Identity

A vivid memory I have of my childhood was crying in a Hindu temple in front of my parents and declaring that “I don’t want to be Indian anymore.” I didn’t want to put in the effort to be a part of my culture anymore; I didn’t want to learn a new language, or have vegetarian days, or watch Bollywood movies, or speak to relatives I didn’t understand. That was the day my parents stopped forcing me to do things I didn’t want to. I pulled away from what my parents were and started imitating the people I saw on TV.

The day after my birthday, my grandma passed away. My family rushed to India to grieve together. When I walked into my grandfather’s home, I was hit with a wave of grief. It was a sensation I had never felt before; the house was silent, with people strewn about with tears in their eyes. We greeted each other with nothing more than a nod of understanding. My grandfather, who I always saw as a stoic paragon, held his head in his hands. His usually clean-shaven face was marred with pain and loss. I broke down crying as soon as I saw him.

There was always a cultural barrier between me and the rest of my family, but grieving together taught me that it’s my responsibility to shatter it and understand my family. I focused too much on the American part of “Indian-American” and lost a part of my identity. Today, I love my culture and wouldn’t be able to live without it. I take pride in it no matter how much work it is.