ELISE JAYAKAR | MICHIGAN IN COLOR
I grew up hiding behind my
mom’s light, long legs at grocery
stores, burying my head into the
cart-made skid marks and hoping
no one pointed at the spectrum
that lay between our skin. Meijer
was terrifying. I worried that my
big-hearted mother would again be
labeled my “nanny” by some lady
juggling a box of Cheez-Its and
toilet paper. Even today, I can still
feel the sting of the word “nanny”
branded onto my mother’s heart, in
the same way that it did mine.
As I grew older, I learned to man-
age. I maneuvered my way through
the fruits and vegetables aisle
without shame. I let my sassy first-
grade confidence lead me. No one
dared to hurt me again. I thought
my poise and our matching bouncy
laughs would discourage strang-
ers from dividing us because my
mother and I have the same cheeks,
smile and heart. We speak the same
language of love above all else. She
taught me how to make lasagna
and friends, and to love your family
before yourself.
But Meijer became my enemy
again when I was in middle school.
The day that I became afraid of my
best friends coming along to the
grocery store was the same day I
lost hope in strangers. Once again,
I began to doubt intentions and
replaced admiration with jealousy.
My best friend’s skin tone always
matched the same porcelain color
of my mother’s, and another ordi-
nary shopper would tell my mother
that “her daughter” is beautiful or
how they look so much alike during
checkout. They were never talking
about me and my brown skin. So
I stood at the empty cart, empty-
hearted and betrayed by the soft
“thank you” my mother returned.
I wondered why I was so easily
forgotten. I wondered when race
became the thing that could so easy
divide us as family.
The divide split deeper. I noticed
how “being tan” was only beautiful
if you were olive after a thick hot
sun. I noticed how bushy eyebrows
meant nerdy, dirty, unkempt. How
white boys never liked brown girls.
I noticed that my body would never
be lusted over with its dark skin and
round features. My crooked middle
school smile broke when I was 12
and a boy made fun of the dark hair
on my legs. A hairy Indian could
never be desirable and half white
only counts when you have green
eyes and porcelain light skin. My
prepubescent mind didn’t under-
stand much, but it knew that Lizzie
McGuire was what was beautiful:
blond hair and striking blue eyes.
Those eyes, the blond hair and the
hairless legs were the same eyes,
hair and legs of all the friends
around me. I have dark, tangled
hair. My left eye is brown while my
right is almost black, and my knees
and elbows are chalky.
The same question of race
becoming the thing that so easily
divided us crossed my mind when I
was 17 and applying to colleges. You
see, they have added new boxes for
race like “Asian/Pacific Islander,”
“Native American” and “Other,”
but I cannot squeeze so easily into
any of the demographics listed.
I cannot simply click one. I was
never South Asian enough to press
down on “Asian/Pacific Islander.”
My whiteness doesn’t show in my
skin; only in the way I learned how
to cook and celebrate birthdays.
And why should I press down on
the “other” button when strangers
at the grocery store do that for me
anyway?
Again,
the
same
question
recurred, stripping me down to
only bone. A prickly-bearded boy
walked up to me in the basement
of some bar just to ask me where
I came from. I politely responded
with Sri Lanka and India in my soul
and United States soil as my home.
The boy smirked, his lips tightened.
“Sri Lanka is just another part of
India,” he announced selfishly.
“You’re American.” Lately, I’ve
been learning how to stand up for
myself, to be more than docile and
submissive. Tell me why I always
have to prove where I am from.
Tell me why my words are never
enough.
Again, last summer, my plump
professor bellowed, “So, are you
Hindu or Muslim?” I told him I
am Christian, my family is Chris-
tian, but he couldn’t comprehend
how such tanned skin could be so
“American.” Christianity is usually
synonymous with white. But my
whiteness is not what embodies my
religious beliefs. My grandfather
— a balding Indian man with thick
skin and a love for spice so sizzling
it burns your mouth — is the most
devout Christian I know.
Yesterday, a white girl giggled
a big bubbly laugh while stating,
“How typical for an Indian family!”
after I described the hard work my
family has persevered through.
A family with a white mother, a
Sri Lankan and Indian father, and
three kids with mocha skin. I’ve
started to learn that my family
isn’t easy for people to gather. How
could the same family who bakes
chocolate chip cookies and makes
sticky windowpane candy also stir
a perfectly spiced chicken biryani?
I am not brown enough. I am not
white enough. I am not American
enough. I am not enough to navi-
gate this perpetual negotiation of
my soul and body, though I’ve tried
so hard to fit in.
My parents didn’t see me for
the slur of confusion that I am.
