⋆ Second Gen Desi ⋆
Los Angeles

Freedom to Love

Reading Time: 9 minutes

Written June 30, 2020

Shoutout! – Thank you to my amazing friend who happens to be a talented graphic designer, Chrizz, for her cute line sketches in this post! She runs a number of art-related accounts on Instagram (check them out and give her a follow—@csayart @writer_christina) as well as runs an Etsy shop called Royal Garden Prints (@royalgardenprints). Support small business and an unbelievably gifted artist!

————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-

I don’t know if I’m overthinking this, but is it not weird that when it comes to dating, love, and sex, the question of race is something people openly express their opinions on, without remorse?

“White guys are just not my type.”

“Asian guys are not that cute.”

“I can’t see you with a black guy.”

I’ve always been surprised by how easy it was for my friends or close acquaintances to have these phrases roll off their tongue. The fact that they could say these things and not bat an eye, yet quickly be the first ones to share social media posts on civil rights protests seemed strange to me.

If you have a “preference” for the race you want to date, is that not implicit bias? Isn’t that in the most literal sense, racism?

As a 27-year-old SGD, I’ll be honest and say that my (romantic) experience with men is non-existent. I consider myself a “late bloomer” when it comes to matters of romance. I’d like to think I’m not the only one, but seriously, how many women are going to be frank about their romantic lives, or lack of one?

An eating disorder consumed the formative years of my life, inhibiting me from participating in experiences that young women and men normally have with meeting in college and getting a whole chance at the dating thing. In addition to my eating disorder struggles, I was challenged with depression, low self-esteem, and never-ending anxiety. Mental illness is a downer— I didn’t have much energy to spare on anything else besides thinking about the calories I consumed and scraping by to get through the day.

Growing up as an SGD also brought upon confusion when it came to these matters. Cultural norms and expectations (mostly assumed by me) made me doubt how I should approach boys, dating, and relationships. Having no open conversations about intimacy and what constitutes a healthy relationship made concepts difficult to comprehend—something highly prevalent in desi culture, but for me, was emphasized due to my mother’s mentally unstable behavior.  

My mom, who was consumed by her own mental illnesses, made sure to make my sister and I believe that boys and men were dangerous. That in order to protect ourselves, we needed to avoid them at all costs. Keeping her strong words in mind, I grew up treating boys indifferently. Their feelings didn’t matter, and I had all the right to be rude to them since they were already vile and unworthy of respect. Sounds pretty harsh looking back, but when you’re repeatedly told as a child that boys have the worst intentions and to stay away from them, you do it. Or at least I did.

Avoiding boys was never a problem for me. It may have also contributed to my low self-esteem to some extent, leading me to question why a guy never asked me out in high school, or why I haven’t had my first kiss when every single person I know and their grandmother has already been there and done that? Most of the time, I’ve been able to look at the whole situation in a comical manner, and while I’ve had my moments of being hung up on this never happening for me, I like to think that everything leading up to this moment has made me become a stronger and more confident woman, while learning to be less abrasive when it comes to giving guys a chance.  

The casual coffee date (with romantic intentions)—something I never experienced.

These simmering thoughts eventually led me to give Bumble a try, the dating app that is supposedly more “empowering” for women since women  make the first move in messaging men. My sister first suggested it, after having a conversation with her one day about feeling more confident with the idea of meeting people….in a romantic way. I was not into the idea of dating via swipes, until I downloaded the app, made a profile, and went “active” the day after I submitted my PhD thesis.

For about a week, the app made my commute to work pass by quickly. It felt weird swiping on guys, as if I were browsing through a catalog. Every other man’s profile seemed much like the earlier one: one pic with a bottle of beer, one pic at a sports event (as an attendee, not even participating in the sport…), and a pic with a group of girl “friends”. My nervousness started to melt away, and it was replaced with plenty of eye rolls.

When the SuperSwipes started coming in (an opportunity for men on Bumble to get the attention of a woman and indicate their supposed interest), I decided to give those guys a shot. If we want to get down to race, two white guys and one desi guy used this method to get me to message them initially.

The age of dating apps seems too insensitive in my opinion, but on the other hand, what other choices do we have to meet people? Especially if catching up on lost experiences is an issue?

