Immigrant Ilina

Look at little Ilina sporting Stars and Stripes. This is me not long after we moved to the United States from India. I am an immigrant despite my twangy American accent and western ways. I would argue I am more American than someone born here. My family relinquished its birth citizenship to become Americans. They took a test and an oath and have never taken this privilege and duty for granted.

We embody the American dream and spirit of sacrifice, having forged new paths while leaving behind everything we know.

I was born in Kolkata, the beating heart of Bengal, where the air is heavy with the smell of chai and luchi. For anyone who knows Kolkata, they know it is a city brimming with spirited conversations about literature, politics, and art, with the constant hum of music everywhere you go. The city shaped my parents and their sensibilities, and those values in turn influenced me. And now, those same values, a thirst for knowledge, a quest for justice, and a deep connection to creativity, have guided my own parenting for my American born sons.

Growing up in the South, I stood out with my dark skin, thick black hair, and a name that teachers stumbled over at roll call.

“What are you?” became a question I dreaded because the answer seemed to mark me as different, as someone who didn’t quite belong, despite my Tretorns and popped collar Izod shirt. This is a question that still plagues me to this day. I was mercilessly teased for what was in my lunchbox. People made fun of my parents’ accents. Nevermind that they speak multiple languages beautifully. My parents’ stories of growing up amidst Kolkata’s intellectual debates and cultural pride seemed so far removed from my own reality as a kid trying to find my place in a community that wasn’t always welcoming. This too carries on still.

But the lessons of my heritage fueled me as I got older and reckoned with my own sense of worth and belonging. I struggled with confidence and security as I grew up in a world where no one looked like me, and all imagery of beauty was the antithesis of what I saw when I looked in the mirror. From my parents, I learned the Bengali spirit of resistance and the importance of standing up for what’s right. They showed me how to persevere in the face of injustice, whether through quiet resilience or bold action. They too experienced all of this and more in their own workplaces while trying to shield us from the ugliness of bigotry. Those lessons were my foundation as I navigated experiences of racism and exclusion throughout my life. I have learned to take up space. Note that this has been my reality well before 2015 and the age of Orange. Just because many of you are hearing such tales now doesn’t mean the experiences are new. We are just finally talking about them now that Pandora’s Box has been opened.

To those new to the Resistance, welcome.

My roots are in Kolkata, and I continue to grow in the soil of America. I am even fiercer about my cultural pride, a sharp departure from the years I spent eschewing it as I tried to fit into a world that would never embrace me. I cringe now as many Indian trappings have become de rigueur and in turn appropriated – turmeric, oiling your hair, yoga, block print cotton fabric.

It is a complicated thing to be an immigrant who is othered at every turn, but we are buoyed by our devotion and love for this country and its potential. And we know we have a hand in making America live up to its promise to actually be great. For everyone.

Little toddler Ilina, not unlike middle-aged Ilina. A glint of mischief and stars in my eyes. Mouth open in half laugh, half scream. Poised to use my outside voice.