“We’re going to America!” my Papa exclaimed as he swerved the car to an abrupt stop, sending a cloud of desert sand into the sky. I didn’t realize it then, but that moment would turn out to be the single biggest thing to ever happen to me and my family. My sister and I sat grudgingly in front of the large wooden sign that read Indian School Al-Seeb, and refused take part in his excitement. My anger subsided within a matter of minutes after seeing the trunk filled with giant bags of chips, chocolates, juices and all my favorite sugar filled junk. Anticipating our displeasure at his repetitive lateness, he had made a pit stop at City Centre, the grand mall in Oman where we had spent so many weekends shopping in. The day proceeded with celebrations and gatherings as my mummy returned from her shift at Sultan Qaboos University Hospital. Caught up in the festivities and thrill of the moment, I failed to realize that I was about to experience the single biggest thing that would ever happen in my life- coming to America.
My family in Muscat, 1999
Three weeks later, all our goodbyes had been said and our apartment, which we so painstakingly cleaned before moving in, was slowly stripped of all our memories and labor. The couch that my papa and I sat on as we watched the 2002 World Cup was now sitting in a storage room to be given to another family. Our two doves, Silvy and Lovely, were given to the Goan couple on the floor across from us. The brand new basketball that I plead so much for, was given to Jobin from the building below us. Although a lot of things were changing around me, it didn’t feel like anything new was going to happen. I was born in Muscat. I was raised in Muscat. I went to school in Muscat. I knew every single candy and balloon vendor on Al- Hail. I knew I would never run out of film for my bulky antiquated camera, because the Kodak owner near the Shell gas station would always give me more. Who was I going to know in America? What kids would we stay up past 9 pm playing cops and robber with? I didn’t think of all these things at the moment. I was just ready to get on that big plane and make my way to the USA.
One of the few things I knew about Americans was that white kids love cheese. “There’s a lot of cheese in America, right mummy? I’ll start eating cheese too.” Whatever preconceived notion I had of the States, I got from Indian/Arab commercials and TV shows. Wanting to get a head start on being as “American” as I could, I dragged my parents to City Centre in search of the yellow cheese slices, just like I had seen the kids on the commercials eat. I remember taking a few nibbles from the corner of one square and fighting to keep back my sour expression. I hated it. How could American kids eat this? I’ll never like it there, I thought to myself. Only six years old at the time, I started wearing more jeans and shirts like I knew the American kids did. My sister and I protested about wearing the long droopy dresses and skirts that Omani children wore, and decided to go for a more “western look”. My biggest complaint however, was regarding my short boyish haircut. The typical arid weather of the region usually meant that most little girls in Muscat had typical short bobs and styles. I dreaded entering into America looking like a boy. “I’ll just came back home if I don’t like it there”: that thought kept replaying in my head.
My sister and I in our apartment, 2000
As our list of childish demands grew, so did the worries of our hardworking parents. Little did we know of the long hours they worked and their scramble to save up every little penny they could so that we can have a decent life in America. While awaiting the travel paperwork to be completed in Mumbai, we had settled in India with our grandparents for two months. It was always nice spending some time with my ammachi and appacha. My appacha was a man of short stature, but it was hard to miss his protruding belly and toothless smile. As the roosters awoke us early in the morning, he would beckon me over to the patio and make me sit right next to him as we drank our chai. My grandparents never missed an opportunity to tell me about the struggles they had to face growing up. It was from these summers in India that I got to realize where my family came from and developed an early sense of identity.
Both of my parents’ families had grown up with economic troubles, and worked hard to create opportunities for themselves. They, along with my aunts and uncles, earned careers in the business and medical fields and settled all over Dubai and India. My mother had left for Muscat when she was just 22. She worked in Sultan Qaboos Hospital, named after the royal King Qaboos bin Said al Said, before marrying my dad who was working in an accounting firm. Like most South Indians at the time, my parents had an arranged marriage and started their life together in Muscat. Trips to Kerala took place often, and I was brought up well immersed in traditional Malayalee culture. Although our lives as Indians in an Arab nation were comfortable, my parents knew the future would be bleak and opportunities were limited. Arabs were given the ability to be part of the educational system, while foreigners were denied the political and economical rights they deserved even though the nation was built on the backs of Indian and Asian immigrants. Thus, my mom took her nursing examinations and was given a chance to settle in any country she chose to. At the time, America was the land of the free, the economic and political capital of the world. It represented many things to people all over the world, but to me it was the nation run by that man with the funny sounding name, and the place where Bin Laden bombed two towers and almost killed my uncle. I had indifferent feelings about America, but I wasn’t in any place to argue about our move. My two months in India flew by in the blink of an eye and before I knew it, we were in New York.
