𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧

26

I love Angelo Russo. I could never marry a Bengali man or any man because that would be unfair to my future husband.

How can I be with a man when my heart belongs to someone else?

I want to marry Angelo Russo. I want to be in his life forever.

My thoughts fight against each other. On one hand, I am in love but on the other, my parents would be disappointed in me. They wouldn't love me anymore. I wouldn't be enough in their eyes. If I get married to a Bengali man I would finally be enough.

Why couldn't I receive my parents' love another way? Why is it that it seems that they will love me more when I consider giving up my happiness for a Bengali man? Why did I have to fall in love with an Italian? Darn, all those books I used to read growing up. 13-year-old me really set me up.

I do not necessarily have a type. I think everyone is beautiful in their own way and my main concern is personality. I live in a diverse city with a surplus of Bengali boys but none of them have ever given Bangladesh and Islam good representation. The brown boys in my community who my family and I knew would either do drugs, say racist slurs, or smoke. And there were probably five boys I knew that were somewhat religious and not terrible people, including my two brothers. But none of them were my age or I would ever consider future prospects.

I became "attractive" by society's standards when I was 17. Lots of Bengali boys my age tried hitting on me but the issue was that they may be nice to me, however, they treated other girls like complete trash. I am not the type of girl who dreams of a man who is only nice to her. It is not cute or attractive.

Having horrible encounters with Bengali boys all throughout my childhood made me feel as if there were no good ones out there. And I did not want to move out of Los Angeles.

So that is where my issues lie. If there are no amazing and boarder line perfect Bengali boys that I know of in my twenty mile radius, how will I ever fulfill my parents' wishes?

I am utterly and terribly screwed.

I walk downstairs to grab a snack when I hear my parents speaking to each other. I pause my steps when I hear my name being brought up. I hide behind the staircase as I listen.

"We have to take her to Bangladesh. That's the only way. She has gotten out of control. I don't even recognize her anymore. Leaving the house at 4 in the morning to see a man! I only allowed her to go to manipulate her into getting married." Amma tells baba and my chest begins to ache.

"I know. But this is your fault! You should have raised her better!" Baba yells and I feel my eyes become watery.

"It's not my fault that she's crazy! None of our other children are like this. I don't know what happened with her."

"We gave her too much freedom. We've given her everything she could ever want, a car, phone, laptop, iPad." Baba replies and tears slowly fall from my eyes.