⋆ Second Gen Desi ⋆
Los Angeles

Eggshells

Reading Time: 9 minutes

Written: April 17, 2020

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

Uh-huh, life’s like this
Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s the way it is
‘Cause life’s like this
Uh-huh, uh-huh, that’s the way it is

-Canadian Kween, Avril Lavigne

Back in the early 2000s, I thrived as an outgoing, bubbly third-grader, known to her peers as a funny, friendly girl with tan skin and long, straight black hair. My laugh was infectious, and I remember picking up mild sarcasm from my Dad, as well as a fascination with puns.

Needless to say, Spongebob was the man.

One of my favorite things about going to elementary school in northern California those days was the fact that seasons had their appropriate weather. On a cold, rainy day in winter 2002, we were blessed with rainy day recess. I was so excited to play “Heads Up, 7UP” or some other fun game that required the sequestering of 8-9 year olds in the same room, with no outdoor activities to distract the more “rambunctious” kiddos.

“I HAVE ARRRRIIIIVVVEEEDD!!” I remember screeching as I entered the room giddy with excitement.

I wasn’t expecting the cold look from my teacher, however, and what followed.

“Priya! That is no way to enter a room! Walk back out RIGHT now and enter appropriately!” she yelled.

I was absolutely shocked. Here I thought my vivacious demeanor would be received with laughter and warmth from my “favorite” teacher at the time. Instead, I was left feeling like a fool and ashamed for my actions.

Seriously, Mrs. K?

How dare ya, bitch.

I did exactly what I was told. I didn’t dare question why Mrs. K reacted that way. Perhaps she was having a stressful day that day, and wanted to be anywhere but in a classroom filled with loud, sugar-hyped kids. Still, no reason to take it out on a kid…don’t they teach you that when you get your teaching degree?

I wouldn’t say that it was a life-changing moment, but it made me more cautious in my interactions with others as I grew older. This was also around the time that my mom began to show signs for schizophrenia—remarking about voices telling her to do things, distancing herself from people, finding ways to blame others for occurrences that impacted her world—and even as her close family, we were not immune to the effects of her disease.

I had to quickly learn her triggers. Not bring up things to her that involved birthday party invitations or look like I sided with my Dad during arguments they had. Anything to prevent her from yelling at me for hours or sending me to “time-out”.

I wanted peace and happiness more than anything, but I quickly had to master the art of walking on eggshells.

This feeling has permeated into my social life, for sure. As I approached middle school, I hid away the “extrovert” side of my personality—wrapped thickly in a blanket and tucked away somewhere in my heart—until I could fully trust the person enough to share that side of me with them. Instead, I quickly adopted the adjectives of “quiet”, “shy”, and “introverted”, from classmates and teachers alike.

These girls were the only ones in my life who were able to see all sides of me. I could truly be myself around them. No worries about eggshells 🙂

I realized that I hated being asked questions that involved “favorites”, unless it had to do with food or color. Why did it matter what my favorite music or actor or movie or TV show was? Whatever my answer was, it was quickly responded with depreciating laughter from my peers. I didn’t want to explain, and I had no energy for it…

The easiest thing to do was say, “I don’t know”, “It always changes…”, or the classic “Hehe, pretty much everything except country! Eww, country…”

Little did they know that Shania Twain was my lady, and that country music was a part of our family’s roadtrip playlists along with Fleetwood Mac and Celine Dion 🤷🏽‍♀️.

As I got past high school and my college years fighting with the same issues, I naively thought things could change as I planned my leave for graduate school. Given the opportunity to live independently and have full control of my life matters, I thought that I could easily transition into being myself again and feeling comfortable in front of a more general audience. Little did I know that out in the real world, especially Los Angeles, decency towards one another was just a minor recommendation.

After living in LA for the past 5.5 years with roommates and crazy-ass landlords, as well as having to navigate how to handle the crazy personalities of the people I often came across, I learned that a) I have a very high tolerance for dealing with irascible people and b) life is too short to not surround yourself with genuine and caring people.

In my first two years living apart from family, I was graced 🙄 with the presence of quirky roommates. Oil-splayed-stove-top-messy, passive-aggressive young ladies who I’d have frequent air-conditioning wars with.

I’m sorry, but who is able to sleep comfortably in a room 80 degrees Fahrenheit?!

At the time, I wasn’t one who was quick to jump aboard the confrontation train. I tried to compromise at times, and even though we agreed to keep the room at a balmy 75, no more or no less, my roommates were not quick to adjust the thermostat when the number steadily creeped up during the unbearably hot LA summers.

So I thought I hit the jackpot when it came time for my lease renewal, and I found an “out” through a room rental in Santa Monica. Just my luck that it was in a house owned by an older couple my Dad and I nicknamed the “The Onions”, due to their wrinkly, purple-tinged skin 😬.

My close friends are bewildered by the fact that I lived there for two years…surviving on crockpot dinners that were a source of drama when I first moved in (apparently, cooked broccoli made the older man recoil in disgust, yet I didn’t say a word when they cooked smelly fish…). I was used to weird house rules like squeegee-ing the shower door immediately after use, specifically stacking my 3 cups of yogurt on the left side of the fridge, and not using the kitchen for “heavy cooking”…my mom trained me well not to be so shocked by odd-ball orders 😛.

