09 Jan How Ms. Oprah Raised Me
When Lucky Chucha (in Urdu Chucha refers to my father’s younger brother) decided to marry an “Umrican” it wasn’t the first time a male had married outside of race and religion in our family’s history nor would it be the last. Nancy was a rebel from the start: “Don’t call me Nancy Aunty…it sounds so old!”; “Start wearing seatbelts…you want to live past 13, don’t you?”; “What do you mean you don’t know what Disney is? Let’s go see Cinderella at the Cineplex…right now!”; “Doesn’t anyone know the concept of personal space in this family?”
Nancy’s porcelain skin, long, blonde hair and blue eyes were in direct contrast to Lucky Chucha’s mahogany coloring, deep, brown eyes and dark features. Both worked hard to settle in Schaumburg, a suburb outside of Chicago. Sara, my cousin was born in May of 1984, and that summer Chucha and Nancy requested to have me over for a week to stay with them.
“I think my uncle and aunt only lived 20 miles away,
but for me it was 20 light years – another Universe all together.”
Arriving on their tree-lined block, with manicured lawns, flower beds, and children playing on their personal swing sets was bewildering for someone who had just left a home of 12 family members sharing one bathroom and the nearest play set was across the street at the local community center and without swings. I think my uncle and aunt only lived 20 miles away, but for me it was 20 light years – another Universe all together.
Timidly, I walked up the front steps and into their home. There was an upstairs with a living room on the left, a dining room adjacent to the living room, kitchen straight ahead, and down a hall to the right bedrooms with a bathroom or two. There was also an entire basement, a garage, backyard with grass (!), and a giant living room window that gave a view to the happenings in the neighborhood.
Nancy told me to make myself at home, while she made popcorn because her show was about to start. Sara napped in her baby swing (even the baby’s had their own swing set!) as the kids in the neighborhood rode bikes, jumped rope, and enjoyed the summer weather. My shock was still resonating within my body as I walked around, staring with my mouth open, at all the wonders in this magical land of suburbia.
“Samita, sit here,” Nancy patted the sofa cushion next to her as she munched on popcorn. “You’re still standing. It’s starting…shhhh,” I hadn’t said a word since arriving but Nancy wanted to make sure that nothing would disturb her show and shushed nothing but the silence.
“Good morning, Chicago. I’m Oprah Winfrey…” as the voice carried into the topic of the day, my entire body froze and woke up simultaneously.
Approximately the age when I “met” Ms. Oprah.
Up until that moment, I – an 11-year-old, brown, immigrant from Pakistan – had never seen a person of color on television, let alone a confidant woman on stage, with an unusual name, talking to ordinary people about everyday topics. In a zombie trance, I stood, being pulled by an imaginary gravitational field towards the screen, hypnotized by Ms. Oprah’s beautiful, brown skin, poised stance, large microphone in hand, and a presence that I had never before witnessed.
“Isn’t Oprah great? Oh, I just love this show!” Nancy exclaimed.
For the remainder of the week I was Nancy’s assistance: helping with Sara, running errands together, cooking dinner, going for walks, and watching Am Chicago with host Oprah Winfrey. During that week, Ms. Oprah made me believe that anything was possible. She made me believe in the endless possibilities I had for myself. She made me believe in perseverance, integrity, and the American Dream. She made me believe that hope, even during the darkest times, is a light which guides us towards our better selves. She made me believe in me. For a little, immigrant girl that was everything.
That week was the last time I saw Ms. Oprah, but she kept a flame burning in my heart for the potential of what could be. A year later, we had moved from Chicago to Southern California, leaving all hopes to watch Ms. Oprah again in the Windy City. One day, sitting by Dadi, Chotee, Bhari, and a handful of cousins, I asked if we could watch a little bit of television after school.
“If your homework and Quran studies are both completed, you may,” was the reply from the elders.
I flipped through the channels – cartoon, after school special, news, and then – a familiar face, a smile that seeks to find your soul, a bright green skirt and blazer – “Hi, I’m Oprah Winfrey…”
I was crying and my elders were questioning.
“Gee, gee [yes, yes]. I’m good,” I weakly replied. Ms. Oprah followed me to California, I thought. (I wasn’t aware of national syndication at that point in my life.)
From that day on, Ms. Oprah has been there for me during every stage of my life: when high school became unbearable because most (if not all) of my friends were dating and having sex, I was writing in my “gratitude journal”; when my college years cumulated in a 50 pound weight gain, Brother Bob Greene and Ms. Oprah, led me towards “my best life” diet and exercise routine; when my family disowned me for choosing to marry Damon, I turned “towards my soul and being guided by my truth” as Ms. Oprah explained; when my post-partum depression was a shadow drawing me deeper and deeper into its hold, a panel of experts told me that it was not my fault – that my brain was doing things I had no control over and to get help right away. As I held my toddler, twin boys, knowing in my soul the last two years were not “baby blues”, I dialed my husband at work asking to see a therapist that night.
“It’s no surprise the most positive impact has
been by the one I might never meet…”
I have an Umme, Puppa, and Ms. Oprah who have all helped raise me into the woman I am today. It’s no surprise the most positive impact has been by the one I might never meet, who has helped millions by hosting a show for 25 years, resides over a media empire and uses her platform to do philanthropic work, is known for her integrity, and stands in her truth. Stands in her truth, as I stand in mine, and as you stand in yours. Here’s to the power of speaking our truth. Amen, Ms. Oprah. Amen.
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