“Love was dashed in Mother’s demands to eat, sometimes scolding.
Other times, threatening with a rolling pin or spice jar.
It could’ve easily been mistaken for anger.
But I was learning her language.”
Sometimes love is silent, sometimes it screams. Sometimes it emerges even despite pain, crude but pure.
– From my memoir, Where the Tiger Dwells, on the ways love speaks despite obstacles of class, caste & racism.
Some days we may ask ourselves whether anyone else would be able to relate to the pain we’re experiencing or the crazy of what happens behind closed doors.
Some may not. But there are many who do because this is life. If we’re breathing, we have or will experience challenges. We fear something is wrong with us because of our story or because we feel we’re unique in our pain, but others have similar stories they feel they must keep locked in. They worry about blaming others, shaming others, others who they love but were hurt by. It’s not about that though, is it? It’s about releasing pain. This is why sharing stories is like sewing together a thick, comforting blanket of healing.
This is why I tell my story. And what is yours? The one you may hold undue guilt or shame about? The one you believe no one would understand? Release it in writing, in song, in dance. Allow someone you trust to help walk with you on the journey. Release the shame. It’s not for you.
The body and mind become so weary from holding secrets. I had now hid my relationship for months. My parents suspected nothing but they also always assumed I was doing something I shouldn’t be. I was groomed to be stealthy. It was without intention they created this in me. They didn’t know how to nurture autonomy in this big, foreign country. Maybe even for themselves.
The weight of what I knew and all the what ifs were getting too heavy. I couldn’t take it much longer. And then it happened, before I realized what was coming out of my mouth. One afternoon, as Mom shook her head while she watched a show about interracial couples, I blurted out that I had an American boyfriend.
She stared at me for a few seconds. She gritted her teeth. I prepared for a smack. And then she went back to watching her show, calling me silly and waving me away. It was too much for her. She couldn’t even imagine it.
I walked out. I went straight to my boyfriend’s house.
Summary of a scene from Where the Tiger Dwells, a memoir
What did they carry with them, my parents, over thousands of miles? What pieces of jewelry did they carefully choose? Which did they keep and which did they have to tear away from? Did they want to wear them all on each of their fingers, filling them as high as they’d fit? As many chains that could go around their necks? What did they stuff into their pockets? What are the most valuable things, maybe viable things, to an immigrant?
Did they wonder which clothes would be most acceptable? Or did they even worry about this? Did they want to take all their clothes, even the ones that were a little snug from high school that reminded them of good times with their childhood friends? Did they want to take some of their shoes, maybe all of them? But would their shoes work there? They had heard it was bitter cold, almost uninhabitable. How do you then dress for that? How, I mean, what, do you put on?
Did they speak to each item that meant something, the ones they couldn’t take with? The doors, the walls with the little lizzards sitting still like decor, the little random steel cups and clay pots in the kitchen? Did they say goodbye, or maybe one day I’ll see you again? What did they think would happen? That they’d never return to the ground and sky and trees they knew so well? The childhood toys, dolls, the table they ate their meals on, where they sat with their mothers and fathers, their siblings, where they prayed over their dal, rice, chutney, chicken. They couldn’t take those.
What about the well in the backyard, the one they leant over as children, yelling into it, echoes responding with giggles. What stories had they told their friends about the well, as they all encircled it, bent over slightly, seeking the bottom? What lay in the darkness? What fears had they buried there and what new ones would well up?
Did they wave goodbye to the animals that freely roamed the dirt roads in front of their houses, the pigs, the dogs, as animals should? Isn’t it in fact their home too? Isn’t freedom for all? Did they whisper into the creatures’ ears one last time, did they give some of them names, letting them know they were going to a far away place where the animals wouldn’t love them the same? Did they know that then? Did they know foreign meant foreigner, a bad word, outsider, feared, to be ridiculed, cursed at, in a place that would never quite feel like home? Did they leave space for this as they were gathering all the things they would carry?
“What are you?” people sometimes ask. It seems to come from a place of perplexity. There appears to be frustration because when someone’s ethnicity isn’t identifiable, the ability to categorize is suspended.
When people ask with malicious intent, they don’t know exactly how to mistreat those of us who appear more racially ambiguous. Their slurs appear feigned as if they’re practicing being insulting and hurtful. There’s a fake barrier that feels almost protective because they seem silly in their attacks. It’s poetic justice, their buffoonery.
But oh man, when people know exactly how they want to direct their behavior, they’re heinous and ugly. It’s premeditated, exact and ironically sincere. And that’s the purpose the question serves for them. They’re asking, What are you so that I can hate you with a special type of ignorance.
