Race/Related: My father, the Pakistani Elvis

Elvis personified everything American, what my dad wished to embody: charisma, rebellion and sex appeal. [View in browser](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP4Q8AWh0dHBzOi8vbWVzc2FnaW5nLWN1c3RvbS1uZXdzbGV0dGVycy5ueXRpbWVzLmNvbS9keW5hbWljL3JlbmRlcj9jYW1wYWlnbl9pZD0zNyZlbWM9ZWRpdF9ycl8yMDI0MDMwMSZpbnN0YW5jZV9pZD0xMTY0NTcmaXNWaWV3SW5Ccm93c2VyPXRydWUmbmw9cmFjZSUyRnJlbGF0ZWQmcGFpZF9yZWdpPTAmcmVnaV9pZD03NzY3NDk1MiZzZWdtZW50X2lkPTE1OTU2OSZ0ZT0xJnVyaT1ueXQlM0ElMkYlMkZuZXdzbGV0dGVyJTJGYWZhZTY1ZGEtMzViYi01NTI1LWI3MzUtY2Y1NWU1ODVhNmUxJnVzZXJfaWQ9YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDdXA255dEIKZeBe0eFl_o61x1IbdHJpc3RyYW1iYWxkd2luOTBAZ21haWwuY29tWAQAAAAD)|[nytimes.com](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0SyaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vP2NhbXBhaWduX2lkPTM3JmVtYz1lZGl0X3JyXzIwMjQwMzAxJmluc3RhbmNlX2lkPTExNjQ1NyZubD1yYWNlJTJGcmVsYXRlZCZyZWdpX2lkPTc3Njc0OTUyJnNlZ21lbnRfaWQ9MTU5NTY5JnRlPTEmdXNlcl9pZD1hYTQ5MWVmN2YxZDk2NGU0OTc5ZmI3ODRlNzRlMDFkN1cDbnl0Qgpl4F7R4WX-jrXHUht0cmlzdHJhbWJhbGR3aW45MEBnbWFpbC5jb21YBAAAAAM~)[Continue reading the main story](#) [Ad](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0SZaHR0cHM6Ly9saXZlaW50ZW50Lm5ld3lvcmt0aW1lc2luZm8uY29tL2NsaWNrP3M9MjA3NTgwJmxpPVJSJm09YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDcmcD1SUl8yMDI0MDMwMSZ0ZT0xJm5sPXJhY2UlMkZyZWxhdGVkJmVtYz1lZGl0X3JyXzIwMjQwMzAxVwNueXRCCmXgXtHhZf6OtcdSG3RyaXN0cmFtYmFsZHdpbjkwQGdtYWlsLmNvbVgEAAAAAw~~) [Race/Related](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TAaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vc3BvdGxpZ2h0L3JhY2U_Y2FtcGFpZ25faWQ9MzcmZW1jPWVkaXRfcnJfMjAyNDAzMDEmaW5zdGFuY2VfaWQ9MTE2NDU3Jm5sPXJhY2UlMkZyZWxhdGVkJnJlZ2lfaWQ9Nzc2NzQ5NTImc2VnbWVudF9pZD0xNTk1NjkmdGU9MSZ1c2VyX2lkPWFhNDkxZWY3ZjFkOTY0ZTQ5NzlmYjc4NGU3NGUwMWQ3VwNueXRCCmXgXtHhZf6OtcdSG3RyaXN0cmFtYmFsZHdpbjkwQGdtYWlsLmNvbVgEAAAAAw~~) March 1, 2024 [A man in an Elvis Presley costume performing on a rug set on grass, with American and Texan flags around him.] Airaj Jilani, a retired oil-and-gas project manager from suburban Houston, performing as Elvis Presley in 2017. Lynsey Addario/Getty Images Reportage, via Getty Images Elvis as a way of life By Seema Jilani Graceland was one of my father’s first stops in America. He had always been a fanatic, performing his first Elvis impersonation at a talent show in Port Harcourt, Nigeria — a way for expats working on oil refineries to let loose. My mother is his enabler, sewing the sequins onto his blue satin capes, bedazzling the ivory jumpsuit with the deep V-neck. When he rumbles, “Thank you, thank you very much, especially to my Priscilla,” with a wink flung at my mom, she still beams. Growing up in Karachi, my father and his friends would pile into the cinema, erupting in song and dance whenever Elvis graced the screen. My dad always carried a comb in his pocket to perfect his Presley-esque hairstyle: smooth sides, floppy front. Elvis personified everything American, what my dad wished to embody: charisma, rebellion and sex appeal. My father, Airaj Jilani, immigrated to the U.S. in March 1979 and worked for an oil-and-gas company in Texas in the days when South Asian men were not welcome. To this day, he wears cowboy boots and his Southern drawl is deeply ingrained. His identity, unlike mine, has never been