No Longer an Imposter, Chittis and All

Image was created by Bria Goeller (@briagoeller) working with the Sacramento-based company Good Trubble (@goodtrubble).

With one word, “chittis”, immigrants and children of immigrants around the country rejoiced. This was the first time, on a national stage, that I can remember a South Asian word that was not Hindi being uttered. Last Saturday, Kamala Devi Harris became the first Vice President-Elect in American history of Black-South Asian ancestry. She is also the first woman. As I sat with my children, sobbing during her victory speech, I reflected on how incredible it was for my children to witness history in the making. My children will grow up seeing a woman who looks like them in the White House.

As I sat watching my daughter’s big eyes focused on Kamala Harris, this moment was huge for so many reasons. Representation matters. Seeing yourself represented in all different areas of life helps to imagine a life bigger than your own and that anything is possible. For my daughter especially, she now knows that there will be other women of color who will become our leaders because she sees the first women of color elected as Vice President today. Growing up, my daughter’s reality was but a distant dream for me.

I grew up wanting to be white. It’s painful to think about the young girl I was and how much I tried to fit in. As we celebrate Diwali tomorrow where South Asians around the world celebrate good conquering evil, South Asian holidays and culture have slowly come into mainstream America. Many major companies are marketing their goods for Diwali this year; it is hard to miss from the Instagram Diwali stickers to the Evite Diwali invitations. Yet, this was not my childhood. Growing up in the 1980s, the United States back then was quite different.

I struggled around all things “pop culture”. While I watched the shows that my peers were watching including Full House, the Cosby Show, Beverly Hills 90210, and Saved by the Bell, there was nobody that looked like me anywhere (save for Apu on the Simpsons but that’s a complicated topic for another time). From music to TV to movies, everything that was around me outside of my home was white. Our home was like stepping back into India in the 1970s, the India that my parents brought with them to this country. The aromas of yummy Indian foods permeated throughout my childhood home. You could hear my mom conversing with her friends in Telegu or scream at us in our native tongue. We played table tennis listening to Ghantasala and M.S. Subulakshmi on the record player, watched Telegu movies, and donned Indian clothes on the weekends.

I learned to pick up pop culture references when I was in school or around my white friends. Back then, there was no google or internet to search up these references, so I became a very good listener and imitator. Through my friends, I learned about the Beetles, Cat Stevens, the Doors, the Rolling Stones, the Beach Boys, Led Zeppelin and the Who. I used to ask my friends to make cassette tapes (do you remember those?) of these songs and bands because that was my only access to them. One day, a friend asked me why I don’t have music of my own and why I always copy her. This stung. I wanted to yell that “my” music was my parent’s music, the same way her music was her parents. But the difference was that my music was not accepted, it was not cool and it certainly was not American. Looking back, I learned that day that I needed to do a better job “being in the know” and feigning knowledge when none existed. Thus, I developed severe imposter syndrome. At any time I could be called out for not knowing something about white culture that would deem me un-American, an outsider in my own country. Nothing could be more painful for a young girl desperately trying to belong.

My daughter’s childhood is already so different than my own. She sees pop culture reflect the diversity of our society. From her TV shows to music, she is exposed to so much diversity that sometimes, it is hard to believe that this is the same country in which I grew up. She sees representation in music, TV and movies. When schools were open, she would bring dosas and idlis for lunch. She proudly wears Indian clothes out in public, including a bindi and bangles. And most importantly, she knows that her music, food, and culture are widely accepted in her United States of America.

As we watched Kamala Harris in her victory speech, I cried for so much that day. Mostly, I cried because it was affirmation of just how far we have come as a society and for all the possibilities for my daughter and other girls of color like her. And the little girl in me cried at finally being seen as American, an imposter no longer, chittis and all.