My friend, Jennifer Kumar, posted the following piece on her Authentic Journey's website in August 2010. See original link here: http://alaivani.com/Default.aspx?tabid=56&EntryID=509
My
So-called Jeevitham
by
Lisa C. James
Glossary
(Yes, you might need it!)
Chaya
– Black tea with sugar and milk
Chechi
– respectful term to address an older female
Chorru
-
rice
Desi
– term for someone from South Asia
Dosa
– sourdough crepe made of rice flour usually eaten with curries
Jeevitham
–
Life
Salwar
Kameez
– traditional outfit worn by women consisting of drawstring pants
under a long tunic.
Mundu
– sarong-type clothing
Onam
– a festival of Kerala
Tiffin
– British Indian word for the container (usually stainless steel)
in which you can carry a light lunch or snack.
Veetu
Pairru
– House Name
What
am I?
I
am not sure why my parents chose to name me “Lisa”. It is so
American. And with the last name James. “What are you?” is a
question I get asked frequently because my name and face don’t
match. In fact, I am surprised if they don’t
ask. If they knew my middle name, it would make sense. My brown face
would make sense. But my middle name/family
name/veetu
pairru
is 15 letters long and doesn't conform to American documents and
forms. For the longest time, I didn't even know how to spell it.
Sometimes I feel like my middle name: very Indian, difficult to
remember, hard to explain, abbreviated most of the time, and
surrounded by American-ness on all sides.
My
parents are from India, from the state of Kerala to be exact. Our
family is Roman Catholic. The family legend is that we were one of
the first Christian families in Kerala back when St. Thomas came in
52 AD. We hail from the ancient city of Kudangaloor and my mom’s
family tree can be traced that far back. Of course, it is all
documented in Malayalam and this meant little to me growing up partly
because I didn't read Malayalam and partly because I didn't see
how I fit into it. Essentially I was an American Born Confused Desi
(ABCD). I could be the ABCD poster child. However, it wasn't until
I started school that I knew I wasn't like the other American kids.
My
Misspent Youth
Growing
up, I felt like I lived in two different worlds: India at home and
America at school. My dad wore a munda,
we hade chorru
and curry for dinner every night, we spoke in Malayalam at home and
went to a Malayalam mass once a month. However, away from home, I was
surrounded by white faced- English speakers, non-Indian music, and
non-Indian food.
I
felt different and different is wrong when you are young. I felt like
I had to hide the Indian part of me including how we lived at home.
When I started school, I realized that there were Malayalam and
British Indian words and slang I didn't know the “American”
word for. How was I supposed to know that what mom called a “slide”
was actually a “barrette”? I remember telling my friend in school
that I liked her “slide.” She looked at me bewildered and was
probably wondering how I knew about the swing set in her backyard.
That was in kindergarten. Little did I know that was just the
beginning of my cultural missteps in the world.
From
the very beginning, I tried to bring the two halves of my existence
together. In first grade, I begged my dad to give me chaya
in my Care Bears thermos because all the other kids thought it was
chocolate milk. Everybody loved chocolate milk. My brown beverage
tasted nothing like chocolate milk but at least it looked like it! Only I
knew that it was just black tea with milk and sugar.
When
we studied Native Americans in second grade, I told everyone my
“Indian” name was “Dancing Butterfly” And they believed it.
At seven, differences are external. I looked like one of “them”
and everyone knew I was “Indian” so never mind which kind. I was
just glad they were studying any kind of “Indian”. I suppose I
felt I had to give myself an identity. I thought “Dancing
Butterfly” was pretty creative and I felt proud to carry my fake
name.
The
rest of my elementary years and middle school years were spent
pulling the same sort of cultural shenanigans. Mainly, I just wanted
to belong.
When
I got to high school, there were a lot more Indians in my classes.
But, by then, I was almost too “American.” I only spoke English
(even though I could both speak and understand Malayalam), I called
my parents “mom” and “dad” (which they hated and still do),
and I told my brother to stop calling me chechi
(which
he rarely does now and only when he’s being sarcastic). I was
immediately drawn to the other Indian kids in class and my best
friends were all Indian. I felt accepted for who I truly was. They
grew up surrounded by other Indians and embraced the Indian side of
themselves more than I did. I learned a lot from them and immersed
myself in our version of Indian-American-ness. Yes, go to cultural
events but be sure to talk like a valley girl and roll your eyes a
lot. Sure, go to Little India on Harwin and be sure to buy Bollywood
tapes with a lot of hip-hop beats. Eat Indian food but only at home.
