Leaving A Legacy

Everyone has hopes and dreams. Something they'd like to achieve before their time on this planet is over. And in order for one to reach these goals, they have some sort of motivation. Something that pushes them and gets them to strive towards achieving this goal. A role model, perhaps. An inspiration.

For me, this person would be my grandfather.

Some of the earliest memories I have of my life have to do with my grandfather. For as long as I can remember, he always commanded respect everywhere he went. Yet he never held his nose up at people. Every single memory I have of him is of him being childish, funny, loving and always having a smile on his face.

Allow me to share some stories with you about my grandfather.

Back when he used to visit Chicago from Bangladesh, we used to always go on walks around the neighborhood. One day, it started storming during one of our walks. We were still quite a ways away from the house and were in the middle of a park. As soon as lightning struck, thunder rumbled and the rain came down like no tomorrow, my grandfather pulled me underneath a tree as we sought shelter.

"The safest place during a thunderstorm is under a tree," he said.

That night, there was a news piece about how a bajillion trees were struck down by lightning. ABC 7 News also gave viewers tips on what to do in the event of a thunderstorm. Of course, the number one tip they had was to never stand under a tree. We both looked at each other and cracked up.

Another time, I walked into my room (where he was staying on his visit) and sat down at my desk. He had a ton of Bengali comics and books full of funny stories. He'd read em to me and die laughing. I'd laugh along even though I didn't understand half the things that were being sad. It was funny because he thought it was so funny. So on this one particular day, he read a couple stories then looked at me. He asked what my middle name was and I told him. "S.S.A." were my initials. He took out a piece of paper then wrote down the three letters. He then asked, "do you know what your initials backwards are?" I enthusiastically said "Yes! A-S-S!" He looked at me for a second, then laughed as hard as I've seen him laugh. "You're an ass backwards!" he proclaimed. I still laugh thinking about that haha.

He was also the one that got me into watching wrestling. Every Friday night, Smackdown would come on and we'd watch some of our favorite wrestlers duke it out. He always tried to convince me that it was fake but I told him he was crazy because no one could fake a Stone Cold Stunner! And of course whenever my dad came home and yelled at me for watching too much tv, my grandfather would toss the remote at me and take sides with my dad. Good times for sure, lol.

And then come some of more somber memories. He had suffered from asthma for as long as I can remember and he always had problems with this more than anything else. It got to a point where he was bed-ridden for the last few years of his life. I remember going to Bangladesh one summer and he was in bed sleeping with his oxygen tank. I'd never seen him in such a state of helplessness. The houseworkers had to feed him his meals, he'd need help taking showers. It was a sad situation. And it was a miracle when he started walking around and being his carefree self again right before we came back to the States.

Fast forward to March 2005. I get a call from my uncle (who also lived in Bangladesh) and he told me to give the phone to my dad. No hi's, hello's, how are you's. I thought this was odd but didn't care much of it. My dad was taking a nap but I woke him up since it was a long distance call. I gave him the phone then went back to my room only to hear him break down five seconds later. I ran back and was trying to figure out what happened. My dad couldn't even speak on the phone anymore so he gave it back to me and my uncle, also sobbing, told me what had happened. My grandfather had passed away from his latest asthma attack. I was speechless and I didn't know what to do. This was the first time I had experienced a family member dying. A close one, at that. And this was also the first time I saw my dad cry. My dad. The guy who nothing or no one ever seemed to phase, the rock that held the entire family together, had just broken down.

Through his sobs, my dad asked me to call my mom and let her know what happened. She was at work and I didn't really even think about giving her any warning as to what I was just about to say. To be honest, I can't remember the conversation but I recall her coworker bringing her back home and she started crying as soon as she walked in too. I remember the exact spot in the living room where I was sitting that whole night as people started coming over to visit and console my dad. It was for a good three days straight that people were at our house. Sleep was forgotten, food was only eaten when someone almost force fed us. It was one of the most difficult times for my family.

I remember going to school the day after we got the news and for some reason, I immediately walked up to my teacher and told her what happened. She was Muslim as well, not that it matters. But she was always very nice to me and my mom loved her. That day felt like a dream. My body just went through the motions of school, but I wasn't there at all. The whole time, I was only thinking about something my grandfather said when we went to visit him in Bangladesh while he was bed ridden.

Now before I tell you the three words that he told me, lemme give you a little look into my personality back then. I had a lotta faces in those days. From around 6th grade till my junior year in high school, I could care less about anything or anyone. I don't wanna say I was a rebel or anything like that, I just didn't like or respect authority. I never really sympathized or empathized or any other-pathized with anyone. My whole concept was to "do you" and "trust no one." I'm not gonna front like I grew up in the hood or anything like that because I didn't. But it was still the city life. Fights were common in our public schools, everyone grew up the hard way and we always resented rich people simply because we couldn't have what they had. And just because we were on the northside of the city, doesn't mean we didn't lose our friends to the streets. It's what made us hard and our skins tough. We told the world to bring it because we were damn ready to face it or die trying.

My grandfather noticed and he didn't like it. Sure, I was loose around the family but he saw how I interacted and reacted to situations thrown my way. So the only three words I remember him saying on that visit were three simple words.

"Soften your heart."

Like I said, he died in 2005. That was the year I graduated 8th grade. Also recall that I said I was the same way all the way until junior year. Sure, his death rocked our entire family's life. But I went back to my ways a few weeks after his death. Long story short, I met and associated with better people starting my junior year that allowed me to finally see his words and take them to heart. Finally take those words, implement them, and allow myself to be more human.

Now what's my point in all of this? Well if you've been reading this blog for a while, you'll know I never have a point lmao. I just write. But there is one thing I wanted to touch on in this particular post.

Whenever someone mentions my grandfather, they talk about how great of a person he was. He used to be a judge and was known as one of the fairest in the entire country. He has schools, hospitals, playgrounds named after him. Entire villages know of him and his family. In fact, we went to Bangladesh later in 2005 after he died. It was Eid at that time. We went to Eid prayer that morning where there were hundreds of people. My dad got lost somewhere in the mix and so did my cousins and uncles. After the prayer was over, I was walking around searching for the family. One by one, nearly every single person in the gathering came up to me and asked "You're Yakub Ali's grandson aren't you?" It was stunning to me how they recognized who I was. No one had introduced me and I hadn't been to Bangladesh in years. Plus I had hit puberty since last visiting so I was no longer the short, chubby version of myself. I acknowledged that they were correct and was still stunned at how or why everyone knew me. To this day, people come up to me and tell me stories about my grandfather. More political stories about how he helped the community and helped everyone that asked  for it while upholding his and his family's dignity.

He left a legacy that will remain for generations to come.

What's our one hope after we die? We hope that we achieve all our goals and see our dreams become reality before our time is over but more than that, we don't want to be forgotten. There's that one saying that used to always strike me for being so powerful:

"When you were born, you were crying while everyone else was smiling. Live your life so that when you die, you're the one smiling while everyone around you is crying."


That's what I wanna achieve. I wanna live my life so that when I die, people ask my grandkids "You're Sifat Ali's grandson aren't you? He was a great man that did his part to help the world around him." I wanna leave an impact. I was telling one of my friends recently that I like leaving things with a bang. Of course, we were referring to dumb things in that particular context but this can be applied to my life. I wanna leave with a bang. When I die, I want people to remember that I did something positive. That I helped the world for the better in some way. That I was someone's role model, someone's rock, someone's inspiration. If I live to be half the man my grandfather was, I will die a happy man. If I live a life powerful enough to leave a legacy for generations to come, I will truly rest in peace.