Names have been changed.

I immigrated to New York City from Nepal when I was in the 1st grade. I met new friends who were from all over the world, and we helped each other adapt quickly to American life. Though I loved being surrounded by such a variety of people, I always wished I could meet someone from my own culture.

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Sure, I had numerous cousins, aunts, and uncles living nearby, some only a few blocks away. On weekends our family gatherings brought us all together, and this helped me to hold on to my roots. But in school, I sometimes felt like I should carry around a map of the world, so that every time I was asked where Nepal was, I could just point it out. I wanted to meet someone my age, at my school, who was Nepali. That way I could show my other friends that I’m not the only Nepali who exists.

One rainy April morning in 8th grade, I was walking to school with a bold, fast pace when I saw a girl nearby rushing too. I stole a quick glance and caught a face I did not recognize. She smiled widely at me and I tried to smile back with just as much enthusiasm, but I couldn’t get my lips to stretch out that far.

About a week later, I was in the cafeteria when my friend Michelle came up to me in excitement. “Look what I’ve got, Neha!” she exclaimed. She showed me the messenger bag hanging by her waist. The design was familiar—it was an authentic Nepalese hand-sewn bag.

“Where did you get that?” I blurted. I’d never seen one for sale here in New York.

“Oh, Ali gave it to me, silly,” she said. “How can you not know her—she’s Nepali like you! She moved here from California.” I looked around to see who Michelle was pointing at. “Wow—the girl who was smiling in the rain,” I thought.

A Friend Like Me

I went right up and introduced myself to Ali. Her excitement was five times as strong as mine, which was amusing. I began to eat lunch with her every day. It was an amazing feeling, after all those years, to no longer be the only Nepali girl in school. In the beginning we hung out with all my other friends, but as our friendship grew, we would have lunch one-on-one. It became our daily routine.

Having a Nepali friend was perfect, just as I had imagined. It felt like Ali and I had everything in common, from our love for the show One Tree Hill to our dislike of cats. We would talk about everything—and though often we talked about things that I’d probably talk about with my other friends, even the simplest topics engaged me when I talked to her.

I felt I could relax and be myself around her because we shared a culture. I didn’t have to question Ali on why she did certain things or explain to her what I do for a certain cultural holiday. It was nice to have a break from all that for once.

Our lunch dates turned into long phone conversations on weekends. She would sleep over at my house Sunday nights, and early in the morning on Monday we would stop by her house, where her father made us bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches that we’d eat as we headed to school. Before I knew it, she knew everything about me. She spent so much time at my house, my mom would cook dinner for her as well without even asking.

Listening to the Faucet Drip

Although Ali knew practically everything about my family, for a while I didn’t get to know much about hers. I knew that she lived with her dad alone since her mother had passed away, and that she had a brother in the military. Beyond that, she didn’t volunteer information and I didn’t ask. I thought it was strange that she didn’t talk more about her family, and sometimes I’d get curious. But I never followed through on asking her questions.

Then she began to call me late at night, saying that her father was still at work. He was a lawyer and his schedule was unpredictable. She seemed to be bored and looking for someone to talk to.

I didn’t mind being that someone. Her phone call was my ticket out of having to play cards, which I wasn’t any good at, with my parents and brother. Ali would complain, “I don’t know what to watch on TV. I don’t have anything to do. My room is so quiet I can seriously hear water dripping from my bathroom faucet.”

I laughed along and told her I would love to be home alone. “Go to your cousins’ house or something!” I advised once.

“I don’t have any cousins that I know of. It’s just my dad and me.”

“Oh.”

Tears on the Phone

I invited Ali along on family outings, from picnics to camping trips upstate. When my mom decided to have a barbecue party for my dad’s birthday, I invited her to that, too. It would be her first time coming to one of my family’s big get-togethers. “You should come so I don’t die of boredom,” I told Ali over the phone.

“Oh my gosh. How exciting! So all your cousins and aunts are going to be there?”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t wait! What should I get him?”

“Relax. He’s so old! Just bring yourself. It’s nothing exciting—just my loud family, my uncles telling senseless jokes, and my cousins blasting music as the younger ones run around the house with a Frisbee. Very typical, very boring.”

image by Elijah Hickson

“Typical to you maybe, but I can’t remember the last time I had so many family members under one roof. The biggest family get-together I’ve ever been to was with my dad, my brother, and his fiancé. It was a goodbye dinner before my brother joined the military.” She began to cry. At first I just heard sniffles and thought she was sick, but as it went on longer, I could clearly hear her sobs. Her voice was shaky and she said, “I know I’m lame.”

