging Facebook, it is such a great way to stay in touch with friends in the US and overseas.
Space: There's lots of it, especially in Texas. I love the fact that I have more space in my house than I have stuff. My walk-in wardrobe is fabulous, where every item of clothing - apart from underwear - hangs ready to be worn. The four of us, two adults and two kids can get lost in the house. A search party has to be sent out at meal times into cavernous rooms to find the kids. In England, especially in London, space is a premium and for the same price I was renting a one-bedroom apartment in Canary Wharf, I am able to spread myself out in a four-bed house. Our back yard is tiny by US standards but it's big enough to start a micro-farm in London. I love the space both in the house and outside. Regular main roads are six lanes in total. Highways can be more and there are no roundabouts at major highway junctions. Space affords Texas the ability to build sweeping exit ramps joining alternate routes. The state is so big it took me ten hours to drive to El Paso at its most western point which was in a different time zone. We here in Dallas are Central Time, El Paso is in Mountain Time. This does nothing but befuddles the mind of a Londoner.

Other crazy oddities that I have come across that cause a quizzical look to cross my face and my wife to laugh:

The size of a pick-up truck such as a Ford F-150. These are custom raised in the after-market such that a tyre is almost as tall as my 5 feet 8 inches height.
The produce in the grocery store are gigantic in size; such as pumpkins that require a wheelbarrow to ferry around, peaches that need two hands to hold and garlic bulbs that are the size of baseballs.
Halloween is go bonkers time. It seems to me that more money and effort is expended in this celebration of All Hallow's Eve, where giant inflatable ghouls, goblins and monsters hang from people's front yard. Roads are closed off for trick or treating and, PS I was dressed as a banana for my first Halloween party.
The real working ranches that dot the countryside and even the outskirts of our city, stand out with names straight out of Cowboy Movies.
The Nodding Donkey oil wells work away diligently across West Texas extracting the black gold. They look like man-made forests of metal, gears and pumps.
The lack of seasons, although everyone talks about the four seasons. There is only two, hot and a little less hot.

Thus, you have some of my observations of living in Texas, USA that have baffled me so far. I am sure there will be others both minor and paradigm shifting. It's all in the name of growth and change. I am enjoying adapting to life here, fortunately, my English accent gives me enough novelty clout to be afforded that extra bit of leeway when making a faux pas in public.

Power of Two

January 24, 2015 Shah R. Alam

September 28, 2013

Early 2013 and I decided to take on a challenge, to participate in a charity walk. This was no ordinary walk it was a non-stop 24 hour undertaking. The walk would start in Richmond deer park in London and finishing 62 miles (100 kilometers) later at Brighton race course on England’s south coast.

I was looking for something that would test my mettle, not against fierce creatures of the wild or insurmountable mountain peaks (well some parts of London’s urban areas can be considered wild) but my ability to push on for 24 hours or more with no sleep and only taking short rest breaks. I considered myself to be relatively fit, having run two marathons, hiked up mountains and visiting my gym at least three times a week, plus all the walking I did would put me in good stead.

However, this did not mean I could get away without training for the event. I did train, pounding the treadmills at the gym and increasingly walking a lot along the streets of my neighborhood. A good section of the early part of the walk would be along concrete pavements within the boroughs of South London, so road walking was an important part of my training.

I chose to walk and raise money for The Hospices, mainly because St. Joseph’s Hospice in London gave me the opportunity to run the London Marathon in 2004. I asked a couple of friends if they would like to join me in the endeavor but I got no takers, so without looking for others I ploughed on ahead getting ready for the big day.

The big day was on Saturday 25th May with the start time at 08:30 am. I awoke early and got ready putting on my waterproof walking pants, my quick drying base layer, and a fleece completed with a waterproof jacket. On my feet I wore thick walking socks and my ankle high hiking boots. In my rucksack I had water, energy gels, protein and energy bars, some bananas and a couple of packs of blister kits.

I took the district line train to Richmond underground station, where I saw other walkers with their badges and identity tags on them. A ten minute walk brought me to Richmond’s Old Deer Park, where effervescent helpers were directing people to the registration tent. I had arrived a good hour early as suggested, got myself booked in and was raring to go.