Dance to Indian music but only if it’s upbeat and vaguely American.
Wear Indian clothes but with a lot of American accessories. And
cardinal rule: don’t talk to FOBS*.
*FOBS:
“Fresh off the Boat” in our lingo meant those Indians not born in
the U.S or newly arrived from India. They could be distinguished from
“us” by their attire (Indian clothes with tennis shoes or some
other un-hip fashion statement) and verified and validated by their
Indian accents. FOBS called us ABCDs and disliked us as much we
disliked them. I am not completely sure why we wanted to be
distinguished from this group. I think it’s because we truly
thought we were different from them but honestly, it was just
xenophobic. Most Americans didn’t like Indians. Indians talked
weird, smelled like curry, and wore white tennis shoes with dress
slacks. I think we feared the negative stereotypes of our culture and
did not want to be seen in that light. And really, in high school
too, it was all about being accepted and fitting in. Besides, we weren't Indian. We were Indian-Americans. So, as some my friends
would later ask, why would I want to go to a land full of FOBS?
Dark
Days of December 1995
After
I graduated high school, I went to the local university where the
majority of my peers went. I didn't know what to major in and all I
really knew is that I liked to write. However, as my parents admonished, how can you make a living out of writing? So I majored in
pre-pharmacy. Not as icky as pre-med or pre-nursing but still related
to health care which everyone in my family seemed so proud of.
According to my parents, health care was the way to go. I never liked
chemistry or math and those were my worst subjects. So what was
pre-pharmacy mostly comprised of? Chemistry and math, of course.
Needless to say, I did horribly in my first semester.
My
parents were shocked when they found out my first semester grades. I
had failed both chemistry and math and was put on probation because
my GPA dropped below the minimum requirement. The only classes I got
As in were the literature classes. Unfortunately, my parents only saw
the Fs. I had never failed any class before in my life and was mostly
an A-student and so this shocked them beyond belief.
For
a few days, the house was beyond silent. My parents didn't know
what was happening with me. Was I on drugs? Did I have a boyfriend
who made me skip classes? Was I in a gang? Who were these college
kids I was hanging out with? Never mind that I was a college kid
myself. The truth was that it was none of those
parents'-worst-nightmares. However, I myself didn't accept or
understand the truth until much later.
That
was probably one of the worst times in my life. I didn't know who I
was nor did I know why I was so unhappy. I didn't know why I had
given up. I felt lost and helpless and stuck. For years, my parents had protected me and advised me but, at 18, I didn't want that
anymore. Their opinions were not my opinions but I was too scared to
object to anything they said. They were my parents and in our
culture, you respect them and you obey what they say. I was a bad
Indian daughter if I did not. However, there were so many things I
wanted to do and none of them had to do with their expectations for
me. In a way, failing the pre-pharmacy classes was my rebellion even
though I hurt myself in the process. I was civilly disobedient. It
was the only way I could tell them “No, this is not what I want.”
I felt that my parents no longer knew what was best for me. However,
I could not tell them that without dishonoring them.
In
the darkest hours of those December days, I cried myself to sleep
because I felt so misunderstood and without a voice. I had not only
failed my parents but also myself. In those dark days, I prayed to
God that if He got out me of this mess, I would never doubt His
existence. God and my journal-ed prayers to Him were my only comfort.
I felt that I had broken my parents' trust though that was not my
intention. I was deeply unhappy and I didn't know who I was. I didn't feel like I had control of where my life was headed.
The
conversations with my parents after my big flop of a semester was
painful. My dad wondered if maybe I wasn't cut out for college.
Maybe I should just be married off to some guy from a decent Indian family. Why waste time and money if I just wasn't even going to
try? Finally, after silently staring at the floor in shame, I told
them that it wasn't school. I loved school. I loved learning. It
was what
I was learning that was the problem. I told them I wanted to study
literature or maybe psychology but I wasn't sure. Being unsure
about your future plans was unacceptable in our
house. I don’t know how it came about finally but I was to sit out
a semester and figure out what I needed to do.
