28 Oct Love Binds Us All – ਪਿਆਰ ਸਾਨੂੰ ਸਾਰਿਆਂ ਨੂੰ ਬੰਨ੍ਹਦਾ ਹੈ
It was the 11th of September, 2023.
I was on a business trip for Harbor Freight Tools, flying from San Jose, CA, to Dallas Love Field Airport. It was a cool morning in the bay; the Prius Lyft ride to the terminal and the security line was a breeze. I interacted with a few fellow Young Sikh men in the queue who greeted and chatted with me; they were flying to LA. My gate was just off of the TSA exit zone to the terminal. At 5:46 AM PST, the airport announced a one-minute silence in memory of the dear lives and our brave first responders we lost. Shaking our plugged inertia, a few of us stood up for the silence that stretched beyond 60 seconds. Shivers ran through the entirety of life, my eyes moist, and the memories of that day transported me back in time.
Western Herald Archives, Sep 24, 2001
That Tuesday was a crisp Michigan Autumn morning, just breaking the dawn; the cool air and leaves in tree canopies were building momentum for the fall season, and scattered larch leaves were signaling what was about to come. My landscape Supervisor, Kim, and I had just finished our early morning rituals of putting trash liners, sweeping the walkways, and tidying up the area around the building entrance before the students of Western Michigan arrived on campus.
Around 8 a.m., we headed to our respective breaks to grab a bite, and I went to my apartment nearby to grab some tea and breakfast. It was there, on live TV, where I watched the horrendous attacks of 9/11 unfold, and the dawn’s sacredness plunged into mourning, leaving the whole nation in shock, wounded, and traumatized. The country was grasping what transpired, fueled by the media’s insensitivity and ignorance about Sikhs. We became a lightning rod for backlash and hate.
I wondered, observing the escaping autumn sky, soon the delicate flakes of winter would lay siege, and neither the untethered leaves nor I would have a passage to the blooming spring. More slurs, intimidation, and public profiling became the everyday norm. The absorbed burden engulfed me, and the haze of hatred was overbearing.
Callous name-calling in public squares hurt me the most, especially if it was a person of color. I often mustered courage and told them, Brother, I don’t expect that from you. I had to watch my back, not as a matter of fact, but as a gut reaction to the amped-up backlash. After graduating the following winter, I moved to NYC to start my professional journey. Working in New York City during that time was also a window into the American resilient core; despite this hatred, random acts of kindness towards me and the larger Sikh community had started to grow. People from all walks of life visited our house of worship (Gurudwara) to show their solidarity toward us. That human acknowledgment, plus the envelope of kindness from colleagues and friends, helped me keep my path nourished with much-needed warmth and bloom.
Kim, Jack, Taran at Miller Auditorium Hill, Western Michigan University.
Sikhs’ belief in the oneness of life and universal brotherhood gave our community the hope to carve out a message of love and resilience. An obscure minority like us muscled up advocacy to reach the national scale. However, I found it ironic that, as humans, we have to speak, yell, and often cry out loud to tell who we are and who we are not.
Twenty-two years later, my flight had a layover without a plane change in Austin, and I was the only passenger en route on the same plane to Dallas-Love-Field. My Californian circadian rhythm was eager to grab breakfast to silence my empty stomach. I grabbed a toasted bagel and hot tea, as I often did when I worked for a year in the Upper East Side of NYC.
Loving & giving crew of Southwest Airlines
After enjoying the crunchy bagel, I boarded the plane back; as I walked the jetway, each step in that hollow pathway was like finding light after the tunnel. I greeted the crew and requested a long-arm selfie with the captain and the team, with a Southwest’s love sign in front of us.
I eased into my window view, and a part of me in the orphan clouds ceased to exist. As the plane taxied into the Dallas airport, the Love signs were ominously present everywhere, and I knew this was no ordinary flight for me. Hands folded, eyes moist, I thanked the crew and walked through the light jetway, each stride blissfully planted.
My epiphany to be present and acknowledge my vulnerabilities when faced with adversity has changed my life forever. Ink, creative expression, and gratitude are my companions for good. I know no matter which way the wind blows, the light within us is bound by Love.
I’m sincerely thankful to everyone who cared, nurtured, shared a smile, stood with me, and opened their hearts to embrace me; your buoyant love has kept the poet “Singh” afloat.
I have no courage to sigh
when the wounds are in the sky.
The ash has silenced my joy
In the hardened clay,
I preserve my voice.
When all I do is seclude pain,
my healing is in vain.
My tears are lead-heavy and soul-weary.
To rise–
I unfold my fists and collapse the space
between my hands,
humming, dear buoyant love in the air
grace me with bliss and stride.
(ਮੈਨੂੰ ਖੁਸ਼ੀ ਅਤੇ ਤਰੱਕੀ ਵੱਲ ਇੱਕ ਕਦਮ ਬਖਸ਼ੋ)