As a child I spent a good portion of my life attempting to mask who I really was. Looking back, one of my earliest memories involved sandwiches. It was the weekend before my first day of first grade, and I was sitting in the living room watching some strange yoga channel with my grandfather. My mother was in the kitchen trying to get ready for my first day of “actual” schooling which mainly meant she was attempting to figure out what to pack in my lunchbox. There were so many options-rice, uppma (a cracked wheat dish that feels like a cloud in your mouth), lentils-and so she packed me a nice little spread of delicious South Indian food. Fast forward to lunch time on my first day of school when I opened up my container and the boy next to me made an audible noise of distaste. At first I couldn’t understand it, and then any confusion I had turned into raging embarrassment. It was that day when I decided that from then on out I would eat what every other kid ate. No more rice, no more lentils just perfectly packaged, processed foods, and so started my eight year marriage with sandwiches. It was a contract really. I told myself that at the price of bland, mediocre food I could save myself the embarrassment of being called out by my friends, and in return when I got home to the safety of my own abode I would be able to cherish my “Indian Goop”-quote provided by the girl who stuffed cheez-its in my mouth once. The worst part? It felt normal. The only way to describe the sensation of blending into the background would be to say it was comforting. Unfortunately, food was one of the smallest of the things I had to hide.

The problem with trying to hide your South Asian descent is that no matter how hard I tried to assimilate to my western peers I was so obviously visibly Indian, so I tried my best to cut that part out too. I refused to wear my Indian clothes where there was a possibility that one of my peers could see me. I also refused to be seen with my family if they were wearing Indian garb. This was definitely not one of the high points in my life, but reflecting on it gives me a clear picture of how the society around me has changed.

The very first time I wore a Churidar to school and felt 100% proud of my culture was in 11^th grade. Despite the fact that I went to a very culturally diverse school in a melting pot of a city I always felt a bit of fear at revealing myself. In the 11^th grade I remember wearing a Kerala-style beige, green, red, and gold Churidar to my AP Psychology class for the culture day of our homecoming week. It felt amazing. That year I learned to embrace my culture and try to blend myself back in, but it always bothered me that it took me about 10 years to be fully comfortable with who I am.

As an ode to my past, that year I brought rice and lentils for lunch, a little uncertain but determined. When I opened my container I hoped the déjà vu would be wrong, and to my pleasant surprise I was showered with comments on how good my food smelled.

I like sandwiches, I really do, but put them next to a plate of my Amma’s Dhaal (lentils) and some fresh, steamed Basmati rice and my choice is blatantly clear. While my sandwich experience is only a very small analogy to the cultural troubles I faced my entire life, it always served as one that I could learn from the most. Today I’m proud of who I am, of what I eat and what I wear, but ultimately there is so much more acceptance for diversity today than when I was in the first grade. My Instagram feed is full of Indian weddings, and Bollywood dance covers, of Hindi-English song covers, and mouth-watering dishes. All of those with hundreds and thousands of likes and positive comments, and so it is hard to want to hide who you are in the face of that kind of acceptance. Sometimes the little girl in me regrets all those years of deceit, but ultimately I am thrilled to be a part of this changing dynamic of society, and the morals this journey has brought me so far is worth so much more than I ever thought it could be.