My
Decision
A
tough three months later, some news arrived from India and dad needed
to go in order to take care of some property-related issues. As I
overheard mom and dad discussing the details, I decided that this was
it. This was my chance to redeem myself. Also, it was a chance to
escape.Maybe that was the main reason actually. God was not only showing me a window, he was showing me an
escape hatch! I needed to leave the shame of my failure behind and
start all over again. I couldn't do it here. Everything was too raw
and I knew that my parents and I would battle about everything since
I had now broken my contract with them as their daughter. I would go
to India and study. In a way, I thought I had nothing left to lose.
This was my only chance. And I guessed that if it didn't work,
Chachen and Amachi (my grandparents), would be more than happy to let
me help out on the farm. I really did like the paddy fields and
taking the cows out to pasture. Who knows? I might even get married
to a rubber tree estate tycoon, I joked to myself halfheartedly.
When
I told my parents, they were surprised but were okay about it. I am
not completely sure why. On the one hand, my parents were planning to
move back to India when they retired and wanted my brother and me to
get used to the idea (in fact, this was the reason I most frequently
cited about my India study sojourn) but on the other, though they
never said this to me, it would be good way to get me back in touch
with being Indian. Indian girls weren't as impossible as this
selfish, disobedient Indian- American brat that they had the
misfortune of raising. It was March. We would leave for India in May.
As
the days approached, I became more and more fearful. I didn't know
if I would get into college in India considering I had just failed my
last semester. What if the kids didn't like me? What if I didn't speak Malayalam well enough? Where would I live? The future was a
hazy mess. My dad had a sister, who was a nun, in Bangalore whom he
contacted and she sent us prospecti from a couple of different
colleges. There were two all-girl schools and one co-ed one. I wasn't too sure about how Indian boys were at that age so I hoped I would
get into one of the all-girls colleges.
In
May, as we waited to board the plane, my dad pulled me aside and said
I didn't have to do this; that I could change my mind; that I could
go to school here. However, it was too late to turn back. I was
adamant. Going to India to study was the first decision I had made in
my life that was my own. I would be shaming myself and God if I didn't follow through. And, in time, my parents would be able to
put their trust in me again to make my own choices.
After
we arrived in India, one of the first things we did was take an
overnight car-trip to Bangalore. I suppose this was necessary as I
had missed all the college application deadlines and needed to apply
in person. As we drove into Bangalore, I was utterly dismayed. Where
was this cosmopolitan city I heard about? Where were the skyscrapers
and the IBM building I wondered as I stared at the auto-rickshaws and
cows competing for road space as we drove down Hosur Road towards
Koramangala. Yikes! What was I thinking? I left Texas for this?
We
stayed a couple of nights at St. John’s Hospital hostel where my
aunt, the nun, lived. She (we’ll call her Sr. Auntie from this
point on) was a nurse at the hospital there. Looking back, I realize
how lucky I was. It was really good to have a nun/nurse/aunt in
Bangalore. Especially one that was pushy-just-short-of-annoying. She
was able to get things done that my dad and I probably wouldn't have even attempted.
Bangalore
is a college town and so there were colleges everywhere. It was
difficult to get into science/math/engineering schools but the
liberal arts courses and commerce courses were still accessible even
at the very late date I was applying. We visited all three campuses
that my Sr. Auntie had mentioned. I was immediately taken by the lush
green lawns and manicured appearance of Christ College but it still wasn't my first choice. After getting waiting list notices
from the other two, however, Christ College was the only place for
me.
Christ
College, Bangalore
Desi,
na?
I
stayed at a hostel run by nuns just behind the Christ College campus.
There were three such hostels side by side and ours was the furthest
from the main road. Most of the girls at the hostels were from Kerala
and spoke Malayalam and English. A couple of the girls were of
Malayali heritage but had lived in Kuwait or the United Arab Emirates
before they came to study in India. There were also a few girls from
some of the northern states in India. Of course, I was the only
American.
Super.
Duper. Scary. I didn't know how to act. I didn't know whether I
should speak to the other girls in Malayalam or English. I didn't know if I should tidy up the 6-bed room I was in. Could I go outside by myself? Could I go on the terrace? Most of the other girls had not
arrived so there was nothing much to do nor many people to talk to. I
mostly wrote in my journal. Things that were new to me included: the
mosquito net, the zero-watt bulb (had voltage so low that it was as
close to “zero” as it could get without actually being off), the
little cubby hole in the bathroom that led to an incinerator, the
mop-stick (a wooden t-shaped tool that you would hold upside down and
drape a wet rag on to mop the floor), frying an egg using candle
light and a tiffin,
and finally, if the tiffin
got too hot, honey for the burns.