The are is sometimes drawn out and accompanied by a sneer. It’s an inability to judge. Maybe they wish they could call me the N word, or maybe confidently accuse me of being an illegal “alien,” or Muslim, although, if not so ignorant, they’d know that the latter isn’t even an ethnicity.
Yes, it’s happened to me before, on multiple occasions and in various forms. Sometimes it’s blatant, most times covert. On business trips, my white colleague and I were consistently pulled out of the airport security line to be frisked and have the contents of our luggage overturned. “This only happens when I’m with you,” she’d marvel, and we’d shake our heads.
Most often though the high-pitched, “What are you” with furrowed brows and head cocked to one side is asked by well-meaning people who are simply curious. And when I tell them, they usually respond with an, “Oh! I love Indian food” or “Have you seen Lion?” and we dive into intriguing conversations about what we are, far beyond our race. And that’s beautiful because it comes from our ability to wonder and connect.
So what am I? What are any of us? Well, we’re people and being human intrinsically means we’re knitted in many fascinating, complex ways based on how we’re created and the lives we’ve lived. So go ahead, I see the crease in your brows. Ask me what I am.
I did it! Actually, we did it. There could be no other way. You, my dear, were the reason they were finally willing to understand the world as it should be seen.
When my parents came to America, they brought with them a few belongings, some big dreams and a host of misconceptions about what the people of America were like. In fact, they seemed to understand all non-Indians in a grossly inaccurate, almost caricaturistic light. It wasn’t malicious, it was simply their perspective.
In fact ironically, when I think of their perceptions, they parallel to Americans’ views of Apu from The Simpsons. He’s a clownish little Indian man with a heavy accent and unethical business practices. In the same vein, my parents saw all Americans as sex crazed hippies with no concept of collectivism, family, sacrifice or desire to maintain an untainted reputation, regardless of the costs.
It makes some sense. They would be encountering so many people unlike themselves, they had to create a sort of blueprint for understanding the many puzzle pieces that made up America. This can be useful to a degree I suppose, but it was also quite harmful. It drew lines between the perceived stark differences separating Indians and “the others.”
My parents were unable to relinquish how their custom-laden world could even vaguely line up with any strand of American culture. And further, meshing even slightly with “bad, loose, selfish” America would be treason of Indian culture.
Had my parents considered though that their children were born into this sin and may one day adopt some of these dreaded qualities? Well, no. Not for a long, long time, not until they had to face you, my very un-Indian boyfriend. Until then, they held on tight to their misinformed notions, which sometimes unwittingly teetered on the brink of intolerance.
And so when you came along, the concept of us was incomprehensible to them, a paradox. But slowly they began to bend. The change was so subtle that it almost went undetected. It was in the small interactions – silence replaced by laughter, formalities replaced by meaningful exchanges – that they were being redefined. They needed you, they needed light. They needed exposure and reflection of their own vulnerabilities.
We did this! We pushed them out of their uncomfortable places. We showed them something they had never dreamt of. We, my love, are conquistadors!
Tyrion, a fearless man who perpetually battles many odds, offers telling words to live by as he refers to a frightful yet elusive force – they.
Tyrion: “Podrick.”
Podrick: “Yes, my Lord.”
Tyrion: “They’ll be following you now.”
Podrick: “Who will?”
Tyrion: “I don’t know. They, they, the ominous they.”
•••••
Tyrion alludes to the reality that they are an ill-defined bunch. Yet our achievements and fears are so often driven by relentless worry about what they might think or say. But ultimately, outside of the people who are most precious to us, the others have little impact on our life decisions. They may have opinions but they have no real impact.
How many times have we allowed some warped image of they to grow into an all-powerful force in our imagination and stunt us from birthing a new idea or relationship? We ask ourselves, What will people think? Well, they’re going to think whatever they want to think. They’ll probably think a lot of things, in fact.
But the more important question is, Will that change how you live? What will you do: Will you do what they want or what you’ve been dreaming of? They, while ominous and oppressive will continue to wallow and flail in their misery and customs. But you and I… we will move forward and be curious, creative and beautiful in spite of it.
When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.
-Author Unknown
This is the most powerful definition of privilege I’ve found. It’s a reminder that having privilege doesn’t mean power must be sacrificed but instead shared.
I think people really believe it’s a compliment when they say it. When they find out my husband is black, they screech with excitement, “Oh, thattttt’s why!” like they’ve been playing a secret guessing game and nobody told me because I’m the subject of the conundrum.
