America wants you to win.
It was not too long ago that I was a recent immigrant from India, and my port of entry was Dallas, Texas. I had a job offer from NEC Corporation in Irving. I landed on a Wednesday night, and the next morning I went to the NEC office to pick up my paperwork. It was April, and the weather was quite pleasant. I grabbed a paper bus schedule and jumped on a route that took me from the NEC office to an apartment complex I had called earlier.
While the apartment was a walk, right next to the bus stop was another complex with a huge sign announcing availability. I walked in and immediately got a tour. That’s when I was introduced to strange new terms like “credit” and “rental history.” I shook my head every which way. I told them, “I have the job offer letter.” And they were like, “Perfect! Get us a cashier’s check for the deposit.” I asked, “Where do I get that?”
“The bank,” they said.
Next on my quest was finding this bank. I walked out of the leasing office, turned my head, and behold! There was a NationsBank branch down the block. I walked in, showed my offer letter and Indian passport, and bam! Checking account, savings account, debit card, and a cashier’s check. Before noon, I was holding the keys to my new apartment. A very American experience: show up, get a job, and get a place to sleep.
A few months in, I figured out that public transportation was rather limited and the New Delhi heat had nothing on a Texas summer. I walked over to the mall and found Sears Driving School. I signed up for lessons, and soon enough, test day arrived. My instructor was a portly white guy. I was to take the test in his student car; he showed up on time, and we met at the DMV for our appointment. We went over every lesson: exaggerated stop sign lookouts, blinkers, and the holy grail—parallel parking.
The DMV instructor and I got into the Acura Integra and had a nice drive. As we pulled back into the lot, there was a motorcycle parked in the parallel parking test spot. The DMV instructor asked me to let him out, and off he went. I parked the car, turned it off, and stepped out—only to be surprised by my Sears instructor running towards me, pumping his fist in glee. It took me a moment to register that I had passed. He said, “You made it! I needed that!!”
My Indian brain was confounded at the idea that someone would find triumph in my success. India is an ancient civilization that was—and still is—confused by the collision of tradition and the industrial age. There, for the most part, it is each one for themselves. But here, someone who took my money and could’ve walked away with no strings attached was vested in my positive outcome. Lately, my Sears instructor had a few students who didn’t pass. He really needed this win. And he wanted me to get my money’s worth.
Turns out, he had spoken to the motorcycle guy and asked him to stick around for a few more minutes, gambling that the DMV instructor would just let the parallel parking portion slide. And that’s exactly what happened. I do take pride in my parallel parking, even on the hills of San Francisco, but that’s how it went down.
Over the years, these moments have stayed with me. The handshake apartment. The bank that didn’t require sacred offerings of bureaucratic paperwork. The Sears instructor who rejoiced in his instruction bearing fruit. All of these tailwinds revealed something essential: in America, your success is someone else’s success. The instructor needs you to pass. The bank needs you to thrive. Your winning doesn’t diminish them—it proves they were right about you.
America wants you to win. 🇺🇸
photo: that’s me somewhere in Sparks, Nevada around wild horses and somewhere behind me in the valley is the first Tesla Gigafactory