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.
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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:
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…
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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 💜