At 8 am my group of walkers were called up to the warm-up area. Mr. Motivator of TV-AM fame was on call to raise the energy levels and get people excited and warmed up. He went through his routine that hadn’t changed in the last two decades, but I love his zest and enthusiasm. Just before 08:30 am I managed to get a picture with him as we were herded through a turnstile where our ID tags were scanned to confirm start time. At the start line there was nobody to cheer me on or say any encouraging words. I just did what I had to do and when the whistle blew I began my walk.

The route crossed Richmond Park and then south along the River Thames, the weather was beautiful with clear skies, the sun out with no hint of rain. I made good progress reaching the first rest stop just before 9:30 am. I took a comfort break, grabbed some snacks, a hot drink and carried on.

The route continued on in urban areas, my ankles and feet were not taking kindly to the hiking boots I had on. My rationale for wearing them was that I would be walking at night and probably through woodland, therefore I did not want to risk twisting my ankle or getting wet feet. However, I saw many people with trainers, which would have been kinder on my feet.

Regardless I carried on and reached the second rest stop at 11:54 am. This time I had to take a longer break and take the boots off for some comfort. I looked at my feet and I saw signs of blisters developing. Taking precautionary action I stuck blister packs and wrapped the toes, heels and other pinch points with tape, in the hope of providing a cushion between the abrasive boot and skin.

Prior to getting to the third rest stop I was hurting, my feet were in pain and my right toenail felt as if it had been dislodged. All of the pinch points were stinging badly and I cursed myself for not wearing my Asics trainers. I did not grumble but carried on at my own slower pace. Several people joined and went on as their feet seemed okay enough to walk at a decent speed. Going into the third rest area I was joined by a man and his girlfriend, she was handling it well but his feet were hurting too. I took my boots off again and let my feet breath, what a joyful feeling, but I could not rest too long. So after some isotonic drinks and replenishing my supplies I bid farewell to my brief companions and marched on.

Again I was joined by other walkers, most left me behind, which did not bother me as this walk was my walk and I had to complete it at my own pace. I had to overcome my own fatigue and my own mental battles to carry on and finish. I was walking with a limp but I grit my teeth, put my head down and plodded on like a work horse.

I arrived at the halfway point of 33 miles at 7:22 pm, however being British Summertime the sun was still up. I was the lone walker at that time approaching the midway point. There was an MC who greeted me calling out my name and asking me how I felt. Total strangers patted me on my back and cheered me on as I entered the tent to rest. Hot food was laid on, water bottles and lots of fruit and energy bars. I wolfed down some pasta, grabbed some fruit and water and after a brief chat with an elderly lady I had met throughout the day I carried on. I knew the tough part lay ahead, night was falling and the route was now entering the countryside between East Grinstead and Haywards Heath.

At 9 pm the sun had set, the terrain got muddy and rough. It took the walkers through open fields, bridle paths, over stiles, through ploughed fields and woodlands. I got my head torch on as well as my handheld torch to light the way ahead. I was minding my own thoughts and trying to put one step in front of another through a wooded part of the route, when several walkers overtook me. However, I could feel someone behind me who wasn’t walking past.

“Hello, Mr. Alam how are you?” said a voice.

I turned around, “I am well and you?” realising my tag on the back of my rucksack had given my name away.

“Good, may I join you?” asked a Sikh fellow.

“Sure, I am Shah, by the way,” I offered my hands.

“I am Rocky, nice to meet you,” Rocky offered his hand.

Rocky walked beside me and we got acquainted. He told me that he was walking with some good friends of his, who had left him as they were seasoned long distance walkers. This was Rocky’s first time on such a trek. He was slightly taller than me, with a fair complexion and the obligatory beard of Sikh men. He did not have his turban on and his hair was under a baseball cap. He wore jogging pants, a hoodie and trainers. He also sported two walking sticks to aid his stride, which I noticed was as bad as mine. Rocky confessed to his feet killing him.

“Shah I like your pace, can we walk together?” asked Rocky.

“Of course, we will egg each other on,” I replied.

I found out Rocky was married with two children and he ran a mortgage business as well as a couple of restaurants near Southall. As we chatted and kept each other going we became saviors for one another. We bonded like brothers in arms and we vowed that we would not let each other down. So we marched on into the night, we got stuck in mud, hung onto branches to haul ourselves out of ditches. We waited for each other along the route as one caught his breath.

