For desi Americans, our community’s values can play a big role in how we form romantic relationships. From an early age, girls are told that we are the pride of the family. If we do anything wrong, it reflects badly on our parents, especially when it comes to romantic relationships.
He has to meet an endless list of criteria – he must be from the specific region of India your family is from, he must observe the same religion and be from the same caste as you. If a brown girl broke those norms, her parents would be ridiculed by their peers. I have heard stories while growing up about girls running off with guys from different ethnicities. My parents told me they would disown me if I ever did that.
Growing up, romantic relationships never held much importance for me. I was always immersed in academics and volunteering. I observed the trials and tribulations of my friends’ relationships, and never thought it was worth my time. I’ve always been mature for my age, and I didn’t think I would meet anyone as driven or focused as I was, while in high school. Most of my male classmates were superficial, and my passion for academics combined with my goody-two-shoes attitude didn’t attract their attention.
The summer before I started college, my dad sat me down to discuss relationships, something virtually unheard of in the Punjabi culture. He said he knew I would be talking to guys and would eventually want to have a boyfriend, but he wanted me to “keep it in the community.” When I asked him what that meant, he said the boy must be Punjabi, Sikh and Jatt. If he didn’t meet the criteria, I shouldn’t even consider dating him. My dad’s family is very traditional in their beliefs, and I knew I couldn’t disappoint them. This kind of strict dating protocols generally apply to all desis.
Fast-forward to my sophomore year of college – I joined some organizations at school, and I met someone. He was super sweet, and as an added bonus, he met the “PSJ criteria.” I felt like we really connected, but eventually his messages became infrequent. When I talked to him, I felt out of my element. I always initiated our conversations, I made small gestures of affection, and he never reciprocated. The only time I got a response out of him was when he needed help with something. I would constantly second-guess myself, and I began to feel like I was wasting my time on the relationship.
Like most girls with a crush, I went to my girlfriends for advice. My friend Kelly told me that I should stop settling. She asked me what positive things I had to say about him, and I told her he was Sikh, Punjabi and Jatt, a perfect fit for my dating criteria. Kelly told me these traits were social constructs, and it was clear to her that I wasn’t happy. She asked me what was more important, being with someone who met the PSJ criteria or being with someone who made me feel amazing about myself? I was totally caught off guard.
I realized that I liked my crush for all the wrong reasons. The ideas my parents instilled in me throughout my whole life were proven wrong. My crush was perfect for me in the eyes of Punjabi society, but we had no other commonalities. I was living in an illusion that society’s acceptance of my significant other was the ultimate deciding factor in my happiness. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this experience, it’s that someone’s religion, caste, or race shouldn’t be what makes them good for you. What matters is the way they make you feel. That’s what makes a guy the best choice for you.
Jasleen Kaur Dhillon is a pseudonym. The writer has chosen to stay anonymous as this may be considered a sensitive issue and could lead to discord within her family.
NAKED: The Honest Musings of 2 Brown Women was born in the autumn of 2018, when Mimi Mutesa and Selvi M. Bunce began sharing their poetry collections. It was scary, beautiful, and terrifying when they decided to trust each other with their most intimate thoughts. Not only did they feel relieved after doing so, but Selvi and Mimi also felt more seen as women of color. They embarked on their publication journey, so others may feel as seen as they did on that fateful autumn.
“Ingrown Hair” deals with the themes of societal and family pressures that are reflected throughout NAKED. Mimi and Selvi have always written for themselves. They see poetry as an outlet, and their poems exemplify their personal frustration and vulnerability. “Ingrown Hair” speaks to Selvi’s experience with the societal pressures of South Asian women, such as getting married, being a good wife, becoming a good mother, and leading a certain kind of life.
There is something strange beneath my skin
telling me to build a house,
make a home,
mother children.
I am not sure how to reconcile it.
My mother was strong
and a mother after all.
My philosophy has been to spend my time
on myself and the world.
I have always thought
I could simply address the thing under my skin
when it finally crawled out.