Despite giving it my “best” shot, all three ended up ghosting me—messages started out formal and polite, but they were eventually spaced out by longer intervals of time. I didn’t have the patience to see if Guy #1 would get back to me after “bragging” about all the things he had planned for the weekend, or if Guy #2, despite touting his avid love for running was indeed looking for a running partner. And Guy #3? Yes, I get it, you love books, but can we talk about something else? I appreciate a good novel from time-to-time but man, my brain is fried after reading countless journal papers for work!

Then there was Guy #4, probably the most decent guy I met through this app. He didn’t SuperSwipe me, but I swiped right on him since he said he was vegan, and I was impressed by his abstinence for smoking and drinking alcohol.  He extended the time for me to message him first, so it seemed like he was interested in hearing back from me. A sign of flattery that made me feel appreciated.

If we want to get down to race, he was black.

He replied at a normal rate, and seemed to have a nice attitude (and personality based on his  messages), but by the time I starting messaging him, I was getting fed up with the app, and the idea of dating overall. I also was approaching  my defense/thesis presentation day, and I was low-key stressin’. He suggested that we meet up some time when I was free, at a vegan restaurant somewhere in LA, and I suggested in a week after my defense was over.

I was able to freeze my account for the time being, but once that week came and went, and I finally became a PhD, I didn’t want to return to the app.

I could have taken the initiative. My defense was done, I had passed, I could have gone out of my way to message him back and had at least gone on my first “date”. But, I got ahead of myself. I got scared.

I was afraid that if I met him, we might have had a good time. What if we bonded on all things vegan and fitness? What if we enjoyed our time together so much that we wanted to meet up again and again? What if it got so serious, that bringing him up to my parents was the obvious next step? Despite the supposed shifts going on in our society—the idea that interracial dating is now “okay”, is it really?

Regardless of race, we all want to be loved ❤

I’m not going to harp on myself too much for what I eventually did, which was ghosting the poor guy (truly hoping he found a lady that was ready for whatever was to come ❤). At the time, I did what was right for me. I gave the app a try, and realized I wasn’t ready. I needed more time to focus on myself, and really think things through. It’s been almost a year since I quit the app, and I’ve had plenty of time to reflect and ponder over these thoughts and feelings…some that have been internalized since childhood, and obviously needed to be explored and broken down.

The utopian goal would be to look beyond color or culture, and to have everyone in your inner circle and beyond to accept you and your partner as the dream package. But we must be real. As much as people are taking issues to the streets and demanding change, change does not happen overnight.

When I head about Sudha Ragunathan and her daughter’s story, I was unfortunately not surprised by the reaction that resulted from the general public:

Sudha Ragunathan is an accomplished Carnatic vocalist, singer, composer, teacher, and philanthropist from my parents’ home state of Tamil Nadu in India. A little more than a year ago, she and her daughter Maalavika were targets of bigotry and hatred due to Maalavika’s choice to marry a man of African-American descent by the name of Michael Murphy. The fact that both Maalavika and Michael were accomplished in their own right (both the holders of medical and graduate degrees, respectively) did not stop unwarranted racial prejudice and rumors from circulating—including those that assumed the Ragunathan family converted to Christianity 🤦🏽‍♀️.

Please then explain the very obvious South Indian wedding that took place…

After looking into the story more, I was more in shock by the fact that many of these absurd comments came from people who still abide by patriarchal beliefs—that we “cannot lose our girls to men of other races, cultures, and religions”:

(Image source)

I have no doubt that if I were to be in an interracial relationship in the future, my millennial and younger peers would not take issue—we are the generation of disruption and change. For us, this is something not worth losing our minds over.

But, especially in desi culture, our parents exist. Our grandparents, aunties, and uncles exist. Many of us want to keep them happy. We don’t want to argue or be the target of gossip, yet we don’t want to be restrained and restricted by rules most often based on patriarchal ideals.

I see where their opinions stem from, and that’s fear. Those that spew words of hate and bigotry are afraid that they are “losing” one of their own to another side. That future generations that stem from this couple and others like them will lose the connections to their of desi culture, and that centuries of traditions will not be passed down.

And I understand why many elder folks have this fear…I have this fear for myself.  Yes, I’m desi and I’m proud, but there is so much I need to learn as far as being a Tamil Brahmin Iyengar desi and the traditions of my ancestors. I’ve seen the sadness first-hand in my grandfather, a devout Hindu scholar who dedicated his life to the Lord for the latter part of his life, when discussing the changes of the world with his sons and daughter-in-laws. I could understand his melancholy over the idea that younger generations did not have the time nor desire to understand their roots well enough to pass on to future generations. I could see why my elders worry about our culture fading away.