My mom and dad in Sultan Qaboos Hospital (Sultan Qaboos pictured top right), 2001
March 1st, 2005 was the day we landed in JFK airport. I strutted down the aisles, flaunting my brown kaki pants, the first time I’ve ever worn anything but skirts or dresses. “Pants are for boys”, my mummy used to tell us all the time in Muscat. “So if pants are for boys, why am I wearing them now?”, I remembering asking. She simply responded “things are different here”. And so they would be.
Seeing snow for the first time was so foreign and strange, but somehow so inviting. The white blankets enveloped me, and I was living out my Cinderella fairytale. Not even a week into our arrival, my seven-year old imagination had flung into full spring as I envisioned my entire American future right in front of me. I would be a world famous singer, and all my friends back in Muscat would come to see me in America. These thoughts and dreams quickly vanished as the reality of our immigration set in. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Floral Park, and I attended PS 191Q elementary school. The struggle of not speaking fluent English would haunt my school life, as I faced daily anxiety and fear of speaking in class. One of the most daunting challenges however was the use of a computer, which was completely foreign to me as Arabic schooling didn’t involve technology whatsoever. Furthermore, my “fobby” style of dressing set me apart even more from those around me. To make matters worse, I had the shortest hair, even shorter than some of the boys. All of my visibly obvious differences led to the beginnings of my identity formation.
Hindi class at Indian School Al-Seeb, 2003
Being an immigrant meant that I was more aware of my family history and background than other children. I knew from an early age that I was not the same as kids around me, and that I came from a different country. I knew that I was Indian. I was brown. I had an accent and I just wasn’t white. My Indian background influenced my mannerisms, the way I spoke, the way I acted, and my overall demeanor as a child. I was very reserved and reclusive, afraid to talk to people and form friendships. My sense of culture and identity became a big part of how I viewed myself. My perception of “not belonging” to American culture would lead me to defend my identity even more. In high school, I developed an even stronger connection to my ethnicity, as the majority of my Long Island school was Asian as well. My outlook on life during my high school years was greatly determined from my Indian background. Being Indian meant not being able to fully devote myself to the beloved American pastimes and cultural norms. One of the biggest American familial events is the Super Bowl, which I never really had a strong connection to because of its insignificance in my culture. Like this, I often felt I had to pick and choose between both cultures. I had a hard time choosing between the American ideals that had slowly ingrained into me, and my Indian values that were a part of me since the beginning. Maneuvering my way through two cultures was a difficult task for me, and remains to be even today.
My ethnicity was of greatest influence to me in my academic life, as I was put more pressure on to study and becoming successful, so I wouldn’t have to struggle like my parents did. Being the products of an immigration experience, my sister and I worked our hardest to make our parents and ourselves proud. She went on to pursues her Physician Assistant career and I too worked hard to make something of myself. I was able to stay focused and determined because I saw first hand, my family’s struggle. Growing up, I had heard stories of how my grandparents went hungry for weeks, just so they could feed their 5 children. I knew how my mummy would walk one hour to and from her high school, and still managed to be number one rank in her grade. I remember waking up and hearing my mother’s prayers and sobs, as she worked nonstop so we could lead a decent life. I remember the sound of my papa’s footsteps as he walked in the house at 2 am, after a long day of work. Hard work was in our blood, and that would carry with me even as I started my new life in America.
The blessings we have received from our immigration to America are not solely because of our abilities or talents, but we attribute much of our life experiences to the will of God. Coming from traditional South Indian Malayalee background, Protestant Christian beliefs are a big part of our household. The mantra of our lives has been “If it is the will of God, it will happen.” Even now, as we have built our life in America with our own white picket fenced- house, I still hold a very strong connection with my immigrant past. My roots, and my family’s roots are what make me who I am. America is a vessel- an extraordinary one that enables me to pursue my dreams and molds me into the blend of Indian and Western values that I am today. If it wasn’t for my immigration to the United States, I know full well that I would not be as capable or confident in my goals and life outlook as I am today. I would’ve never been able to hone my passion for medicine and global issues with the same level of opportunity that I’ve had in America. While I hold my Indian traditions and values very close to my heart and consider it a defining factor in the person I am today, I place equal importance to the American values I have formed throughout the past decade of living here. As today marks the 11th year of us being in America, I’m grateful for an immigration journey that has not suppressed my seven-year old spark and curiosity, but one that has only added fuel to it.
