culture clash
or how i feel about my indian heritage
When I was four-and-a-half years old, my family and I moved from our standard-issue Queens apartment to a brand-new Manhattan apartment. I don't remember much about that time. I remember how big and empty our new home was. I remember preternaturally white walls and unmarked parquet floors. Naked windows. I remember my uncle showing me my new bedroom and a cornflower blue mattress on the ground.
I went to the Catholic school nearby. It was an old-school Fifth Avenue mansion with grand carpeted steps, wrought ironwork, and secret passageways that hid away the nuns' apartments. My class was small—less than fifteen people. I was the bookish kid who liked reading in the corner during recess while the others chit-chatted about cutesy school supplies and oily sticker collections.
I went to that school until I was ten years old and I was one of four South Asian kids in the entire school. I didn't think much of that at the time, but in adulthood, I think about that younger version of me, surrounded by Americanized white and hispanic girls who had in common with each other than with myself, whilst I was teased for the fried egg sandwiches my mom sometimes packed for lunch and saying the letter 'H' the Indian way, not the American way.
It wasn't until I switched schools in middle school that I became more aware of race and culture. Cultural clubs and bias awareness were two of the pillars of my new school’s extracurriculars, and in those rooms, surrounded by more peers of Asian descent, I found myself wanting to connect more deeply with my Indian heritage.
It would be incorrect to say that my parents were pure assimilationists. They immigrated to the US in the late 1970s and I honestly don't think they gave a lot of import to actively preserving their culture. It is part of who they are, embedded in their bones, so I don't think it occurred to them to think beyond that. They were Indians who became American, and their children would be American who have Indian roots.
And that was that.
Because of that, I didn't grow up the way most other desi (being of South Asian descent) kids of my generation did. I didn't grow up in Queens or New Jersey. I didn’t grow up speaking Hindi (but I understood it perfectly). I didn't attend Hindu temples on Indian holidays and I didn't grow up around an extensive Indian community. I wasn't a fan of Bollywood films nor did I know the latest, greatest Hindi songs.
In my home, the hits of my parents' childhood reigned supreme, and though my father is from a Hindu household, it was my mother's Catholicism that determined our spiritual education. The neighborhood I grew up in was predominantly wealthy white folks, so there weren't many opportunities to see myself reflected in others.
But perhaps that's why in my late pre-teen and early teenaged years, I doubled-down on my Indian-ness as much as possible. Whenever we went to buy Indian groceries downtown or in Jackson Heights, I would buy Bollywood soundtracks and remixes, under the advisement of my aunt, and listened to those tapes on my Sony tape deck on repeat.
I couldn't understand the words exactly, but I wanted to belong to that.
This shallow flirtation with my heritage continued for years, then it was finally time to apply to college. I visited a few campuses and had interviews with alum who emphasized how their school's Indian community was the most vibrant. They assumed I wanted to know this, and perhaps part of me did, but I still felt that undeniable disconnect.
Square peg, meet round hole.
When I started my freshman year at NYU, it was the first time in my academic life that I was surrounded by other brown people who looked like me. But to be honest, it was strange. I felt like I was under a microscope. I had felt this before when I visited my extended family in New Jersey and watched how they interacted with other Indian people. I was young and uncomfortable, and felt judged in a way I was sure would have been dismissed had I observed this out loud.
My cultural paranoia peaked when I went to a South Asian Indian club meeting at NYU. I remember walking in and overhearing different conversations. Everyone sounded so similar: similar language and intonations, similar experiences and references. And I felt on the outside. Some people very obviously eyed me up-and-down, like out of a B-grade teen movie, and I heard people laugh and mutter that I was an "ABCD" (American-born confused desi), a hurtful epithet I would hear myself called even in adulthood.
There were other incidents and confrontations, but it was after this meeting experience that I started to back off. I didn't want to be a part of any clique, club, or community that wouldn't accept me as I was—and that included my cultural heritage. I had been trying too hard, I realized, to fit into molds that weren't natural, that weren't mine. After all, I preferred my metal and hip-hop and classical to Indian hits. I really disliked the campy-slapstick of so many Bollywood movies—I didn’t even like slapstick humor in English!
The most Indian thing about me was my love for my mother's home-cooked food, and that would continue to be the way I would feel most connected to my heritage. I have learned that this is true for so many children of immigrants and immigrants themselves. As I would travel to different cities in college and thereafter, I would make it a point to eat at a local Indian restaurant, seeking a comfort hard to describe.
Now, I'm much older and I have lived more life. The world has changed. I've watched whitewashed, stick-thin magazine covers become more melanin-infused with a few curves thrown in here and there. Jay-Z has used Bollywood beats to backtrack his music and people like to show off the moves they learned at their Bollywood dance class on TikTok. Julia Roberts once called Bollywood actress and former Miss World Aishwarya Rai Bachchan the most beautiful person on the Earth. Mindy Kaling has become a force in Hollywood. And, as always, Indian restaurants thrive.
Indian culture has infused American culture and society in unimaginable ways.
I have changed too.
I have evolved.
I no longer feel this need to demonstrate or prove my Indian-ness for any audience. I no longer feel bad about not doing the things that other desi kids do. I'm just going to be me. And there are some sweet ironies to just being myself: I met the Love of my life, a proud Indian man, in Paris eighteen years ago and married him. We lived in India for three years. I have befriended other far more welcoming and inclusive Indian people who have started to heal the hurts left by earlier exposures.
I won't lie: there's still a distance, a disconnect, I feel from my cultural heritage. I will never be Indian enough—or American enough—and I've realized I'm as okay with that as I can be. It's not the most important thing about me. I would rather stress my capacity for kindness, respect, understanding, and compassion for anyone who feels "other," who feels different.
Because I've been there.
Sometimes I'm still there.
But then, I remember that being different is human.
And we don’t need to sacrifice our humanity to belong.
on my nightstand
James McBride’s The Good Lord Bird.
Randy Ribay’s Everything We Never Had.
three word book reviews
Emily Henry’s Great Big Beautiful Life: imitative, predictable, trite.
Rachel Khong’s Real Americans: delicate, poignant, excellent.
some good things
I’m taking a class with Kristen Arnett right now and she shared this evocative poem by Jared Harel that is truly fantastic.
I’m so not a Met Gala person, but I loved this year’s theme of Black dandyism. (IMHO, Colman Domingo and Tracee Ellis Ross totally understood the assignment and get an A+!) And I liked this piece on why this year’s event was significant.
Just looking at these photos of 25 must-see gardens from around the world soothes my soul.
Whether or not you’re a writer, writing prompts are an easy way to nurture a creative practice. You can start here.
To talk about anything in this newsletter, ask questions, or share any feedback, you can email me at nisha@nishakkulkarni.com or just hit “reply” to this email. You’ll always reach me on the other side.
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As always, wishing you peace and good this coming week. See you next Sunday!