Revised published piece: http://www.broadsatyale.com/dark-lovely-pan-asian-solidarity-in-a-colorist-world/
It’s 6:45 am, sounds of crying children and jingling bangles ring throughout the house. The living room downstairs is staffed with two professional hairstylists, crafting elegant puffed buns and handling steaming irons while my little cousin yells “I want more curls! More curls!” This isn’t a memory. This is what is actually happening right now as I write these words.
Only a few moments ago did it hit me that my family is chaotically getting ready for a fake wedding. Today is Tulsi Vivah, otherwise known as the marriage of Goddess Tulsi or- “the Holy Basil.” That’s right. A plant. After scoffing about this fiasco to my whitewashed self, I was struck by another epiphany- one that may be obvious to you all: I am not white.
I ask myself: Why is getting ready for a Hindu celebration so ridiculous compared to getting ready for a Christmas party? I am compelled to answer that it is simply more normal to dress up for the birth of Jesus Christ- in this country at least. It has taken me 19 years too long to discern the impact that growing up in a predominantly white suburb has had on every aspect of my life.
Two messy French braids fashioned from thin blonde hair crawl perfectly down the sides of my white friend’s heart-shaped face. Meanwhile, my desi friend covetously complains about the “devil horns” that would peak out from the sides of her forehead if she ever tried to craft those braids with the frizzy thick hair that we South Asian women feel so burdened with. If only someone had told us that we grew up idolizing the only standards of beauty we saw around us. That our beautiful dark locks massaged with coconut oil, interlaced into a thick braid falling down our backs were just as lovely.
I am stricken with the ever-so frequent memory of checking my race before a test. Eight-year-old me frets over two options: Asian or American Indian. I check the latter, learning years later that the term was referring to indigenous American people and that test-makers hadn’t bothered to update a term that derives from Columbus's mistake that he had ”discovered” India. I checked that box, though, because I in the moment, I identified with it more. If I checked Asian, surely they wouldn’t think of someone who looks like me.
I still remember a moment in grade school when I made some sort of relatable Asian joke- you know, the kind about good grades and stuff. A delightful little peer of mine looked at me rather perplexed after I referred to myself as Asian. “Aren’t you Indian?”
“Where do you think India is?” I retorted.
“I mean, yeah, but that’s different.”
As wrong as he was, he was right. It does feel different. There has always been an intangible barrier I’ve experienced around my East Asian friends. A feeling of intrusion- of something that condemns me for “trying to be like them” when all I am doing is trying to fit under the same little five-letter label that 4.5 billion people share. This feeling carries over to my studies- particularly Korean. I have always had an affinity for languages, and choosing Korean was not out of love for K-dramas or idol groups (though if people do like those things, it shouldn’t be any less justifiable). However, there remains a feeling that it is more valid for my fellow East Asian peers to be learning this language than it is for me to be learning it. I lived in Seoul for three months this past summer, always disguised- actively avoiding being perceived as a “koreaboo.”
I do not know what exactly perpetuates this distinction between Asian and South Asian, but it is hard to miss the fact that we are simply darker. Society has a dichotomous view of skin color: people who have it and people who don’t. However, this division finds its way into spaces even under the POC category. Every South Asian woman recognizes the brand Fair and Lovely, which we would use to whiten our skin, or Nair, which we lathered ourselves in to get rid of leg hair that would grow back the next day. These are sentiments that our Asian counterparts to the east didn’t necessarily share- or at least shared in a different way (euro-centric beauty standards can be found everywhere).
As I rediscover this part of my identity, I see it being modified and stripped of its cultural richness in order to better adapt to mainstream whiteness. Elephant pants that find their way into Urban Outfitters cannot compare to the dazzling saris I see in front of me. Stick-on henna tattoos in the shape of daisies are bland in contrast with the intricate mendhi detailing the fingers that type these words. The term yoga is prevalent in self-care pamphlets and Lulu Lemons. The culture I never saw growing up is finally finding its way into spaces around me, though it’s rather distorted. And here I am, still left in a state of confusion, still not knowing which box to check.
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