if u can’t imagine ur otp on a long road trip together with no set destination in mind with things happening like their car breaking down at one point or stopping at a store to argue over what snacks to buy and taking turns driving while the other rests and checking into a little inn or hotel on the way and pulling off to just chill and look at the sky together do u really ship it
You're really just looking for something else to complain about bc you probably ran out of shit to bitch about from your amazing life :((((((( poor you, people appreciate your culture :((;;;
Okay. Okay, sure, let’s talk about my amazing life.
Yeah, I came to the states at the age of 6. I was immediately enrolled into elementary school. Even though I had completed first grade and was set to start second, they told me I had to take first grade over again because they didn’t know if my education was up to/matched with American standards. Do you know what being educated overseas is like, especially in Asia? (Let me guess—you probably don’t.) I was bilingual by the time I was 4/5. We learn twice the amount Americans do. That was the first time I was told that my upbringing, my culture, was not important.
I started going to grade school and right off the bat, the first things the kids noticed about me, of course, was my thick Indian accent. Teachers scolded the children who made fun of me, but they never once tried to assure me that the way I spoke was okay. I was corrected, coached, and taught to speak ‘American’ so well that by the time I turned 10, no one believed I had moved here from India. And that was considered good. I learned that the way I spoke was wrong, and to be respected and accepted by my peers, I had to erase a huge link to my cultural background.
That wasn’t it, though. My mom made some of my clothes, because she was great at sewing, and it did save us a lot of money, but unfortunately, India was a few years behind on fashion and a lot of Indian clothing for children is fairly unisex/gender-neutral, so people made fun of me for the way I dressed—in plain, gender-neutral clothing—because I didn’t ‘look like a girl’.
I had oil put in my hair—it’s a great treatment for all hair, it really nourishes the scalp. But girls called my hair oily, greasy, smelly. Honestly, it was probably healthier than all their hair combined. And today? These girls are climbing over each other to find organic coconut oil to use on their weak, brittle, dead hair to try and make it look like mine.
My mom cooked a lot in our apartment, and sure, you guys are great with eating Indian food when you go out to eat, but do you know how much work it takes? Our whole apartment would fill up with the mouth-watering smells of spices and dishes my mom made but if I showed up to school with the smell on my clothes, kids declared that I was smelly. I smelled like food, the same food, mind you, that these kids would grow up to love to eat every time they went out to eat at their local Indian restaurant, but they saw it as disgusting, because in their households, with their bland white bread and dry-ass meatloaf, they honestly had no idea what it took to flavor a meal.
Worse than that, I brought some Indian food to lunch, and all the girls at my table made a face. They called it weird and gross, and actually made me pine and desire for their boring two-ingredient sandwiches. I had to tell my mom to stop packing me food that looked and smelled Indian for school, and though I didn’t really notice it at the time, today I can clearly remember how heartbroken she was upon hearing that from me. She struggled to teach herself American cuisine so that I would not feel uncomfortable at school. She did that. For me. I’m tearing up right now typing this, because she knew how desperate I was to make friends, and she taught herself all this for me.
Growing up was not easy for me. I had to fight through a lot to be comfortable with myself, my identity, my culture, and my upbringing. Even today it’s not easy. Do you know the pressure on Indian kids to succeed, especially academically? One time I forgot to do a sheet of homework in 5th grade and rather than taking the late slip to my mom to have her sign it—because I knew I’d be in trouble—I forged her signature to get out of it. At only 10 years old. That’s how scared I was of messing up in school. That’s the kind of pressure there is on us.
But at the same time, you want us to be happy with you people, to smile at you people, the same people who, when we were growing up, bullied us without mercy, made fun of how we were raised, made us embarrassed for you to come over and catch a whiff of our fragrant kitchens, made us change our lunches, our hairstyles, our clothes, just to appease you. So fuck you. Fuck you and your stupid ‘appreciation’ of my culture. You only choose to appreciate it now that you can see the value of it, but if you were not able to appreciate it years ago, when I was just a 7-year-old immigrant girl crying alone on the blacktop because no one would be friends with me, then you sure as hell do not have the fucking right to appreciate it now, let alone come to me and mock me for having no troubles in my life, especially since people like you were the cause of all my troubles growing up.