You bet I'm an AB(no C)D

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.

Untiltled

I know I’m not your type.

I know you are going to reel me in, because you are perfect on paper.

I know I’m going to fall for you and skin both my knees. Probably my elbows too, because I'm clumsy like that.

I know you will convince me to open up to you like I never have with anyone else, and I know you’re going to shut me down.

I know you are going to tell me that it isn’t that I’m not good enough; it’s that we have “irreconcilable differences.”

I know you are going to disappoint me in the worst way possible.

But fuck all that. Here, take my heart.

On Being Alone

Ever since I can remember, my relationships have been, for lack of a better term, collectively dysfunctional. My parents are divorced and while I don’t particularly blame them, I feel like this fact is partially responsible for my descent into… into god knows what this is. This refusal to be by myself.

It’s ridiculous, really. My childhood was brimming with people and love. I was surrounded by light and happiness for the most part, and while the occasional incongruous memory surfaces, time is the distance that helped me control them – with every passing year, although they remained just as potent, I learned to lock those painful remembrances down. I tell myself that this ability to control myself (or my inability to deal, whichever you want) is a talent I must hone.

I’m not a particularly daughterly daughter to my father. A few years ago there existed someone I might’ve been a better daughter to – but for reasons I don’t feel like going into now, that didn’t work out. Another relationship axed. Over the years my mother has become my clichéd “pillar of strength,” but I don’t like leaning on people (or I do, but I don’t trust myself not to lose them, so I don’t let myself lean). I cannot really distance myself from her, but I have moved away for college. With every visit, I feel like we have less in common, less that we agree on.

On the whole I prefer male company. Girls are unintelligible, because we are so varied – unless I can find some part of myself in a girl, I can’t bring myself to spend time with her. And it is rare that this happens. Boys, on the other hand, are more or less cut from the same cloth and stitched with the same color thread. If you can make a man laugh, are willing to show a little skin, and make him feel more capable than you are, you can bend almost any to your will. I know this from experience. This is why men are so easy to be with. They are easy to understand.

I like having a love interest. One you have found one, given my understanding of boys, it is not hard to be his love interest – it is finding one suitable for the position of yours that is the trouble. My love interests are the most stable men in my life – which is simultaneously why I always need one, and why losing them tends to be detrimental if I can’t find a replacement asap. In general, I can tell when it is over. Most of the time I will make the break myself. This allows me to be in control. This is also why it sucks that I was not the one to do it this time.

With no preparation to be alone, being alone is sucking more epicly then I have ever imagined being dumped would suck. Obviously my ex is an unsuitable love interest, and living with my mother the whole summer isn’t going to give me much opportunity to find another. Dilemma? I think yes.

The answer is simple, in theory. I need to learn to be alone. It should be easy. I can do alone everything I’ve done with someone else. Going to movies, or grabbing a coffee – these things don’t require a man. Pshaw. My problem is being alone when I’m alone – in my dorm room when my roommate is in class, or at night, in bed, knowing there is no one wanting to hold me. Knowing there is no one I want to be with who wants to be with me. This is what I need to learn to be okay with.