Hostel
Days
The
first few months were difficult. My social cues were all off. People
wanted you to be nosy and pry into their affairs. As you can tell by
the very words I used just now to describe that, I was not used to
that nor did I like it. One of my friends said I was being too
impersonal and that when I returned to
America, I should be careful because Americans wouldn't like it.
It’s funny now because I think being impersonal is an American
thing and almost inherent in my personality. At least, until I get to
know someone.
Language
was a big question mark. I felt I needed to speak in Malayalam
because I was the foreigner. However, they told me that they liked
when I spoke in English. However, I thought I was being a snob when I
did speak English. Like a deer caught in the headlights, for a while,
I was too stunned to speak when someone asked me a question.
Sometimes I would just smile and simply say nothing. I felt like a
computer that was trying to process too much information at one time.
System. Overload. Abort. Abort. Smiley face.
Slowly
but surely, I made friends. While everyone acknowledged me as
“different”, it was difficult when they looked at me and they saw
me as Indian and not American. As I soon learned, I was very
“American” on the inside.
College
life was a little different than hostel life. I felt more accepted at
the college. However, I got off to a rocky start when I got lost on
the first day of class. My orientation was in room “Two-Naught-One”.
For the life of me, I didn't get why it was room “Two-not-one”.
Why would the principal go out of his way to say it was room 2 and
not room 1? Had there been a room change? As I searched around the
corridors for a single digit number, all I saw were three digit room
numbers. Only then did it dawn on me that a “not” or a “nacht”
or a”knot” was some kind of secret Indian number. And finally,
thinking not only out of the box but as far from the box as possible,
I just imagined a “knot” kind of looking like a zero. I didn't find out the real meaning until much later: “naught” is
commonly used to represent zero….kind of like how Americans say
“Oh” for zero sometime. Five-Oh-One jeans, for example. Anyway,
the whole “naught”-getting-the-number thing was so frightening
that first day. If I couldn't understand a room number, what else
would I not understand? It scared me because it seemed an omen of
things to come.
I
was majoring in journalism, psychology, and English. I was glad that
the course didn't force me to choose just one subject. I wished
American colleges were like that: letting us pick three majors. The
classrooms were small and consisted of rows of benches and tables.
When the lecturer entered, you had to stand up. When spoken to, you
had to stand up. When the lecturer left, you had to stand up. (Of
course, you have to stand up to leave the classroom anyway).
The
whole lecturer-reverence thing was a little strange to me. There was no
student-teacher collaboration here. You listened and wrote notes.
Teacher knew best. There were internal exams but the only exams that
counted were the final public exams. Needless to say, no one really
studied until exam time rolled around. Also, you were allowed to
“bunk” or skip a certain number of classes a year. I got my fair
share in that first year there. It was most enjoyable and I didn't feel the least bit guilty as I hung out on Brigade Road or MG Road
getting profiteroles from Nilgiri’s or
catching the latest Hollywood movie.
Hanging
out on Brigade Road
I
looked for anything American those first few months. There were
burger places and pizza places and Italian food places but they were
not quite the same as the ones I had been used to back home.
Nilgiri’s had some “American” groceries but they were so
expensive! Once in a while, I’d get some brownies to treat myself.
I remember being so desperate to talk to other Americans that I went
up to some white girls at the bank and started a random conversation
with them. Turns out they were British. Of all the luck! I wanted to
hear the American accent so badly that I had my brother tape-record
commercials off of American radio and send it to me. Even though
everyone spoke in English, it was British English and sometimes I had
no clue what was being said, a la what I call the “naught”
syndrome.
Exams
were difficult for me. I was used to bullshitting my way through
American essay questions and made the mistake of trying to do the
same on the exams in India. Padma Ma’am (Yes, I still remember her
name) gave me a 27 out of 100 on the first psychology exam I took. I
asked her why and she very bluntly told me that I didn't know how
to write an exam in India. She recommended that I should go ask my
friends. I was crestfallen. Here I was thinking I was a bad-ass
American with uber-awesome English skills who had a 3.something GPA,
ranked in the top 10% in high school, and
could-no-way-mess-up-on-an-Indian-exam.
Talk about dropping me a few notches. Immediately humbled, I went
about learning from my classmates who, fortunately for me, were more
than helpful.
