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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