“Hey Indians! Go back to your country! Go back to India!”
I turned my head, shocked, to see a smirking middle schooler waving at us sarcastically. It was August 15, and I had taken Aarushi, my three-year-old sister, to the park. That’s when this girl, at first complaining that Aarushi had stolen her spot on the swings, proceeded to launch into a rant attacking our heritage. I remained silent, considering her immaturity. However, when these taunts followed us to our car while her mother silently watched, my fists tightened and my nails dug into my palms. I was furious, my blood boiling with anger, yet I stood there, questioning whether she was right: did I belong here?
We moved here when I was six, and since then, the sidewalk between my house and school has been a journey between two worlds. In school, I was overwhelmed by the American culture and felt that conformity entailed painting my skin white. At home, while I was free to scrape off this paint, my comfort place demanded that I mask my new identity under a veil. I questioned whether I should stop bringing in “smelly” parathas as many others had done. I wondered if I should watch American TV shows only in secrecy. I lived on the fringes of two worlds, belonging to neither.
A decade later, I had ostensibly mastered the act of balancing these two cultures. I held my tongue as my friends expressed disgust when I pried open my lunchbox of Indian food. I quietly listened when my grandparents held bagels and donuts in equal contempt. I believed that my silence authenticated my acceptance into both worlds. Yet, when this girl asserted that we leave HER country, my illusion shattered. Ten years of living here, and I’m still an outsider? The repressed anger I felt not only when someone insulted my heritage but also when relatives teased me about my “Americanization” proved that by trying to fit into both worlds, I’d suppressed my identity. Her taunts brought this tension to the forefront and seemed to pressure me to pick between India and America.
Yet as I stood there paralyzed, unable to renounce one over the other, I unearthed a third option. I chose both, breaking my silence to defend India and claim America as my home. I realized that if I held onto the embarrassment about my Indian culture, I would certainly continue to harbor feelings of inferiority to its American counterpart. I knew my family would perceive my American identity negatively only if I didn’t attempt to clear up ingrained stereotypes. My two cultures don't tear me apart; instead, they make me who I am. While I dance to the beat of Indian classical music at the temple, I fiddle with Vivaldi tunes on my violin at churches. As I join my hands for prayers each morning, I often end my days lending a helping hand at the local hospital. I proudly use my educational app to teach elementary schoolers here, but I’m also overjoyed when I receive broken-up text messages from my grandparents after teaching them the basics of a smartphone on trips to India. I’m deeply rooted in my Indian culture but simultaneously watered by its American counterpart, altogether allowing me to blossom.
Poet Pat Mora once mourned being “an American but hyphenated.” Today however, I am proud to embrace a hyphen as my identity. As I stood up for my heritage on August 15, the day of India’s independence, I was also sure that I’d never again let anyone make me feel like an outsider. I knew now that the sidewalk I’d once seen as the border line of my Indian and American identities instead represented the intertwining of both in my life. I realized that my allegiance lies with both of these cultures—that I belong right where I am today—and nothing could ever change that.
Pushti Desais a member of the class of 2019. She is pursuing biomedical engineering at Cornell University next year.