You wouldn't be able to guess that I am Indian if you saw me. You might look at me, and like most, think I am Italian or Greek because of my off-white skin color. I also get the occasional "No, way you're Indian! You definitely look Spanish!"
Granted, I am one quarter Indian from my Father's side, but that side paints me enough so that I feel just enough different, I especially felt this way growing up.
It was six grade and I was out at recess, running around on the black top in the breezy Virginia Spring playing tag with my friends. A golden-haired popular boy in my class screamed in my face, "What are you!?"
I froze, "What do you mean?" I shifted my weight in my hips, panting to catch my breath from all the tagging. I was the best in the school, at least I thought so.
"Are you American?"
My stomach dropped as a wave of nerves washed over my body, "Yes. I'm American," I felt myself cross my arms in front of my stomach as I bit the inside of my cheek.
"You don't look American," he scoffed as he ran off to tell his friends what I said. Obviously fulfilling a dare by the fellow popular kids.
Suddenly, at 12 years old, I was left wondering just how American I actually was.
Two years later in the eighth grade at lunch in the cafeteria I sat next to a boy who noisily chomped down on his sandwich, "dot or feather?"
To which I gave him a puzzled look. He began to clarify, "You know. Are you the dot kind of Indian?" he pointed to the middle of his forehead, "or the feather kind of Indian?" he poked his fingers up behind the top his head wiggling them, finger feathers.
I swallowed, I've been here before. As I prepared to answer, I couldn't help but feel like there was a wrong and right answer. Answer one way and I would be seen as cool, answer the other and I'd be weird.
"Dot," I lowered my eyes.
My parents divorced when I was baby, I lived with my Mom most of the time and therefore had limited periods of time to learn my "Indian ways" from my Father. I enjoyed when I got to learn about my ancestral history and culture- I loved the food, tea, and even got to visit India for the first time when I was ten. I would visit again during and after college.
After the instance on the black top and at the lunch table, I started to gravitate to pointing out I was Indian to others before they would point it out to me. Maybe as a defense mechanism or maybe as a sense of pride. Maybe a mix of the two.
I even was so excited when I would meet another Indian and let them know I was Indian too. Usually they say, "Seriously? You're Indian?" and then my excitement usually faded a tad when they started to ask questions:
"Do you speak Hindi?"
"No."
"Do you cook any Punjabi meals?"
"No."
"Do you know what X means?"
"No."
Suddenly, I was left wondering just how Indian I actually was.
It's strange to say that in some social settings I feel too Indian and then in others not enough.
I'm trying to teach myself it's okay to be what I call semi-Indian and shouldn't feel ashamed or out of place on either sides of the fence. I know tons of other people of all different cultures have received unfair treatment and I am not minimizing their experiences, I'm just telling mine. I'm not even sure if I'm saying I get "unfair" treatment, I don't believe I am.
In writing the book about my Grandparents, RAJ & NORAH, I was/am filled with so much pride for my Indian heritage but then get embarrassed when I can't even pronounce my own Grandfather's full name properly, Rajendra. I have to constantly ask my Dad if what I want to write would be appropriate to the Indian culture or if I'm off base.
With writing the book, I feel a deeper tie to my Indian ancestors and yearn to know and be engrossed into the culture even more.
Whether I look it or not, whether I speak the language or not, or am semi or not, I am proud to be Indian and learn what it means to be everyday.