Harmonious incongruity is the essence of my Indameriporean household. The delectable aroma of nasi goreng clashes with the sweet smell of Hershey’s brownies to create a tantalizing amalgamation of flavors in the kitchen. Traditional Vietnamese canvases coexist with vibrant American modernism in the living room. My room is no exception- the works of Sun Tzu, Confucius and Laozi cascade off my bookshelf, my Mughal India artifacts are displayed prominently on my desk, and a peeling poster of Homer Simpson in his underwear is crudely tacked on the edge of my wall.

It might look like a jumbled mess to some, like pieces of different puzzles trying to fit together. To me, it means familiarity.

Comfort.

Home.

I am Indameriporean. That sounds like I am some sort of an alien, so allow me to please explain myself. When most people are asked where they are from, the response is usually a simple phrase such as “I am Venezuelan”. As an Indameriporean, I perpetually face the Herculean task of summarizing a life story into a quick, digestible response- “I was born in the United States to Indian immigrant parents, moved ten thousand miles away to Singapore when I was seven, lived there for eight years, and finally moved back to the United States.”

That synopsis never touches on the time I spent in elementary and middle school learning Mandarin, the excitement of playing sepak takraw in the playground with my friends, or the joy in listening to Indian classical music while living in Singapore. Nor does it cover my experiences celebrating Thanksgiving, attending 4^th of July barbecue parties by the poolside, or cheering on the Redskins while living in the United States. But the true crime of such a summary is not mentioning that, to me, the idea of a single place called home is inconceivable. Home, to me, is this sum of all my cherished memories of my places of residence.

It is quite the surreal feeling to be suspended between India, Singapore, and the United States, being part of but not truly belonging to any one place. I cheerfully utter a “Ni Hao” to my server when eating in a Chinese restaurant with my American friends, ignoring the bemused expressions of those around me. India beckons with the gentle twang of a veena every time I hear the rhythmic beats of the mridangam. Although I have not ever lived there, so much of my culture is Indian that it is a welcome place as well. But this means that unlike my peers, everywhere can be called home due to my experiences.

When I think about my identity, I am immediately drawn to my solidified Indameriporean self. My Indameriporean identity is apple pie and nasi goreng, Drake and veenas, and American football and sepak takraw- each individual element combining to create the person that is me. So do not be alarmed, Indameriporean is not an alien species- it really just means that I am a citizen of the world.