As
far as I knew, I was the only American on campus. There was no
international student center or adviser back then so I was pretty
much on my own. Fortunately, my cadre of comrades was friendly and supportive. Most of my classmates were westernized. They were all
pretty savvy to American and British popular culture. Maybe it was
because most of them had grown up in Bangalore (which turns out was
pretty cosmopolitan especially towards the central hub of the MG
Road-Brigade Road area).
One
day in class, I made the mistake of mentioning that I liked Bally
Sagoo (a British musician that remixed Indian songs and was a
favorite amongst us ABCDs in high school) and one of my classmates
sneered in disgust. He couldn't believe I was from America and
liked such rubbish. He personally enjoyed Black Sabbath and, was I
living in a cave? Hello? It was an eye-opening, albeit short,
conversation that soon opened me up to the Indian college band
circuit. I became the Indian equivalent of a groupie, and as a couple
of my friends were in bands, I was soon rocking out at various
college music fests. Looking back, it is ironic that it took me a
trip to India to discover the roots of classic American rock and
metal. It was like the Beatles had gone to India to find
Enlightenment and I had gone to India to find the Beatles (and their
contemporaries). I had heard of these bands before but hearing my
friends belting out these tunes with such passion humbled me and gave
me a new appreciation for American music, the music I had taken for
granted.
A
Whole New World
I
think in general, like my new love for music, I became more
passionate about life. As the months passed, I became closer to some
people rather than others. I also learned of my strengths and
weaknesses. My group of peers was amazingly well-rounded. They were
ambitious, talented, and exemplary in so many ways. They accepted me
and for that alone I was grateful. They taught me a lot and
encouraged me to hone my talents and skills. There was nothing they wouldn't try and they excelled at most of what they did try. I
envied and yet was proud of them at the same time. Looking back, I
think it was they who helped me through, not only the cultural
adjustment, but the fine-tuning of my identity. I know I made
cultural faux-pas galore but they were always rooting for me in the
corner. I don’t know if this all-or-nothing friendship is strictly
Indian but I have to admit that I have never experienced that sense
of unconditional regard before. I could have trusted them with my
life. Perhaps I’m glorifying them because they were the closest
thing to family I had there. All I know is that they “had my back.”
Back
at the hostel, it was trying times for me. Curfew was at 6 pm and
people looked at you all cross-eyed if you were ever late. Also, God
forbid if you were ever seen talking to a boy or riding on the back
of a motorcycle (the usual mode of transport) with a boy who was not
a close relative. The very fact I was an American was bad enough.
Everyone knew I probably had five boyfriends back home, cigs under my
mattress, and a bottle of whiskey closeted away. One professor told
my roommate that I was a bad influence and that if she wanted to stay
in good graces she probably shouldn't hang out with me. I was so
angry I could have gone to his classroom and socked his mustachioed
face in. However, that would have probably made my reputation worse!
It’s
hard fighting stereotypes. It’s like you are guilty and have to
prove yourself innocent. After an older roommate had a talk with me
about seeing me on a motorcycle with a boy, I tried to keep a low
profile. Never mind that they boy was two years younger than me,
about a half a foot shorter than me, and was my friend’s cousin
who was kind enough to give me a ride because I had felt too
light-headed to walk home that day. I wore salwar
kameezes
everyday and hoped that the administrators would see I was a decent
girl and not one of those jean-clad, motorcycle-riding, wild American
girls. I was the outsider here. I was the foreigner. I needed to do
as the Indians did.
Celebrating
Onam
at the Hostel
As
I approached my third year in Bangalore, my identity became more
established. Cultural differences were one thing, another thing I had to grapple with was my religious beliefs. My parents are Catholic but they were very open about me learning about different religions as I was growing up. I was, therefore, very open and accepting of different religions and I did not like being forced to think in a certain way.
In
the hostel-run-by-nuns, I felt I was forced to be Catholic. I was
required to go to church every Sunday and prayer service once a week.
I started disliking being Catholic and I felt my fundamental right
--as afforded by the American constitution: freedom to worship-- was
being jeopardized! I still believed in God but forcing someone to go
to church was not what religion was supposed to do, in my opinion. In
fact, mass in India was so much more an elaborate affair of ritual
and tradition compared to that in the U.S. and it simply didn't do
much for me spiritually.
