Identity crises

INDIA INDIA INDIA

that [Indian] elephant in the room

that permanent smudge upon my face

The following essay was written for an application that asked: 

What role does India play in how you define your identity?

The word that seems most fitting to describe the role of India in my identity is omnipresent. India has constantly been a part of my identity and thoughts, with the familiarity of perpetually re-reading a book whose ending I’ve forgotten.  I’m constantly aware of its presence, ambiguous and vague as a shadow in the background of my life, yet, I do not think about IT when I go to the store or catch the bus. 

In many ways, India is an identity that is thrust upon me, with people assuming I was born in that far off land of spices and therefore can speak for all South Asians, and assuming I emit a sort of mystical spirituality involving some flamingo-like pose at the top of a mountain. At the same time, I feel entitled to my status as a minority, as a South Asian, and have, in the past, felt robbed of an experience to which I never had access. 

In the past, I’ve often dreaded India, as a nation, culture, and part of my heritage. When visiting relatives in India, I am instantly put to the test; the “Are you Indian enough?” test, which manifests itself as a friendly (but judgmental) interrogation made up of the following queries:

Do you eat Indian food?

Are you vegetarian?

Will you marry the man of your parents' choosing?

Do you possess knowledge of the great Hindu texts?

While I dread such interrogation sessions, I face the same kind of interrogation in the U.S. (i.e. ‘But seriously, where are you REALLY from?’). I feel restricted by essentialized notions of who and what people expect me to be or become. I still long to claim ownership over my Indian heritage. Yet, I become angry if anyone attempts to deny my Midwestern roots. I feel justified, however, in correcting people when they attempt to essentialize Indian culture, or any culture, in fact. At the same time, I feel qualified to only offer the culture I’ve grown up with and experienced, which is but only a small piece of the puzzle that is India. 

One thing is for sure; I am still negotiating my relationship with India as it has changed, evolved, and metamorphosed throughout my life and will continue to do so into the future.

This oscillation between the spectrum of rejection and reclamation explains, to an extent, how India has played a part in my amorphous identity. The rest of my journey of self-identification requires a negotiation of some middle ground between these two extremes and creating my own hybrid identity through my Indian-American experience.  I hope to begin a reclamation of India on my own terms. 

Flashback attack

Whenever I'm home, I tend to do some major purging of my room, mostly of Clothes I've Had Since Seventh Grade, a process known as Stop Telling Yourself You Can Make Wallets Out of Old Jeans (although I have made dog toys out of them, which proved to be quite unpopular with the only dog in the house). I also indulge in some major naval-gazing by pulling out old school projects and reminiscing about a younger, more innocent, creative, and cute me. In doing so while home last week, I stumbled upon a treasure in the form of a Second Grade Memory Book. The book was in an envelope that said DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2005, 2015. 2015 was written underneath 2005 in my mom's handwriting. I opened it anyway because the sacredness of 2005 already passed, and typed print usually trumps written.  In the envelope were my most memorable moments of second grade, written and drawn in my own sloppy hand. I learned many things about my 2nd grade experience, like the fact that my drawing skills peaked around that time and have only degenerated since. I also learned about what I wanted to be when I grew up, which is something that interests me because I'm still trying to figure that out. Near the end of the book, however, I found one particularly enlightening passage:

"When I grow up I want to be an illustrator because i love to drawe [silent 'e's are confusing, ok?] and a mom with kids. I will cook lots. And when I'm tired, my husband should take me out to eat, I don't care how tired he is."

At this point, I was reading out loud to my mom, but had to stop because we were laughing so hard. My mom especially found it difficult to keep it together and continued giggling uncontrollably for a good minute. After we laughed ourselves to the point of near-asphyxiation, I read on:

 "And I want to be a basketball player and play all the time."

That's where my passage ended. Damn, how things have changed.

Conclusion: My mother and the Chicago Bulls were my biggest inspirations in the 2nd grade.