At rest stop five Rocky went to see his friends who had powered on ahead. I left Rocky at the rest stop with his friends as they were taking a longer break. From rest stop six we stayed together as his friends decided to sleep for a few hours. Rocky and I said no to sleep and carried on. We would walk in silence, deep in our thoughts but knew each one was there for the other. The biggest obstacles were the damn stiles. Lifting our legs over these gates between fields was a killer. Sometimes I would hold Rocky’s walking sticks so he could get over them. Other times I would shine a torch so that he could see his path ahead.

Somewhere between stops six and seven we were walking up a slightly sloping hill. It was pitch black bar the low light offered by the near full moon. We walked past a huge oak tree and entered another field. Ahead we could see a couple of men and ahead of them a group of young women. As we approached the edge of this field which we skirted along the hedgerow on our left, we could see a couple of horses at the gate in the corner of the field. Before the horses one of the women was frozen to the spot looking at the animals. In between her and us were the two men. As we approached everyone stopped and watched fearful of the horses. The two horses turned around looked at us and started to trot in our direction. Like sheep and I guess being city dwellers we all panicked. The woman ran towards to the gate somehow avoiding the horses and carried on. The two men ahead of us jumped into the hedgerow, Rocky and I decided to do the same and got into the prickly hedge. I pulled some branches in front of me to prevent the horses getting near.

Here we were four grown men scared of a couple of horses, it was amazing what fatigue, lack of sleep and pain had made us fearful of. As the two horses nudged nearer to the four of us, one of the men escaped and ran towards the gate. Rocky and I called out to each other to ensure we were okay; the other fellow was fine by what I could make out with my torch light. By now I was getting angry. So I yelled out,”Yeehaah,” just like the cowboys in the High Chaparral and Rawhide. I didn’t feel brave, but annoyed. Upon my first yell the horses pricked up their ears, and I continued yelling causing them to bolt into the field and disappearing into the darkness.

The man ahead of us scarpered towards the gate joined by Rocky and me, adrenaline eliminating any sensations of pain. Rocky and the man bumped into each other in the slim gap between the gate and the stump. I decided to slide underneath the gate and in the process grazed my right cheek and glasses. Rocky and I checked we were both okay, before laughing at ourselves, shaking our heads and carrying on.

We arrived into rest area seven as the first glimmer of sunrise was coming over to our left. The time was approximately 4am and we decided to take an extended break. There was massage being offered which both Rocky and I took advantage of. Even though at the previous rest stops there were casualties with missing toenails, cramps, bleeding blisters and vomiting, this stop was inundated. People were queuing to see the St. John’s Ambulance paramedics. Some were being taken away friends and family and others by ambulance. I dared not take my boots off in case the situation was worse than I imagined.

As we left the rest stop we could see daylight slowly lighting our path allowing us to switch our torches off. We now had one more stop before the finishing line. The going was easier with paved walkways and flat ground. However this did not diminish the pain, the tiredness, the sleep deprivation and yet we carried on. Pushing each other and ensuring neither of us faltered.

We got to the penultimate stop at around 6am where we rested by which time Rocky’s friends had caught up with us having slept for an hour. We heard horror stories of people losing five, six and more toenails. Others were backing out and leaving the walk altogether, we did not let this deter us. Rocky briefly chatted with his friends before we got back on with the last leg of our journey. The route from here took us across a busy main road and up a steep escarpment. Walking up the rise was tough and Rocky took many a stop to get up it. I waited and encouraged him all the way.

Once atop the rise we walked along the edge of fields and country lanes, even though the scenery was amazing and quintessentially English, we had no urge or desire to stand and admire the view. The last two hours of the walk I struggled immensely as Rocky found a new level of energy. He would walk ahead and wait and I just plodded on and on.

At around 11 am we had Brighton Race course in our view as the two of us continued step-by-step to the finish line. About one hundred meters from the finish line we could see Rocky’s friends waiting. As we crossed the line the MC called out Rocky’s as his friends asked him to and a young lady handed each of us a medal for completing the arduous trek.

