In celebrating diversity in corporate America, each month carries a theme of one of our cultures’ components. February is the Black History month, March is Women in Leadership, April is Religious Heritage, May is Asian Heritage, September/October is Hispanic Heritage, and November is American Indian Heritage month.
In April 2006, after displaying a video on Islam and Muslims in Henry Schacht Auditorium at Lucent Technologies, in Naperville, Illinois, I was among the panelist to answer audience questions. It’s a different feeling when you are on stage, with lights focused on you, with audience eyes and ears are examining your moves and what you say. For those who are not in talk show and entertainment business, it feels like being exposed and examined by the public at one time in the outdoors.
Questions started to come gradually from our peers, and our group started to answer in turn. From the far upper right hand side of the seating area, a question came from my office mate. It was not related to the documentary; rather Jihad not touched upon, and Islam and Muslims are viewed through 9/11 attacks that couldn’t be reconciled with the message of peace viewed on tape. “I had a similar perspective about America before coming here,” I replied; “I thought it was about gorgeous women and sex.” The crowd cracked in laughter. I continued, “Until I came down here, lived among people, and found out they were different than what I saw on screen. They are good people.” It depends on the lens through which one sees the world around him. People, in all cultures, see as much as the circle marked by the size of their own cone of light.
This tracks me few years back where I was asked about my first experience coming to America. When I was a little kid, America to me was the black and white cowboys in Bonanza, the Virginian, and the peaceful loving family and pure childhood in Little House in the Prairie. As the TV turned into colors, the arrivals were Falcon Crest, Steve Austin the Six Million-Dollar Man, and Bay Watch.
After finishing my Masters in Electrical Engineering in Egypt, I was looking to pursue my doctoral degree in the USA. I sent close to 60 requests to Universities all over the country. While waiting for responses, which seemed to be talking time longer than my patience was, one of my former instructors came back from Canada and offered to submit my resume to his former supervisor, whom he praised as a very respectable professor. “It is much easier to get enrolled in a program in Canada than the US,” he said. I handed him my papers, and continued knocking the doors of US Universities. While in this process, I received a scholarship to start doctoral program in the fall of 1988, from the Electrical and Computer Engineering Department, at the University of Manitoba, Canada.
Hardly knowing much about Canada, I know nothing about this place called Winnipeg, Manitoba. Excited about the opportunity and curious about the place, I ran down to my sister’s apartment to look for information in the Britannica. Population, 1 million; largest city, Winnipeg, under 600,000; Climate, continental prairie!!! I stopped right there, “What is continental prairie climate? We didn’t take that in school,” I said to myself. I looked at the temperature variations; I was shocked … -40 to +40 degrees Celsius! I filliped quickly through the pages to find pictures, which weren’t many, and of course in black and white that added to the grim of the place and made it even colder than it reads. A picture showed snow covering major streets. Pedestrians and transportations were scarce compared to the crowded streets I’m accustomed to in Cairo. My imagination started to go wiled as I was thinking how these people live when the temperature go down to -40 C? “They must have igloos winter residence to be able to withstand this extreme cold,” I was imagining. “But that does not sound right,” I refuted this hypothesis. That was too far of a stretch, but I couldn’t resist the thought. They figured it out; otherwise, it is not feasible to have a city at this location, in the first place. I have to wait and see.
As the departure time approached on January 1st of 1988, my family and friends were running around to find me winter clothing to survive the cold of this new place. There are no gloves sold in stores in Cairo. It is hard to find a suitable hat. A friend of my mother knitted a pair of gloves for me. If I spread my fingers, I see half of the skin of my hand.
It was 16 C on the day of my trip. I was bundled in layers for the cold I’m going to; double socks, long johns, long sleeve thermal, shirt, sweater, wool suit, coat, scarf, and whatever we could find to cover my head. I hugged my parents and family, taking the flight for the first time in my life to be totally on my own, in a far away place that we have never been to before, except through TV. That is to Big Apple, New York City was the fist stop in my journey to Winnipeg.
After 12 long hours, where the sun seemed it never sets, Egypt Air flight arrived at JFK where my first foot touched for the first time the New World, America. Nothing was extraordinary going through customs, and getting my luggage, but I wasn’t really supper impressed with the airport. It definitely is much better than Cairo’s, but does not stand out. I hopped into the shuttle to LaGuardia for American Airlines connecting flight to Toronto. Travelling through the streets of New York, it wasn’t really an apple as marketed. Houses with no windows, entrances closed by plywood doors, neglected yards, graffiti graphics on walls, black elder people limping or sitting on curbs, and polluted air.
I was tired when entered, before midnight, Pearson’s International airport in Canada. But I was refreshed with the smile and pleasant welcome from the customs officer who seemed fresh in his looks, even at this hour at night. The smell of clean air revitalized me to carry myself to the next flight on Air Canada to Winnipeg.
To be continued…Winterpeg
