“Thank you,” America
by Raikha Patel
Hey America, thank you SO much. Thank you for taking the time to pass laws to allow my family into the country (e.g. Luce-Celler Act of 1964). Of course, under a quota system, it’s not possible to allow more than 100 Indian immigrants, that would be absolute insanity. Thank you for giving my Dadima, Dadaji, and all my other relatives a home. There isn’t any sarcasm there, truly. If it wasn’t for your “American Dream,” my family on both sides would either be farmers in Gujarat or still living in the small, barren, town of Oswego, New York. To be honest, I should be providing the utmost thanks to whoever legalized intermarriage between different races. My family and I wouldn't exist without those laws. Blood is thicker than water, but there are circumstances when my ancestral blood is tenuous. My arteries fill with pulsating clots of the traditions, memories, and time I lose. I don’t know the language of my ancestors on my Dad’s side, Gujarati, but I’ve never passed as a white woman like my mom. It’s something that could’ve made my life feel easier. Even if I “passed,” my name isn’t an incredibly subtle reminder. There are good-sides to being mixed, but it can lead to bad-sides for communities of color. For example, colorism affects the Indian community, in which I benefit from being light-skinned and “complimented” for some of my non-Indian features at the expense of the entire Indian community. This makes being “mixed” a polarizing experience, one I’m proud of that simultaneously stabs me with shame every time I discuss my race, as though I’m flawed for possessing space and sharing my story. Am I a typical minority capitalizing off of their experiences to gain an advantage in the world? I don’t care whether I am or not. That question is a terrible excuse to avoid listening to someone’s experiences, as that reason completely ignores the individual and collective challenges that minorities face. I feel lonely enough not knowing about my cultural heritage, because in the ebb and flow of existence, my self-portrait is missing valuable patterns and colors.
In the end, I could choose to live as a white-American. I could spend my days accompanied with the knowledge that I fit inside narrowly defined and type-cast perceptions of what it means to be American. However, I simply won’t. I love dawning swishing sarees, jubilant jewelry, luxurious lehengas, cheerful cholis, and dancing in the greatest garbas. I love our delicious food: dhokla, dahl, purees, and abundantly more. I could conceal my cultural heritage, I could fight it, but I choose to love being Gujarati everyday. I love my grandparents. I love what they gifted me, I love the heritage they gave to my father, my brother, and even my mother, because culture isn’t confined to race. I love witnessing my collective family smile when they watch me embrace them, for who they are, as everything I am.
Judges' Comments
This is a compelling commentary on how it feels to be part of a minoritized group--both the struggles and the joys--and I very much appreciated how this writer points out that culture and race are not the same thing. - A.K.
The essay draws the reader into a deeply personal reflection on living with a “mixed” identity and all its polarizations. Its resolution not only recovers the ”valuable patterns and colors” found missing in the author’s own “self-portrait,” but also celebrates the enriching and healing powers of culture. - N.M.
This was such a moving piece with powerful ideas and reflections. I applaud this young writer for how beautifully they express their evolving and complicated feelings about race and identity, and as a mixed race Asian America, I can deeply relate, and was really moved by their discussion (and inspired by their uplifting conclusion!). I do think that the “thank you America” format could be developed a bit more. I think this was an excellent frame (and great use of sarcasm!) but I’d have loved to see it brought into the conclusion to give the piece tiny bit more cohesion. That said, this was a powerful and moving reflection! - S.T.
by Raikha Patel
Hey America, thank you SO much. Thank you for taking the time to pass laws to allow my family into the country (e.g. Luce-Celler Act of 1964). Of course, under a quota system, it’s not possible to allow more than 100 Indian immigrants, that would be absolute insanity. Thank you for giving my Dadima, Dadaji, and all my other relatives a home. There isn’t any sarcasm there, truly. If it wasn’t for your “American Dream,” my family on both sides would either be farmers in Gujarat or still living in the small, barren, town of Oswego, New York. To be honest, I should be providing the utmost thanks to whoever legalized intermarriage between different races. My family and I wouldn't exist without those laws. Blood is thicker than water, but there are circumstances when my ancestral blood is tenuous. My arteries fill with pulsating clots of the traditions, memories, and time I lose. I don’t know the language of my ancestors on my Dad’s side, Gujarati, but I’ve never passed as a white woman like my mom. It’s something that could’ve made my life feel easier. Even if I “passed,” my name isn’t an incredibly subtle reminder. There are good-sides to being mixed, but it can lead to bad-sides for communities of color. For example, colorism affects the Indian community, in which I benefit from being light-skinned and “complimented” for some of my non-Indian features at the expense of the entire Indian community. This makes being “mixed” a polarizing experience, one I’m proud of that simultaneously stabs me with shame every time I discuss my race, as though I’m flawed for possessing space and sharing my story. Am I a typical minority capitalizing off of their experiences to gain an advantage in the world? I don’t care whether I am or not. That question is a terrible excuse to avoid listening to someone’s experiences, as that reason completely ignores the individual and collective challenges that minorities face. I feel lonely enough not knowing about my cultural heritage, because in the ebb and flow of existence, my self-portrait is missing valuable patterns and colors.
In the end, I could choose to live as a white-American. I could spend my days accompanied with the knowledge that I fit inside narrowly defined and type-cast perceptions of what it means to be American. However, I simply won’t. I love dawning swishing sarees, jubilant jewelry, luxurious lehengas, cheerful cholis, and dancing in the greatest garbas. I love our delicious food: dhokla, dahl, purees, and abundantly more. I could conceal my cultural heritage, I could fight it, but I choose to love being Gujarati everyday. I love my grandparents. I love what they gifted me, I love the heritage they gave to my father, my brother, and even my mother, because culture isn’t confined to race. I love witnessing my collective family smile when they watch me embrace them, for who they are, as everything I am.
Judges' Comments
This is a compelling commentary on how it feels to be part of a minoritized group--both the struggles and the joys--and I very much appreciated how this writer points out that culture and race are not the same thing. - A.K.
The essay draws the reader into a deeply personal reflection on living with a “mixed” identity and all its polarizations. Its resolution not only recovers the ”valuable patterns and colors” found missing in the author’s own “self-portrait,” but also celebrates the enriching and healing powers of culture. - N.M.
This was such a moving piece with powerful ideas and reflections. I applaud this young writer for how beautifully they express their evolving and complicated feelings about race and identity, and as a mixed race Asian America, I can deeply relate, and was really moved by their discussion (and inspired by their uplifting conclusion!). I do think that the “thank you America” format could be developed a bit more. I think this was an excellent frame (and great use of sarcasm!) but I’d have loved to see it brought into the conclusion to give the piece tiny bit more cohesion. That said, this was a powerful and moving reflection! - S.T.