“SAM! You’re missing the graduation -- hurry up!” As I heard the beginning chords to the magnum opus that was the Lizzie McGuire movie, I pushed the water button on the refrigerator multiple times in anticipation for a faster flow, although I knew that wasn’t going to change a single thing. Just as I was about to begin my sprint back to the TV, my mom stopped me. “Did she just call you Sam?” She looked confused. I nodded, not truly understanding why she wasn’t letting me enjoy all of Lizzie’s clumsy antics that I heavily identified with. “That’s not your name, though.” I shrugged, and went about my way, and told my friend that my mom didn’t prefer Sam, but rather Sumedha, my real name. She looked at me quizzically, as if to ask what the relevance of this was while we were about to witness comedic gold in the form of Lizzie throwing up during a commencement speech, but the truth was, I didn’t really know either -- so we forgot it.
But the truth is, my mom didn’t forget it. I don’t think she could have.
“Sumedha,” my name, it means intelligence. It stands for wisdom and introspection, for taking the world for what it is and finding yourself within it. At least, that’s what it means to me now. That’s what it has always meant to my mom and dad, from the day they had me at the hospital to the day they dropped me off for my first day of college. That’s what it’s meant to my grandmother, who so lovingly gave this epithet to me and helped me legitimize my desire to find myself. That’s what it meant for all of my uncles and aunts who rejoiced at the news of my birth, who held me during my first annaprasan (rice-eating ceremony), who have been my supporters from every corner of the world. Sumedha, now, means everything to me. And Sam? The Sam I became for the convenience of someone else’s tongue, for another person's inability to accept this name that had been passed down to me through tradition andfamily? She seems foreign to me. She’s unknown, wandering around without an identity, without a beginning. And yet somehow, for a little while, I became that girl, rather than the one I was raised to be.
I’m not angry for being Sam, for embodying her for even a little bit. I take Sam as a reason to be even more proud of my culture, my heritage, and the people that have invested their time in making me realize how lucky I am to have such a beautiful and rich background. She was a persona who lived in niceties, who didn’t pay attention to the depth of the people and world around her, and that's fun for a little while.
However, if I could go back in time, I would banish Sam -- not for me, but for who she represented to the people who gave me everything: my parents. My mother and father, as many of the other immigrant families in the US who provide to be true testaments of the American spirit, came to this country for opportunity, and to find their place within the American dream. They looked forward to a better life, both for themselves and for their legacies that would follow them. They left behind their sun-kissed evenings playing cricket, their afternoons spent bargaining in the town market, and their boisterous family dinners for long working hours, crackling phone lines, and quiet holidays.
Not that they don’t love their new identity of also being American -- my mother leads her anthems in her third-grade classroom with pride for her nation every day, and my father is more than thankful to be part of a country that has brought such wisdom and joy to him and his family. Furthermore, they’ve found ways to incorporate both modern American culture with their own Indian roots in syncretic harmony, and that’s such a heartwarming sentiment to be a part of. However, with each jab I hear at my mother’s accent, or each time I’ve had a conversation directed at me rather than my intelligent, loving, wonderful parents who know much more about life than I do, I wonder how much pain it must have caused my mother to see me accept Sam and disregard Sumedha. And more so, it hurts me to think that in this country, in this place that I call home and would never stop calling home, they could never truly feel the same way.
Therefore, to my dedicated family and to the others who have let go of a part of themselves for their future families, thank you. Thank you for the biases you’ve endured, for the times you’ve had to work twice as hard to prove yourself, and for your sacrifice to help people like me have the chance at becoming the best version of ourselves. There is no force in the world, not even the current political climate, that can ever remove the pride I have for being a daughter of two strong and beautiful immigrant parents, and I hope you know that this sentiment spans across all of your struggles for us.
And Ma? As always, you were right. I could never be Sam. I was Sumedha, I am Sumedha, and I will forever be, your Sumedha.
