November 9, 2022November 10, 2022 3min readBy Kashvi Ramani
Growing up Indian-American, even in a sheltered community, was always difficult. Internalized racism, the model minority stigma, and stereotypes pervaded the environment around me. Despite being around others, I constantly felt alone in my struggles and couldn’t find an outlet at such a young age. This problem was exacerbated by the lack of representation in media platforms like television and literature. So rarely do children of color receive the opportunity to find a role model that looks like them. Even when they do, the characters played are often used for comic relief and never accurate of real life. These pieces document my life growing up as an Indian-American from my unfiltered young eyes in hopes that a future young girl won’t feel alone in a constantly growing world.
to babies,
the world is littered with shapeless blobs.
baby girl doesn’t know father from brother, knows her mother’s warmth better than her face.
leaves her nest with eyes closed,
too afraid to fly with 20/200 vision, tries to escape –
she expects the worst from the world. then feels breath on her lashes, and flutters them open.
doesn’t focus
on scars, on gender, on color, rather fixates
on the outline of your soft eyes. sees the love, the whispered promise of protection, then trusts.
she grows up,
and lives life in the gray area
sees truth in fragments, realizes two-sided stories have enough points of view to make her sick.
her unconditional love
is conditioned to see love on a spectrum
where a white dove is purity and a raven is terror. she learns to run from the dark.
mother marches for equality,
father campaigns for a man who promises equity, both from the land of spice and sweltering sun. escaped for a better life, endured the racism for their shining daughter.
and yet they steer her
to the white girl on the playground.
enroll her in a catholic school, check the box by “morning prayers” for a religion she’s not a part of, pack pasta for lunch.
say they’re
shaping, making, not erasing, escaping
and she turns the mirror on herself, crying till tears make her somebody else.
she takes their place.
births a baby bird with unfiltered eyes,
nose like her father’s, smile like her mother’s, love like hers.
but unlike them, she escapes.
escapes the endless cycle of unjustified prejudice
escapes carbon copy thinking, forcing the only “stable career”
escapes narrowed education, learning but not listening
escapes a two-color world, shows her child how to fly under rainbows (and rainbow flags)
escapes assumptions, adherences, appearances
escapes an unchanging life
because change is the only way to soar, wings finally light with unfiltered love.
I never learned a second language.
Amma would holler in a foreign tongue
Words swirling around me like vapor
Bitter to taste at first,
Until I remember the familiar flavor
Of a phrase finally learned by heart
after years of practice.
Second grade, new school.
Eyebrows furrowed at the large white exterior
Decorating the front of the building.
Daunting
Unfamiliar
My classmates
Color of the school.
Gaze drifts to the brown sheep at the back
Stark contrast to pearly white.
The mean ones tease my food and frizz
The nice ones ask what country I’m from,
Cocking heads when I recite the Pledge of Allegiance.
I run when I see him.
They ask if we are related
Replacing questions with rumors of marriage
But only when I come of age.
When I near him in the hall
I sprint from my past;
From the language I never knew
From my dad’s animated fingers painting stories of gods
From the colored packets containing magic
Our own version of Holy
But with an “I.”
I can’t be both.
The dash permanently
Erased from my life.
My two worlds
Like separate phrases
Indian, comma, American.
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.
I organize play dates for my children. They’re friendships remind me of when I was younger when Fridays were consistently set aside for my friends. Now, it seems play is indeed meant for childhood and work is for aging adults. We often can’t find time for ourselves, let alone our friends, who are busy working mothers like ourselves. Or we moved into unreachable corners of this globe, far away from any means of physical communication. It’s fair to say, it’s hard to stay close to friends like when we were in college. Nowadays, it’s easier to travel, but more difficult to bond with others. “My Friend” asserts that we should not end let our friendships fall by the wayside. Even with physical distance and conflicting schedules, we keep our friendships close with kind words on phone calls, regular FaceTime calls, or even encouraging social media comments. Friendship doesn’t end once we become adults.
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.
“Take what you want//Take everything” reflects on a time with my partner and our cat, Layla. It’s a retelling of the chaotic night I adopted her. I didn’t know why Layla hid from me. When I chased her around, it scared her more. “Take what you want//Take everything” juxtaposes our first night, filled with misunderstanding, with the rest of the time we spent together. My fond memories call back to the loving moments Layla and I shared.
Such memories defined us; they reverberated in my partnership. I wonder if my partner, like Layla, only remembers her fear of me, over our shared moments of love. The title, a Kanye West lyric, is an acknowledgment that their happiness together–without me–destroyed my sense of self. When I see their photos, I wonder if I can see myself reflected in their eyes. I wonder if they still keep kind moments of our time together.
I remember when she would look at me from behind a laundry basket.
A small simple cat with green owl eyes. She was afraid of her new home and its owner. Shit, I remember the night I got her, she hid under my bed, in the middle just out of my reach for maybe 6 hours, watching me. She didn’t eat anything the entire day. When the night fell I was afraid she’d starve or come out and attack me. I was just scared. I didn’t have a childhood pet, I’m not white, I didn’t know what to do. I picked up the whole bed and yelled that she needed to move. I chased her into the closet with a vacuum cleaner. When she ran in, I called my lover and yelled to her that she wasn’t helping enough, she needed to be there to help me. That was our first day together, me and that cat. No one will ever have that memory but me and maybe her.
It was during Ramadan, my first year fasting.
Our problems had already begun by then. Enough so that I decided to fast and show retribution. I’d try to change into a more patient and understanding self. Like the Prophet (SAW) I guess. To become someone that my lover could feel safe around. Somehow, getting a cat felt like it fit into that picture. I’d be a cat dad, you know, gentle. We’d raise her. I’d fast and become New Again. Maybe I’d wrap an inked tasbih around myself and show I’m a man of God.
I don’t know how a cat remembers fear any more than I know how a lover does.
I know her body stored it. My cat’s must have stored it too. That first night, I wish I could tell her that I was afraid too. It doesn’t make sense that I was afraid really — I’m bigger, more threatening. We don’t speak the same language anyway, so how could I ever tell her? She learned to trust me though, in her own way. Her small bean paws would press on my chest in the mornings. She’d meow to berate me for locking her out some nights, or when I was away from home too long.
She lives with my lover now. They share photos with me, they’re happy together.
I saw my lover once, it was on 55th and 7th, Broadway shined blue performance lights over us. She wore a red sacral dress. She said her mental health has never been better. I think she was trying to tell me that she’s doing well, because she knows I care for her. I don’t think she was trying to say she’s happier without me. We don’t speak the same language. I actually think they are happier with just each other. And I loved them both, so it hurts. Sometimes, not all the time. And it doesn’t always hurt that bad. Other times it does get pretty bad, though. I probably owe it to myself to say that.
I look back at the photos, the ones of our life together, and the ones of their new life.
Two green owl eyes, and two brown moonlit eyes. I look for myself in them.