However,
in India, your religion defines you. I’m not sure why but I think
it is because in India being a Catholic, or any religion for that
matter, defines who you are and where you come from. For someone to
tell you their religion is to tell you their family history and their
roots. It’s as definitive of someone’s past as their family name
is. I didn't understand that because, to me, my religious beliefs
and my past are not the same nor did they completely define me. They
are an aspect of my belief system and my spirituality but I don’t
see it as “tradition.” *My parents would probably disagree with me
on this point.
* I must say these are my own beliefs and opinions and I hope I do not offend. Everyone has the right to believe and worship as they wish and you are welcome to disagree with any part of what I say. For some people, some paths of spirituality work better than others and I do not wish to judge anyone or any group. I am just relating what did not work for me and how I felt at the time.
So, I decided to stop going to the Catholic Church. The warden of our hostel caught wind
that I, and another Catholic girl, were not going to church on
Sundays but to a evangelistic prayer service with my roommate. Pardon
the pun, but all hell broke loose. While I felt more spiritually
connected to God than ever before, I was going against thousands of years of religious tradition and the very foundation of my family’s
heritage. It was not pretty. The warden threatened to call my parents
and kick me out. She told my Sr. Auntie. My Sr. Auntie thought I was
possessed and that I should talk to a priest. It made me angrier that
she wanted me to talk to a priest. Why couldn't she defend her own
faith? In my mind, it just solidified the idea that no one knew why
they were doing what they were doing just that they have been doing
it for so long that changing anything now would be crazy or the work
of the devil. I told mom and dad about it before the warden did and
all they could tell me was that I shouldn't rock the boat so close
to graduation.
I chose to take my parents advice. After months of not attending church, I decided to go back. I wasn't happy about it but, under all the feelings of inauthenticity, I knew my parents were right and I needed to be practical. A few months later I
finished my 3-year degree.
At the end of those three years, even with
all the ups and downs and trying moments, I felt that I had grown so
much. I realized my talents and my skills and I loved learning again.
The lack of resources makes you really appreciate what you do have.
The library at the college, for example, did not let us check out any
academic texts, so we had to “research” and hand-write our notes
directly from the books. Using memorized quotes and page numbers was
the only way to impress the test examiners and, by my third year, I
had that down. I started off with a “second class” and graduated
with a “first class” much to my amazement.
I
was very sad to leave Bangalore. I had mixed feelings about going
back home. I missed America but India was where I found myself. It
was in India that I finally realized who I was: that I was more American than Indian; more spiritual than religious. Home was where I had
to be what other people wanted me to be. I didn't want to
disappoint other people. However, I didn't want to disappoint
myself either. I suddenly felt I had so much potential and that would
be not allowed to flourish if I went back home. I would have to
conform and sacrifice my opinions and ideas and I would not grow.
I
think, even now, not being able to grow is the biggest fear for me. I
feel guilty about that because that is considered selfish by my
family. There are things that my parents want for me because it is
“the right thing to do” but I do not agree with them. However, I
do not want to disagree with them because that would hurt them and
they are my parents. However, the more they pressure me into “the
right thing”, the more unhappy I become. Sometimes I wish I was all
Indian or all American and not both. It would make things so much
easier. My parents’ and my ideals would probably coincide better.
Every once in a while, I wish mom and dad had never come to America.
It would have made raising us easier for them.
Coming
Home.
When
I came back to the U.S I had reverse culture shock. What was cool in
India was not cool here and I even sounded different. My brother even
called me a “FOB-girl”. I didn't want anything but dosas
and rice. American food suddenly seemed so bland. Also, a couple of
weeks after I came back, I had a nasty surprise waiting for me. I
looked forward to applying to various graduate programs but it turned
out that my 3-year Indian degree was relatively worthless according
to U.S universities. I couldn't get into a Master’s program as I
had planned. Essentially, in order to get into grad school, I had to
do another bachelor’s but a worth-so-much-more U.S bachelor’s.
Of course I’m being sarcastic. I was very upset when I found out
the 3-year Indian degree was not equivalent. I even wrote the dean at
a Texas university pleading my case describing the courses I had
taken and how much I had gained more than just an academic education.
All he could say was that it was academic policy not to accept 3-year
degrees.
