Context
As a first-generation immigrant college student, I faced many challenges when coming to America. After immigrating to Florida, I had difficulties in acclimating to the western culture while simultaneously, holding on to my traditional Indian values. By referencing Aciman’s, the author of Shadow Cities, work, this piece will further deconstruct my cognitive process and how I came to terms with seeing the beauty in my Indian heritage.
Pride not Prejudice
During my middle school years, I used to be ashamed of my Indian heritage. For reasons beyond my understanding, I did not like traveling to India and adjusting to its “foreign” lifestyle. When I visited my family in Mumbai, I disliked living in small and tight spaces, where the ceiling would often leak, and the moldy smell would infiltrate my nostrils. Due to my schooling in the States, I had become accustomed to perceiving India in a negative light. My young-self believed that the colors of the flag were flashy and obnoxious, and the food was smelly. I never realized that I had become so “westernized” to the point where I was embarrassed of being Indian. When my classmates asked questions like “Why don’t Indian people eat cow meat?” while pointing to their burger; or “Why do Indian women wear the red dot?” while aggressively pointing to the tiny space in between their eyebrows, I became irritated. I was uncertain if my inquisitive classmates were attempting to make me feel uncomfortable about my heritage or if they were genuinely curious to know about the Indian culture. This minor insecurity caused me to feel as if my background was “weird” and “not normal”.
Finding my identity in the States was difficult because I was constantly reminded that I was different. In order to fully immerse myself into my heritage, I needed to keep an open mind and learn about my own culture thankfully, my trips to India definitely allowed me to accept the elegance, grace, and charm my country had to offer. As cliché as it sounds, beauty truly does lie in the eyes of its beholder.
As my family and I made our way towards the pick-up area located outside the airport, I remember seeing his nose scrunched up and his lips shut in a tight line. The disgust on my brother’s face was clearly visible. His eyes seemed weary from the long airplane trip. Though I, too, was tired, I smiled at his reaction to the unpleasant smell of cow manure and petrol. My parents motioned for my brother and me to load our suitcases into the car. As my family and I were loading our suitcases, small children ran up to us and begged us for cash or food. My parents didn’t pay them any attention, not because they didn’t care but because they were used to the sight of homelessness in India. I guess they had become desensitized. I quickly turned my attention to the animals on the road. I saw small dogs and cats walking along the sidewalks. The group of animals seemed to be making their way to the small temple towards the end of the street. As I watched the nomadic animals, I slipped into the backseat of the car. The drive seemed to never end but, I didn’t mind, mainly because that forward movement allowed me to reflect on my perceptions. It was obvious that it had just rained. The humidity stuck to my skin, normally I would have begun to complain about stickiness but this time the moisture felt rejuvenating.
Contrary to the industrialized and artificial scenery in Florida, India seemed to have a more humble approach to the eyes. Small shops that were set up along the street were covered in plastic blue tarps to keep the tiny trinkets from getting ruined. I could see the lights flickering in some of the buildings. The harsh sounds of cars and buses did not stop, even in the late hours of the night. The driver rolled the windows down and I felt intoxicated by the hot air. Each little imperfection deemed absolutely marvelous to me. I couldn’t take my eyes off the motherland. But, why did I initially think these observations were imperfections? Just like any other country, India definitely had its fair share of issues but, why was I so hostile towards my own culture? Why had I not accepted my country for its painful beauty? How can I learn to appreciate my culture?
In Shadow Cities, Andre Aciman faces a similar type of confusion within himself and his identity. In the beginning, Aciman is revolted by Strauss Park and its unkempt nature; he goes into detail about how it’s “wooden benches were dirty, rotting and perennially littered with pigeon droppings.” (Aciman, 37) His tone when describing the gruesome nature of the park evokes a sense of disappointment and dissatisfaction with the park’s aesthetic. My brother and I perceived India through that same lens of disgust because our eyes were so accustomed to seeing the perfect spotless roads in Florida.
For the first time, everything felt natural. I remember passing by one of the many government buildings located in India, I watched as the Indian flag silently waved in the night. For the first time, the colors did not look loud and flashy; in fact, the colors symbolized the fertility, growth, and auspiciousness of the land. All of a sudden, the car came to a stop. My mother had insisted that we visit this small, rundown temple on the side of the road. The history that was instilled in the temple was prominent and I felt it in the air. The paintings of the Gods and Goddesses on the wall still held a sparkle in their eyes, it was as if they were bestowing their presence and acknowledging ours. Each stroke on the walls came to life, they told a story; more specifically they illustrated the history. No photograph could do it justice. Though the tiles were cracked, the marble flooring still looked majestic. The carved designs on the pillars were crumbling but I could still make out the bigger picture, the intricate designs on the ceiling symbolized the various forms of the Gods. Overall, the rustic style of the temple created a peaceful atmosphere. It was obvious that the building was not maintained properly, some of the etched markings had worn off and the once bright colors had become dull but, most importantly, the beauty didn’t fade.
After appreciating the ancient charm of India, Florida began to look colorless and conventional. The concrete jungles and artificial trees in Palm Beach felt out of place and boring. Everything was too perfect, not a single leaf would grow wayward. Florida also seemed to be too futuristic, technology had changed the entire aesthetic of beauty. Maybe that’s why I was drawn to the rustic and colorful lifestyle of South Asia. Similarly, Aciman reveals that he prefers to see the old New York which he describes as “old and defunct” (Aciman, 47) He further implies that his obsession with ancient ruins causes him to feel closer to home. This concept of “home” ties into Aciman’s theme of identity and belonging. In Shadow Cities, it is evident that Aciman provides his readers with a deep reflection of the effect his heritage and birthplace have on his perception of his surroundings.
Though I felt like I was out of touch with a part of me, I never recognized that the only way to dissolve that feeling was to understand the intricate parts of my Indian background. Interestingly, I found myself drifting towards Aciman’s concept of the “oasis” which seems to be defined as a place for the soul to restore one’s spirituality. Surprisingly, for me, India symbolized an oasis. Through India’s eccentric and candid beauty I was able to contemplate and come to the conclusion that I was on a mission to find myself and find the “center of things” (Aciman, 41).
When I first moved to the United States, I didn’t understand or comprehend the feeling of “loss”. I knew that adjusting and adapting to the western culture in the states was something I needed to accomplish. Since I was only two years old, I had no clue that I would be losing the memories of my native country bestowed upon me. This change made me realize that I didn’t feel at home, but I was too young to articulate my thoughts. Fortunately, Aciman provides a simple equation as to how an immigrant views “time, memory, self, love, fear, and beauty” (Aciman, 39). These concepts can all be equated to this depressing notion of the “key of loss”. Though I did feel displaced and outcasted, it should be considered that I evolved into someone who began to dislike the same culture I needed most.
As I grew up in a small, wealthy suburban town in South Florida, my perceptions of my surroundings began to change. I required everything to be in place and organization was my top priority. Everything and anything out of place struck me as ugly and unattractive. However, the highlight of my transformation took place when I recently visited my hometown in India. Now I look forward to visiting India and being surrounded by its unique charm.
It was as if I regained my sense of sight, which I had lost in the States. This newfound sight has given me the ability to be proud of my heritage and embrace my culture with no judgment but, with sincere admiration.
References
Aciman André. False Papers. Picador/Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2001.
Reflection
After writing this piece, I was able to connect with my friends and family about what it means to be an immigrant. Not only did I transform, but I also became more prideful of my roots.