Born to Indian parents in America, I don’t really count as an immigrant. But there are some differences between me and the other Indians born here – back home we call them ABCDs, American Born Confused Desis – that make me feel like one. My accent, for instance. My roommate, one of the only people comfortable with commenting on my accent, says I pronounce the “th” sound in “thank you” like a “t”, making it sound like “tank you.” I don’t see it. But I don’t see a lot. There are so many things high school in India neglected to teach me – that blt stands for bacon, lettuce, and tomato, or that in America, movie tickets rarely have to be bought in advance (in India, tickets to a first day showing have to be bought as soon as they go on sale, or chances are you won’t get to see the movie until everybody else on the subcontinent has). Sure, I learned to solve diff eqs before anyone in AP math had heard of them, but only after living in America a year did I break the habit of giving truthful responses to the worn out question “How are you?”, or realize that telling friends’ parents about “my boyfriend” wasn’t going to make me seem racy or impertinent (in India, although the mindset towards “dating” continues to soften, many parents still see it as almost shameful for their teenage children to have significant others). Although you’d think, me being born here and all, that my brown skin would be the only things to delineate me from everyone else, there is an astounding amount of difference between us.
In India too though, my friends tell me I stick out like a sore thumb – affectionately, of course. Apparently my Indian accent has developed an “American twang” – again, something I don’t see. But there are some manifestations of my “American-ness” that have convinced me that maybe the countless people who tell me I’ve changed have a point. For example, auto drivers no longer nod unquestioningly when I name MG Road as my destination – they try to charge me twice what the meter would record, and are surprised when I point this out, or point them in the right direction when they try to take me via a longer route. When relatives ask me how life in America is, I have to bite my tongue to keep from offering the standard answer “good,” and remember to give them the detailed response they really want. When older relatives learn that I don’t live at home, it takes me a moment to figure out why they look surprised – in India, living alone before even getting a job is practically unheard of. Most live with their parents until they get married, or until they start work, at the very least. People are also impressed with my job at the library, and find it odd that is not only normal to work while in school, but also necessary. My dress sense is different now, my taste buds less accustomed to spicy Indian food, less eager for (to me) bland Italian or similar– the first time I came home from college over the summer and asked for dosa and chutney, my servants (yes I have servants, everyone in India does. Get over it) looked at me with incredulity, amazed that I wasn’t asking for an omelette or pancakes. All small things, really. But smooth a corrugated edge even a little, and it will no longer fit in its niche, will it? I’m different enough not to fit in here, but changed enough not to fit in there, either.
I’ve lived in America for two years now, and I am well trained to answer “How are you?” with “Good, how are you?” no matter how badly my day is going. I now not only know what a blt is, I am almost tempted to order one sometimes. I still haven’t learned how to say “thank you,” though – I might be American Born, but I’m still a Desi.
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