Dosas and Donuts: 2015

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.

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