The children of immigrants and white, American parents are confronted with the narrative that they must understand their reality in binaries. Habits and traditions are assigned to one side of the family or the other, making reality feel like quartering rather than combining. It doesn’t have to be this way, but mixed children are often confronted with exclusionary reminders to be seen below.
I am white. I am also Indian. I am both. But when I was younger, I thought I was white.
In kindergarten, I would play tag and foursquare with my friends. There were five of us total and we were all white. We ran around until our chests heaved and we would stumble around the blacktop.
As our bodies and minds grew, so did our imaginations, and we transitioned from games to stories. We would act out various skits, and this pastime became part of the routine, which then merited a name. It became the “Fernanda and Brownie Show.” She was Fernanda, and I was Brownie. My father asked me later if I enjoyed being called “brownie,” and I told him that, of course, I did. I love chocolate, and my favorite treat is a brownie, so why wouldn’t I want to be my favorite sweet?
I thought I was white.
I was in third grade when a teacher asked what we were all grateful for during the Thanksgiving season, and the blonde boy in the back said that he was grateful “to be a white kid in America.” He was immediately reprimanded and told that people may find it offensive. The teacher then politely asked me in front of the class if I was offended. Why would I be offended?
I thought I was white.
In fifth grade, I would sit in class, impatiently waiting to hear my name over the speakers. My mom told me that morning that I had a dentist’s appointment, and she would come get me from school. My pencil scratched against the blue-lined notebook paper until I heard the static crackle of an announcement, sending my heart into a rapid rhythm with excitement. Not only would I get to leave school early, but I would also get McDonald’s after my appointment.
The chirping of the office lady’s voice was perpetually muffled due to the antiquity of the intercom system, but I could always hear how she would pronounce the ‘y’ in my name as an ‘e’ instead of an ‘i’ sound and stress the first syllable in my last name rather than the second. Why are they messing up my name?
I thought I was white.
I was out somewhere. I can’t really remember the specifics because it has happened so many times since then, but when I was asked where I was from for the first time, I was beyond confused. I am from Kentucky. The same place you are from and the same place we are now. I have never moved before, unless you count when I was two and we moved from my grandparents’ house to the house we live in now.
The person then clarified and asked where I was really from. I guess saying the state wasn’t specific enough, so I told the person the city we were in. I was from here. Why would they ask me where I am from?
I thought I was white.
I realized I didn’t look like my sisters when the three of us walked places and people always assumed I was the friend. They were the sisters who did fun activities together, like going to the mall or a coffee shop, and I was always the friend who had been invited to come with. People commented on their likeness with a bemused smile, and I witnessed it through a third-party perspective. Sometimes the questioning of whether I was a sister was subtle, and sometimes it was the only thing people could come up with to talk about. Why would people ask me if I’m adopted?
I thought I was white.
But maybe I am not white. I clearly do not appear so. I thought I was white, but I must have been mistaken. Then, I must be brown.
I was in third grade the first time we visited India. The heat was miserably thick, and the noise was all-encompassing. On the streets was an amalgam of cars, motorcycles, bicycles, people and animals. Of that combination, I could only make sense of a few. Upon arriving at our family home, we met the relatives who lived there. Family upon family that I had never met or heard of. I felt wrong in a place meant to bring comfort. Why did I feel out of place?
I thought I was Indian.
Conversation clatters around the room. My father and my grandparents speak in elevated tones. Urdu is my grandparents’ native language, and with a rudimentary understanding of the language, my dad responds to what capacity he can. I sit next to my grandmother, trying to pick out words I can understand or guess at, but there is nothing. Only vague motioning and inflections of tones. Why can’t I understand our language?
I thought I was Indian.
We are going to be late and it’s my fault. All the dupattas and lehengas I own are outdated or too small, with childish patterns and bright, eye-catching fabric. A testament to their lack of use and a shrine to my non-involvement with Indian events. Even though I only see these strangers once a year, I want to blend in. Why can’t I blend in?
I thought I was Indian.
When I became friends with other Indian people, I received questions about what city my family was from. Was it in the North or South? What province is it in? I couldn’t give an exact answer because I truthfully didn’t know. I was asked if I had heard this song or seen this movie. They would say, “Don’t you hate it when brown parents do this!?” I would just smile and politely say whatever answer I thought best suited the question. I did not have an answer. Why don’t I relate?
I thought I was Indian.
I am both white and Indian, but I used to think I was white, and then I thought I was Indian. Now, I just am. The need to categorize identities into what belongs and what does not stifles the flourishing of all groups. To do better, we have to be better and that can only happen when we are all parts of ourselves.