A year ago, I boarded a plane headed to Anand, Gujarat, India, 7,648 miles from my home. A year ago, I imagined India as a far-away United States, and so, when I stepped on the plane, I envisioned intricate architecture, fragrant food, and ornate dress, but little else. When people said, “Rem, it’s going to be so different there, like terribly, awfully different,” I couldn’t help but ignore them. Closed-minded, I thought to myself, a little appalled. Differences in lifestyle, social norms, and behavior were of little consequence to me. But then I stepped off of the plane, and everything changed.
I wanted to assimilate, to feel loved and accepted by my host family, but within days, it became clear that much of what I adored most about myself would not be considered lovable in India. I didn’t want to compromise what made me, me, but, being myself wasn’t easy: my differences were myriad and India did not hesitate to point them out.
‘American’ meant aloof and self-absorbed, and so my sleeping past nine that first Sunday morning was perceived as lazy disinterest, instead of jet lag. A week later, the purchase of a backpack for school was interpreted by my host family as a fundamental rejection. Because I hadn’t thought to consult them about it, they believed that I had dismissed their ideals, their beliefs, them.
It felt, however, like they were rejecting me. Didn’t they know that I was capable and independent? Maybe they did, and maybe they didn’t, but it didn’t matter. In my host family’s tradition, the perfect woman was submissive, subservient, and subordinate. I, on the other hand, was always too much. Too free thinking, too autonomous, too individual. I was more than my host family had bargained for.
I was both too American and just not American enough. When I proudly declared that my father was black, they were finally able to piece together the puzzle. “I knew it!” exclaimed my host mom, “You’re not American.” To them, American was blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. My frizzy ringlets, dark chocolate eyes, and coffee skin were startling. I tried to explain that this was my America, that being African-American was a huge part of my identity, that I loved being black, but it didn’t matter. “You’re wrong,” my host family repeated, “You cannot be American.”
For six months I struggled to be myself in a country that denied me of my identity, and then standing in the kitchen sharing a pav bhaji with my host brother Aditya, I realized that I had denied India of its identity. Despite being invigorated by new experiences, I had subconsciously continued to assume that my values were universally held. Closed-minded, I thought once again, this time appalled at myself. Just as my host family had wished for someone other than me, I was disappointed each time India was not what wanted it to be. Realizing this, I stopped worrying about the racket of scooter horns at two in the morning, and instead awaited the sounds of the morning Adhan, drifting over from the Muslim Quarter. I stopped grumbling to myself about our 11pm suppertime, and instead savored every bite of my host mom’s daily delicacies. I stopped fixating on the fact that I was asked to help cook while my host brothers relaxed, and instead endeavored to learn as many recipes as I could. I paused to breathe India, and was able to finally exhale appreciation.