a question mark. His Elvis impersonations began in Pakistan with performances for family, which quickly catapulted him into becoming a local rock star. As a kid, I watched him shake his hips in local talent shows with utter wonder. Women chased him off the stage, grabbing his scarves. He embraced every aspect of newfound celebrity. Since then, he has performed at benefits, at office parties, throughout Venezuela, on a boat in Istanbul and in a Beirut night club, where an Instagram account streamed his performance live. When he moved to the U.S., he rejected his ethnicity. After we were born, we were to follow suit. An American flag hung outside our home; he took it down when it rained to protect it. We were forbidden to speak Urdu, but my mother still taught us on the sly. Bollywood movies were smuggled in and watched secretly. When my little sister wore a hijab to ground her in spirituality, it was incomprehensible to my father. Instead of living in the suburbs as my parents had envisioned, I became a pediatrician and aid worker who returned to the very same places that they had risked their lives to leave behind. When I worked as a doctor aboard refugee-rescue boats off the coast of Libya, I recognized the strangers as shadows of my family. As a child, my father had boarded a ship in India and sailed north to a newly created Pakistan. He and his siblings used to play in the ship’s boiler room, hopping between turbines. It was warm but deafeningly loud, which spared him from hearing women crying above. Women wept on the vessel I worked on, too. The kids on our ship scaled ladders as their laughter ricocheted off the surf, and I imagined my father doing the same so many years ago. While my father had spent his childhood days splashing in Pakistan’s streets, which were prone to flooding and snakes, or feasting on the free sweets food vendors gave to children, across an ocean was a little Southern boy shaking his hips in Black gospel tents. Music defies borders. Elvis wasn’t just the soundtrack to my father’s American dream. He was a way of life. [Continue reading the main story](#a11y-skip-universal-0) ADVERTISEMENT [Ad](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0SZaHR0cHM6Ly9saXZlaW50ZW50Lm5ld3lvcmt0aW1lc2luZm8uY29tL2NsaWNrP3M9MTc0MTQ5JmxpPVJSJm09YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDcmcD1SUl8yMDI0MDMwMSZ0ZT0xJm5sPXJhY2UlMkZyZWxhdGVkJmVtYz1lZGl0X3JyXzIwMjQwMzAxVwNueXRCCmXgXtHhZf6OtcdSG3RyaXN0cmFtYmFsZHdpbjkwQGdtYWlsLmNvbVgEAAAAAw~~) [A man in an Elvis Presley costume sits with his guitar. ] Mr. Jilani, center, being interviewed by a Lebanese journalist in 2020 before performing at a bar in Beirut, as the writer, right, looks on. Dion Nissenbaum The first American city my father lived in was New Orleans, my birthplace. Surrounded by church songs and music that emanated from neighbors’ backyards, he could not ignore Elvis’s appropriation of Black gospel music. Recognizing the rhythms, he felt betrayed to learn his idol had profited off the ingenuity of an oppressed community. The racism Black people endured in America served as his cautionary tale for immigrants. Now, when he practices guitar, he focuses on musicians he calls “the Original Elvises,” like Buddy Guy, B.B. King and John Lee Hooker. As a Muslim, he finds comfort in Southern Black gospel music and knows more of the words to those hallowed songs