Although I’ve never really
cared for this hyphenated description of my ethnicity vs. nationality, it’s
been on my mind more lately. When I first moved to the U.S. as a child, I clung
to my Indian identity. I saw myself as an Indian-American.
As the decades passed, I became
more assimilated to the American culture around me. Each visit to India showed
me how much I had changed. In my teens, I felt suspended between the two
cultures, belonging to neither, a foreigner and misfit in both countries. In my
twenties, a gradual shift began to happen. The values and ideas of my adopted
country seeped into my psyche, transforming me inside and out.
Now, in my forties, I have
evolved into an Indian-American. My Indian-ness has diminished
to a vestigial appendage that is barely functional. These days, when I visit
India, I long to come home--to Iowa.
This makes me feel conflicted, disloyal—as if I’m casting aside my ethnic identity.
I’m uncomfortable with this metamorphosis. I will always be proud of my
heritage—my brown skin, my almond shaped eyes, and my penchant for spicy food. However,
I am no longer defined or limited by my ancestral legacy. I have to cherish the
memories of who I was, while learning to accept who I have become.
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