Being brown in America is to live as a paradox.
“You’re not really American.”
“You’re basically American.”
Consider these two opposing jabs shot at me, one from a former boss so that was a great work environment. My identity and heritage are discounted and devalued. I’m either seen as not a real American because I wasn’t born here or as an “American” by default because I am assimilated to whiteness. What defines being an American anyway and who decides?
American does not mean whiteness.
The beauty of being American is that it takes on all shades, experiences, and heritages. It is indeed our heterogeneity that makes us beautiful. We are enriched by the tapestry of food, culture, stories, art, and wisdom that our country offers through its indigenous and immigrant roots alike.
When my family immigrated here, assimilation was our MO. Do everything you can to not stand out or draw attention to yourself. We spoke our native language Bengali at home but not in public (unless my parents were reprimanding us or talking smack and didn’t want people to know what they were saying). After years of this hybrid bilingualism, I eventually lost my native tongue, and it pains me. I understand it fluently but struggle to find and form the sentences to reply. My phrases are rudimentary as if I were a toddler learning to speak. Assimilation meant hiding part of my identity, except the most obvious part, my brownness, immediately othered me no matter the language I spoke, the lunch I packed, or the clothes I wore.
I grew up in the south in a cul de sac neighborhood, where we ate Ho Hos, hot dogs, and PBJs like all the other kids on the block. I played Atari and stayed up late to watch Friday Night Videos. I begged my mom for Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and Nike sneakers. I had a massive crush on Shaun Cassidy. I was a Brownie and a Girl Scout, even sold cookies door to door. I was a school crossing guard and ran for class president. I played field hockey and lacrosse, both quite badly. I went to prom, three times. I pledged my undying love to a sorority (and quickly realized it was not for me). I wore Laura Ashley and Jessica McClintock frocks. I had madras shorts, a Papagallo Bermuda bag, and Tretorns. I went to fraternity formals and tailgates. I oohed and aahed at fireworks every July 4th and eagerly tore into presents every December 25th. I ate up American history class (thanks to the fabulous Ms. Malone) and registered to vote as soon as I turned 18. You could say I lived the all-American life, cliches and all.
I wasn’t born an American. I was raised one.
If you want to get technical, I was born in Kolkata (You might know it as the colonized Calcutta, a place the Department of Homeland Security fiercely scrutinizes in terms of immigration now). I’ve been in the States for 50 years. It is my home, yet people remind me every day I don’t belong here. While I look Indian, I am all American. I speak like an American, butchering a French accent as much as my classmates did; I even have a surprise Southern drawl if I have a few too many beers with my neighbors. I married an American (from the Heartland, doesn’t get more American than that!). I have two boys who are first-generation American. I have an American passport. To the world, I am officially American, on paper. My children are 100% American, no matter how you look at it (or them). Sure, they are bi-racial, I suppose. I don’t think of them in that way. Apparently many people do. When the boys were little strangers used to ask me if I was their nanny. This is what othering looks like.
Allow me to illustrate something I experienced years ago that haunts me still. Picture this: Four families sitting around the yard, chowing down some pepperoni pizza and cracking open some Miller High Lifes, children running amok, neighbors stopping by to say hey. The conversation turned to the movie “Star Wars.” Mac Daddy proudly said he’s never seen it (It had been a point of pride and conviction for him, but he’s since seen it.). Oh, the crowd went wild, jeering him for being so out of touch with possibly the greatest piece of pop culture ever. I chimed in with “I hated Star Wars.” Jokingly, a friend said that hating Star Wars was practically unAmerican. Ha ha ha. We had a good laugh at that. Then another neighbor pipes in with, “Of course it’s unAmerican. Look at who you’re talking to.” Silence struck.
All the fun and folly evaporated at that instant.
I could feel my eyes on fire, my skin crawling, my heart racing, my teeth clenching, my brain reeling, my angry words swirling in my brain. I burst. How could I not?
I retorted with an emphatic, “Actually, I AM American.”
“Well, not really. You weren’t born here.”
“That’s not the only thing that makes someone American.”
“Well, you’re not American like I am.”
“I didn’t realize there were degrees of American-ness. I was BRED an American. I lived all but one year outside of this country when I was a baby!” I was screaming now.
“Well, you weren’t born here. You missed a year here.”
“You know what? I actually represent the REAL America. The one that is based on the melting pot and freedom and immigration to a new world? You know, the one in history books regaling stories of Ellis Island and the first settlers? I am as American as they come and don’t ever tell me otherwise. My family CHOSE to be American, never taking it for granted for one single second.”
With that I stomped inside, fighting back tears. How could she question my identity? In this day of mixed races, ethnicities, and religions among families, there are no easy physical identifiers anymore. Isn’t that the beauty of our country? Is that not our brand? My heritage will always be Indian, and don’t get me wrong, I’m damn proud of it, even though it took me years to get to this place of pride above shame. For starters, our cuisine and literary contributions to the planet far exceed America’s.
My neighbor likely sees that statement as a sign of not being proud of my country. Well, sometimes I’m not proud of my country. What makes me proud is that I am free to state my opinion without fear of retribution. I campaign fiercely in every election, taking time off from my paying job. Would I do that if I weren’t an American who cared about her country and wanted to protect it? I am a proud American. When I was a kid I won a Mini Page contest for the Fourth of July. I took a popular car commercial of the day and drew pictures to go along with it as my way to depict America (Clearly advertising and marketing spoke to me from a young age.). I won the contest and got my picture and photo printed in the local paper. I think my mom still has the clipping. She was that proud. Now don’t go telling me I’m not American.