When my son Nikhil was about 5 years old I tried to explain to him how he was lucky to be both Indian and American. Since he was born in America, he was American. The fact that Pappa and Momma were born in and lived part of their lives in India made him Indian too. To my bewilderment, he started crying and screaming, “NO, I am Spanish!!” His 5 year old brain went on to argue that he watched Diego and could speak Spanish too. The fact that his playgroup at the time consisted of 4 Spanish-speaking boys only substantiated his argument.
I could have argued that being able to say,”Hola” and “excelente” made him about as Hispanic as eating pizza made him Italian. Not wanting to battle with a 5 year old, I decided I needed to educate my children about their Indian heritage. I wrote and bound my own books about Indian mythological Gods such as Krishna and Hanuman. I organized a story time with a few of Nikhil’s friends. After the story we would have related activities and try Indian snacks, some with interesting, made-up names like Indian donuts (South Indian mendhu vada.)
Another time I was trying to explain to Nikhil that he needed to address all Indian adults as “Uncle” or “Auntie”. He was rather perplexed since in his school all the teachers, including his kindergarten teacher, Sangita, were addressed by their first names only, not Ms. Sangita, just plain Sangita. I explained that in the Indian culture no one called an adult by their first name. He looked at me and said, ”Well, I’m not Indian. I’m American!” As much as I wanted to smack him on the behind, I had to admit that he did have a sound argument.
Since becoming a mother, I’ve done some soul searching and introspection . How can I teach my boys to be confident and proud of who they are if I am unsure of who I am? And who am I? Am I “American” or am I “Indian” or am I an “ABCD”? If I am truly an American why do I feel the need to teach my children about the Indian culture.
At times I did feel like an ABCD . This is the acronym made up by the Indian community to classify each other. The idea is that if you just came from India, you are Fresh Off the Boat or an FOB. If you were born here or have basically grown up in the US, you are somehow confused about who you are and hence you are labeled an ABCD (American Bred/Born Confused Desi), Desi being what Indians call each other.
Back in my high school days, I was often mistaken for being Hispanic. As a teenager, frustrated with the restrictions placed on me by my parents in the name of following traditional “Indian values”, I was actually glad not to be seen as an Indian. My biggest gripe back then was when people asked , “So where are you from?” I usually appeased them by telling them that I was born in India but what I really wanted to say was that I was from the Northwest side of Chicago! Jhumpa Lahari’s book The Namesake touched on this topic. Gogol, the main character of the book, went through a stage in which he alienated himself from his family and everything it represented. He gets involved with an American girl much to the dismay of his very traditional parents. Without giving away the book, it’s not till the end that he comes to grips with his family and culture.
The irony is that as culturally diverse as the US is today we still classify people according to the way we see them. It’s human nature. People are Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Saudi, African, etc. I still get the occasional, “Are you Indian?” The fact is that I am from India. I cherish the Indian culture for making my life richer . I love Indian food, which we have at least 3 nights a week. But we also eat Italian, Mexican and Chinese too. I love Indian clothes and wear them at Indian weddings and family affairs but I’m most comfortable in jeans and yoga pants. The fact remains that the outside world will perceive me as being an Indian no matter how “American” I may be or feel. But despite how others may see me, I know I am American. I love America and could see myself living nowhere else. This is the land of the free and being a women, it’s all the more important to me that I am here.
Christmas has always been one of my favorite holidays ever since I came to the US. During the holidays my house is decked out, inside and out , with all the lights, glitz and gold. The fact that I love Christmas may be due to the fact that people are generally in better spirits and more kinder, friendlier and more giving. Maybe it’s because we tend to do more socializing and partying around Christmas time. All I know is I’m still “fa la la la la-ing” way past December 25th and my husband remind me that it’s almost Valentines Day!!
Motherhood has a way of eradicating any and all confusions, insecurities and doubts a mother may have. I am not confused anymore. I know who and what I am and I value the fact that I am Indian too. I’ve made a choice to hold on to my Indian heritage and pass on what I can to my boys. I am proud to be part of a country that invented chess, the place value system, decimal system. Yoga, Algebra and ayurvedic medicine also have origins in India.* India is rich in history and culture. It even has Bollywood which produces more movie per year than any other country, for better or for worse!!!