But the idea that interracial marriage promotes the idea of leaving one’s culture? That could not be further from the truth. What needs to be understood is that the responsibility that comes with passing on traditions, language, auspicious celebrations, etc. starts initially with the parents and familial support group, but when that child becomes an adult? They are that—a living, breathing adult who hopefully has the desire to pass on their heritage to their own children, if they choose to have any. The hope is that us second gens are confident and willing enough to learn what we don’t know, and that who we pick or don’t pick for a life partner does not influence our choice to keep our own cultures alive.

For me, I am happy being independent most of the time. I love pursuing my passions, having the freedom to do as I want and go as I please, and not having to worry about compromise. If the day ever comes that I meet “the one”, I hope that doubt and fear doesn’t plague me to the extent that it did with my “learning experiences” from last year.

Although I have lived so long as a solo bird, part of me wonders what it would be like to have a deep, intimate connection with another person.

If I am confident in myself, my abilities, the passion for my culture and the desire to pass it on to a future generation (if that so happens), then who my partner is, where they come from, and what they dream of shouldn’t matter—as long as they have righteous intentions and a good heart.  

Berkeley, California

CommUNITY

Reading Time: 8 minutes

When it comes to community—be it extended family, parents’ friends, aunties, uncles—I believe most SGDs have varied experiences.

Some have stories upon stories about how suffocating the desi community can be—the toxic gossip, the extreme competitiveness among parents that permeates down to the kids, the nosy aunties, the façade of it all—it can understandably be overbearing.

Before her mental illness took hold of her, my mother was part of a large desi community in Oklahoma. I vaguely remember the large, clean houses with the faint scent of sandalwood, the festivities we would be invited to, and the amount of times I ran up and down staircases alongside a bunch of other brown rugrats. I was a wee one myself, and I had yet to comprehend the politics that governed a raw desi immigrant community.

My dad used to tell me there was a reason we moved to a more “desi-barren” area of NorCal in late 1999. He was trepeditious about the desi communities in the Bay Area and associated counties. He wasn’t so sure if he wanted his young, elementary school-aged daughters to grow up in cutthroat territory. But he also wasn’t so sure about exiling his family from the community altogether. Did it really have to be all or nothing?

As I grew older, I began to see second gens of other cultures find solace in the company of others like themselves. I may have lived in a “desi-barren” area, but there were Filipinos galore! I immediately learned that second gen Filipinos were off limits—if a new kid was Filipino, they would find a group of Filipino friends within an hour, no joke.

For a while, I thought my sister and I were the only South Asian kids in our entire school—a very real memory for most SGDs. When I learned there was a girl of Punjabi descent around my age walking around the same halls as me, I made it my mission to make her my friend.

Remember, I was quite the exuberant third-grader 😉 .

I spotted her playing tether ball with who I gathered to be her best friend: a skinny pale girl with a pout on her face most of the time. I bravely approached them both and stood by the side of the pole, waiting to play whoever won.

When Miss Punjab won, I took my place as we punched the ball back and forth. Despite not being immersed in desi culture at the time, I still had a clue about…some things.

“Have you seen Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham?” I asked excitedly. The movie had come out quite recently, and my question seemed to bring about a smile on Miss Punjab’s face.

“Yeah, it was pretty cool! Shah Rukh Khan is great!”

Of course, bonding between two SGDs involves SRK.

It didn’t look like her pouty-faced friend was a fan though. Over the next few days at lunchtime recess, I would join both girls at the tether ball courts, not really invited, but assuming that I was now a friend—especially Miss Punjab’s.

Perhaps I was naive thinking that our meeting on the playground would extend to hanging out at each other’s houses, our parents meeting and coming together for Diwali, and instill in me a sense of belonging—that perhaps I would be able to grow up with a friend who shared the color of my skin and seemed to like me.

But I was fooled. During one of these tether ball sessions where I had awkwardly invited myself, the pouty pale girl had had enough. Without warning, she stopped the game and growled at Miss Punjab to follow her to another area of the playground. Miss Punjab obliged, and despite pressing my luck with this “friendship”, I knew this was a blatant, planned act of rejection.

