Two Halves, One Whole

by Asha Rajagopal

My person is made of two halves,

but I am not whole.

One being my Indian Heritage,

The other is my American Childhood.

I am made of two halves,

But neither is whole enough to be.

People from India see me and think,

“American!” or “She’s an ABCD.”

People from America see me and think,

“She must be good at math” or “She smells weird.”

I look Indian, and I dress in their clothes.

I eat their food and crack the same cultural jokes.

I watch their movies, and sing their songs,

But I am not them.

I play pretend because I am not Indian Indian.

I am American, to them.

When I dress up, it's not the same.

I appreciate it, but I don’t know it.

I eat the food, but I cannot make it.

That skill belongs to my grandparents.

I watch the movies, but they are all in Hindi,

Not my family’s tongue of Tamil.

I act American and reap the benefits.

I speak English intuitively, not Tamil.

I watch hockey games, cheering on the Red Wings.

But I am not them.

I act American, but practice Hinduism.

I speak English, but throw in Tamil words

because it makes more sense to me.

I watch hockey on TV but eat samosas instead of wings.

I am made of two halves,

But neither are unmarked by the other.

I attended an American school with my Indian name.

So did 3 other girls.

Never to be told apart, never an individual.

In America, we are Indian.

My grandmother, my Patti,

She cooks us Indian food.

Two dishes, one regular, one for the kids.

We cannot handle the spice.

To her, we are American.

But she does not blame us, no.

It was her choice to bring us here.

My grandfather, the first to graduate school.

From a small village in the south of India.

I can’t even spell it, but I can say it.

Thri-chi, with a soft roll of the R.

My grandmother lived in a city.

She was from a wealthy family,

And fought for her education.

She also fought for my grandfather.

Both found a new start,

In a country that was foreign,

In a country that didn’t speak their language.

So they changed.

Their children were Indian,

But their hearts were American.

The technology could recognize

the “Americanness” in their voice.

Something my grandparents still don’t have.

So I am here.

Neither Indian nor American,

Neither a child nor an adult,

Amalgamation of something in between.

My mother lived in the “Boondocks,”

Waco, Texas.

When she met my father,

“She had the thickest accent you’ve ever heard.”

Then, it’s her freshman year of college,

Somehow, just like me.

Expect, its 1993.

She is happy, walking the campus of UT.

She gets a call from a friend,

“Hey isn’t that your hometown?”

An FBI siege takes place on the screen,

The crash compound blown to smithereens.

And so she became known

For the rest of her life,

Not as the “Indian girl”

But the girl from Waco, Texas.

Wrecked by the government.

Never to be seen.

So I am here.

Neither Indian nor American,

Neither a child nor an adult,

Amalgamation of something in between.

In elementary school, papers were passed back.

Circles and marks marred my paper—

Wait. This isn’t mine. It’s Maansi’s.

But she and I look nothing alike?

Well, except for our skin.

We are both “Indian.”

It’s the fifth-grade cultural night,

And a boy takes a Bindi.

“You wear a red dot on your head,

You’re a Hindu, you’re a Hindu!”

I laughed it off then,

Because it was clearly a joke.

They jokingly gave me Arshia’s paper.

Jokingly gave it 27 times.

In middle school, I met a lot more kids.

I also met more people like me.

They have the same experiences,

Our parents are from the same place.

But Arshia does Bollywood,

And Maansi does Cuttack,

Keya speaks Hindi, and I?

I eat the food of my “people”

Yet,

I can’t talk to them in their mother tongue.

I can’t dance to their rhythms,

I can’t play their music.

I am not one of them, I realize.

My person is made of two halves,

but I am not whole.

I am Other.

I’ve been told,

Being “Other” is a good thing.

It makes you unique,

It sets you apart, which is good.

Except for when it isn’t.

When someone yells a Hispanic slur at me,

I say, “Wrong race, idiot.”

When someone yells from the audience

A homophobic slur because I am Other.

I know I’ve made it seem

A dreary existence, really.

But I have come to love “Other,”

And “Other” has come to love me.

I have learned to love all three sides of me,

The Indian half,

The American half,

And the tiny sliver of “Other.”

My heart and soul.

I bring Idli to school,

But also pack a baggie of hot Cheetos.

I cook Italian food,

But with coriander, not cilantro.

I bring Indian sweets on Diwali,

But I also celebrate Christmas with my family.

I am Hindu,

But I love my American hotdogs.

They say American is:

a)     a melting pot

b)    A loose salad.

They often forget about:

c)     A salad with a binding dressing on top.

My parents are Indian,

This much is true.

My grandparents are Indian,

This too is true.

I am Indian,

And I am American,

And I am Everything in between.

I am the best of the world,

And I am the worst of the world.

Just like everyone else,

I am human.

I have my life,

And you have yours.

They are not the same,

But somehow we both are here.

Your Otherness and my Otherness

They can work together.

When we agree, then you will see,

We are not so Other after all.

And so, in the middle of a global pandemic,

In the middle of struggle and strife,

A girl from Naperville, IL,

Embraces said Otherness.

Hand in Hand with her friends,

She crosses the threshold

Of a Quintessential

American tradition.

Prom.

But this girl,

With Otherness in her heart.

She knows what she must do.

She holds her head up as her heart is shown.

Dressed in a Lehenga to prom,

Surrounded by traditional prom dresses,

Two girls decided,

Being Other alone is no fun,

When you can be Other together.

You see, I know something now,

Something innate about me.

My family history is rich,

Full of revolutions and cults.

But I know.

I have two halves,

Neither of them complete,

Yet, I am whole.