Excuse me. I wonder, “That’s why” what? Well, lots of presumptuous things, according to some. They go on to explain freely, without my prompt:
That’s why you “Talk American,” or “Don’t have an Indian accent,” or “Have that accent,” or “Dress like that,” or “Aren’t like those other Indians” or “That’s why you’re so down.”
Or this, which happens every time my own friend introduces me to someone new: “Hey guys, this is my Indian friend, Patty. She’s Indian, but she’s really Black. Cuz she’s cool.” Ouch. Cool does not equal Indian, apparently. I love this particular friend and I know she means no harm and most importantly, totally misses the underhanded comment. So, I quietly forgive her. Every damn time. I forgive her also because of the dumb stereotypes portrayed in the media of the stiff, Indian doctor with no bedside manner, droning voice and serious personality deficit. Or the heavily accented convenient store cashier who also lacks personality and wears a name tag with some version of Abu or Apu or last name default, Shah, Patel or Ali. Customers cringe as they try to get through a simple transaction of buying cigarettes because the guy’s accent is as thick as cement.
Ultimately, I know it’s not because of ill feelings or the intent to insult or belittle. It’s just that people simply don’t think of Indian-American me when they look at me, they (in their minds) see Indian, dot wearing, blingy sheet wrapped, molasses accented, curry smelling, personality-lacking, good at math, bobblehead-movement-having, Indian me. I’m none of these (well, except for the bobblehead thing, when feeling particularly passionate about something).
People are accustomed to making rash estimations of who a person is. We make crazy ignorant assumptions in a matter of seconds. There’s a reason for this. Survival. The part of the brain called the limbic system wants to know whether someone is a threat, a friend, foe, neutral, same or different. It’s the same reason women quickly assume an unfamiliar man is a potential danger. And when the limbic system is trained by ignorance, it’s the reason people clutch their purses when they see a Black man walking towards them. It’s the reason a person is convinced her attacker was some shade of brown. It’s the reason a woman on an airplane thinks the person in the seat next to her intently solving math problems is a terrorist making plans to blow something up (even though he’s a well-respected Italian economist). The limbic system isn’t racist. A frightened society is. The limbic system isn’t biased. People are.
Thus, in some folks’ perspectives, I’m down not because I was born in Chicago and grew up among Puerto Rican, Mexican, Italian, Cuban, Black, White, Indian and other ethnicities. It can’t be because I have friends from many walks of life, like those who were once homeless to friends who have some really phat summer homes. It’s because my husband is Black. I’m reduced to my affiliation with the person I married.
It’s cool though (my Black husband didn’t teach me to say that, by the way). I know most people don’t mean to make ridiculous generalizations. They’re fascinated by oddities like not marrying someone from the same race or people whose impeccable American accents don’t match their brown skin. And that’s why I’m teaching. Hopefully people are learning that individuals are just that, individual, dynamic and not reduced to how they look or who they love.
I write because the struggles of immigration grieve me in a personal way, a way that for a long time divided my family to near disrepair. Despite this, I believe my very conservative Christian, Indian parents attempted to understand why this American-born Indian girl had to do things a bit differently than what they had planned. And what I wanted was exactly the opposite of what had been customary for thousands of years. I, a female, wanted to do whatever I felt like doing.
Often, the shame related to making independent, very “American” decisions has led to heartbreaking consequences in some families and particularly for females. These endings are often preceded by children of immigrants desiring to adapt to American society while balancing Indian roots. These endings are also preceded by parents quickly becoming disillusioned as they begin to see the land of milk and honey for what it really is. Sometimes, it doesn’t receive families with open arms or flowing vats of opportunity. It is a place that takes far more than it can ever offer – hopes, time, a longing for family back home, culture and many, many tears. But above all things, it wants their children the most.
Some might believe I write to shame my family, and in essence, the Indian community, as we’re a highly collectivistic society. And in fact, allowing a look into the private lives of a collectivistic society is like waiting to be exiled. However, I write because if I don’t, relationships may be broken forever and families may be destroyed. Lives may potentially be lost.
I was once watching a video of author, Arundhati Roy, advocating for the rights of the most vulnerable of India. After it ended, I scrolled down to read words of praise for her efforts and her work of fiction, God of Small Things, which clings close to the often unspoken truths of India. But as I continued to scroll I saw far more comments addressing Ms. Roy with vile, demeaning adjectives and even death threats written by brutish men raised to despise females, to view us as nothing more than insentient things to be assaulted of body and spirit to their liking.
I don’t doubt opposition. Some might even say I shouldn’t be allowed to share my accounts of Indian culture, maybe that I should be banned. I should know where my place is. I should be silent.
And this is precisely why I write.