————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-

As I grew older, I realized bringing “new” people into our house would only set my mother off. It didn’t matter if they were desi, not desi, blood relatives, or close family friends…no one was ever truly welcome into our cold, dark, isolated home.

I found solace with a few neighborhood kids, two of whom became my greatest friends to this day. But none of my friends were desi. A good or bad thing? I don’t know, but that’s how it was. When we made our trips to India over the years, extended family sometimes inquired about our association with a desi community abroad, and were surprised to learn of our lack of participation in one. They couldn’t comprehend it.

It wasn’t until I was about to finish my undergraduate that I had my first independent encounter with an inclusive desi community. When I first came across Bay Area Solidarity Summer (BASS), I wasn’t sure what to make of it:

Flyer for BASS, circa 2013.

At first, I wasn’t sure about applying. It seemed weird for me, an almost 21-year-old fresh out of college to be gallivanting around with naive high school kids…but perhaps, maybe this time, despite all of the past disappointments of trying to find my community…this could be my chance?

When late July rolled around in 2013, it was time to set off to Berkeley. My Dad volunteered to drive me down from our home in the North Bay to drop me off, despite his disrelish for Bay Area traffic 😅. Normally, our trips to the Bay would be exciting for me, since they would be an excuse to visit an exuberant cousin who we were only able to associate with outside our home. This time however, I felt a little nervous and doubtful of what I signed up for—I wasn’t sure if this purposeful mixing of young desi women of multi-second gen (or first gen) backgrounds would be the solution to my “problem”.

I didn’t hesitate when we arrived in front of an old Victorian-style house in the heart of the city. I was not the first to arrive, but I was one of the earlier ones, and despite feeling tired and nervous, I managed to greet the other ladies who were mingling in the hall and the team of facilitators for the weekend. As other attendees filed in, we soon made our way to the living room of the house, met our facilitators, and gathered together as a total of 15 desi youth to break the ice—with a task that required us to piece together a timeline of South Asian activism spanning 100 years…

We were “put to work” right away! I remember learning so much that day—amazed by the fact that the South Asian community accomplished so much in regards to activism. Something that unfortunately isn’t touched upon in a white-centric school curriculum…
{image source}

From that point on, we embarked on a journey that spanned a weekend. Sitting in on workshops, listening to activist leader elders, challenging our stance on sensitive issues, and opening up our hearts to understand what our South Asian elders faced as immigrants were experiences I’d never forget. I learned so much from a group of brave, strong role models in the South Asian activist community…topics that resonate, albeit chillingly, with the racially-intensified events that have happened this year. We learned then and there that our struggles as POC are important, but allyship is just as significant.

Meeting activist elders Ayesha Gill (Ghadar Party) and Ericka Huggins (Black Panthers) was a powerful example of that.

{Left to Right} – Activist elders Ayesha Gill (Ghadar Party) and Ericka Huggins (Black Panthers) sharing their activist experiences with us; group task to understand how to organize and structure movements for social change; learning about exploitative economic models and more just alternatives; understanding how to be allies for our Islamic brothers and sisters, and how to fight Islamophobia/systems of hate
{image source}

Despite being thrown into a world of knowledge about the struggles and feats of my South Asian ancestors, the sessions definitely pulled on my energy purse strings. Unfortunately, I was still struggling with an eating disorder during this experience, so despite participating as much as I could in the activities, I could not bring myself to have as much energy as some of the more vivacious, bubbly, extroverted ladies.

Break-out sessions during a music-making for activism workshop.
{image source}

Needless to say, I wasn’t very vocal compared to others. But I found kind souls to connect with as the hours carried on that weekend. And the more time we spent with one another, the more comfortable I felt.

Berkeley South Asian Radical History Walking Tour with the BASS ladies, 2013.
{image source}

As Sunday approached, I grew nervous because our final activity would be a participant-led session. All 15 of us ladies would have the chance to speak out about anything—what we learned, our own struggles as South Asians, anything. Alumni, past speakers, and past facilitators were also invited to attend, which made our group circle span the entire circumference of the living room floor.

One by one, each young woman from my group spoke up about their experience over the weekend, or the struggles they faced as South Asians growing up.

Networking with community activists and alumni on the final night of BASS.
{image source}

I ended up being the last participant to speak. I wasn’t sure how to follow 14 other ladies—especially the vocally excited ones who spoke about their plans to spark activism as soon as they returned home. Or the ones who already had collaborations set up for activist projects. Or the ones who were able to eloquently express their immigrant struggles as first-gen desis.

