“News Radio Ten-Eighty, K-R-L-D.” This radio station’s catchy jingle filled the silence in the morning car rides to school. With no similarities or common interests, the awkward tension between my dad and I was alleviated by passively listening to recitations of current events. I leaned my head against the window and, drowning out the sounds of the radio, occupied myself by visualizing what life would’ve been like during a time period we recently covered in history class: the Boom of the 1920s.

Working two part-time jobs for years, my dad was an absent parental figure throughout my childhood. Leaving for work before I left for daycare and returning around 10 o'clock, our one-story, 3-bedroom house in an alley in the suburbs of Chicago felt empty for most of the day. From throwing tantrums when I had to be left alone with him to begging him not to come inside my school, my 5-year-old self not only lacked attachment to him but barely even considered him a parent.

My family migrated to Fort Worth, Texas in search of normalcy, which we found to an extent: my parents were able to take me to school, instead of dropping me off at my teacher’s house in the mornings, and we were finally able to have dinner together. However, after years of rarely ever seeing my dad, it took more than the start of our new life to build our relationship.

My brother adjusted well to my dad being around more often. Being older and more knowledgeable, he and my dad engaged in conversations about both Indian and American news and politics. On many occasions, whether at the dinner table or in front of the television—which really just served as background noise over their yelling—I would sit silently while my mom would yell for them to lower their voices. Phrases such as “The Republican Caucus” or “The BJP Party” were so foreign to me that trying to interject in their conversation would be like trying to talk to someone who speaks an entirely different language.

On one particular evening, as the routine discussion of the day’s news events was taking place, a portion of the conversation, in which my brother referenced the city of Kathmandu, triggered a flashback to that morning’s car ride. I vaguely remembered hearing on the radio about the capital of Nepal being affected by a catastrophic earthquake. “I read that India is sending over rescue teams,” he said. Being familiar with the subject of discussion for once, my mind became flooded with thoughts and opinions of my own: why was it that, in the entire 15-minute drive to school, only a couple seconds of the news report was dedicated to covering the earthquake in Nepal?

A silence fell over the table as the two were running out of points of discussion. I seized the opportunity to share my perspective. “I think that if it were a European nation, the story would’ve gotten more coverage,” I stated. “They would’ve received aid from all parts of the world, not just a neighboring country.”

What followed was likely the first meaningful conversation I had with my dad. Instead of our typical small talk, he proceeded to educate me on how parts of Europe, usually the predominantly Muslim countries, experienced many tragedies that received little to no media coverage and that America often did nothing to provide overseas aid.

Conversations like these became embedded in my daily routine. As my enthusiasm for global news grew, I listened to the radio more attentively in the mornings. Those once silent 15 minutes were soon filled with questions and commentary, and the discussion would often carry over into dinner that evening. And while our shared fascination did not completely mend the gap between us, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the growing popularity of radios in the 1920s and its influence in altering family dynamics.