My Parents' Daughter

I was born in the latter half of the 1970's in the heart of the Texas Medical Center. My mom had then been in the States for about 5 years, and my dad had been here two years. I'm sure the New World bewildered them. They've told me stories of how hard it was. They always wish that my brother and I will never go through such difficulty or struggle. I look back and try to imagine how it was for them and I can't. They were brave to leave their homes and start all over again. I think in a way I'm following in their footsteps even though I would have abhorred the thought a few years ago. I'm their daughter indeed.

School: The Pits

I did kindergarten and first grade at Play Palace. I did second grade through 8th grade at a private Catholic school in a suburb of Houston. When I first got there, people didn't like me. They thought I was weird and I thought they were too. THey had known each other since kindergarten but I hadn't. I did pretty bad those couple of years. It wasn't until 4th grade that a teacher noticed my creativity. I guess lying about my aunt beating me just so I could get attention was pretty creative. I played on the American taboo of anyone but your parents spanking you as taboo. I think Mrs. Brelsford saw through that. She saw the kid that needed attention. She actually liked me. She took interest in me. She didn't label me as "average" like the other teachers. Her positivity changed my life and encouraged me. The authoritarian discipline at home was balanced by her laizzes faire one. She let me be me. I never thought I was gifted and talented. She thought I was. She changed my life and made me love writing and learning.
High school sucked. Period. It was like all the cool kids in high school were Bananas. And I, alas, was a fucking orange. Yea, I love the puns: it was the pits, I was pitiful, etc etc. I truly hated myself. I was depressed. I feel like I didn't belong. I became semi-anorexic but I was still fat. Throwing bologna sandwiches away doesn't help much. In fact, when mom found all the bologna sandwiches half rotting under the drawer in my bedroom, that didn't help at all. She got on me for wasting food. She didn't know that I was not eating. She just thought I didn't like it. It turns out that little episode left me anemic. I always felt faint and tired. I just wanted to die most of the time.
I was a total dork. I remember I refused to answer a question in class even though I would lose points if I didn't. I was in honors English. I would get a B if I didn't participate. I didn't answer just to spite the teacher. She wrote some retarded comment on my paper. I guess at the time I really didn't take well to criticism, constructive though it may be. And I hated the people in my class. Someone in my class was like, when they were all patiently waiting for me to say something so they could leave early, "just say something!". "Fuck you" I thought and shook my head. I can be extraordinarily stubborn. I still graduated top 10% in my class and went to UH main campus like everyone else.

Learning my ABCDs (American Born Confused Desi)

I hated school. I mean, I liked learning and stuff and was a good student but the social and cultural aspects baffled me. For the longest time I thought that all people in the world ate rice with their hands and had chai for breakfast. I would beg dad to give me chai in my lunchbox for lunch because it looked like chocolate milk: all the cool kids in kindergarten drank that. I loved pouring it out of my transformers thermos and all the kids, sans chocolate milk ,envying me.For the longest time, I thought Bob Allen, the sports reporter on Channel 13, went home after work, wore a "munda" (a sarong type clothing) like my dad, ate rice with his hands and talked to his daughter in Malayalam just like my dad. I wanted to be a reporter on Eyewitness News just like Bob Allen. But I wanted to deliver my sign-off line flamboyantly like white-haired, blue-tint glassed Marvin Zindler. You Houston people know who I'm talking about. I used to climb to the top of the burgler bars ('cause we live in that-kind-of-a-neighborhood and still do) and shout "[Karmic Journey], EyeWitness News!" I would then leap onto the sofa! I did this several times during the 6 o'clock news until, one day, I got a nosebleed. And then mom made me stop.
When I was 6, one of my Uncles was moving to Chicago and he was on the phone with his friend. They were talking in a language that was not English or Malayalam. I asked my Dad, "Is Uncle talking in Chicagoian? Is that how they talk there?" My Dad thought that was hilarious and told my mom and my uncle. They looked like a bunch of loons laughing. My dad, after he stopped laughing, said, "No, molay (term of endearment in Malayalam), that is Hindi. They speak English in Chicago"I still didn't get why Uncle didn't just talk to his friend in English then.