Butter and Ghee

I used to avoid using the word “boyfriend” in front of my Indian family and friends, worrying that I’d be judged for being in a relationship even though there’s nothing shameful about someone in their 20’s dating. It wasn’t openly accepted in the Indian community so I didn’t do it. Despite blindly succumbing to cultural norms like this, when it came to something as simple as bringing Indian food to the office, I still preferred eating alone because I didn’t want to deal with questions or comments about what it is and how it smells.

The moment of saying goodbye to my family in India to start a new life in America is a core memory for me that still feels like it was yesterday. I remember inhaling the distinct scent of my grandmother (sandalwood, curry leaf, and sacred ash) as she hugged me goodbye for what felt like the last time ever. My mom, sister, and I were moving from India to the United States to finally join my dad who had taken a job offer in New Jersey. I had already done this before when my family moved to Singapore a few years earlier but this time, it felt permanent. America was across the world and our days and nights would literally be flipped. When would I eat my grandmother's cooking again? Would my younger cousins even remember me?

Moving to America was a leap of faith that was my parents' decision, not mine, so truthfully, for a long time I resented them for uprooting me and my sister. As a five year old, I didn't understand what could possibly be worth the pain and loneliness of severing yourself from your support system to start a new life, but when I reflect back on my parents' decision to start from scratch in an unfamiliar country with no ties or guarantee of success, I see a clear message: "Great things never came from comfort zones." This quote would end up becoming my personal mantra that carried me through the choices I made in my life.

The phrase “third culture kid” refers to people like me who grow up in a country that’s different from our parents’. Born in India and raised in the United States, I often find myself subconsciously caught between two worlds of expectations, reluctant about how much of myself I should reveal. My parents and I may share the label of being a “first generation immigrant” but our experiences in moving to the U.S. were nothing alike. They were fully formed adults who came to this country with the intention of providing the best opportunities for their children despite the cost. On the other hand, my half-baked infantile brain had barely grasped the concept of foreign immigration and I was already getting taunted about the way I looked and the food I ate. Growing up, I frequently heard comments like “Why do you wear that dot on your forehead?” and “I don’t know how you eat that- it looks and smells disgusting”, training my brain’s sirens to go off every time I anticipated a situation with unnecessary attention. Over time, I stopped wearing “that dot on my forehead” and switched to the school lunch plan instead of homemade meals, hoping that by eliminating all the factors that made me stick out, I could fade into the background. Unfortunately (or fortunately), I never quite succeeded. Despite my efforts to avoid this attention, the space between me and the rest of them wasn't some small gap to be closed; it was a chasm. It felt particularly evident the day I had to share my family’s story to the rest of my class and the teacher herself asked me where Singapore was. Feeling like a circus freak on display, I mumbled “It’s just a small island country.”

And so I mumbled my way through my childhood, eventually mastering the art of becoming a wallflower. “The less I reveal about what makes me different, the less I’ll be noticed” I told myself. If you were to ask anyone who knew me prior to my move, they would probably describe me as “talkative, hyper, and confident.” Today, I can reflect back and see clearly that I eventually disappeared into my insecurities, causing the original version of myself to become a complete stranger, but what if I didn’t have to feel that way? What if people had taken an interest in what made me unique rather than patronize it? I probably would have been confident saying the word “boyfriend” and not given a second thought to my lunch vs. a coworker’s.

I used to think that my grievances were unique to me. I wasn’t delusional enough to think that I was the only person who experienced an immigrant journey as a young child, but because I didn’t personally know of anyone who went through the same thing, I assumed my feelings of self-doubt and crippling anxiety were a me-problem. Once I did start opening up about my vulnerabilities, I realized someone doesn’t have to share my exactly journey to be able to understand my emotions. Whether it be a health condition, weight, sexual orientation, family issues, or living through a traumatic incident, most of us swallow our pain and anxieties instead of sharing them, but doing so doesn’t foster progress for anyone, including ourselves.

After a lifetime of code-switching, I’m finally embracing both halves of my identity. I don’t write about my experiences with the intention of creating an exclusive space for Indian American immigrants or women of color or couples in mixed relationships. I write hoping that even people who think they have nothing in common with me will feel a little more seen because sharing honest reflections and raw moments from everyday life can give all of us the confidence to show up as our authentic selves.