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Thursday, June 1, 2017

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com MICHIGAN IN COLOR

just a word. To me, a name is much 
more than just a name. My own 
name represents the connection I 
have to Indian culture. I can use it 
as proof that I actually am, in fact, 
half-Indian. If I were to mispro-
nounce my own name — like you 
mispronounce yours — my con-
nection to the culture I care most 
about would be severed.

It doesn’t work the same way 

for you, and that’s agonizing for 
me. You’re targeted for being too 
invested in the same community 
I’m not welcomed into. You can 
ridicule, push away or ignore the 
South Asian community and the 
consequence will not be the same 
for you as it is for me. After all is 
said and done, you can still claim 
our shared cultures, religions and 
people as your own. As your peo-
ple.

After all, you look the part.

*

So now do you see? You’re not 

inclusive of people like me. Maybe 
it’s because you don’t want me to 
reap the rewards of a culture so 
great without dealing with the 
pains of having dark skin. I’ve 
stayed up so many nights wonder-
ing what my life would be like if I 
looked darker all the time. I’m sure 
it would make all the difference.

I will never quite understand 

how you feel, because I’m not 
you. But know that you won’t ever 
quite understand how I feel, the 
way that I have to experience our 
shared community, because you’re 
not me. Maybe one day, I won’t 
need to prove myself. I won’t need 
to force my way in. When that day 
comes, I’ll stop wishing for darker 
skin and more resemblance to my 
mom, but for now, that’s all I can 
think about.

Y(O)ur 
people

By CHANDANI WIERSBA

Michigan in Color Contributor

I’m not here to talk about all 

of the wonderful aspects of being 
biracial. That’s for another time. 
I’m not here to explain to you the 
entire world of a mixed kid in one 
essay. That’s impossible. I’m here 
to bring up one thing and all of its 
uncomfortable truth: the exclu-
sivity of our dearly beloved South 
Asian-American community.

*

I have white-passing privilege. I 

don’t know what it’s like to be you. 
To have dark skin. To be tokenized 
as a brown South Asian. But you 
also don’t know what it’s like to be 
me.

Everyone who knows that I’m 

biracial also knows that I care very 
much about my Indian culture. 
The reason they know is because I 
need to continuously prove to the 
South Asian community that I’m 
good enough to be allowed in.

Before you get defensive, pause 

and reflect for a moment. Are you 
actually an inclusive community? 
I’m not referring to the gatekeep-
ing that shuns non-South Asian 
people of color. I’m not really talk-
ing about the treatment of dark-
er-skinned, 
ambiguous-looking 

multiracial people. I’m asking you, 
are you actually inclusive of me 
and people who look like me, or is 
it just because I force my way in?

You think I don’t have to prove 

my worth, but that’s because I’ve 
already proved myself to you. I’ve 
passed your tests. With every new 
Desi I meet, I have to prove myself 
all over again. I have to explain my 
personal and family history just 
so they’ll stop staring at me after I 
correctly pronounce their name — 
and tell them mine.

Why do I feel this pressure? 

Well, look at me. Some of my South 
Asian friends say that my big eyes, 
round face and curly hair make 
me look “ethnic.” “Exotic.” They 
say, “oh yeah, I can tell you’re 
not white.” But no, you can’t. You 
can’t tell because anyone I meet 
who doesn’t know anything about 
me beforehand cannot tell. You 
can’t tell because all of you had 
some clue that gave me away. And 
because I look so white, I’m forced 
to care. I’m forced to prove myself.

At 
my 
dancer 
teacher’s 

Bharatanatyam recitals — which 

I’ve been going to for 15 years — I 
still get looks as I walk around in 
my kurtha pajama. It’s only after 
I let it slip that I’ve done my own 
arangetram that the looks start to 
fade.

Strangers say to me, “Oh. So 

you’re half,” as if breaking my 
identity down into fractions jus-
tifies their skepticism. It doesn’t 
make a difference that I’ve spent 
my life engrossed in Indian cul-
ture and Hinduism, because I 
look white and their opinions are 
already formed. For someone who 
gets stares that last a millisecond 
too long when I kiss my mom’s 
cheek at a puja, when I dance at a 
wedding with my little cousins… 
I can tell you, there’s a reason I’m 
calling the South Asian commu-
nity exclusive.

