My mother and I were getting out of a cab in New Orleans. “Where are we?” she asked as we arrived at the campus of Tulane University, noticing the palm trees and the tropical heat. “Are we even in America anymore?” She was not pleased with my choice of Tulane for college.  I started to cry. “I’ll go back to Connecticut if you think this is a bad idea,” I offered.

“No, you’ve made your choice, now better see it through,” she said, trying to lift my spirits. She had wanted me to stay close to home and attend Trinity College in Hartford. When I received notice from Trinity, it stated I was on the wait list, and to please respond about whether or not I wanted to remain on it.

My parents were beginning to have financial troubles and attending Trinity would have meant I could live at home which would save quite a lot of money. But I wanted the full college experience, to be “away” from home. So, without telling my mother, I responded to Trinity that I needed to stay on the wait list for personal reasons, but did not really want to attend the school. The next letter that arrived from Trinity, to my relief,  informed me that I had not been accepted. So I accepted admission to Tulane, packed my things, and my mother and I went to New Orleans.

We attended the parent student orientation activities. She helped me set up the tiny dorm room I shared with another student. And then she pulled out the phone book.

“There must be some Pakistani families in New Orleans,” she said flipping to the K’s.

“I guess so.” I said, not realizing what she was doing.

“Here we are,” she said pointing to the name Khan. She picked up the phone and started dialing the number.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Do you even know these people?”

“Hello,” she said into the phone. “My name is Sunny Afzal Khan, and my daughter is starting school at Tulane University this month. Are you from Pakistan?” she asked. “It would be nice to have some of our people to look after her.”

I was beginning to shrink into a state of embarrassment, thinking to myself, I can’t believe she’s calling random people from the phone book.

“That sounds lovely,” she said. “One O’ Clock? Okay then. In front of the main entrance.” They invited us for lunch the next day.

“But we don’t even know these people.” I protested.

“They’re from Pakistan,” my mother responded confidently. “You’re so far from home. It will be nice for you to have some of our people to look after you.” I was audibly groaning by this point.

The next day, a very nice middle-aged couple picked us up and took us to their home for lunch. He was a doctor and she was a housewife. The lunch was perfectly pleasant, as were they, but this is not what I had in mind for college.

“It’s important for our people to stick together,” my mother said to the doctor and his wife. “You’ll look after her wont you?”

They called me often after that, respecting my mother’s wishes, and inviting me over for dinner or lunch. I never returned the calls. I was too busy with college life to visit with my “people.”

In the end, it turned out my mother was right. Tulane was a not a good choice for me, for a number of reasons, and  I only stayed there one year.