I'm writing to you from seat #48 on the Island Express on my way from Bengaluru, KA to Palakkad, KE. My mom and grandma are on the other side of the train car, in seats #10 and #12. The train is still making its way through the city, stopping at every small station and picking up final stragglers before pulling away at full speed towards Kerala. The smell of piss on the tracks fades as we gain momentum and the classic blue curtains (which haven't changed in 20 years) begin to shut as everyone lays down for the overnight haul. The small tiffin dabbas of biryani are almost empty, the chappals are all off their respective feet, and the paaniwala is almost done making his rounds. As I make my way to the upper bunk and lay out my bedding, I hear a familiar accent behind me. One that reminds me of... another home. I turn around and say "is that an accent I hear?" in my non-code-switched American accent. To which the girl replies, "yeah, I'm American. Are you?"
"Yep. Which is why my ears perked when I heard you speak. Where are you from?"
"New Jersey. How 'bout you?"
"Texas" I said, quickly followed by "Austin" - just to avoid any confusion.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Palakkad, you?"
"Cochin! We're going to a wedding" she said, glancing to her mom, aunt, and cousin. And her mom jokingly chimed in, "How come you didn't ask me about my accent??"
To which, I replied in my most authentic Indian accent, "You talk like this only, no? What accent you’re telling?"
That won me a solid chuckle from the 4 ladies.
I've come to realize that when I'm in the US, I'm Indian. But when I come to India, I'm an American. It's a silly little paradox but its the result of having grown up in America with American friends and traditions and norms and whatnot. I say whatnot, I'm pretty damn American. But then again, I grew up with English as my second language, an alter of 20+ gods in the "office room," and bi-annual trips to the birthland. So I'm pretty damn Indian too.
I’ve written dozens of college admissions essays about the duality of my identity and how it shapes my world but I have a newfound sense of appreciation and curiosity for the nuances of this confusing cultural dichotomy.
A couple weeks ago, I found myself at the Austin airport at 5am, waiting to board a flight to Phoenix. Half-asleep and headphones-on, I heard this blare over the PA:
“We are waiting for our final passengers, Mr. Wallerford and Mr. Vishwanath. Please report to Gate 24 for final boarding in the next 2 minutes.”
The thing that caught me off guard was that she pronounced Vishwanath perfectly. Absolutely perfectly, just like my great-grandfather would. And she didn’t even have an Indian accent so either (1) she was of Indian-origin but American-raised, or (2) proper pronunciation of Indian names is becoming a priority. You see, I’ve heard sentences like this all my life, whether it be at the airport or in middle school; and over the years, I’ve gotten pretty damn used to these name being butchered. Even with my own last name - Vasudevan - I’ve heard Vadusedan, Vanderheusen, and most other times, they just resort to saying my first name again. I’m used to it, and I’m sure millions of others are too. As an immigrant child in America, you accept the nature of being different. You do what you need to, in order to survive in this melting-pot of cultures and indifferences. Siddharth becomes Sid, Viddhi becomes Vid, Rishab becomes Rish, and Mukhtar Ali Hussein Al-Ugabi becomes Moka. And no matter what adjustments you may make, there will always be room for error.
For Indian-American immigrant children, the extent of Western influence we experience is dictated by our upbringing and the degree to which our parents prioritize preserving Indian culture. My parents only spoke to me in Tamil until I was ~5 years old, which resulted in my fluency with the language. Now, I comfortably converse with my grandparents and extended relatives in rural Kerala. I took Indian food to school on many days, only to stuff it in my locker and lie to my mom in order to avoid embarrassment on both ends - my friends and my parents. I went to Sunday school every week, learning (and teaching) the ins-and-outs of Hinduism enough to know I want very little to do with it as an adult. But through all this, I dressed up for Victorian Festival in 3rd grade, fell in love with Billy Joel and Halloween, and even got invited to family tailgates at UMich games. My Indian parents make valiant efforts to preserve their identities and extend the lifeline of their upbringing through me. It’s not easy, to make your point heard in such a culturally confused and saturated country like the United States - but here I am, as an “Indian-American”.
I find a lot of fascination in how we present ourselves to American masses. Some of us choose to anglicize our names for ease of pronunciation or assimilation into American society, while others proudly retain their linguistic heritage, viewing their names as symbols of identity resilience. As I scroll through Instagram nowadays, I notice that even the choice of online personas reflects a conscious effort to give our identities an identity. My current favorites are “slimshadysheshu” and “thefreshprinceofchenn-air” - truly admirable wordsmiths of the 21st century. These are perfect examples of how Western culture seeps into our digital beings, proving our dedication to this hybridity without leaning too far one way or the other. Nobody wants to be a neon pink shirt when it comes to cultural camouflage.
Nonetheless, I’m here in my grandfather’s village, surrounded by people that are supposedly the same as me; but I have tattoos, a nosering, silver-not-gold jewelry, a big camera in my hand, a slight twang to my accent, and sunscreen residue on my cheeks. I’m not the same Indian that these people are. Yet, I’m not the same American that my American friends are. It’s not a plea to say that I belong nowhere, but rather an appreciation for the complexity of these hybrid identities.
It all stems from two sides of the same coin - pride and shame. We feel pride and shame for every small bit of our identity in an attempt to assimilate to the place we call home. I feel shame for the way Indians may cut in line while at Costco but I am proud of the praise and respect that South Indian food is slowly garnering. In India, I feel shame for the lack of patience seen on the road but I’m proud of the tight-knit familiality in every apartment. We shed little bits of our identity in order to shape a new one, blending into each place we call home along the way of life.
Amidst the celebrations and the occasional identity crisises, there's a sense of solidarity that binds us—the immigrants, the children of diaspora, the perpetual outsiders. We come different corners of the globe, speak different languages, and worship different gods, but we share a common thread of resilience and adaptation. We find ourselves out-of-place and comfortable at the same time - an amalgamation of cultures, traditions, and experiences that defies easy categorization.
It matters not where you come from, but rather who you choose to be now.
quote unquote
just a few more words to think about
“You constantly have to redefine who you are.” - M.I.A.
"So, here you are - too foreign for home - too foreign for here. Never enough for both." - Ijeoma Umebinyuo
“Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I've ever known.” - Chuck Palahniuk
“You falsely think that your fears protect you, your beliefs have made you what you are and your attachments make your life exciting and secure. You fail to see that they are actually a screen between you and life’s symphony.” - Anthony de Mello
Roaming the streets and villages of India for the past couple weeks opened a large space for reflection and crisis, resulting in this month’s pitstop. Thanks for tuning in! I hope this resonated with you, as we all walk the tightrope of complex identities and ever-evolving definitions of home. Feel free to share and discuss amongst fellow subscribers - your response essays will be due 2 weeks from today (three page minimum, single-spaced, sources cited in MLA format).