Rocky and I briefly spoke and exchanged details to stay in touch. I said farewell as he walked off with his friends. I headed towards the St. John’s Ambulance tent to get my feet looked at and bandaged. They were an absolute mess with multiple blisters, a missing toenail and chaffing around my ankle.

Even though it was one of the hardest physical endeavors I have undertaken and accomplished, it was made more worthwhile and enjoyable by Rocky. I know I would have finished either way but the camaraderie, the companionship, the desire to finish as a team and never to leave each other behind was uplifting and adrenaline pumping. My journey with Rocky highlighted and reinforced to me the power of partnership.

My Kung Fu Panda Moment

January 24, 2015 Shah R. Alam

August 28, 2013

You are eleven years old and one Saturday instead of going to Kung Fu classes you decide to skip it and go play football with your friends. As you kick the ball around, run from one end of the concrete pitch to the other working up a sweat, you are carefree having the time of your life. Life could not get any better.

Then from the corner of your eye you spy a familiar figure, someone you recognize, someone with the power of authority. That someone you realize upon second glance is your father.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw my dad looking down at me from the street into the sunken car park where I was playing football. That was me being caught red-handed on a cold Saturday afternoon in London, missing my classes to play football with my best friends and other guys from the neighborhood.

My dad had signed me up for Saturday classes about six weeks ago.

"Son, you need to be able to take care of yourself, this is the rough East End and one must learn how to fight," he rationalized.

I was actually quite keen to join and went along happily attending classes every weekend. I would forego playing tag, football and other games with my best friends for a couple of hours every Saturday to learn the art of self defense and fighting. This weekend however my friends cajoled, goaded, teased and urged me to not go to classes. In the end I succumbed to peer pressure and using my kit bag as a goal post proceeded to play football.

So seeing my dad made me gulp and I thought, "I've had it, I'm done for," as he beckoned me over to him without saying a word or raising a hand in gesture.

"Why are you not at Kung Fu classes?" he asked. I could feel my ears burning and my friends watching me made me want to sink into the ground and disappear.

"Err! I just wanted to play football and didn't want to go to class today," I mumbled as I looked at my feet.

"I never, ever want to see you miss Kung Fu again, I will let you off today, but from next week you will go to every class without fail," he stated, and with that he carried on walking to wherever he was going. I went back to my football game and having explained to my friends what had happened carried on playing.

However, I decided there and then that I would never miss another class. Of course there were the odd classes that I did miss due to illness or a reasonable excuse, but I never missed a class of my own volition. I persevered with my training and my Sifu a fellow Bengali called Maruf, took a liking to me and taught me well. In return I became a dedicated and loyal student.

So through all the fights, the twisted fingers, busted toes, torn ligaments, bloody noses and bruises I kept at it from 1981 to 1989. Each year I would partake in one exam and each year I would pass to go through nine sashes in that period. I fought fights and got beaten and others I won unanimously. I taught junior students and I trained with Black belts.

I was my Sifu's star pupil, becoming his first student to achieve Black belt in 1989, which made him an extremely proud teacher. The exam to attain my Black belt required the demonstration of a set of movements, followed by set sparring where no blows are struck. This was followed by breaking bricks and slates with bare hands then kicking wooden planks in half.

Then came the fights. There were three 3-minute fights. One-on-one, one-on-two and the finale was me against a senior Black belt. All of these fights were performed with only gloves, foot-guards, gum-shields and groin guards.

At the end of it, my lips were busted and bleeding I was bruised all over and I was exhausted to the core. Yet when the results were announced and I had got my Black belt every pain, every drop of blood and every tear was of happiness and exhilaration. At the exam my dad was not there, nor were any of my friends just my Sifu Maruf and my fellow classmates. Maruf came and gave me a huge hug and lifted me straight off the ground.

When I got home my parents were very proud of my achievement. I have to thank my dad for making me stick to my classes.

If there is anything I learned from my years of Kung Fu was if you start something worthwhile stick to it and finish it, be committed. Secondly, never give up, no matter how hard, tough or unexciting the work may be keep at it. Thirdly I learned self-control and discipline in all areas of life, especially how to use peaceful methods to resolve conflict. Last but not least the rewards for achieving a worthwhile goal are priceless.

This story is dedicated to my dear Sifu Maruf who died a few years back, killed in a car crash in Bangladesh. May you rest in peace, you were my first role model.