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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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