I could only speak on what made my heart hurt at the moment.

My words were slow at first, but then flooded out—words that pieced together the anger and loneliness I felt after fighting with a mother arrested by mental illness. That the domestic turmoil under my roof left my sister, my father and I unable to seek outside help. That my eating disorder was triggered by years of having to control the uncontrollable.

That belonging to a community—a desi community—was something I didn’t feel until this past weekend.

When I finished speaking, I was met stunned silence, some tears, and hug after hug after hug. There were gentle pats on the back, and vocal appreciation of my courage to share such sensitive information and be vulnerable.

The following morning, we left each other goodbye notes. I opened mine as soon as I climbed into my dad’s car, and my eyes started to water.

It might seem cheesy to an outsider…I’m not afraid to admit that I often try to avoid being cliche even if that means putting down gestures like these as “over the top” or “annoyingly unoriginal”, but receiving these notes from my brown-skinned peers after a heavily informational and emotionally-moving session shifted my attitude…

I didn’t expect to find myself the recipient of 20+ hugs from compassionate individuals. I didn’t expect to find a group of young women who squeal for M.I.A. as much as warm chai on a Sunday afternoon. I didn’t expect to dance awkwardly down the line as my peers cheered for us as we moved to Drake’s “Started From the Bottom”. I didn’t expect to reveal the harsh memories of a broken home to a group of strangers who immediately became supporters.

I didn’t expect to belong.

But, if at least for only a weekend…and maybe a few weeks after…I finally understood how it felt to be part of a commUNITY.

One summer night in the middle of Berkeley in a Victorian-style house, a group of 15 young women, descending from a wide spectrum of the South Asian diaspora, found commUNITY.

To learn more about BASS, check out their website and Facebook page. As a second gen desi, this was one of the best experiences of my life 💜

Orange County, CA

Judgement Day

Reading Time: 3 minutes

Hey there, Aunty. Listen up, because there’s something I gotta say.

‘Sup Aunty?

I tend to hesitate whenever I see you or any other older brown woman in a sari or a salwar kameez slowly strolling on the sidewalk, especially in Suburbia, USA. I’m just out here for my daily run, but I’m afraid of what will pass through your mind and eventually be expressed on your face.

Even though I consciously slow down my pace, I cringe knowing that as soon as I race by, you will take one look at my crop tank and booty shorts and immediately begin judging.

As much as I want to believe that you and these other aunties are woke and would not be bewildered by the sight of a young desi woman running in, well, running clothes, my mind harkens back to my teenage years and the fears I had regarding my own mother’s judgement.

Spaghetti straps were taboo, but even sleeveless tops had my mother giving me the side-eye. The one time I managed to purchase a mini skirt with my own money from American Eagle in high school? I made sure to always pair it with leggings…even when we took a family trip to Tahoe in the middle of a Californian heat wave.

Despite having my Western fashion monitored with hawk-eye precision, I never had issue with “dressing the part” in desi environments. However, despite walking into temples in a long, baggy salwar kameez (nevermind the scorching heat…), never forgetting to wear pottu, and wearing my hair in a simple ponytail, the stares from you and other aunties never seemed to cease.

But then I grew up, and moved away from home. As I slowly re-pieced my wardrobe with things more appropriate for a twenty-something, I felt more confident in picking out more “adventurous” clothing.

It was never a shopping spree out of spite. I knew the difference between trendy and trash.

That glittery dress that happened to hit me mid-thigh but was full-sleeved? ✅

That tube top that matched well with a pair of harem pants? ✅

Those cut-off shorts paired with a thick black moto jacket (ya know, for those Californian winters 😁)? ✅

For me, it was never about showing too much…I just wanted to be able to have a choice in what to show.

Did you know I ran my fastest pace in months the day I wore this?

But I guess the constant fear of judgement by you and other women still haunts me. There have been a number of occasions where I found my fingers quick to zip up a jacket, or to pull down the hem of my shorts after sitting down, just to make sure I didn’t risk becoming a target of a staredown.

But Aunty, this is what you and your sisters need to understand:

👊🏽Wearing “Western” clothing doesn’t make you a slut.

👊🏽 In this day and age, most women wear “provocative” clothing to feel good about their bodies and themselves.