My friends never understood the
constant identity crisis of an entire
culture expressed in my skin yet
unfound in my heart. Who do you
go to when being brown is mean-
ingless and you want it to be mean-
ingful? The desi community labeled
me as white girl, and it hurts in
places no mono-racial person could
ever understand.
I can’t find my people so easily. I
don’t even know who my people are.
Are they the Americans who don’t
understand their melting-pot coun-
try? Are they the ones who eat their
grandmother’s coriander shrimp
curry swept into their mouths with
their hands? Or are they the ones
who always have “other” stamped
on their brave hearts when they
take surveys? Those people, though
their skin is multi-dimensional,
have never been from the same
mix of lands that I am from. I have
never met someone with identi-
cal white, Sri Lankan and Indian
parallels. There has not been one
day that I have mastered my mixed
identity, but I refuse to hide from
the grocery store any longer.
—Elise Jayakar is a 2016 alumn.
5
OPINION
Thursday, May 5, 2016
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Brown and white and never enough
F
our years ago this March, my
mom passed away. She was
terminally ill, so we knew for
a few months
beforehand
what was going
to happen to
her. It was suf-
ficient time to
come to terms.
Now I know
not
everyone
has that cour-
tesy when they
lose their loved
ones — in a very morbid way, I was
lucky. I was able to say my goodbyes
before I lost her.
Not everyone knows about her
passing either. People ask me about
my parents, and I usually just answer
with some information about my dad.
Sometimes people follow up with
“And your mom?” which I then have
to answer with something about how
she passed away. It gets awkward
because people feel terrible for press-
ing for more information and begin
apologizing profusely.
Death is inevitably sad, but I don’t
want anyone’s pity. I understand to
apologize is just the natural reac-
tion to hearing about someone los-
ing their loved ones, but it’s not your
fault. Through an apology, you’re
implying you feel bad for me. When
I tell you, it’s because it’s an integral
part of who I am.
I’ve grown up and experienced
“firsts” differently than people who
had both parents, like my first day
of college and my first terrible break
up. I’ve adapted, though, and learned
how to talk to my dad in a different
way than most women my age. It has
made me a very different person than
I would’ve been had she still been
here. Her death has also strength-
ened and made my relationship
with my dad incredibly important.
He really is my best friend and con-
fidant. Who knows what it’d be like
if she hadn’t passed away. But in an
inexplicable way, I have to be grate-
ful.
There is no avoiding the subject
at times, and at others, I often find
myself wishing I could just bring it
up in casual conversation without
everyone cringing. By feeling bad
for me, it just reinforces the sadness
that comes along with losing a par-
ent. I have lived every day since she
passed without her, some days being
harder to get through than others. I’ll
continue to live my days without her.
After a while, I became “used” to her
being gone.
There has only been two times
that I’ve talked about her outside of
my family where I didn’t feel sad.
Once when I was talking to my ther-
apist, and once when I was casually
speaking to a friend. Both times, they
asked what she was like. They want-
ed to know who she was and how she
impacted me. They asked about her
as if she was still very much a part of
my life, which she is, without a doubt.
I think about her at least once a day
and, if we’re being honest here —
with fear of sounding a little crazy —
I talk to her sometimes. Whether it’s
on the pages of a journal I keep or just
in my head as I’m walking around
campus, it’s comforting to me to act
as though she knows what I’m up to
and everything I’ve accomplished.
Remembering she was a very piv-
otal part of my life and asking me
about her time with me makes me
feel good. It’s a nice way to celebrate
everything she did for me when she
was here and brag to everyone how
much I’m like her. Hardly everyone
ever asks, so I never get to tell them
about how I got my insatiable sense
of adventure from her as well as her
big blue eyes. They’ll never know
about how she could never cook for
less than 20 people. Or how her idea
of a “midnight snack” was opening a
tub of Cool Whip, pouring sprinkles
on top and eating it like ice cream.
These little things about her make
me smile. It reminds me of a time
when I wasn’t watching her fight
her illness. I can’t speak for everyone
who has lost a parent but, at least for
me, don’t be afraid to ask what she
was like. I love remembering her in
happy times. Her death is but one
blip on an entire 16 years I was able
to spend with her. There’s no need to
dwell on one moment that makes me
sad when I have thousands of others
that make me want to smile.
—Olivia Puente can be reached
at opuente@umich.edu.
Don’t feel sorry for me
OLIVIA
PUENTE
Caitlin Heenan, Jeremy Kaplan,
Madeline Nowicki, Anna Polumbo-Levy,
Kevin Sweitzer.
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