than he knows verses of the Quran. He sang while sculpting a life for us: [Continue reading the main story](#a11y-skip-universal-0) ADVERTISEMENT [Ad](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0SZaHR0cHM6Ly9saXZlaW50ZW50Lm5ld3lvcmt0aW1lc2luZm8uY29tL2NsaWNrP3M9MjA3NTc3JmxpPVJSJm09YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDcmcD1SUl8yMDI0MDMwMSZ0ZT0xJm5sPXJhY2UlMkZyZWxhdGVkJmVtYz1lZGl0X3JyXzIwMjQwMzAxVwNueXRCCmXgXtHhZf6OtcdSG3RyaXN0cmFtYmFsZHdpbjkwQGdtYWlsLmNvbVgEAAAAAw~~) The beasts from the wild shall be lit by a child And I’ll be changed Changed from this creature that I am, oh, yes There will be peace in the valley for me, some day. Originally written for Mahalia Jackson by Thomas A. Dorsey, an African American gospel and blues musician, “Peace in the Valley” was later covered by Elvis. Over the years, my dad has broadened his musical tastes, and he now understands that Elvis wouldn’t have existed without Black musicians. At 80 years old, he no longer performs as frequently as he once did. As he watches his grandchildren grow, my father still hums Elvis songs, but he also now radiates with pride when we speak Urdu. I recently asked him why he had been so intent on severing his children from their heritage. “I was trying to make a life, not a political statement,” he said. It was not the heroic insight I sought. I understood only after Sept. 11, 2001, when I was subjected to death threats and insults. During medical-school interviews, I was asked whether I would wear a burqa and whether my father taught me how to make bombs. I was told I was the reason women were stoned. My father had gotten it right. We had to perform: play up our Texas drawl, present ourselves as innocuous, hard-working immigrants who showed gratitude and bury our heritage deep in the ocean my father had crossed. I am similarly obsessed with a Southern visionary rooted in gospel music, a transformative enigma who stirs my spirit, someone also with Louisiana and Texas roots, who taps into her own charisma and work ethic to reclaim the American dream, except she did not have to rely on being white and male: Beyoncé. I saw her live for the first time at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, and my infatuation began. [Continue reading the main story](#a11y-skip-universal-0) ADVERTISEMENT [Ad](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0SZaHR0cHM6Ly9saXZlaW50ZW50Lm5ld3lvcmt0aW1lc2luZm8uY29tL2NsaWNrP3M9NzI4Njk5JmxpPVJSJm09YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDcmcD1SUl8yMDI0MDMwMSZ0ZT0xJm5sPXJhY2UlMkZyZWxhdGVkJmVtYz1lZGl0X3JyXzIwMjQwMzAxVwNueXRCCmXgXtHhZf6OtcdSG3RyaXN0cmFtYmFsZHdpbjkwQGdtYWlsLmNvbVgEAAAAAw~~) Whereas Elvis’s music moved people like me aside, Beyoncé thunders on our behalf — [“Move out the way,”](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TFaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cueW91dHViZS5jb20vd2F0Y2g_Y2FtcGFpZ25faWQ9MzcmZW1jPWVkaXRfcnJfMjAyNDAzMDEmaW5zdGFuY2VfaWQ9MTE2NDU3Jm5sPXJhY2UlMkZyZWxhdGVkJnJlZ2lfaWQ9Nzc2NzQ5NTImc2VnbWVudF9pZD0xNTk1NjkmdGU9MSZ1c2VyX2lkPWFhNDkxZWY3ZjFkOTY0ZTQ5NzlmYjc4NGU3NGUwMWQ3JnY9VWxiVmJLU2lUdU1XA255dEIKZeBe0eFl_o61x1IbdHJpc3RyYW1iYWxkd2luOTBAZ21haWwuY29tWAQAAAAD) she sings — cementing the idea that we will take up space because, as Langston Hughes wrote, we, too, are America. Her indelible impact speaks to Black women but also to women like me: those pushed to the margins. My father still performs his impersonations, and I now hold makeshift Beyoncé, Nina Simone and Erykah Badu concerts in the living room with my daughter. