Coming Back Home

I remember the morning when I first fully comprehended the reality of my father leaving for foreign employment in a Gulf country. I was in middle school then, and the first time he left,  it was early in the morning when I was still asleep. I would wake up to a quiet home, with the absence of his bags and luggage. The days that followed were tinged with sadness, but I grew accustomed to this pattern as both my uncles soon followed in similar footsteps as my father. Every time someone was to leave, I would only know a couple of days in advance and then a familiar sight would follow— the final packing, the goodbyes, and the deafening silence that was left behind. 

As the years passed, my father would occasionally come back home on a break, bringing back gifts of clothes and foreign sweets. He would also bring shirts from the companies he had worked for. Most of those shirts would look the same. The collared, half-sleeved shirts with company logos were a common sight in my home, and I would pick my favorites based on how appealing the logos looked. One time, my father brought a Starbucks shirt, and I remember how attractive the logo was—its simple cup of coffee logo standing out among others. My least favorite gifts were when he would bring shirts from companies that I had never heard of and for some reason, their logos could never grab my attention. 

As I grew older, I came to appreciate the effort my father put into bringing back presents for us, despite the grueling work he had to endure in foreign lands. This winter, as I packed my bags for a trip back to my birthplace in Nepal, I found myself mimicking my father's instincts as I struggled to decide which gifts to take, wishing I could take home as many things as possible. As I packed my bags, I was eager to bring back to my family the tangible evidence of my time at Harvard, in the form of merchandise and gifts. I wanted to replace those company shirts and belongings my father had brought with new items, bearing the Harvard logo, to depict my affiliation with this institution. 

For many first-generation and low-income students like myself, attending Harvard signifies a monumental shift in our family's history. It’s a turning point in our social and economic standing and promises us upward social mobility that most people could only dream of. We take the baton from our parents and push forward with relentless determination, eager to make the most of our opportunities here. However, as much as I was eager to embrace my identity as a Harvard student, I was also reminded of the need to return to my roots. Just like in a relay race, I had to go back to where I started. And so, as I arrived back home to my parents during winter break, I carried the weight of my education and the expectations it carried with it. I had no intention of handing the baton back to my parents, but rather I wanted to show them that I was ready to carry it forward, with the confidence and opportunities that came with being a Harvard student.