I've grown into my mother, into my father. And I'm definitely cool with it.
When I was a little girl, my mother used to make me cheese & chutney sandwiches for lunch. Until I was about 16 or 17, I desperately wanted to blend in, seeking conformity over identity, and thus trained myself to eat very quickly. The likelihood that someone would notice I was not eating turkey or peanut butter would decrease if I inhaled my food. One time, a dollop of mint chutney had fallen onto the cream lunch table. Someone declared it "bird poop". Others joined in vehement protest. Flushed with shame and fear, I slouched in my seat, and ultimately participated in post-crisis fall out.
My parents have always tried to give me happiness. I never told them I was embarrassed of food alleged to resemble avian fecal matter, but instead asked if I could start bringing peanut butter and jelly for lunch. My mother obliged. "Whatever will get you to eat, beta." Sometimes, however, they would fall back into their old ways. One night, we had taken my grandparents to the Country Pancake House, the legendary breakfast spot in town with pancakes the size of my face and fresh juices. My father ordered a carrot juice, his favorite, and, to my horror, pulled out a sachet of chaat masala from his jacket pocket and sprinkled some into his juice. He then passed it around to my mother, my grandparents, my sister, and by the time it came to me, I had crouched so low in my seat that my fingers grazed my Vans (it was a long time ago). My father then tapped my shoulder and told me to sit upright, warning me against bad posture.
My mother had always warned me against wasting food. While feeding me with her hands, she would remind of me of the starving children in India, the maid servants who clean my grandmothers' homes, our driver's son, "who probably makes his own crayons from plastic bags." (My mother is not a chemist.) The chronic fear of waste, the desire for survival, was thus instilled upon me at a young age. While I was trying to survive middle school by swallowing whole my chutney sandwiches, my mother would teach me about the less fortunate, tell me stories about her own impoverished childhood, and ingrained in me the sense of guilt every Indian is tasked with feeling.
I slowly grew out of my fear of standing out. I began to unpack my understanding of home, of myself (and coincidentally, bearing a unique, exotic identity soon became the new, fashionable way to conform), and realized I really liked mint chutney. My sister and I started sneaking extra airplane food into our backpacks, and hand out packaged water and rotis to hungry cows and children when we would visit our grandparents in India.
Last night, I went with a friend to Verlaine for a fundraiser for Coalition of Asian American Children and Families. I bought my friend a kati roll for dinner, which he snacked on during the ride down to Rivington Street. It was a bit messy; chutney and corn spilled out from the roll and somehow into my hair, and so as we walked up to Verlaine, my friend suggested we toss the rest. My heart sank. "What? Why! We will finish this." I was violently shivering from the frigid city air, but took a large bite of the roll, risking flakes of potato to fall into my scarf. I then pulled apart a piece and gave it to my friend, but instead of handing it over, I accidentally shoved it in his mouth. "Um, sorry, but, the children, you know, the hungry ones," I stammered, before finishing off the rest of the roll.
My parents spent most of my childhood trying to make me happy (despite traumatizing me with their masala juices). Now that I've got my own white hairs & a legitimate back problem (which, apparently, actually is from bad posture), I finally realize how much they did for me.
We threw out the crumpled foil, and turned to walk in. "Rucha, you have some green chutney above your lip." I quickly wiped it off with the back of my hand, nervous someone would think it was bird poop.
When I was a little girl, my mother used to make me cheese & chutney sandwiches for lunch. Until I was about 16 or 17, I desperately wanted to blend in, seeking conformity over identity, and thus trained myself to eat very quickly. The likelihood that someone would notice I was not eating turkey or peanut butter would decrease if I inhaled my food. One time, a dollop of mint chutney had fallen onto the cream lunch table. Someone declared it "bird poop". Others joined in vehement protest. Flushed with shame and fear, I slouched in my seat, and ultimately participated in post-crisis fall out.
My parents have always tried to give me happiness. I never told them I was embarrassed of food alleged to resemble avian fecal matter, but instead asked if I could start bringing peanut butter and jelly for lunch. My mother obliged. "Whatever will get you to eat, beta." Sometimes, however, they would fall back into their old ways. One night, we had taken my grandparents to the Country Pancake House, the legendary breakfast spot in town with pancakes the size of my face and fresh juices. My father ordered a carrot juice, his favorite, and, to my horror, pulled out a sachet of chaat masala from his jacket pocket and sprinkled some into his juice. He then passed it around to my mother, my grandparents, my sister, and by the time it came to me, I had crouched so low in my seat that my fingers grazed my Vans (it was a long time ago). My father then tapped my shoulder and told me to sit upright, warning me against bad posture.
My mother had always warned me against wasting food. While feeding me with her hands, she would remind of me of the starving children in India, the maid servants who clean my grandmothers' homes, our driver's son, "who probably makes his own crayons from plastic bags." (My mother is not a chemist.) The chronic fear of waste, the desire for survival, was thus instilled upon me at a young age. While I was trying to survive middle school by swallowing whole my chutney sandwiches, my mother would teach me about the less fortunate, tell me stories about her own impoverished childhood, and ingrained in me the sense of guilt every Indian is tasked with feeling.
I slowly grew out of my fear of standing out. I began to unpack my understanding of home, of myself (and coincidentally, bearing a unique, exotic identity soon became the new, fashionable way to conform), and realized I really liked mint chutney. My sister and I started sneaking extra airplane food into our backpacks, and hand out packaged water and rotis to hungry cows and children when we would visit our grandparents in India.
Last night, I went with a friend to Verlaine for a fundraiser for Coalition of Asian American Children and Families. I bought my friend a kati roll for dinner, which he snacked on during the ride down to Rivington Street. It was a bit messy; chutney and corn spilled out from the roll and somehow into my hair, and so as we walked up to Verlaine, my friend suggested we toss the rest. My heart sank. "What? Why! We will finish this." I was violently shivering from the frigid city air, but took a large bite of the roll, risking flakes of potato to fall into my scarf. I then pulled apart a piece and gave it to my friend, but instead of handing it over, I accidentally shoved it in his mouth. "Um, sorry, but, the children, you know, the hungry ones," I stammered, before finishing off the rest of the roll.
My parents spent most of my childhood trying to make me happy (despite traumatizing me with their masala juices). Now that I've got my own white hairs & a legitimate back problem (which, apparently, actually is from bad posture), I finally realize how much they did for me.
We threw out the crumpled foil, and turned to walk in. "Rucha, you have some green chutney above your lip." I quickly wiped it off with the back of my hand, nervous someone would think it was bird poop.
No comments:
Post a Comment