Before I entered kindergarten, I grew up in a pretty sheltered neighborhood in one of the lower-middle-class suburbs of Indianapolis. Over half of my neighborhood was Bengali-immigrants, my parents and grandmother included. Even though I was born in the U.S., I (admittedly, probably naively) imagine that my childhood before entering grade school was somewhat similar to my cousins growing up in Bangladesh. I helped my mom grow our own vegetables in our backyard with seeds we received from our family overseas. I listened to Bengali poetry recitations from my grandmother while she applied coconut oil through the strands of my hair. I helped my dad hang our freshly washed clothes outside to dry. My aunts, uncles, and cousins who lived 15 minutes away would often visit with floral-patterned traditional clothing and bring dishes enriched with spice. We ate with our hands. We would hand-wash our dishes and use the dishwasher as a drying rack before spending the rest of our evening drinking tea and playing on the Carrom board, waiting for sunset prayer. Even before entering any type of school, my parents would try to teach me math and my grandmother would help me memorize short chapters written in Arabic from the Qur’an. I did not speak English in my household.
During the first few years of my life, I had this perception that my experiences were exclusively Bengali. This perception was quickly broken when I was exposed to other races, ethnicities, cultures, and identities largely through school and social media. Growing vegetables from native seeds in your own backyard can be observed by several peoples of the vast and diverse continents of Asia, Africa, and South America as a way of paying homage to our farming ancestors, remembering our roots – literally. Bengali poetry, kobita, can be similar to Korean acrostic poetry, samhaengsi. The same coconut oil, narikel tel, that has been applied to my hair for years is the same oil utilized by peoples of several tropical island countries such as the Philippines and Samoa. Using clotheslines and hanging clothes out to dry during this day and age, even with the existence of dryers, is still common in several countries worldwide as a way to preserve energy. This goes for handwashing plates instead of using the dishwasher as well. Some pieces of the bright traditional clothing of Bengali saris, Swahili kangas, Japanese kimonos, and Mexican chiapaneco dresses have similar color schemes and elegance. African, Latin/Hispanic, and Asian cultures are all known for their salubrious use of spices, and they all also have their own specialties of tea that they drink and serve to guests. There are several stylistic similarities of Carrom board with games such as pool and air hockey. The sunset prayer I was referring to earlier was Maghrib prayer, a prayer that Muslims all across the world, from the Middle East to the United States, practice. I’m sure several Asians, whether they be descendants from South Asia or East Asia, can relate to the emphasis on learning early on, especially math. Several homes of immigrant families don’t utilize English and having their children learn English in school is not uncommon. These mirages of cultures, unique in their own ways but similar in others, puts a whole different perspective on how we as humans distinguish and categorize each other. (This is not to say that only Eastern societies utilize or do these things, but it seems to be, at least in my perspective, a lot more common and historical).
In addition to these household traditions, there are also negative experiences that a lot of people of color can empathize with. Stereotyping, generalizing, casual racism, microaggressions, implicit biases, targeting, racial profiling, police brutality, deportation fears, racial hate crimes and attacks, generational racial trauma. Reading about it is one thing. Watching it is one thing. Teaching it is one thing. For people of color, living it is inevitable, whether that be themselves, their siblings, their grandparents, their best friends.
This is not to say that, for instance, an Asian American will ever completely understand what a Black person experiences, nor will a Black person ever completely understand what an Asian American goes through. Cultural humility is something we can strive to practice – I am continuously learning every day and attempting to practice cultural humility for both of my cultures, American and Bengali – but cultural competency is a high expectation, and unattainable. Wholeheartedly acknowledging this, however, may be enough.
Though each minority group undergoes its own adversities, this shared resilience has the potential to establish unity and commitment of rooting for each other. Maybe we’re a lot more similar than we think.