👊🏽 So what if a guy looks over? That’s his problem. Not ours.

👊🏽 And the reason he looked over? Probably because we know we are BOMB AF and not afraid to flaunt it.

When she got a PhD and ain’t afraid to look back at it 👊🏽

Be proud of the fact that the next generation of desi women are strong, fearless, financially independent, and intelligent.

And we are aware of our roots. Just so you know, wearing a sports bra in public won’t change that.

Don’t mess with dis SGD 😎

And besides, who are you to judge?

Chennai

Holding Back

Reading Time: 6 minutes

Conceptualized November 30, 2018

——————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 —————————————————

I hate being the target of assumptions.

I hate walking into a room feeling stuck in a mold that was imposed upon me by others. 

Mahabalipuram, a town in the Chengalpattu district of Tamil Nadu. 56 kilometers south of Chennai.

Growing up, I would vow before each trip to Chennai that things would finally be different. I would speak up. I would face my grandmother and say, “Pati, nee eppadi irruken?”, and not the safe and comfortable “How are you?”  

But as soon as our plane hit the tarmac in Chennai, the humidity would blast me and a frog would nestle in my throat. I would subconsciously tuck behind my Dad as if his presence would help me disappear for the next three weeks… 

We would walk out into the open, luggage in tow, with a million eyeballs facing us as we tried to find our familiar faces. Uncles and aunts would be there, but my tongue would stay still. I felt embarrassed to speak in English, so I would just smile and hesitantly laugh at every word my relatives spoke to me. 

Every time they turned to my Dad, they spoke in Tamil. My ears would tune in, just in case one of my uncles threw in a joke along with a head shake, a hand wave, and loud clap. I would try to laugh as hard as I could just so they would know I understood. But when their eyes landed on me—-in the rare moments after the meet and greet—it would be a simple question, and it was always in English. 

Rusting gate in Thiruporur, a town in Chengalpattu district in Tamil Nadu ⭐ Hate to admit that I often felt “locked in” in regards to being able to truly express myself on these trips to Chennai.

Those trips to India left me exhausted, ashamed, and embarrassed. Meeting extended relatives brought on anxiety more than anything, and the pressure to be Indian, when I was obviously not (at least in their eyes) made things more confusing than I could handle. 

The last time I went to India, it was four years ago, a few months before embarking on my PhD journey. It was one of those trips I went in saying things would be different. This time, I would try.

But the three weeks I spent in a homeland that felt foreign took an opposite turn. I was battling an eating disorder, and on top of trying to cover up my shame of not being able to speak Tamil fluently and confidently, I felt overwhelmed with the food I was trying so hard to avoid. Instead of drinking chai and indulging in sweets, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried. 

4 years later, and I am still at a crossroads with my mother tongue. 

Wearing the clothes, but feeling self-conscious—especially on the traditional streets of Triplicane.

At least my dad had a choice. He grew up in a large family, interactions abound. He may have fallen in love with the American radio shows and Western movies his eyes laid upon as a boy, but despite making the move to America and actively choosing to live a new life, assimilate into a new culture, and allowing his accent to fade away, he still managed to have no problem with coming back. 

But I was born into a world I had no decision in wanting to be a part of. No one asked me if I wanted to be an ABCD—an American-Born Confused Desi .  

When it came time for me to formally learn a second language, I was in high school. Though when I walked in on the first day of class, I was already put into a stereotype: in the eye of my German teacher of Chinese-origin, I was the studious, quiet Indian girl who probably spoke Hindi at home and was going to ace his class and add German to my language repertoire because I study all the time. 

He got the quiet part right, and to a certain extent, I picked up German—-the passive way of course. In my four years of high school, I was “Inge” every minute I was in his classroom (we had to pick German names for us to use on our first day), and while the first 3 years were fun, I still could not build up the courage to speak the language and build oral fluency. I did what was mandatory in class, but I had no desire to build upon the language outside of class. Especially when I developed depression in my senior year—-speaking fluent German was far from my priorities when I was face down on the kitchen floor sobbing every night, facing an existential crisis at only 17. 

I’ve made attempts after each trip—with recent memories of time spent with family still fresh in my mind. This would be enough to motivate me to dust off the number of Tamil learning books I accumulated over the years. I’d bring up my desire to start practicing to my Dad, and we’d hold a few short conversations here and there over the phone, but I found myself losing patience and steering back to English.

