9

Thursday, August 10, 2017

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com MICHIGAN IN COLOR

Brown and 
white and 

never enough

By ELISE JAYAKAR

Michgian In Color 

Contributor 

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 

manage. 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 
strangers 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 porce-
lain light skin. My prepubescent 
mind didn’t understand much, 
but it knew that Lizzie McGuire 
was what was beautiful: blond 
hair and striking blue eyes. Those 
eyes, the blond hair and the hair-
less 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 demograph-
ics 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 submis-
sive. 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.

The Asians 

who didn’t 

turn out 

right

By STEFFI CAO

Michgian In Color 

Contributor 

I sip from a teacup at the din-

ner table, half listening to my 
family’s 
ear-splitting 
conver-

sations — which, in our world, 
means light chitchat. My uncle 
and aunt are talking stocks. One 
cousin is showing us his dancing 
skills by flipping his sister over. 
My grandmother is putting salted 
fish down. On one end of the table, 
my older cousin has been roped 
into a conversation about a start-
up with my father.

“— and so you could help me 

design the software for the A-P-
P,” he says, pushing a laptop 
towards my cousin. He looks over 
at the screen.

“I mean, I guess, yeah.”
“It’s all about artificial intel-

ligence. That’s the hot industry 
right now, so many job opportuni-
ties!” My father looks pointedly at 
me.

“Uh, I’m a Communications 

major.” I shift my teacup between 
my hands.

“But communication is still 

important. A.I. is all about com-
munication!”

“Well, the major looks more at 

media —”

“Man to machine! Communi-

cating!”

My uncle looks over. “I thought 

you wanted to do business?”

“Um, I didn’t get into the pro-

gram.” My foot drums nervously 
on the floor. Truth be told, I real-
ized halfway through the year 
that I would probably hate myself 
if I ended up in a corporation sell-
ing a good I didn’t care about.

“Well, that’s okay. You can 

transfer 
to 
engineering,” 
he 

shrugs. I refrain from mentioning 
that I failed high school quantum 
mechanics.

A few days later I tell my fam-

ily that I want to work in media 
diversity, maybe through social 
media or brand management. Try 

and teach at a university later. I 
am met with a pause.

“That’s not easy,” my father 

says slowly.

“Nothing’s easy,” I retort.
My aunt bursts out laughing. 

“That’s true. I like that.”

Shame is rooted in the com-

parison between yourself and 
social standards. My cousin hosts 
a Brooklyn comedy show by that 
very name: Shame with Yang and 
Blane (free most Wednesdays in 
Brooklyn, New York). The older 
generation is not very aware of 
the side hustle, because he has a 
“real job” as an engineer. Maybe 
the irony is intentional.

Shame and I, however, are on 

intimate terms, a bubbling in the 
back of my throat I can immedi-
ately associate with my family. 
To me, it’s always been clear that 
there is a right way to live, by my 
community’s standards. Go into a 
STEM field (even law was tabooed 
by my parents), keep a healthy 
savings account, raise kids, stay 
out of liberal arts. Combined with 
the throttling pressure of acting 
as society’s model minority, being 
a social justice-loving, article-
writing loudmouth has set me up 
to feel like the worst-kept secret 
of our new American lineage. 
Even my mother, who had the gall 
to get divorced and talks openly 
about politics, resists my career 
path. I know they are afraid I will 
not reap the rewards they sought 
for me when they immigrated to 
this country. I know I will prob-
ably never be able to pay them 
back, for all they have given me.

But I also wish someone had 

told me earlier that my fam-
ily hoped for my happiness. And 
to fulfill that, you must do it on 
your own terms. My cousins, who 
write and perform in secret. Girls 
at Chinese school who want to 
be dancers, diplomats, linguists. 
Kids who don’t have the top stan-
dardized test scores and go to 
mid-tier schools, when we are 
expected to outperform everyone 
else. There are so many Asians 
who didn’t turn out right.

It is a monumental effort to 

go your own way. To reject your 
parents’ wishes, to brush aside 
their sacrifices. There are many 
reasons why a path cannot be 
feasible. But shame is not a rea-
son to live someone else’s life in 
the hopes it will one day become 
yours. It’s not an easy decision.

But nothing is easy.

Read More at
 MichiganDaily.com

