Sneaking Out for a Burger With My Indian Dad
For children of immigrants, our experiences of America are intertwined with the presence of another culture and its expectations.
I am an “ABCD” — an “American Born Confused Desi.” It is a label that has followed me throughout my life, one derisively applied to those of us born in America to Indian parents.
The term conveys that all of us who are “American born” have no understanding of what it means to truly be Indian, or Desi. It used to make me feel inferior, that designation. It was not until adulthood that I began to embrace the label. I was in fact born in America. And yes, I am confused.
What did this ABCD expect out of life? As a child, in small-town Weatherford, Tex., where Wranglers and steak are cultural staples, I assumed that my friends would view me as white, as American, because that was how I saw myself, despite my mother’s saris and Indian curries. When I looked in a mirror, I saw the black, thick hair and the brown tinge to my skin magically disappear. As a teenager, I wanted a mother and father who attended high school football games and understood what prom was. As a young adult, I dreamed of walking down the aisle in a white wedding dress toward a faceless, but Caucasian, American man.
I carried these expectations, but not a single one was ever fulfilled. Instead, my hair and skin color became more apparent, my mother’s saris became my own, and I sometimes watch football with my Indian husband. I am part of a generation that lives within the hyphen. We are American, born to immigrant parents. We are the first in our families to attend college in America. We fall in love, leave our children at school for the first time, celebrate holidays, tend to sick parents, and endure loss just like any American family. But our experiences are intertwined with the presence of another culture and its expectations and a push and pull of both of those cultures, neither of which we can fully absorb.
I am an “ABCD” — an “American Born Confused Desi.” It is a label that has followed me throughout my life, one derisively applied to those of us born in America to Indian parents.
The term conveys that all of us who are “American born” have no understanding of what it means to truly be Indian, or Desi. It used to make me feel inferior, that designation. It was not until adulthood that I began to embrace the label. I was in fact born in America. And yes, I am confused.
What did this ABCD expect out of life? As a child, in small-town Weatherford, Tex., where Wranglers and steak are cultural staples, I assumed that my friends would view me as white, as American, because that was how I saw myself, despite my mother’s saris and Indian curries. When I looked in a mirror, I saw the black, thick hair and the brown tinge to my skin magically disappear. As a teenager, I wanted a mother and father who attended high school football games and understood what prom was. As a young adult, I dreamed of walking down the aisle in a white wedding dress toward a faceless, but Caucasian, American man.
I carried these expectations, but not a single one was ever fulfilled. Instead, my hair and skin color became more apparent, my mother’s saris became my own, and I sometimes watch football with my Indian husband. I am part of a generation that lives within the hyphen. We are American, born to immigrant parents. We are the first in our families to attend college in America. We fall in love, leave our children at school for the first time, celebrate holidays, tend to sick parents, and endure loss just like any American family. But our experiences are intertwined with the presence of another culture and its expectations and a push and pull of both of those cultures, neither of which we can fully absorb.
NY Times
