“So, where are you really from?”
This question has plagued the millions of first-generation students from our earliest memories. For me, I never quite knew what to say. I grew up in a small, primarily white, town in the suburbs of New York City. Despite the mere 20 miles that separated my hometown from the bustling diversity of the city, I felt an adolescent isolation and fear of looking different from my peers.
For the longest time, I had no idea where I was from or what it meant. In a house of three kids, each five years apart, our house was always buzzing with people running in and out the front door. Not until middle school did I really begin to dive into my familial roots–no time like middle school to point out everything that separated someone from their peers. Sure, I knew our family parties looked a lot different from those of my friends: pulsing music with the whole family dancing, the scent of spiced foods filling up my grandmother’s house and the funny accent my cousins, aunts, uncles, and even parents fell back into when everyone got together.
Growing up, I stayed mindlessly under the assumption of what my peers told me: “You’re Indian, Jessie.” Made sense to me; I mean my mom made curry, roti, masalas, daal and an assortment of other yummy Indian food. We’d go to cultural stores in the Bronx to get all of the comforting spices where everyone spoke in the same Caribbean accent. We would occasionally dress in saris and put on bindis for some family events. Naturally, the assumption seemed to fit well enough for me for years, until I became particularly intrigued by my parents’ lives before their kids.
Guyana. That was the country they told me they immigrated from. Not India, or another country in Asia, but one in South America. They went into depth about their separate lives growing up in this small country, my mother leaving Guyana at 16 to come to school in America and my father leaving Guyana with his family when he was still a kid. My mom told me stories about working in her father’s shop, the dynamics of their town and growing up with her eight other siblings. I loved hearing their stories, and could not believe I’d spent years unaware of this history–a history I was a part of.
While it was amazing to learn about, I felt a sort of disconnection to my roots. Yes, I am a Guyanese-American, but I had never been to Guyana. Yes, I am a Guyanese-American, but I had spent so much time not knowing. Yes, I am a Guyanese-American, but I did not have the same accent I equated with family. I felt like it was a fluke, like I was a fake. I grew up in a nice suburb in New York, a classic American girl. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday, and we went all out for 4th of July. I was overcome with confusing feelings and guilt at fraudulently representing not only myself, but my family.
I felt all that until I remembered the family parties. Family parties were a celebration of my relatives, of where they came from, of traditions and dishes that all felt like home to them and became a feeling of home for me. It wasn’t until I realized how comforting my mother’s chicken curry was, or the warmth of daal slipping down my throat, or the inherited love of my grandmother’s cooking. It wasn’t until I realized my deep connection to my family came from sharing and cooking meals together. Until the same Caribbean songs came on and I somehow knew the words. Until the pepperpot we made every Christmas Eve was a native Guyanese dish I can’t help but associate with Christmas morning. There were infinitely, seemingly small things that inextricably connected me with my family, heritage and roots.
Ever since finding out in freshman year in high school, I told my friends proudly where I was from. I’ve spent hours telling anyone who asked about Guyana, where it is, and laughing about most of them not hearing of it. Learning about my culture was such an exciting and grounding thing to learn. Being Guyanese-American meant a celebration of the sacrifices of my family to me. It gave me a newfound, overwhelming, appreciation for my family and all the little things that signified home–one mixed with America and Guyana, one just like me.