September 7, 2006 was my first day of kindergarten. My innocent, fresh, young eyes that were oblivious to the world around me noted that I was the only "brown" girl in the typical New Jersey classroom of 17 to 20 children. I stuck out like a sore thumb with a name like Mahi and as a less than fluent English for a kindergartener. This was the first time I felt excluded. Lunchtime was a foreign concept to me, but I hoped it would be a reprieve from the prying eyes of the other children and a time for me to express my love for Hannah Montana, the color pink, beanie babies and to make my first friends.

My exuberant mood was heightened with the prospect of hot rice, cooked with rich spices of turmeric, anise and bay leaves complete with peas and carrots. It was the food my grandmother fed to my mother and the food my mother had always fed me. The very fragrance that reminded me of home turned the kindergarteners' faces into sneers, and they followed with screams of: "That smells disgusting," or "eww!" I came home with tears streaming down my face, not having eaten any of my lunch. I felt angry — not at the kids but wrongly at my mother. I screamed at her to never make the rice again. So from then on, in my packed lunch, I begrudgingly swallowed the plain peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pretended it was my favorite thing to eat in the whole wide world.

I had rejected the culture I was given.

When I moved to Georgia, "You smell like curry," or "Oh you must be great at math," and "IT worker" became the brunt of all jokes. Every time a comment was passed, I blew it off like I thought it was funny, making you feel like it was OK to say it even more. The truth is, it hurt. Each time, the little girl inside me wanted to burst into tears because it reminded her of a grave mistake a 5 year old once made by trying to share her country with the world.

I saw a deep, dark change in myself as well. I wasn't proud of my beautiful Gujarati name Mahi K. Patel. I avoided sharing that I was bilingual and could speak Gujarati fluently. Instead of saying I was named after my strong, brave grandfather, I told people I was named after a fish because it was the easy way out. I started to turn my nose in disgust at the smell pickle made combined with rice in the cafeteria. You made me hate who I was and hate the people, history and land that shaped me.

How come it's so easy to snatch the most alluring, beautiful parts of my culture like henna, bindi and woven silk saris and degrade them into mere festival pieces and tapestries? How come the only word that comes to mind when describing India is "vibrant" or "polluted"? The people of India deserve so much more than simple adjectives like "exotic." It's so easy to take credit for the work and dignity people associate with my traditions which you view as Halloween Costumes.

I doubt you knew that henna is saved for brides before their wedding night as a rite of passage and beauty. A bindi is used to signify strength and marriage. A temple, while the architecture is lavish, is not meant to be picked apart and serve as a plain background in an "alternative" Instagram picture. It is a place of worship and deserves respect. It is not fair that our prized sacraments are used as mere entertainment. You do not get to pick and choose to adopt the "pretty" pieces and laugh at the "ugly" ones. My culture should not amuse you, but it should entice you to learn more and ask educated questions.

Appreciation and appropriation are not the same thing.