My boys are, without question, American but I want them to learn about their Indian heritage not because they need to, but because it will enrich their lives too. Like me, they too can be Indian-Americans. They speak mainly English but I want them to learn Hindi too. If they can learn Spanish in school, why shouldn’t they know the language of their ancestor. They will always celebrate Christmas but why not Diwali too. They can eat hotdogs for lunch and curry for dinner. They can learn about the “Christ in Christmas” and Krisha in Vrindavan. They are fortunate to be able to experience the best of two different cultures and the values and merits of both.
America is not really a “melting pot” as some declared it to be . I hope my boys will recognize that the different ethnicities have not all blended into one homogeneous group. America is more like a salad bowl. Each ingredient of a salad adds it’s own unique color, texture and flavor to the dish. Without the individual items, it’s just lettuce…bland and uninteresting. And who wants plain lettuce when they can have lasagna, burritos ,biryani, falafel, kababs, Chicken teriyaki, sushi, chow mein, Thai curry and soooo much more !!!!
I came to this country on October 30th, 1976. Being one of only a handful of non-white children, I had the privileged opportunity of being initiated into the American mainstream by being pummeled by snow balls, asked why I was so dark, and my all-time favorite, being called a camel-jockey. Yes, a camel-jockey! How could I tell these children that I had never even been close to a camel before let alone ride one.
The fact that I had a small nose ring at the time, didn’t help me blend in either . Today I would have fit in with the bohemian, hippie type crowd but in those days having a nose ring was considered strange not fashionable. Children would look at me quizzically and ask, “Why do you have a ring in your nose?” Needless to say, I had my parents let me take it out.
While all the American girls had beautiful flowing blond or brunette hair, my mom would put my hair in two long braids on the sides of my head, very much like Pippi Longstocking, and stick a bindi on my forehead. How could I escape answering the question, “What’s that dot on your head?” It was futile to point out that it wasn’t on my head. It was on my forehead!! I survived without any scars or trauma, thank God, and in fact I can laugh about it today.
I still remember my very first Halloween. My mother had decided to dress me up as an ”Indian Princess.” Dressed in one of my Indian chaniya-cholis* , with my midriff showing, I looked like Princess Jasmine from the Disney movie Aladdin . Only thing I was missing was a veil so I could hide my face. The following year my parents splurged and let us buy facemasks. My brother and I would improvise and put together the rest of the costumes from old clothes or from brown grocery bags. One of my favorites, ironically, was being an American-Indian. It was fun making a fringed Indian vest and my very own feathered headband.
Halloween on the Northwest side of Chicago in the 1970’s was different. Parents were at home passing out candy while the kids trick-or-treated. We were out for hours and came home with literally a pillowcase full of candy. Those to me were times of innocence and goodness, before people figured out how to contaminate candy or stick needles in apples to hurt children. Those were also less commercial days when people did make their own costumes. I remember my friend Andi’s mom stitched adorable costumes for her and her sister which could probably be sold at Pottery Barn Kids today for $100.
Every year the PTA held a fair during the different holidays. These were simple fairs with everything from cupcakes to planters homemade by the PTA moms. My parents usually gave us no more than $.40 but we were still able to get something. I remember buying cupcakes for 10 cents apiece. Today when my son has a fair at his school, he needs at least $ 5!! Also, I don’t recall any mom wearing plastic surgical gloves so as not to taint my cupcakes. There were no allergy alerts. And no one cared if the toy had small parts that could be swallowed. Somehow we survived . For better or for worse, times have changed. I still like to look back to a time when life was less complicated, less commercial and childhood was pure and fun……………
*Chaniy choli-a long flowing embroidered skirt worn with a short top
I came to this country on October 30th, 1976. Being one of only a handful of non-white children, I had the privileged opportunity of being initiated into the American mainstream by being pummeled by snow balls, asked why I was so dark, and my all-time favorite, being called a camel-jockey. Yes, a camel-jockey! How could I tell these children that I had never even been close to a camel before let alone ride one.