Not knowing what to say, I told her, “Having get-togethers every weekend is not that great, trust me.”

She was quiet so I said I’d see her later, and hung up. It made me feel a little impatient—I didn’t like Ali being upset; I liked her as her witty, optimistic self. This side to her wasn’t as appealing, and I didn’t know how to help her. I made a mental note to avoid more conversations like that.

Free Bird

Ali’s positive, perky energy was back in place when she arrived for my dad’s party. She socialized with everyone. One minute she was talking to my 5-year-old cousin about her collection of Barbie dolls; the next she was conversing with my uncle on how hybrid cars are built. She seemed ready with a topic compatible to each of my family members. Her loud laughter seemed contagious.

I walked away, needing some space from the chaos. She was my friend and I thought she’d come to spend time with me. I wanted to listen to music or watch a movie in my room. It didn’t make sense for her to be hanging out with my family members who were years younger or older than her.

Sitting on a chair apart from the party scene, I watched her interact with my family and tried to figure out what every gesture and smile on her face was about. As I watched, some of her words came back to me. I thought about how she’d said, “Coming to your house and being with your family makes me feel like a bird that is free after being caged. I am so used to quiet. I like it here.” My irritation calmed a little and I reflected that it was actually nice how she respected my family. They seemed to enjoy her company as well.

Her Point of View

For the rest of that night, I watched Ali at the barbecue and thought about how engaged she was every time she came to our family events. I saw how her bright smile lit up her face, and it all made sense: She wasn’t used to being around so many people who welcomed her and wanted her company. She had been telling me for a while how lonely she was, but what that meant hadn’t registered with me.

Now, I realized how much loneliness was part of her life. Here I was thinking how annoying it was to be around my family, wanting to run into my room and wait for the night to be over, while she was wishing the night would never end. What I took for granted and perceived as something with no value, my friend treated with the highest respect.

It made me suddenly wonder: Where would I be without those people out there? Who would I be? And how long will I have them with me? As those questions ran through my mind, my knees began to feel weary. I took a seat closer to the loud scene and inhaled the spring air, realizing how ignorant I had been. I kept my thoughts to myself, but vowed I would begin to apply what I had realized to my daily routine.

Speaking to Her Dad

I probably should have thanked Ali for helping me see all this, but I didn’t want to have another sensitive conversation with her. She seemed so strange when she became emotional, like someone I didn’t recognize. Her face without a broad smile made me uncomfortable, and I was afraid that letting her know what I had learned from her would make her dwell once again on what she didn’t have.

Yet as our friendship continued, I never forgot how Ali had led me to change my perspective on my family. I began to feel more concerned about her loneliness, which neither school, hobbies, nor even my friendship seemed to cure. I decided to speak to my parents, hoping to get some advice about how to help Ali. They advised me to speak with her father and said they would help.

We got the chance to speak to him at a small Nepali cultural party. The fact that he was there by himself, without Ali, already seemed odd. When we approached him and raised the subject of what was going on with Ali, he seemed to laugh it off at first, as though the matter was not so serious.

But as we pressed him, saying we were worried for Ali, he talked about how hard it was to work full-time with a young daughter at home. He said he wanted her to be around a family atmosphere, so he would call his sister in California and arrange for Ali to stay with her for a while.

When Ali found out I’d spoken to her father, she was not happy with me. She started avoiding me, and when I confronted her about it, she said “I can’t believe you think I’m a little girl who cannot take care of herself. Don’t complain about me in such a sneaky way to my dad without letting me know first.”

I was upset that she was angry with me, but I knew I’d only spoken up because I wanted what was best for her. I probably should have told her this, but I felt like she was too stubborn to understand my true intentions, so I didn’t. Pretty soon our friendship began to fade away.

Gone But Not Forgotten

A few months later, Ali’s father decided to move to California with Ali permanently so they could live with his sister’s family. I was relieved that he was doing what was best for her. And I felt those family members should get a chance to see Ali’s face light up around them, the way it did around my family, because her joy was so pleasant to be around.

As a friend, I probably should have let Ali vent to me freely about her feelings. If I’d been in her situation, I know Ali would have listened to me with her full attention. I feel I could have been better to her in that respect.

But I’ll always be grateful to Ali. Her reaction to my family helped me understand that special family moments won’t be around forever. She made me think twice before I frown about spending time with my family, because not everyone is as lucky as I am, surrounded by such loving people.

I do sometimes forget to follow this lesson, but it is always in the back of my mind. Every time I’m frustrated with my family, I try to take a step back to remember that moment when I recognized their value. This helps me relax enough to ask myself if whatever I am frustrated or unsatisfied about is worth getting upset over. Usually it is not.