the multicultural memoir I thought I was writing in 2021: an essay
15-year-old me's thoughts on being the daughter of immigrants
NOTE: I wrote this in 2021, and I’ve barely touched it since! So some of the timeline & information are out-dated, but the message still applies <3
They say your golden years are your teenage years or after you’re 50; the times when you should be the most happy.
But for me, the first eight years of my life were the best. The years when I didn’t pay attention to how my hair looked; didn’t care how flat my stomach was. The years when my little sister was actually little. The years where it didn’t matter how shy you were, how weird you were, how rude you were. The years when I could do whatever I wanted because I didn’t want much. The years when I never had to worry – about the future, about money, about driving, about grades; just about life. About being “cool”. It’s crazy to me that there was a time when my biggest concern was not getting to have recess since my class wouldn’t stop talking during lunch, when now I stress about everything.
My golden years took place in a house I can barely remember. Almost everything about it has been replaced with something new, from the colors of my bedroom to the people I’m friends with. Back then, everybody was friends with everybody. Today, when I think of home I think of where I live now:
I think of the downstairs bathroom: the penguin–shaped imperfection on the wood of the floor, the paneled walls colored like desperation in a desert, and the sweet scent of citrus spray coating the air with a slight orange taste.
I think of the chocolate brown breakfast table, whose smooth surface has been riddled by too many nail polish accidents and experiments in the name of “art”. I think of the blue cabinet near the kitchen; just as much a masterpiece as it is a dump.
There’s a picture of me when I was six or seven years old, sleeping with my head on my great grandma’s lap. “Mutt Avva”, I called her; my dads mother’s mother. We were in India for vacation over summer break (I still haven’t been to India again after that trip), at someone’s house with a collection of other family members who I only saw as strangers kissing and hugging and laughing and speaking with heavy accents and fawning over my baby sister. Jet–lag had finally beat me and my eyes could no longer stay open. She let me take a nap on her lap. I was still small enough to do that. Thinking about the feeling of complete safety and love (the most golden feeling in the world, in my opinion) I felt then, fast asleep, makes me want to cry sometimes.
Now, it’s been nine years. Nine years since I’ve been to the country that is supposed to be part of who I am. I’m Indian, aren’t I? My own name can’t answer the question of who I am: Shreya (Indian) Sophie (American) Kharidhi (Indian). I guess my name is more Indian than American, so that’s who I should be. But the truth is, my sun dresses hang in my closet while my lehengas sit in a wrinkled heap in the bottom drawer. I feel out of place at a pooja full of Indian families; itchy in a dupatta, uncomfortable with the lingering scent of spices on my skin. I listen to Taylor Swift and Bollywood does not take up any space in my playlists. I should be proud to be Indian, but I feel so American, so other.
I know at this point this feeling of division between the two cultures that build me up seems cliche. I don’t know who I am, but what teenager with two immigrant parents does? I guess we are all figuring it out together.
I am posting this from India; 12 years since my last visit and 3-4 years since I wrote this piece. So much has changed and grown since :)
Forever & always,
Shreya Sophie