Because it was comfortable, and provided me with the words necessary to express myself.

Orange County Airport Views ⭐ Returning to the US after long trips in Chennai gave my subconscious a sense of relief. I felt like I could “be myself” again.

If I was too exhausted after a long work day, depressed by an emotionally traumatic event or angered by someone and needed to vent, my basic vocabulary in Tamil was not enough for me to get my emotions out. It would be a battle of frustration just to find the words…and that would only add to the negative feelings I harbored at the moment.

As a student in the last stages of her PhD, change is hitting me from all angles. As with all transitional points that have occurred in my life so far, I have a deep, intrinsic feeling that my next chapter waits for me beyond the abnormally sunny skies of LA. As people get older, nature usually kicks in—people want to settle, find comfort, and engross themselves into a routine that they can rely on for years.

But I am a person who can’t be static. I want to explore the world, live in different countries, and be a “global citizen“.

I just feel guilty for not being fluent in the language of my heritage 😞.

This will continue to be my internal battle until I am able to truly decide if this is what I need to feel like I “belong”, and if so, I will need to fiercely prioritize my time with the language. I oftentimes feel frustrated because looking to the past, my parents could have made it their duty to make sure my sister and I spoke Tamil fluently. I could have been more adamant to learn when I was younger. I could have tried this, done that, used this, read that…

One thing I try to emphasize to myself is that my lack of fluency doesn’t make me any less “desi”. Most of the time, it certainly feels like it does, but in all other aspects of my culture—my Hindu faith, my awareness of basic customs, my observance of societal “rules” when visiting Chennai—I’m as desi as can be.

Weak in fluency, strong in cultural awareness

One of these days, my daydreams to communicate effortlessly with extended relatives will become a reality.

Hopefully as I grow older and wiser, my confidence with Tamil will grow with me.

Hopefully the frog in my throat will find a new place to haunt, and I’ll be comfortable enough to express myself in the words of my ancestors.

That multi-lingual confidence ⭐ it’s in me somewhere 😉

Los Angeles

The Path of a (Second Gen) Desi

Reading Time: 6 minutes

Conceptualized February 14, 2020

————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-

I have a cousin on my mother’s side named Radhika (name changed for privacy). I remember playing with Radhika at extended relatives’ weddings in the early 2000s. I was only 7-years-old, but I picked up on several things:

✏️ Radhika was a “lucky” Indian-born millennial. She was born in ’86, meaning she was at the right age to enjoy the perks of India in the late-90s/early-00s: Hrithik Roshan movies, coding homework on a bulky PC monitor, and constant access to Cadbury’s chocolate (this was definitely a perk for her as seen through my 7-year-old eyes).

✏️ Though she never mentioned it, I had a feeling that she was mentally planning for a future abroad, even though she was always cognizant of the traditions at family functions I saw her attend.

✏️ I felt “special” to think that this teenager, six years older than me, wanted to play with me. Entertain me. She could have easily nestled into a group of older women and chatted with them in “adult fashion” versus running around with young children, but she chose me. And that made me feel damn good about myself.

At an age when my sis and I enjoyed life without questions…

It was almost as if I knew the change that was approaching. As I grew older, our trips to India remained consistent, but interactions with Radhika grew shorter to the point that they disappeared altogether. The last time I saw her in India was when I was 10, and when we came back when I was in middle school, she had already left for college.

Rifts between family members caused us to lose contact with her for sometime. Eventually, more than a decade later, she reappeared in my life.

She was married. She was settled in Dallas, in a large house. And she had a baby boy. Most would say she was living the dream many first-gens crave for…

She was only six years older than me, but she seemed to have checked off everything she needed to accomplish as a high-caste, desi woman by 30:

✔️ Go to college (undergrad), and specialize in IT, biology, or medicine, but preferably IT.

✔️ Find a job abroad. Any “first-world”, white-majority country should cut it. UK, Canada, Australia, sure, but you know “you’ve made it” if you settle in the US 🙄

✔️ Get married. Better to do it in your late-20s or you’re pushing it!

✔️ Have kids! Gotta propagate more STEM babies!

I word this “checklist” with dry humor, but also with a note of frustration. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy for Radhika. Though I feel angered that family rifts distanced us for some time, I’m glad that she reconnected with us, and that we at least have an idea of how she’s doing.