The fact that I had a small nose ring at the time, didn’t help me blend in either . Today I would have fit in with the bohemian, hippie type crowd but in those days having a nose ring was considered strange not fashionable. Children would look at me quizzically and ask, “Why do you have a ring in your nose?” Needless to say, I had my parents let me take it out.
While all the American girls had beautiful flowing blond or brunette hair, my mom would put my hair in two long braids on the sides of my head, very much like Pippi Longstocking, and stick a bindi on my forehead. How could I escape answering the question, “What’s that dot on your head?” It was futile to point out that it wasn’t on my head. It was on my forehead!! I survived without any scars or trauma, thank God, and in fact I can laugh about it today.
I still remember my very first Halloween. My mother had decided to dress me up as an ”Indian Princess.” Dressed in one of my Indian chaniya-cholis* , with my midriff showing, I looked like Princess Jasmine from the Disney movie Aladdin . Only thing I was missing was a veil so I could hide my face. The following year my parents splurged and let us buy facemasks. My brother and I would improvise and put together the rest of the costumes from old clothes or from brown grocery bags. One of my favorites, ironically, was being an American-Indian. It was fun making a fringed Indian vest and my very own feathered headband.
Halloween on the Northwest side of Chicago in the 1970’s was different. Parents were at home passing out candy while the kids trick-or-treated. We were out for hours and came home with literally a pillowcase full of candy. Those to me were times of innocence and goodness, before people figured out how to contaminate candy or stick needles in apples to hurt children. Those were also less commercial days when people did make their own costumes. I remember my friend Andi’s mom stitched adorable costumes for her and her sister which could probably be sold at Pottery Barn Kids today for $100.
Every year the PTA held a fair during the different holidays. These were simple fairs with everything from cupcakes to planters homemade by the PTA moms. My parents usually gave us no more than $.40 but we were still able to get something. I remember buying cupcakes for 10 cents apiece. Today when my son has a fair at his school, he needs at least $ 5!! Also, I don’t recall any mom wearing plastic surgical gloves so as not to taint my cupcakes. There were no allergy alerts. And no one cared if the toy had small parts that could be swallowed. Somehow we survived . For better or for worse, times have changed. I still like to look back to a time when life was less complicated, less commercial and childhood was pure and fun……………
*Chaniy choli-a long flowing embroidered skirt worn with a short top
My son Nikhil recently turned 8. The night before his birthday, I wrote a short letter to him telling him how much I loved him and how proud I was of him. I placed the envelope in his homework folder so when he opened it up in school, he would get a surprise. The mothers reading this are thinking, "Oh sooo sweet!!" The men reading this are saying, "God help her son!"
When Nikhil came home from school that day, I asked if he saw anything special in his bag. As only a typical male would respond, he said, "Oh yeah, thanks Mom." So much for my tears and staying up at night writing the letter. But I'm glad I did it! As a matter of fact, I'm going to do it every year on their birthdays, even when they say "God, Mom really? I'm not a kid any more!"
During the summer of 1928, the late Prime Minister of India Jawaharlal Nehru wrote many letters to his then 10 year old daughter Indira (Gandhi).
" I am going to write you short accounts of the story of our earth and the many countries, great and small, into which it is divided I hope [these] will make you think of the world as a whole and of other people in it as our brothers and sisters . . ."