What
do you do when you come to a wall? You try going over, or under, or
around it, right? Having tried all of that, I decided I just needed
to go through it. I kept my nose to the grindstone. I think anger
kind of fueled my flames. The shame of not being worthy of a Master’s
was almost too much to bear after all I felt I had learned not only
academically but about myself and life! I could spew memorized quotes
to theoretical premises that grad students wrote papers on and could
probably do it with more flair and passion. It just seemed so
ridiculous and wasted. As I fumed at the injustice of it all, I
worked retail for a few months and soon got a full-time job as a
library assistant. Later, I got another better paying job as an
Archives technician. I saved my money, took online classes, and
finally obtained a bachelor. It was ironic that I had earned this
sought-after 4-year bachelor’s in three years time.
My
bachelor’s was in anthropology. The experience in India made me
fascinated by cultural differences. What I learned from India is that
essentially, people are the same. There may be different
circumstances, history, beliefs, and cultural norms but there are a
lot that we have in common. My parents, as well as Aunties and Uncles
in the Indian community, were not sure what I was going to do with
that degree. I don’t think I was very sure but I had learned to go
with the flow. When the time was right, things would happen the way
they needed to.
I
noticed that my personality and social interactions had changed as a
result of my experience in India and the subsequent degree in
Anthropology. I was more confident and motivated. My friends were of
all different backgrounds and cultures. I promoted cultural awareness
in all that I did and I wanted to be involved in everything that was
related.
World
Unity Day event on campus.
I
completed my master’s in cross-cultural studies in a year and half.
I needed to complete an internship in order to earn my degree. My
financial circumstances required that the internship be as close to
where I lived as possible. As luck would have it, my professor put me
in touch with an adviser in the international admissions office and,
as they say, the rest is history! The internship was a perfect fit
for me. I could relate to the students I met with and it was a job
that required analytical and investigative skills as well as cultural
sensitivity. I could empathize the most with the three-year degree
students I met with but I hope I could show them that all hope was
not lost which is what I had felt when I had been in their shoes. I
was soon hired as an International Student Adviser.
A
couple of years after I worked in the international office, I started
to feel like I was stagnating. Perhaps it was because I was still in
my hometown or perhaps it was because I felt like I wasn't getting
the experience I needed to grow. I didn't feel I was very
well-rounded, especially when it came to my career. So, three years
ago (what’s with the three year theme here?) I moved to California.
I still work with international students and I have yet to grow tired
of what I do. Moving to California, certainly not as trying as moving
to India, certainly helped me grow even more because I think I like
culture shock! Prevents me from growing despondent! Texas to
California is essentially going from conservative to liberal in one
fell swoop. Things are different even though this is all America.
Everyone speaks English but cultural norms/beliefs are noticeably
different. I can’t say I will move again but for now, California is
working out well for me. I am currently completing another Master’s
but in counseling this time. After that, then it will be onto the
next thing. As you can tell, moving has always opened up new worlds
for me.
Today
I
don’t think my beliefs have changed too much from when I was in
India to now. I am essentially the same but I have become more
defined. I am less naïve, less arrogant, and less judgmental. Since
I know myself better now, I am confident in my abilities but
realistic when it comes to my limitations. Also, I realize there are
truths that exist beyond culture and that is something I try to
remember whenever I meet someone from another culture or background.
I hope one day everyone can do the same. Fear holds us back too much
and keeps us from growing so that is something we must fight every
day.
I
keep coming back to the question of whether I am more American or
more Indian and I don’t think I will ever know the final answer. I feel differently in different context. I will
probably drive myself crazy trying to figure that out. For right now,
I try to navigate the world as “Lisa” and hope that is a happy
medium between both. I don’t completely feel understood by anyone
not even myself. I’m not sure why I do the things I do. I don’t
know if it related to culture or gender or some personality trait.
All I know is that I am in this world and I have to make the best of
it.
It’s
hard to know what the future holds but what I have learned is to “let
go and let God.” As you can see, I kept my promise to God from that
December night so many years ago and that idea, that He is there, has
worked in my life. I look back and I do not have any regrets. The bad
parts just helped me grow and appreciate the good parts. I think the
thing to remember is that sometimes you have to listen to your
intuition and try not to control the situation so much. If you keep
with the same broken routine, you will be unhappy. Change is hard
especially if you don’t know what that change will bring. However,
if you know you are unhappy, only a change can change that.
About
the Author: Lisa C. James
Lisa
C. James was born and raised in the United States. After completing
high school, she attended a university in India. Her life was changed
forever by that experience and it has been a cultural adventure ever
since. She currently resides in California where she works at a
university assisting new international students. She enjoys her
present and keenly looks forward to the future.