But when my family starts guessing
who will get married first, and my father
has been saving wedding money for years,
I begin to wonder
if I will have to pluck it out.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
Social media has stretched a number of news headlines:
“Social media rots kids’ brains.”
“Social media is polarizing.”
Yet those most affected by social media ideals are the teenage users. Apps like Instagram and TikTok perpetuate an image of perfection that is captured in pictures and 30-second videos. As a result, many young women chase this expectation endlessly. “Her” personifies this perfection in an unattainable figure the narrator has always wished to be. These ideals deteriorate mental health, create body dysmorphia, promote a lack of self-esteem, and much more. Even so, social media is plagued by filters and editing—much of what we hope to achieve isn’t even real. Therefore, young women, much like the narrator of “Her,” strive for a reality that doesn’t even exist.
When she walked into my life
Her smile took up two pages of description
In a YA novel.
My arms could wrap around her waist twice
If she ever let anyone get that close
Her hair whipped winds with effortless beach waves
And a hint of natural coconut
Clothing brands were created around her
“One Size Fits All” one size to fit the girl who has it all
With comments swarning in hourglasses
But when sharp teeth nip at her collar,
She could bite back biting back
And simply smirked with juicy apple lips
Red hearts and sympathy masking condescension
“My body doesn’t take away from the beauty of yours”
“We are all equal, we are all beautiful”
Beauty
A sword she wields expertly
Snipping, changing,
Aphrodite in consistent perfection
Cutting remarks with sickly sweet syrup
And an innocent, lethal wink
When she walked into my life
She led my life.
My wardrobe winter trees
Barren, chopped in half
Unsuited for the holidays
Mirrors were refracted under in my gaze
Misaligned glass was the only explanation
For unsymmetrical features
And broken hands
Still I taped them fixed
Over and over
Poking, prodding
Hoping to mold stomach fat like wet clay
Defy gravity,
Move it upward
To chest
Instead of sagging beneath a belt on the last hole
In the spring
She would stir me awake at 2 AM
“You need to be me”
Lies spilled from her tongue but
Solidified, crystallized
Fabrication spelled dichotomy
And I drifted farther out to sea
When she walked out of my life,
I was drowning.
Reliance had me capsized
Others witnessed
Furrowed brows and glances away
Like spectators of a shark attack
They can watch but the damage is done
They clung to my mangled pieces
Gravestones spelled
“Stressed”
“Depressed”
But I was mourning too
Today I looked back at my mirror
But glass turned into prism
Broken pieces rainbow
Colors coating clothes
She didn’t pick
Aphrodite
Perception changing
She wasn’t perfect
Just lost at sea
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
“Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a meditation on the new moon and guilt. I wrote it when I was living in Dallas and was driving back from a dusk prayer. The new moon terrified me on that drive. I was diseased by the knowledge that my partner, at the time, had seen the worst parts of me. There’s immense shame in this piece—it seized my self-image. If the moon could become brand new, then I could start over.
I often ponder on the moon’s reflective nature and pairs of eyes. I’m hyper-fixated on how I am seen by others. Unfortunately, the brilliance of seeing your reflection in another person leads to negativity. After all, those who are too keen on their own reflection are the same people who suffer from it. It is possible to use shame to fuel one’s retribution and personal growth, without becoming consumed by it.
We can look to Shah Rukh Khan succumbing to alcoholism in his own sorrow and then later imbibing his sadness in Chandramukhi. “Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a lesson for us: Don’t be Shah Rukh Khan in Devdas, instead embody pre-incarnation Shah Rukh Khan in Om Shanti Om!
Sometimes when the moon abandons the sky, I wonder if I drove her away.
If she comes back, will she be the same? How I wish she would come back new, truly new! That way she’d have no memory of the sin I’ve confessed to her. You noxious insect. Sin-loving, ego-imbibing pest. You are no monster, for at least a monster has ideology, it sins with purpose. You sin just to chase ignominy.
But the moon won’t say that, she never does. She’ll just leave the sky and return days later, slowly. And I’ll wonder if she’s new, perhaps she won’t remember my past confessions. What does it matter? Were the moon replaced with one from a different god, I’d drive her away, too.
