A strong sense of my motherland Bangladesh strikes my sensations as I pass by 74th Street, Jackson Heights in the morning at seven o’ clock. A gentle breeze at the intersection of the thirty-fifth and thirty-seven avenue welcomes me with open arms and refresh me. I stand by to admire the view. The pin drop silence reminds me of my room. And in a few seconds the place starts to become a little busy. An array of kindergarten children would walk to school on the opposite side of the road, often crying as they head to school. Sometimes I happen to see volunteers giving out fliers to recruit more students for the new branch of math matters (where I worked). We would greet each other and pass by.
Smell of delicious Bengali food soothes my senses. I stop there and the salesman would offer me a pack of rice. The fragrance of tea would drive me to one of the nearby stores. People are seen eating spicy biryani, kebab for their breakfast. Friends and even strangers would engage into a conversation if the topic sounds interesting. The most heated topic of discussion is politics. People are always itching to voice their own opinion. Conflict breaks out if there is a serious disagreement. A handful of students are seen discussing their homework, polishing some last minute thoughts before they head to school. Every now and then, some religiously devoted Muslims are seen heading to the seventy third street mosque. I wish I could join them; unfortunately, I have to go to work. I am never bored by this place. Although the place lacks all forms of enjoyment, yet I love it because it is a representative of my identity and culture.
A sense of urgency would overcome me as soon as I alight from the forty second street port authority bus terminal train station. The continuous honking would intoxicate the atmosphere. I would ask myself “What on earth have I walked myself into?” Thousands of cars are seen travelling down the street. People are heading to work at the swiftest pace. Unlike Jackson Heights, there is no time to greet. Either you move or you miss. Polices are continuously patrolling the area. Everyone now and then, one hears incidents on gun shooting and violence which makes this bustling area unsafe. There is no time to stand and admire the view except if one is a visitor. The tide of rush propagates me into movement. People can curse you out if you block their way. A lady once called me stupid just because I was blocking her way to work when I was picking up my handkerchief.
However, this is the region which constitutes American culture. The huge…