I could have chosen to ignore 

my Indian culture or only half-
heartedly partake in it. The irony 
is, if I acted as “white” as some of 
my South Asian friends do, I know 
I wouldn’t be accepted in the 
South Asian community at all.

Want to know what I used to do 

when I was young and still think 
about doing at 20 years old? I used 
to work in the garden with my 
mom, so I could tan and be brown 
like her. I used to wish and wish 
that I would get dark and stay dark 
throughout the year, so I could be 
brown like her. It was a contest 
between me and my sisters: who 
can look the most like Mama? 
Everyone said I had the closest 
skin. Those fleeting moments of 
happiness I get when I am com-
pared to my mom and her family 
mean so much to me.

Perhaps the most frustrating 

part of this, for me, is that I don’t 
get to represent something that 
I find so meaningful. But you — 
as South Asians who look South 
Asian — have to represent our 
shared cultures, whether you like 
it or not. You have to answer ques-
tions about cultures and religions 
you might not even subscribe to!

Every time I hear you say your 

own names incorrectly when 
introducing yourselves, I get frus-
trated. When I hear you mispro-
nounce sacred Sanskrit words, I 
feel ashamed. Logically, I know 
that there could be a dozen dif-
ferent reasons why you didn’t 
pronounce that word correctly — 
you never got the chance to learn 
the etymology, you forgot how it’s 
actually pronounced after years 
of hearing it butchered or you 
thought it was trivial. Emotion-
ally, however, I’m hurt that you 
didn’t take the chance to say it cor-
rectly. To me, it’s much more than 

How dare 

you

By HALIMAT OLANIYAN

Michigan in Color Contributor

Dear friend,
Today I cried in public for the 

first time in a long time. I cried 
in reaction to a performance by 
the CRLT Players from the Cen-
ter for Research on Learning and 
Teaching. I was not supposed to 
be there since they only perform 
for graduate students, faculty and 
staff. However, my participation in 
the English Department’s Diver-
sity Committee got me the invite 
so there I was. I sat next to Theresa 
Braunschneider, not knowing she 
was the associate director of CRLT 
and the coordinator of Diversity 
Initiatives Dramaturg for the CRLT 
Players. I was grateful to be able to 
discuss the performance and work 
through my emotions with Theresa 
of all people. Even so, I could not 
hold back my tears.

I cried as I watched Mariam, a 

fictional character from “A Thou-
sand Cuts,” represent my Muslim 
identity and its depth on stage. I 
watched as other fictional charac-
ters who were supposed to be her 
friends and peers make assump-
tions of her, portray their stereo-
types onto her, dismiss her and 
call her out for not being a “real 
Muslim” because she did not wear 
a hijab or fit their stereotypes of 
what it means to be Muslim or what 
Islam looks like. I watched as other 
fictional characters idly sat back 
and witnessed Mariam be labeled, 
attacked and excluded by the com-
munity. They told her not to worry 
about the election and that noth-
ing could really happen because of 
checks and balances.

Yet here we are.
I, too, was repeatedly told how 

to feel, be and handle my identity. 
After watching how Mariam was 
treated, I couldn’t help but to think 
of you, my friend. You represent 
every person who has ever claimed 
to not be racist because of their one 
ethnic friend. You represent every 
person who will hold up a poster 
that claims their solidarity to take 
a picture for the news or post it on 
social media but truly does not care 
about minority issues. Most impor-
tantly, you represent the people 
who claim to respect my identities 
and yet support the policies that 
attack my identities.

How dare you.
How dare you claim to respect 

how I feel and say you stand in 
solidarity with me yet support my 
attacker and feel nothing for how 
my identity is being attacked.

However, this is not about you 

or your fake support. This is about 
how we claim “all men were cre-
ated equal” and “thou shalt love 
thy neighbor,” yet that truly only 
applies to the dominant, white, 
Christian men and, sometimes, 
women. I have had enough of the 
fake pretenses. The very govern-
ment that is supposed to protect me 
sees me as a threat. What am I to 
do? I’ll tell you what I am not going 
to do.

I will not allow you to pretend to 

be my ally.

I will not allow you to fill me 

with dismay or make me feel like I 
am in the wrong for being upset.

I will not idly sit back while you 

disrespect me.

I will call you out and remove 

you from my life. I will forever 
stand up for what I believe in.

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