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Black art that taught our family to love itself, a radical concept for many people of color. I am a Muslim Pakistani American doctor who says “y’all” and relishes sweet tea on humid porches, crawfish festivals, trips to Mecca, henna nights and iftar samosas. I have my cowboy-boot-wearing dad to thank for that. EDITORS’ PICKS We publish many articles that touch on race. Here are several you shouldn’t miss. [[On the left, snippets of the book jacket for “Go Tell It on the Mountain” are placed over a blue background. On the right, a black and white portrait of James {NAME}. He is seated and is wearing a collared shirt, tie and knitted vest.] Jean-Regis Rouston/Roger Viollet, via Getty Images](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TXaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vYXJ0aWNsZS9qYW1lcy1iYWxkd2luLWJlc3QtYm9va3MuaHRtbD9jYW1wYWlnbl9pZD0zNyZlbWM9ZWRpdF9ycl8yMDI0MDMwMSZpbnN0YW5jZV9pZD0xMTY0NTcmbmw9cmFjZSUyRnJlbGF0ZWQmcmVnaV9pZD03NzY3NDk1MiZzZWdtZW50X2lkPTE1OTU2OSZ0ZT0xJnVzZXJfaWQ9YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDdXA255dEIKZeBe0eFl_o61x1IbdHJpc3RyYW1iYWxkd2luOTBAZ21haWwuY29tWAQAAAAD) [The Essential James {NAME} He wrote with the kind of clarity that was as comforting as it was chastising. Here’s where to start. By Robert Jones Jr.](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TXaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vYXJ0aWNsZS9qYW1lcy1iYWxkd2luLWJlc3QtYm9va3MuaHRtbD9jYW1wYWlnbl9pZD0zNyZlbWM9ZWRpdF9ycl8yMDI0MDMwMSZpbnN0YW5jZV9pZD0xMTY0NTcmbmw9cmFjZSUyRnJlbGF0ZWQmcmVnaV9pZD03NzY3NDk1MiZzZWdtZW50X2lkPTE1OTU2OSZ0ZT0xJnVzZXJfaWQ9YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDdXA255dEIKZeBe0eFl_o61x1IbdHJpc3RyYW1iYWxkd2luOTBAZ21haWwuY29tWAQAAAAD) [[At a cemetery, Linda Zhang stands by her son Peter’s black grave marker holding a “Happy Birthday” balloon while her husband, Kong Feng Wang, crouching on the grass, collects items in a bag. Their son Jason, in a black T-shirt and sweatpants, stands nearby.] Scott McIntyre for The New York Times](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TsaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vMjAyNC8wMi8xMS91cy9wYXJrbGFuZC1zY2hvb2wtc2hvb3RpbmctY2hpbmVzZS1mYW1pbHkuaHRtbD9jYW1wYWlnbl9pZD0zNyZlbWM9ZWRpdF9ycl8yMDI0MDMwMSZpbnN0YW5jZV9pZD0xMTY0NTcmbmw9cmFjZSUyRnJlbGF0ZWQmcmVnaV9pZD03NzY3NDk1MiZzZWdtZW50X2lkPTE1OTU2OSZ0ZT0xJnVzZXJfaWQ9YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDdXA255dEIKZeBe0eFl_o61x1IbdHJpc3RyYW1iYWxkd2luOTBAZ21haWwuY29tWAQAAAAD) [Lost at Parkland: ‘Peter Was Always My Translator’ For one family, grieving the child they lost in the Parkland, Fla., school shooting is complicated by differences in language and culture. By Amy Qin](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TsaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vMjAyNC8wMi8xMS91cy9wYXJrbGFuZC1zY2hvb2wtc2hvb3RpbmctY2hpbmVzZS1mYW1pbHkuaHRtbD9jYW1wYWlnbl9pZD0zNyZlbWM9ZWRpdF9ycl8yMDI0MDMwMSZpbnN0YW5jZV9pZD0xMTY0NTcmbmw9cmFjZSUyRnJlbGF0ZWQmcmVnaV9pZD03NzY3NDk1MiZzZWdtZW50X2lkPTE1OTU2OSZ0ZT0xJnVzZXJfaWQ9YWE0OTFlZjdmMWQ5NjRlNDk3OWZiNzg0ZTc0ZTAxZDdXA255dEIKZeBe0eFl_o61x1IbdHJpc3RyYW1iYWxkd2luOTBAZ21haWwuY29tWAQAAAAD) [[A