I am an “ABCD” — an “American Born Confused Desi.” It is a label that has followed me throughout my life, one derisively applied to those of us born in America to Indian parents.
The term conveys that all of us who are “American born” have no understanding of what it means to truly be Indian, or Desi. It used to make me feel inferior, that designation. It was not until adulthood that I began to embrace the label. I was in fact born in America. And yes, I am confused.
What did this ABCD expect out of life? As a child, in small-town Weatherford, Tex., where Wranglers and steak are cultural staples, I assumed that my friends would view me as white, as American, because that was how I saw myself, despite my mother’s saris and Indian curries. When I looked in a mirror, I saw the black, thick hair and the brown tinge to my skin magically disappear. As a teenager, I wanted a mother and father who attended high school football games and understood what prom was. As a young adult, I dreamed of walking down the aisle in a white wedding dress toward a faceless, but Caucasian, American man.
I carried these expectations, but not a single one was ever fulfilled. Instead, my hair and skin color became more apparent, my mother’s saris became my own, and I sometimes watch football with my Indian husband. I am part of a generation that lives within the hyphen. We are American, born to immigrant parents. We are the first in our families to attend college in America. We fall in love, leave our children at school for the first time, celebrate holidays, tend to sick parents, and endure loss just like any American family. But our experiences are intertwined with the presence of another culture and its expectations and a push and pull of both of those cultures, neither of which we can fully absorb.
My parents came to America for the same reason almost all immigrants do: the promise of a vastly better life. They were the first in their families to leave the country. They left parents, siblings and large extended families. Eventually, they missed their siblings’ weddings and their parents’ passing. Regular correspondence in the time before the internet was difficult, with letters taking 14 days to deliver and short, expensive international calls that required yelling over the phone line to be heard. They settled in Texas for the India-like climate, and chose the small town of Weatherford simply because it needed doctors like my father who is a general surgeon and family practitioner.
When I was a teenager, several of our relatives from India came to visit for a few weeks. It was the first time any of my mother’s siblings had come to America and, therefore, especially significant. My mother had every meal organized, the house was spotless, sightseeing and weekend road trips were all arranged.
My mother had been a strict vegetarian when she lived in India. Her family is Jain, and a fundamental tenet of Jainism is to not harm any living creature. That means not eating meat, eggs or even any root vegetables for fear of killing bugs as food is pulled from the ground. So we were to be vegetarian the entire time our Indian relatives visited us.
It was hard for Texans in the early ’80s to understand or relate to anyone who didn’t eat steak or hamburgers. We were often asked, “Well, what do you eat then? ” Eventually, my mother forced herself to eat meat so that I would grow up eating it. But she had never mentioned her decision to her parents or siblings back home.
Our visiting family had no idea we ate meat and I was strictly warned not to give it away. No mention of eggs by accident, no discussion of turkey sandwiches that I sometimes ate for lunch, or my favorite chicken enchiladas I yearned for. My mother had planned all kinds of Indian delicacies — there were special daals, stuffed vegetables, curries, homemade yogurt, rotis, amazing desserts. Enough food to eat more than three times a day, and we did — we ate all the time.
One Saturday evening, a few weeks into the visit, my mother sent me and my father to the grocery store to pick up some items before dinner. “Don’t be too long,” she warned as we walked out to the garage.
We sat in the car, both of us enjoying the brief silence after weeks of entertaining. The planning, the reunion, the late nights, the weeks of altered home life had been intense. We were weary. I admitted to it first. “I’m really tired of all the Indian food.” My father smiled knowingly and looked at me before replying. “What do you think? Want to go to Braum’s and get a hamburger?”
In those days, my father never wore jeans and was almost always seen in a shirt and tie. He lost his parents when he was 15, after which he and his three other siblings supported themselves in dire circumstances. Somewhere along the way he left religion and found a way to go to medical school. In America, he drank coffee instead of the prescribed tea of his culture. After I was born, there was a miniature tree for Christmas, costumes for Halloween, swimsuits in the summer.
I wonder if his journey made him understand that I could not possibly grow up as his mother, sister and even his wife had. That I too, would have to have different ways, different traditions, a different definition of culture. Maybe he wanted to show me that it was O.K. Maybe there was a part of him that could relate.
We hardly ever went to Braum’s, a popular burger and ice cream place in town, the epitome of American food. We didn’t really eat hamburgers. In fact, fast food was not a concept my parents condoned. But I think my father and I needed some time away, some time together, and something profoundly not Indian that day.
“Really? What will Mom say?”
“Never mind what she will say. We won’t tell her.”
He parked in the restaurant lot and we walked in, his arm around my waist, leading me. Once inside, we paused at the counter to regard the menu, finally choosing for one another what each would like.
We sat at a corner booth by the window, both of us with our hamburgers and an order of fries between us. Those first few bites were the best, tasting of conspiracy and America. We laughed together at our small deceit. We couldn’t afford to stay too long. Already the sun was beginning to set and my mother was sure to get suspicious. But it was just enough of a break. Our minds were free once again, each of us feeling as if we had done it for the other. We walked out holding hands, bound in solidarity, still in disbelief about what we had just done.
It was completely dark now and we rushed to the store to get the items my mother had sent us for and to get home. I heard my father laugh out loud as he opened the car door for me. In a near whisper, he said, “You’re American. Why not?”
Shaila Kapoor writes about family, identity and culture and is working on a memoir that explores these themes.