Pujari learns how to blend two cultures into her character

Normally, a person has little to no memory from when they were two years old, but moving to a new country is a life-changing event that even a toddler can remember. I remember the distinct smell of cleaning supplies at Logan airport, the way the customs officer peered between me and my passport picture multiple times before finally letting me pass, and staring at billboards trying to decipher the foreign language. Being an immigrant has not only helped me pocket a whirlwind of experiences but also helped me become the person I am today.

I moved to the United States when I was two years old, when my mother married my father, who had already been living here as an American citizen. On the plane ride here, while my mother and my father slept, I stayed awake in my seat with my face pressed against the window. I stared outside wondering why my grandmother and my nine year old sister had been left behind.

I remember stepping off the plane and the automatic doors opening to the arrivals section of the airport, where I was introduced to my seventeen year old step-sister and brother-in-law. I remember not knowing what to say or how to act, but just by offering me a single piece of gum, my step-sister helped me to open up. She continues to be an enormous support in my life, and I suppose that’s why our first interaction meant so much to me. Until I went to school, besides watching television and listening to the news with my dad, the only other way I was comfortable learning English was through my sister.

After a few months of living in America, I started to feel homesick. I missed my grandmother to the point where I was inconsolable. I went from seeing her everyday and having her read me a bedtime story every night to not seeing her at all. I cried for hours straight until finally, to distract me, my father placed me in my car seat and told me he was driving me back to India to see her. However, even then, I was old enough to know that a car could not bring me back to her and I told my dad to turn the car back around.

But there was a light at the end of the tunnel. I was finally going back home after two years, even if it was just for two weeks. I remember walking outside the Kolkata Airport and the dry heat hitting my face along with the surprisingly comforting smell of dirt. I finally felt like I was back where I belonged. And yet, I felt out of place. I couldn’t hold a conversation with my grandmother because my Bengali had become so poor. My sister felt more like a stranger than a sibling. As she spoke, I struggled to not only understand what she was saying but relate to anything she said. Our lives were so different now. I found myself wanting to go back to the comfort of my home in America.

I came back and started my daily routine once again with one slight difference. In middle school, it was like a switch went off. Suddenly, people were looking at me differently. I hadn’t noticed it before and maybe it didn’t even exist until the school required we check off a box saying what race we were but suddenly, along with a handful of other kids, I was labeled as ‘Indian’.

Teachers began to ask me to help fix their computers, because naturally, I am supposed to know everything about technology. My peers would call me “tech support” and then start talking in an offensive Indian accent.

But, I remember the first moment I ever felt truly discriminated against for being from another country. In the sixth grade, a boy had been asking around for an eraser and when I offered him one of mine, he said he didn’t want it, because it was probably a bomb and was going to explode. I remember crying during one of the 9/11 videos we watched during class because I couldn’t help but think that a majority of my peers associated me with people who did these horrific things just because of the color of my skin.

The beginning of my teen years was the first time in my life that I ever questioned whether I was more American or more Indian, even though I had been a citizen for more than nine years. When I visited India, people would tell me that I looked paler than usual and that I needed to work on my Bengali. I didn’t feel at home there anymore. In America, I still get comments on how ‘tan’ I am and how my accent still makes an appearance when I speak too fast, and people jokingly mimic my accent without even realizing the offense I take to it. Here, I felt out of place.

But as I got older, I realized I didn’t have to be just Indian or just American, I could be both. I didn’t have to chose between my two backgrounds and I didn’t have to be a foreigner in both of my home countries.
I’m proud to be a part of a culture that is vibrant and rich. I am proud to celebrate different deities extravagantly throughout the year as a part of my Hindu religion, and I openly admit to eating absurd amounts of Haldiram street food and my mother’s rich Bengali cooking. I am proud to be Indian. Similarly, I am proud to be a part of a country whose people stand up for what they believe is right, a country that has a colorful history which is not forgotten nor ignored, a country that learns from its mistakes and is open to change. I am proud to be American.

I stay true to my roots because they were one of the only things that remained constant during my transition from India and to America, but I appreciate all the lessons I have learned here. Truly, my life experiences here and the culture of my home-country have shaped me into the person I am today: a person who is equally as reserved as she is outspoken. A person who is equally as creative as she is intelligent. A person who is as American as she is Indian.