The warmth of a thousand suns

In the sauna, he smiles and greets me with the warmth of a thousand suns, as if all of South Africa had been condensed into a bottle for his giving when he immigrated to America, to a place where winter endures for more than half the year. On a good day he tells people he’s from Zimbabwe instead, where he was born but not raised. The sun has failed to pierce through the thick grey outside, but he radiates enough light for the both of us when I ask him of home. I know today is a good day because he tells me about Zimbabwe.

I learn, too, that he’s in a nursing program, at the university where I was once a graduate student. In a previous life, he was an electrical engineer who had wanted to work under one of my advisors, a professor of chaos and dynamical systems. His interest was complex systems and data science, just like mine was. But he had a family to raise, and it would be easier to do so as nurse in this country. So that’s what he chose. He gave up his dream to support his two children and his wife’s. His wife was already on track to earn her own PhD. At least there will be one doctor in the family, he said.

What he misses most about Africa is the sense of community, his social life, the ability to walk down the street to meet a friend for coffee at any hour of the clock, people talking to each other, children running around everywhere with unscheduled freedom. It’s different in America. He feels more isolated, less connected. Everyone is friendly but no one wants to become friends. Who wants to transform their brief interactions at the gym and grocery store into deeper relationships, into invitations to linger on the couch, around the dinner table? His eyes dart to the grimy corner of the sauna. The smile has faded from his face.

My children, he says, they’re so excited for summer. Why, I ask? They’re excited to see their friends. They’re excited to go back home. There it is again: his smile. Eyes with home in sight. The warmth of a thousand suns.