In all, he wrote some 30 letters to her that summer . I can't image the thrill she must have felt while tearing open each letter knowing that her father, who was hundreds of miles away, had sent this personal gift to her. It contained his writing, his emotion, his love. Imagine looking at the letters years later, after her father passed away and thinking back to the day when she actually received it. What memories and feeling it must have evoked. I love history and nothing teaches more about the past then old letters. They take us back to a time….to a place…to a life. Today it seems everyone is too busy to write letters anymore. Letter writing is an old lost art. Except for the quick email or text, most people don’t actually put the pen to the paper anymore. The most thought or emotion we show is in our preprinted Hallmark cards are, “Love, John Doe.” And oh, and let’s not forget the very heartfelt and classy, ”XOXO!!” Are we really that busy? Or have we just forgotten how to write? The Hallmark company has become very profitable. The irony of it all is that if someone today were to take time and effort to write us a short letter rather than buy a card, we would be inclined to believe that they were just being frugal…to put it nicely. Cheap is the other word I was thinking! Come on now, be honest, how often do we flip the card to see how much the card cost. I have to be honest and say that I always go for the cheapest one….because I know it’s going in the trash anyway!!This might sound silly but I still have an old note that my sister wrote to me when she was about 6 and I was 16. She had jumped on me while I was laying on the bed and I got very upset with her. She wrote that it was an “axcident” and I was to circle “YES” if I forgave her and “NO” if I didn’t. I chuckle, at this moment, as I write this because I can actually remember that day . I really beat her. (XOXO Bina!!) That’s the beauty of a handwritten piece of writing. I might be able to save all the cute emails I get in my “SAVED” folder or on my computer. But nothing can compare to the joy of opening an old letter written by a father to a daughter, mother to a son or a friend to another friend. Touching those old letters is like being with and touching the person who wrote it. It saddens me to think of what the implications of this new trend in our society means to the future generations. I hope my sons will save whatever letters I write to them and be able to talk about how mom was so mushy!!
My son Nikhil recently turned 8. The night before his birthday, I wrote a short letter to him telling him how much I loved him and how proud I was of him. I placed the envelope in his homework folder so when he opened it up in school, he would get a surprise. The mothers reading this are thinking, "Oh sooo sweet!!" The men reading this are saying, "God help her son!"
When Nikhil came home from school that day, I asked if he saw anything special in his bag. As only a typical male would respond, he said, "Oh yeah, thanks Mom." So much for my tears and staying up at night writing the letter. But I'm glad I did it! As a matter of fact, I'm going to do it every year on their birthdays, even when they say "God, Mom really? I'm not a kid any more!"
During the summer of 1928, the late Prime Minister of India Jawaharlal Nehru wrote many letters to his then 10 year old daughter Indira (Gandhi).
" I am going to write you short accounts of the story of our earth and the many countries, great and small, into which it is divided I hope [these] will make you think of the world as a whole and of other people in it as our brothers and sisters . . ."
In all, he wrote some 30 letters to her that summer . I can't image the thrill she must have felt while tearing open each letter knowing that her father, who was hundreds of miles away, had sent this personal gift to her. It contained his writing, his emotion, his love. Imagine looking at the letters years later, after her father passed away and thinking back to the day when she actually received it. What memories and feeling it must have evoked. I love history and nothing teaches more about the past then old letters. They take us back to a time….to a place…to a life. Today it seems everyone is too busy to write letters anymore. Letter writing is an old lost art. Except for the quick email or text, most people don’t actually put the pen to the paper anymore. The most thought or emotion we show is in our preprinted Hallmark cards are, “Love, John Doe.” And oh, and let’s not forget the very heartfelt and classy, ”XOXO!!” Are we really that busy? Or have we just forgotten how to write? The Hallmark company has become very profitable. The irony of it all is that if someone today were to take time and effort to write us a short letter rather than buy a card, we would be inclined to believe that they were just being frugal…to put it nicely. Cheap is the other word I was thinking! Come on now, be honest, how often do we flip the card to see how much the card cost. I have to be honest and say that I always go for the cheapest one….because I know it’s going in the trash anyway!!This might sound silly but I still have an old note that my sister wrote to me when she was about 6 and I was 16. She had jumped on me while I was laying on the bed and I got very upset with her. She wrote that it was an “axcident” and I was to circle “YES” if I forgave her and “NO” if I didn’t. I chuckle, at this moment, as I write this because I can actually remember that day . I really beat her. (XOXO Bina!!) That’s the beauty of a handwritten piece of writing. I might be able to save all the cute emails I get in my “SAVED” folder or on my computer. But nothing can compare to the joy of opening an old letter written by a father to a daughter, mother to a son or a friend to another friend. Touching those old letters is like being with and touching the person who wrote it. It saddens me to think of what the implications of this new trend in our society means to the future generations. I hope my sons will save whatever letters I write to them and be able to talk about how mom was so mushy!!
