Whenever I read stories of immigrants, I feel like I don’t relate to them in the same ways that most immigrants do. I’ve never really felt like I faced the struggles of trying to assimilate that most immigrants describe. I felt more like an “other” in the opposite way. In Troy, with such a large Indian population, I’m more surrounded by my culture than most other immigrants are. Yet I don’t feel connected enough to it. I’m assimilated too much. I don’t relate to what other kids say about our “shared” culture.
This feeling is kind of a background presence in my life. I mostly just ignored it and dealt with the vague, uncomfortable feeling that came with it. Once, on a field trip in Washington, D.C., I overheard some kids talking about Hindu mythology on our bus back to the hotel. They were teasing one kid who had made a minor mistake in his recollection of a story. It was all light-hearted, and they quickly moved on to other topics, but listening to that conversation reminded me of my lack of cultural identity. That kid who made the mistake, who was teased for something that small, knew more than I ever did. It felt like I was too American, while everyone else was the perfect blend of both cultures. I was ashamed to be too American will in a bus sitting in front of the White House.
My grandfather provided me with one of my strongest connections to India. He spoke the most English of any of my grandparents, so he was the one I talked to the most. Even through our stilted conversations, I still felt a connection to him (I still maintain that I am his favorite grandchild). He passed away before I ever got to see him in person. When this happened, it felt like I lost all the connection I had, since I never talked to any of my other grandparents.
Thi’s trip back to Vietnam in her twenties reminded me of my own trip back to India when I was 13. It was my first time going back there since my family moved to the US a decade prior. Visiting family that I couldn’t even connect with constantly brought that uncomfortable feeling back. My chest always tightened whenever I had to interact with anyone, since I couldn’t speak the language at all. I felt so isolated, while most of my friends loved visiting India when they could. The only person I could kind of connect with was my cousin. He didn’t speak any English at all, but little kids don’t have the same qualms about cultural identity that adults have. He was perfectly fine interacting with me without talking. You don’t need a language to communicate that a toy truck just did a really cool flip. Playing with him helped me let go of some of the internal resentment I held toward India. It reminded me that I still hold some connection to my culture, even if it manifests differently.
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