3B
Wednesday, March 23, 2016 / The Statement

I

don’t really like to tell people I’m an immigrant.

It’s not because I’m ashamed of my South Asian

identity; this column is proof enough that I’m very

much the opposite of that.

It’s because when, freshman year, I told my friend’s

boyfriend that I can’t vote because I’m not an American
citizen, the first thing he thought to say was, “Wow, you
speak really good English.”

I speak English very well.

Ugh, of course. Even when I was being hit with a

micro-aggression, the first thing I wanted to do was
insufferably correct his grammar.

But I was too stunned to really say anything to him,

and my friend, who was standing next to him red-faced,
apologized to me later that day for his behavior. The
apology didn’t matter, but I didn’t tell her that.

“It’s fine!” I said. “It’s totally not a big deal.”
It was though. A big deal, I mean.

It was a big deal because in that

moment I felt like I was 8 years old
again, sitting alone in my 2nd grade
classroom in Texas on the verge of
tears because my classmates had
made fun of the way I talked.

Or when I was put in the spe-

cial education classroom because I
refused to speak and instead of find-
ing out why an 8-year-old girl had
suddenly gone mute, my school had
decided that the best thing to do was
to isolate her even more.

Or when I would stand in front of

the bathroom mirror, hidden from
my parents, and practice sounding
American.

Or when I would make up excuses

every day to get sent to the school
nurse’s office so that I could go home
early.

Or when I would purposefully

make myself trip up while reading
paragraphs out loud from our text-
book, so that I could blend in with
everyone else because they couldn’t
get through a simple sentence with-
out needing help.

By the third grade, through diligent

practice, I had modeled my elocution
to be perfectly American and blended
in seamlessly with other American
kids. Things also improved when
I moved to Michigan in fifth grade
and I embraced Midwestern culture

whole-heartedly.

My school district had the privilege of a diverse stu-

dent body — teachers, not so much, but that’s for another
column — and I quickly made friends who, while not
all immigrants, had a strong cultural identities. Soon, I
didn’t feel like an immigrant — I was part of the South
Asian diaspora, a subculture that thrived on auntie jokes
and purchasing bootleg DVDs of Bollywood movies from
a local Patel Brothers.

A culture that collectively agreed that dancing against

the backdrop of East-West music remixes was the only
socially permissible way to get involved in our rich his-
tory.

A culture that thrived on making cruel jokes at the

expense of “fobs.”

In high school, when someone from India had moved

to my suburban hometown, I said nothing when people
made fun of the funny way he talked and the “weird”
clothes he wore.

For a long time, I thought I’d disassociated myself from

the unkind nature of the South Asian diaspora’s domi-
nant attitude. Instead, I focused on social movements
that I thought deserved more support from our com-
munity — like #reclaimthebindi — and became acutely
aware of our media underrepresentation, as well as the
egregious acts of cultural appropriation that occur at our
culture’s expense.

But then, in college, when someone complained about

the “fobs” that hang out in North Quad, I said nothing.

The truth of the matter is, the diaspora at large, no

matter how much we harp on and on about our struggles
and cultural appropriation, will never understand what
it feels like to be a South Asian immigrant.

It’ll never understand what it’s like to have someone

laugh behind your back at everything you say, to have
your credibility questioned in a professional environ-
ment simply because of the way you speak or dress, or
to have your own people reject you just because you’re
from a homeland from which they claim to have a proud
heritage.

And until my friend’s boyfriend had reminded me, I’d

forgotten these things too.

So yes, what he said was hurtful and aggravating, but,

more than anything, it was humbling.

My Cultural Currency: I’m An Immigrant

B Y TA N YA M A D H A N I

“I’ve never been a part of a game like that, never
saw one. I still really don’t know what happened.
We played the game the right way, even at the
end.”

— BILLY KENNEDY, Texas A&M University men’s basketball coach, after his
team won its second round game against University of Northern Iowa in
double overtime after being down 12 points with 44 seconds to go.

on the record: march madness

“I like to have the ball in my hands in those kinds of
situations because I believe in myself. I just let it fly
and knew it was going in. I can’t really explain the
feeling. It was my first real game winner like that. It
was a lot of excitement.

—BRONSON KOENIG, University of Wisconsin guard , after hitting a game-
winning three-pointer against Xavier University in the second round.

“One and done is a special, special thing. And you
just don’t get to have bad days. But this is where
this program’s at. Next year we’re going to try to
win a national championship, and the year after.
And if I ever tell you I’m not, write the obituary.”

—TOM IZZO, Michigan State University coach, after a first-round loss to
Middle Tennessee State University.

ILLUSTRATION BY SAMUEL BERTIN