For the entirety of my life, I have been afraid of being called 'F.O.B.' - a derogatory term used to describe someone who is foreign in nature and doesn't meet the status quo.

I sat in my room, staring at the two options that lay before me: my favorite, simple authentic Indian kurti or my pink shirt with an embroidered, sequined soccer ball. I sighed and pulled the pink shirt over my head, surrendering to the powerful urge to assimilate. I stared at the mirror, almost satisfied with my appearance. I picked at the corners of my shirt and sniffed hard, trying to catch any lingering "curry" odors or remnants of Indian culture. Although I could only smell the dull "Moonlight Path" fragrance I generously sprayed on all my clothes and belongings, I did not want to take any chances. The stakes were too high. Hoping to avoid her embarrassing, confrontational questions about my routine, I quietly tiptoed to my mother's room. I grabbed my usual perfume and drenched myself in it once more, to ensure that the heavy scent suppressed any residual aromas and distanced me from the Indian stereotypes. Being accepted into the predominantly Caucasian community was essential for me to survive and so I would spend the next seven years attempting to fit in.