black-and-white image of a group of basketball players celebrating. An older man, wearing a suit and a tie, sits on their shoulders.] Tennessee State University](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TwaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vMjAyNC8wMi8wMy91cy9kaWNrLWJhcm5ldHQtdGVubmVzc2VlLXN0YXRlLWJhc2tldGJhbGwtcGJzLmh0bWw_Y2FtcGFpZ25faWQ9MzcmZW1jPWVkaXRfcnJfMjAyNDAzMDEmaW5zdGFuY2VfaWQ9MTE2NDU3Jm5sPXJhY2UlMkZyZWxhdGVkJnJlZ2lfaWQ9Nzc2NzQ5NTImc2VnbWVudF9pZD0xNTk1NjkmdGU9MSZ1c2VyX2lkPWFhNDkxZWY3ZjFkOTY0ZTQ5NzlmYjc4NGU3NGUwMWQ3VwNueXRCCmXgXtHhZf6OtcdSG3RyaXN0cmFtYmFsZHdpbjkwQGdtYWlsLmNvbVgEAAAAAw~~) [A Forgotten Championship H.B.C.U. Team Comes Off the Sidelines Surviving members of the all-Black Tennessee A&I basketball team have fought for recognition since they won three back-to-back national championships at the height of the Jim Crow era. By Remy Tumin](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TwaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vMjAyNC8wMi8wMy91cy9kaWNrLWJhcm5ldHQtdGVubmVzc2VlLXN0YXRlLWJhc2tldGJhbGwtcGJzLmh0bWw_Y2FtcGFpZ25faWQ9MzcmZW1jPWVkaXRfcnJfMjAyNDAzMDEmaW5zdGFuY2VfaWQ9MTE2NDU3Jm5sPXJhY2UlMkZyZWxhdGVkJnJlZ2lfaWQ9Nzc2NzQ5NTImc2VnbWVudF9pZD0xNTk1NjkmdGU9MSZ1c2VyX2lkPWFhNDkxZWY3ZjFkOTY0ZTQ5NzlmYjc4NGU3NGUwMWQ3VwNueXRCCmXgXtHhZf6OtcdSG3RyaXN0cmFtYmFsZHdpbjkwQGdtYWlsLmNvbVgEAAAAAw~~) [[At foreground, two multicolored installations made of clothing collected from migrants; on the walls are portraits of migrant children whose faces are covered with items they carried on their journeys.] Victor Llorente for The New York Times](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0T6aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vMjAyNC8wMi8yOS9hcnRzL2Rlc2lnbi92ZW5lenVlbGEtY29sb21iaWEtbWlncmFudHMtYXBleGFydC1yZWZ1Z2Vlcy5odG1sP2NhbXBhaWduX2lkPTM3JmVtYz1lZGl0X3JyXzIwMjQwMzAxJmluc3RhbmNlX2lkPTExNjQ1NyZubD1yYWNlJTJGcmVsYXRlZCZyZWdpX2lkPTc3Njc0OTUyJnNlZ21lbnRfaWQ9MTU5NTY5JnRlPTEmdXNlcl9pZD1hYTQ5MWVmN2YxZDk2NGU0OTc5ZmI3ODRlNzRlMDFkN1cDbnl0Qgpl4F7R4WX-jrXHUht0cmlzdHJhbWJhbGR3aW45MEBnbWFpbC5jb21YBAAAAAM~) [In Art, Migrants Weave Memories of Their Great Escape At Apexart, an exhibition by Venezuelan migrants offers “a chance to be a part of something again, to return to a community.” By Juan A. Ramírez](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0T6aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vMjAyNC8wMi8yOS9hcnRzL2Rlc2lnbi92ZW5lenVlbGEtY29sb21iaWEtbWlncmFudHMtYXBleGFydC1yZWZ1Z2Vlcy5odG1sP2NhbXBhaWduX2lkPTM3JmVtYz1lZGl0X3JyXzIwMjQwMzAxJmluc3RhbmNlX2lkPTExNjQ1NyZubD1yYWNlJTJGcmVsYXRlZCZyZWdpX2lkPTc3Njc0OTUyJnNlZ21lbnRfaWQ9MTU5NTY5JnRlPTEmdXNlcl9pZD1hYTQ5MWVmN2YxZDk2NGU0OTc5ZmI3ODRlNzRlMDFkN1cDbnl0Qgpl4F7R4WX-jrXHUht0cmlzdHJhbWJhbGR3aW45MEBnbWFpbC5jb21YBAAAAAM~) Invite your friends. Invite someone to subscribe to the [Race/Related](~/AAAAAQA~/RgRnxFZeP0TKaHR0cHM6Ly93d3cubnl0aW1lcy5jb20vbmV3c2xldHRlcnMvcmFjZS1yZWxhdGVkP2NhbXBhaWduX2lkPTM3JmVtYz1lZGl0X3JyXzIwMjQwMzAxJmluc3RhbmNlX2lkPTExNjQ1NyZubD1yYWNlJTJGcmVsYXRlZCZyZWdpX2lkPTc3Njc0OTUyJnNlZ21lbnRfaWQ9MTU5NTY5JnRlPTEmdXNlcl9pZD1hYTQ5MWVmN2YxZDk2NGU0OTc5ZmI3ODRlNzRlMDFkN1cDbnl0Qgpl4F7R4WX-jrXHUht0cmlzdHJhbWJhbGR3aW45MEBnbWFpbC5jb21YBAAAAAM~) newsletter. Or email your thoughts and suggestions to racerelated@nytimes.com. 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