The closer and closer I get to the security checkpoint, the heavier the rock in my stomach becomes. My tiny 12-year-old hands are sweating into the straps of my school backpack. Last night, I had excitedly flung school books out of it and filled it to the brim with activities to do on the plane. I was jittery. I was going to India. It wasn't my first trip, but every trip is exciting. I would see my Aji and my Abba (grandmother and grandfather), play card games with them while sipping tea and eating my Aji’s amazing food. I would read the books that my mother read as a child. I would roam under my parents’ watchful eye, taking in the rich culture of my ancestors. But this excitement seeps out of me as I approach the checkpoint.

The officer tosses a careless glance at my passport, which had just been renewed. The beaming face on paper doesn’t match the slightly sickened look in front of me. He jerks his head to the side and I run to the security scanner, untying my Converse in a rush, and throwing my various electronics in different bins. I hold my breath as I slide through the scanner. I walk to the end of the assembly line to collect my things. I can’t pinpoint why I am nervous, but the feeling is welling within me. Each pause on the conveyor belt starts a mini panic attack. “Don’t have a problem, don’t have a problem,” I chant away in my mind. I look from security guard to security guard. I see their eyes pass over me. I see their eyes pass over my parents. My stuff comes out on the conveyor belt, and my breath starts releasing little by little. The security guard then shatters my mindset by yelling, “Will the owner of the black backpack please step over here?”

I trudge over, the sound of each footfall amplifying in my mind. This woman is tall, blonde, with a lick of southern drawl in her voice. Her uniform is slightly rumpled on one side and she has lipstick on her teeth. She eyes me up and down and then looks behind me. My parents are standing behind me. I can feel my mother tensing up as she places a hand on my shoulder. The guard starts pulling articles out of backpack. “What’s this?” She pulls out a traveler size bottle of contact solution. “Solution for my contacts.” I stutter. She eyes it, eyes my eyeballs and sets it aside.

My nervousness gets taken over by a little bit of irritation. I see the guard stare at my parents every time she pulls something out of my backpack. My socks slide around the floor as my feet start twitching against the edge of the table. I want to yell, "Why me? Why us? Why would I, a 12-year-old girl, try to smuggle anything onto a plane? I can barely smuggle candy past my mother!" The lady holds a handheld security scanner and runs it over my hands. She ends up throwing out my contact solution for being over the limit of liquids in carry-on baggage. I don’t even bother arguing with her about how it was under the limit. There’s no point. She throws out some other items as well. I don’t tell the lady how much time I took to find toiletries that fit security regulations. I don’t show the lady how terrified and angry I am at her. I don’t let my face change because this isn’t my first trip through intense screenings and pat downs, and it will by no means be my last. I pack up my belongings, which are strewn across the security table, and rejoin my parents.

I was taught from a very young age that I could not afford to be lax about anything related to skin color. I was taught that assumptions would be made about me, both positive and negative. I was taught not only through my parents but through peers, that I was expected to abide by strict rules, to be academically and socially successful. Through social media, comedy and various other outlets, one gets hit with the expectation that your parents are either doctors or gas station managers. A dating/romantic life has never clearly been defined, but the general consensus was that academics would always take priority. Although, at some point when I enter my mid-twenties, I had better figure out the concept of love, because a husband and children are a standard I am not allowed to ignore. As I started applying to universities, I would sit with my mother and we would pore over the applications. “Remember, you are the undesired majority," my mother would tell me. “We may be formally considered a minority, but in this field, we are anything but.” One of the leading reasons I enrolled in my current university is because it was the most prestigious school I was accepted to. I was told when I was young that I could be anything I wanted to be, as long as it was within the fields of law, engineering or medicine.

I have wonderful memories of participating in long cultural celebrations and dancing to festive songs in beautiful lenghas and saris. One of my favorite debatable topics is the whole argument of “If I have to circle Asian for applications and standardized tests, don’t I count as an Asian?” Living in Texas, there was always the “I’m full Indian, not a mix of something else” explanation, which was given hundreds of times. I had a few teachers who legitimately thought I was from Mexico for years. The funniest mix up was during the SAT, and the proctor said a very long, complicated, foreign name. He looked up after stumbling his way through the syllables. His eyes met mine and brightened hopefully as he waited for me to raise my hand. Another girl responded to him. Confused, he looks back down and back at me and continues down the roll sheet. When he sees me raise my hand to claim ownership of “Katherine Joseph,” his poor face morphs into pure confusion, which he quickly wipes off when he sees my smirk. I can accept all of these. I can work through all of these in my head.

But what I could never figure out what I called the post 9/11 treatment. Even though my family wasn’t in New York during that time, we still felt the impact from our small corner of the Bible Belt in Texas. I remember when I was as a little 4-year-old, running around the grocery store with my father, getting stared down by grown men. I remember a classmate blaming me “for the bad people with the planes.” I remember an older white man flipping off my little four foot ten mother at a stoplight. I didn’t understand what was going on, but I knew it wasn’t right. I knew that the only people who should be blamed for those actions was the group behind the “bad men in planes.” But I still feel that there is an expectation for me to watch my step because I am characterized in the same group as the "bad men in the planes.” Of course, this has been counterbalanced by the beautiful friendships and experiences that were completely void of my ethnicity. It goes to show that this land that we live in is a true melting pot that has experienced many points of darkness, from slavery to women disenfranchisement, amongst hundreds of other evils.

There are many connotations associated with my ethnicity. Some have provided a few laughs, a few awkward moments, and even a few frightening moments. I wouldn’t wish my situation to be any different. I am part of one of the most colorful cultures in the world. It is a true mashup of rich history and traditions that I am honored to participate in and pass on to others. It is by no means perfect. We have a history of poverty, maltreatment and fighting that cannot be ignored. If there’s anything I want people to realize, it is to treat me “not based on the color of my skin, but the content of my character.” I want people to look past the brown, learn about my past and think about how that has shaped me into the woman I am today. Because in this melting pot, we take the best from each of us and grow into a culture that would chastise limitations of small-mindedness while upholding the best within us.