I’m more frustrated by the times I’ve felt this checklist imposed on me, despite being a second gen. Whether it be from distant relatives or my own father, it has been a struggle to demonstrate that my background, my trials and tribulations, and life goals for myself are not in line with the list desi parents normally have for their children…

✖️ I did go to undergrad, and majored in Cell Biology. My social experiences (or lack thereof) were abysmal, given that I was battling depression and an eating disorder. It was a miracle I was able to sit in for exams, let alone make it to class on some days…

✖️ Growing up in California was not bad, but I think I probably could have been happy anywhere as a kid, as long as my environment was nurturing and safe. Knowing that I lived in a state many people dreamed of living in made me feel guilty sometimes when I thought about how much I wish my parents had stayed in India before starting a family. In my formative years, I was dying to feel like I belonged in a culture of a country that held people wishing to be in my position. My Dad would never let me forget I was American…but if so, why did certain things that we never discussed in detail before have to follow…tradition?

✖️ Like, marriage. Or an “alliance” as my folks like to call it. As much as my father is a progressive and forward-thinking man, our recent, later-in-life talks about relationships and family have convinced me that he’d prefer that I marry a desi man—shared culture and all that (?).

And that’s honestly something I struggle with in my head…so much to the point that I’d rather not risk joining the dating game in case I fall for someone who’s not of my ethnicity…there’s no risk in not trying, right?

There’s also the fear and possible reality that I may not find someone who checks off on shared values, interests, and goals in life. He can be desi, but what’s the point if we have nothing in common at all?

And on top of that, what if…

✖️ I don’t ever feel the urge to have kids? I don’t feel like my biological clock is ticking (it’s more like I’m tapping the mic🎤 going, “Is this thing on?“). Perhaps not having a period for almost 6 years when I was in my late teens/early 20s due to an eating disorder created turbulence in my lady hormone profile (who knows?), but when I see a human baby, I’ll admit they’re cute, but my heart does infinite cartwheels and backflips when I see a doggo or a cat.

Only animals 🐕 have the power to make me smile my brightest 😄☀️

My heart yearns for an animal companion, or twenty, haha! I’d rather have a sanctuary of dogs, cats, pigs, cows, racoons, possums, capybaras, etc. than plan for a pregnancy and a baby 😮, if I’m being honest…

Maybe this will change as I get older, as I nestle into my 30s, but my personal experiences and life journey have made me develop a different mindset at this point. The thing is, I don’t know if that will change, and why should it have to 🤷?

————————————————– 𝕊𝔾𝔻 ————————————————-

As much as I’ve tried to conform to what I thought was the ‘ideal’ path of becoming a desi woman, I realized that I would never be able to achieve this. As a young girl, I used to think that purposefully being quiet, saying that math was my favorite subject when it wasn’t, and not daring to even look at a boy was my way of signaling to the world that I was a good desi girl.

But fortunately, I woke up. In my mid-twenties, my tumultuous experiences in grad school, eating disorder recovery, and new, burgeoning crushes on men (emotionally immature) boys pushed me to change my perspective on things that I used to be stalwart about.

I’m a woman who’s not afraid to look up and dream big ❤️

It hit me when I was spending long days and nights in the lab, and my emotions were raw and I felt the loneliest I ever remember feeling. Why should I try to be something I’m not, especially for people who aren’t even supporting me at my lowest point in life? 

Slowly, I began to learn about self-acceptance, and owning my true self. My path has been different and will continue to be different, and I’ve realized that, even if it seems hard and could be difficult at times to convince those closest to me that my decisions are sound and right for me, I need to do what is best for me no matter what. 

And so this is where I currently stand: I am not getting married any time soon. And if I do, it’ll be based on shared interests, morals, and goals in life, not necessarily anything else…

I want a home full of animals to care for and love. I yearn for that more than having kids on my own. This might not be the “normal” goal for many, but it’s mine and one that I truly want to achieve. 

I’ve worked so hard for a PhD, so you bet I’d want to continue growing in my career. If that means traveling around the world and not settling in one place permanently, then maybe that’s what I’ll do. Mr. Right, if he exists, won’t mind the nomadic journey either 😉. 

If you’re a SGD struggling with your path, the best thing you can do for yourself is give your heart full rein.

What are your truest passions and dreams? If no one was around you to judge or say “no”, what would you do in a heart beat? 

Icons made by Good Ware from www.flaticon.com