Punjab is a state in the proud nation of India. It is known as a place of history, as the stronghold of the Sikh religion, and as an area with beautiful farmland and some cities. This is the Punjab that has flowed through the blood of my family for generations. This is the Punjab that flows my own veins, but sadly it is growing more and more dilute. It is losing its effect because my family moved here from Punjab in 1992, and I was not born until 1997; I have only ever been to Punjab once, in 2007.
In 1992, my parents decided to move my family—which then consisted of my parents, obviously, my 10-year-old brother, my 8-year-old brother, and my 4-year-old sister—for really only one reason: opportunity. There were many other times when my family could have moved before 1992. For example, in 1984, there was a wave of religious persecution against Sikhs in India, which resulted in the death of one of my maternal uncles. At the time, he was 27-years-old and living alone in the capital of New Delhi. After that trauma, my family could have left, but my family decided to stay. Then, in 1989, my paternal grandfather had passed away. He was and had been the patriarch of the family for over 40 years; this was the end of an era. Again, my family decided to stay until 1992, which was interesting, because there was nothing of significance that year, which was most likely why my parents decided to come at that time.
Another thing that fascinated me about my parents’ decision to come here was their condition in India. When most people think about immigrant stories, they tend to think about people coming from a small village with not much money, that are trying to “strike it big.” However, my family is actually very well off in India. In fact, when my father’s cousins came to visit, I was shocked to find out that they are billionaires—with a “b”—because they own a chain of hotels across India. Then in a wave succession, I found out that my father’s maternal uncle actually offered my father a business deal in the late 1980s, and my father turned it down since he eventually wanted to move to the United States. Today, that business is doing extremely well. Aside from wealth, my parents were also very well educated; my father had the equivalent of an M.B.A., and my mother—who is shown below—had the equivalent of a Ph.D. in History and was a professor for some time. After I had learned all of this, I began to question their decision to move to the United States, because they were doing well in India. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that they were brave for taking a risk, especially one that had more negative consequences than positive ones. This is actually very emblematic of how my parents instilled a belief of working to our fullest potential into my siblings and me.
My mother. ca. 1992
Once my family got over the initial hurdle of moving to the United States, there were a string of many other problems that came to fruition as well. These problems mainly came from my family’s difficulty in assimilating to American culture and traditions. This is because these two cultures are entirely different.
One of the most persistent problems came from our religion. Sikhism is a religion that is commonly not understood amongst Americans. It is usually thought to be a sect of Hinduism or, mostly, Islam, because the main visual cue of Sikhism is the turban, which is adorned by men. The turban can often lead to the misrepresentation of Sikhs as terrorists. In fact, the first person to die from a hate crime after 9/11, was not a Muslim, but a Sikh man in Arizona who wore a turban. The turban—which my father used to wear as shown in the pictures below—is supposed to be a show of faith to the Sikh religion and as a sign of devotion. However, for my father it was a marker for discrimination, and, due to the negative connotation of the turban, he was not able to get a job when my family moved here. He had to cut off his hair.
My father, before he cut his hair. ca. 1992
At first, this hurt him emotionally, but he understood he was doing this to better the lives of his children. However, only my father had cut his hair and my brothers keep their turbans. A picture of the two them, with their turbans, is also below. This fact did not last very long, because they were teased in high school and eventually had to cut their hair too in order to survive the rest of their lives. Then, interestingly, when I was born my parents decided to keep my hair long and have me wear a turban, even though no one else in the family did so. I was able to do this for some time, until my family moved from Queens to Long Island, when I was seven. At that time, the make up New Hyde Park was considerably white, and they did not understand why I wore a turban. This led to a large amount of teasing, which also can be explained by the fact that the year was 2004 and 9/11 was very much still fresh in the mind of Americans, since the “War on Terror” was going into full swing with the invasion of Iraq. Eventually, after few months of bullying and crying, my parents had enough and cut my hair. Due to this, I don’t feel like a true Sikh, because I cannot be identified with my religion. Even when I came to Brooklyn College, people always assumed I was Hindu, Christian, or Muslim, never Sikh. This was the first time that my connection to Punjab was diluted.
My siblings. My brother Shafi (left), my sister Nydia (middle), and my brother Noni (right). ca. 1992
My second realization, that I was losing my connection to Punjab, came to me when I was about 14-years-old. However, before I discuss it, I must explain the background of the story. When my family had moved to New Hyde Park, my English was extremely poor, because my family only spoke to me in Punjabi at home. My teachers consistently said that my parents should speak English with me at home to ensure I spoke and wrote well. In fact, my English was so bad, the principal of my elementary school once called me retarded, because I “did not understand the difference between under and over,” according to my mother. Eventually, my parents and siblings started only speaking to me in English to help me, but over time this really did hurt me since I stopped speaking any Punjabi. I could still understand the language, but I couldn’t speak it properly. Essentially, I couldn’t form proper sentences. So, when I was 14, and in the temple, an elderly lady had started speaking to me in Punjabi. I could understand what she was saying, but I could not respond coherently since I didn’t know what to say in Punjabi. I had to get my brother to help her, and she just had a somewhat disappointed face that was simultaneously annoyed. This was when I understood that I couldn’t speak Punjabi. This was the only other time that I did not feel like I was a true descendent of Punjab. I realized I was exposed to the culture, but I was not a part of the culture.
In my opinion, the two biggest indicators of any culture are language and religion, but I could no longer apply to these categories under Punjab. I’ve been so disconnected to my culture, that in the last few years I have been trying to reconnect. I have been trying to learn Punjabi and by trying to speak it more often. When it comes to religion, I’ve realized that faith is within and does not come from an external show, like the turban. However, I have been thinking about growing my hair out again and wearing a turban. The one thing I’ve noticed is that the more American I’ve become, the less Punjabi I’ve felt. Now, I just have to find a balance between the two.
