First generation American.

United States citizen.

Bilingual.

American?

No. That's not how I was labeled.

I was labeled as foreign.

Foreign since age four.

Abnormal.

Freakish, almost.

I was labeled as Native American.

Mistakenly.

But,

Indians and Native Americans

Are the same, aren't they?

Of course.

Apparently, I owned a bow and arrow too.

One that I would shoot

And kill people with.

I was labeled as Asian

But asked if I was good at math.

Because that's the only thing

That could set me apart as Asian,

Right?

Of course.

My language was labeled as strange.

Alienistic. Scary.

But my language is beautiful.

English is so limited.

To me, English is base.

Not beautiful.

There exists literary devices,

Words, phrases, techniques.

All are failed attempts at

Characterizing English.

I didn't know it then.

But I know it now.

But to fit in, I had to abandon

My beautiful language.

On phone calls, during public events,

I switched to English with my parents.

But we are Tamil.

And our language is

A fiery, passionate, mother tongue.

One filled with heat at some moments,

And sweet notes of elegance at others.

But my parents did not know English

And their knowledge gaps

Were passed to me.

Mispronunciations, improper grammar,

Sentence fragments.

When I surpassed my parents

In my lexicon,

They were disheartened.

Upset that they couldn't

Fully reciprocate in conversations.

Had to speak in Tanglish.

A mix. A degraded mix of

My language...and English.

Couldn't fully fit in,

Or be a "normal" parent.

But what is normal anyway?

My food was labeled as grotesque.

But my food is exquisite.

Diverse, colorful, flavorful.

Not bland.

I didn't know it then.

But I know it now.

My food seeks to unite people,

Not to cast them aside,

As outsiders. Aliens.

My food seeks to introduce

People to a new world,

A new reality.

But I had to conform.

I had to ask my mother,

My passionate guardian angel

To pack me tasteless bread.

Dry, insipid sandwiches,

In place of my mouthwatering

Indian curry with roti, spices galore.

Turmeric, cardamom, cumin,

Cloves, nutmeg, saffron, tamarind.

To conform.

When we attempt to stomach the "food"

Served in your restaurants,

I am used as a translator

When my parents are perfectly

Understandable.

While my parents were always welcoming

To my own American friends,

They weren't received with the same respect

From the opposite sides.

While my parents would gladly invite

Strangers into their home for a meal,

Not once have my parents been invited,

To step foot into the homes of my friends.

Perhaps it's a cultural thing.

Or perhaps, it's something else.

When Indian was what made me

Who I am

I pushed it away

In place of becoming nothing.

A nobody.

No culture, no diversity, no life.

I sacrificed my origins,

My story, my life.

I sacrificed them for so many years,

All for sandwiches

And the alphabet.

I gave up on learning

To write and read in Tamil.

After all, what would I need it for?

I was American. Wasn't I?

And Americans only speak English.

And Americans only read in English.

And Americans only eat sandwiches.

And so I grew.

Thinking I was American.

Thinking I fit in.

I never have.

I never will.

I will always stand out.

Physically,

Mentally,

Spiritually.

My future does not hold the promise

It does for everyone else.

My future entails

Arranged marriage.

Conservatism in life,

But liberalism and traditionalism

In thought and action.

I don't mind, the way that others seem to.

I know.

And I don't mind.

It's who I am.

It's who I will always be.

I may be 9,201 miles away

From my home.

But my home

Is my family

And my family is Tamil.

Some two years ago,

In a fervent piece similar to this one,

I stated that I was tired

Of conforming.

That was a lie.

Because I continued

To conform.

I still do.

I can't help it.

Assimilation

Was institutionalized in me.

I was socialized

To believe

That to conform

Meant to succeed.

That too, is a lie.

I can't promise that I'll stop

Conforming.

It's second nature now.

But it makes me angry.

And it makes me feel helpless.

Trapped.

Trapped in a world of blank pages

And blank stares

And bland food

And barren culture

And base language.

Trapped by my own country

Where I am a legal citizen.

But still an outsider.

As immigrants,

We can't change who we are

To fit your agenda, or your universe.

But we can bring who we are

To improve your definition

Of normal.

As immigrants,

We bring our story, our people

To you. And we do so

In hopes of empowering the community,

In hopes that you will learn.

Or at least try.

Stop giving us the

"I can't understand your accent"

Bullshit.

Make an effort.

Just as we do.

Even then,

While we can be allies

To our brown brothers and sisters,

We do not have our own platform.

There's no place for us.

We're just here,

Stuck between the solid lines

Of black and white.

What is left

When all the color is gone?

Gray scale.

No shadows, no lights,

No reflections, no gradients,

No rainbows, no realness.

So let the color in.

Don't stay trapped

In the gray.

Let the color in.

And let it change your world

To one of beauty

To one of diversity.