I was given a year of reprieve when my sister and I had a chance to share an apartment in Anaheim soon after, and boy did I cry when she left for Austin. Thinking I would soon be out of SoCal anyways due to post-doc plans elsewhere and graduation, I opted for another room rental to save money.

As luck would have it, I ended up with Cruella (name obviously changed, but well-deserved…), who seemed normal—but was she? Even she seemed like an odd-ball in her texts—writing in caps, misspelling my name even though my signature and rent payments gave her a blatant clue—but I didn’t let it bother me since my rent would be lower than ever before, and I wouldn’t have to leave Orange County.

I was used to weird by now anyways. Heck, I should have gotten my PhD in “handling weird-ass people” because that became my side-job once I moved to LA, unbeknownst to me. As months went on at Cruella’s, I realized that the weirdest aspect of it all was the fact she would only communicate through text. Even if she was in the house.

Uh…come again?

Again, I didn’t think too much of it. I’d say “hi” to her if I did see her, chat with her in the kitchen if we were there at the same time, and as usual, I kept to myself to avoid any drama. Most importantly, I paid my rent on time without fail.

Damn, I’m the most perfect tenant. Landlords be lucky to have me 🙄.

But then, the most bizarre thing happened. After coming home from work one day, I came across Cruella and her small dog, said hello, and made my way into the kitchen to prep a quick salad to eat in my room, per usual. Her dog came over to sniff me, which I have no issue with because hello, #DogLover right here.

Without thinking of what was to come, I took my dinner up to my room and began to mentally unwind from my exhausting work day when my phone buzzed several times. I didn’t think much of it, until I swiped to find scathing, accusing texts from Cruella saying I had kicked her dog.

Where. was. this. craziness. coming. from.

Where was she getting this from?! My heart began to race, even though I had nothing to be guilty for. My attempts to rationalize with her and figure out why she would make such accusations were futile. To drive a blade even further into my flesh, she left a threatening audio message driven by vitriol and anger, absolutely convinced that I would do something so uncharacteristic of me.

I tried to get her to come out to talk to me, but she wouldn’t budge. What can you do when you try to rationalize with irrational?

The only other way I could think of communicating with her was via a third-party, my hugest advocate in life, my dad.

My poor dad was the recipient of verbal vitriol as well. My heart sunk when I came back into the house after calling him outside in almost tears. I could hear Cruella yelling into her phone—calling me everything from evil to a brat to conniving to mean—these were words that were not describing me, but the bitch that was her. And yet, I felt defeated.

Miraculously, things did cool down. My dad having dealt with his share of bipolar, schizophrenic, mentally-ill people in his life, was able to get her to calm down and “reconsider” kicking me out. She didn’t apologize, but she was willing to “tolerate” me until I was able to move out…

Seriously, what just happened.

For the next six weeks, I did not come across her in physical form at all. Needless to say, the whole situation was freaky, and the definition of walking on eggshells.

Oddly enough, but not surprisingly, she made her appearance again slowly weeks after the debacle had passed, acting as if nothing had happened of course. I still thought she was a psychotic bitch, but with the impending crisis of corona and my new post-doc plans still delayed, I didn’t want unnecessary drama to spark too early…

I didn’t have to worry about that though, because Cruella’s mind was churning. The coronavirus hysteria was definitely freaking out the bipolar bitch…

She began to worry, and her voices probably started talking to her again. The incessant text messages bothering me about one thing or another would not stop.

Also, what is a BATHROOM waste basket if not for things like, um, sanitary pads and I dunno, things you would use in the bathroom 🤔

The reason this message ticked me off? Because I was doing everything in my power to be a good tenant, to NOT cause drama, and most of all, to not have to deal with her psychosis. The way she assumed I don’t like to clean when ha, I’m a stickler when it comes to cleanliness and organization? I was sick and tired of her berating me and having to “put up with it”.

I had had enough, and I tried to respond to her in a professional manner which also expressed my annoyance with her:

The clap back 👏

Despite the professionalism, you can’t expect that from someone who has already exhibited signs of CRAZY. She responded with an audio message calling me all sorts of names (not worth typing out…) and a “30 day notice” to leave.

I gladly accepted. I was absolutely done with her. Couldn’t have happened at a better time.

I didn’t respond to her last comment. The immaturity threshold was beyond off the charts at this point. As much as my blood was boiling, tears were streaming, and emotional trauma stirring. I tried to let it go…I’d be with family soon enough.

It’s true when they say that trying, challenging times bring out the best and the worst in people. Unfortunately, I was a victim of the latter. These situations have made me quite wary of people in general, but at least I have mastered the art of walking on eggshells 🤔? In a way, I’m motivated now more than ever to, going forward, secure long-term financial stability to ensure I can live alone and not have to worry about clashing personalities.

Through all of this, the most important lessons I’ve learned are to be unapologetic for who I am, and that if anyone questions my integrity, you better believe my fighting side will come out.

And yours should to, because no one has the right to judge—or even worse— make false accusations about you.

I don’t have time for impatient, mean, judgemental, crazy bishes ✌🏽

Take care, Cruella.

And I say that with the warmest regards 🙃.

Chennai

Holding Back

Reading Time: 6 minutes

Conceptualized November 30, 2018

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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

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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? 

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