A Year (And A Half) Ago…

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.

 

THIRTY DAYS

There is nothing that captures the spirit of India like my bus ride to school. Every morning I wake up at six am, just in time to make the yellow school bus that awaits me at 6:30. The bus is large and houses twenty other students from my school, and if it wasn’t for the beautifully scripted Gujurati sprawled across the sides, you’d think it was an American school bus. As we turn out of the surrounding suburbs and into the heart of the city, men and women weave in and out of traffic on scooters, and the cacophony of car horns must be audible for miles. Herds of cattle graze the flooded streets as if they were meadows, and clotheslines—strung across dividers in the road—boast rainbows of vibrant saris. Stands filled with mountains of pani puri line the strees, and vendors compete for selling space. The kiosks are painted in vivid colors, and their bright decorations contrast the simplistic apartment complexes they surround. As we turn into less populated areas, old men push carts overflowing with produce to their long-established selling positions, and the skyline erected by massive apartments fades into the scenery of a village. On my left sleeps a camel, and on my right groups of women in harlequin kurtis carry bowls on their heads with calculated grace. Soon enough we’re back in the densely populated city, and minutes later we turn into my school. The campus is bound by a large wall and security guards wave the bus in, halting other traffic for just a moment. We exit the bus quickly and enter the sea of students joined into one mass by their identical uniforms. The sounds of the city are still clearly audible, and they’re a welcome reminder of the rich culture that awaits me on the bus ride home. Everyday I look forward to what I’ll discover next. It’s a country characterized by chaos, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. There is no better way to describe India than with it’s own slogan, “Incredible India.”