Duality

Pre-pandemic, I organized a Diwali celebration at my mostly-white workplace. Fit with diya painting, a presentation, and a choreographed dance - it left much to be envied and little to the imagination. I dressed up in a chudidar, nervous and excited to show my colleagues the pieces of myself I typically hid away in the office.

When a teammate saw me, she bee-lined towards me and word-vomited. “Omg, this is so cool. I’m so jealous. I wish I had culture that was so rich and colorful! It’s boring to be white.”

Immediately, I rescued her from the discomfort. “No! I’m sure you have culture, it’s just different.”

It didn’t sit well in my body - but I didn’t know why.

I read this quote this morning and suddenly, I remembered.

The time my classmate lifted my shirt up on the bus and made fun of my hairy back.

The time my mom chaperoned a field trip and my friend mimicked her accent back to me.

The times I lusted after cheerleaders, knowing on a gut level I would never be “one of them.”

Despite being raised in a town known for its diverse population - I still internalized the message. You don’t belong, and you won’t, until you start acting more like Them. It’s not boring to be white - it’s better.

Like many children of immigrants, I was also taught to think of the collective over the individual. It made code-switching, world-hopping, making Them comfortable, second nature. When I entered a room, I scanned it first, to calculate what percentage of Indian I could be. Will I turn on my phone voice - to put everyone at ease? Or will I ask the person next to me for their favorite Instant pot daal recipe?

I used to pride myself on being a chameleon who could compartmentalize - able to adjust and separate, based on the group’s needs. I created pockets of solace to cope (a brown female therapist, a college dance team) - and accepted the “reality” that these would be my havens, my safe spaces.

Where this failed, though, was how it threw me into isolation. By neatly separating these identities I vacillated between, I messily tore myself in two. It’s no wonder, then, that bringing my entire brown self to be seen, by a sea of people who looked nothing like me - felt wrong. Like I was making them uncomfortable, even if - on the surface - they praised me.

Then, I learned a word - duality.

Not either/or, but both/and. The ability to hold multitudes. The erasure of binary definition.

It opened a world of possibility. I no longer had to choose between Indian and American - I could be both, because the truth is - I am. 

I am a hairy Indian Woman who wears shorts sans shaving.

I am a lover of both chicken curry and a heaping basket of truffle fries.

I am a huge coffee snob and a connoisseur of homemade chai.

I am all of the approval I ever sought from blue-green eyes. 

Because yeah, it’s fucking cool, you should be jealous, and it isn’t my job to protect you from your feelings.

I am everything (I need), and nothing (you need me to be) - at once.