The children that struggle to speak in broken tongues, in
their mother tongues because their mothers told them not to. Because when
unknown words come out of your mouth, the other kids make fun of you. Because
when you wear your cultural clothing you get that look. The look
that says “What are you wearing?” mixed with some jealousy, a dash of fear and
curiosity, and sprinkled with disgust.
You speak unknown words and people fear the unknown. They
do not understand and they do not want to understand. So, they push you away
unless you act like them. Do not be loud, rash, or speak your mind. Definitely
don’t be angry. Don’t be angry that your history is not taught in schools.
Don’t be angry that if you lose your language you lose the culture and myths
and everything that goes along with it. Don’t be angry that the history of
violence and conquest has been washed and sanitized the same way hospitals are
kept clean. Because if you wash the blood off your hands, that means you didn’t
kill anyone, right?
Each succeeding generation unconsciously uses and acts on
the phrase adapt or die. Each succeeding generation loses itself, because if
you don’t practice your skills you will lose them. The best way to have people
lose their skills is to not give them a place to practice or the tools to
practice. Adapt or die. Because true Americans speak English without an accent.
As if having an accent makes you stupid. As if crossing an ocean with
nothing but hopes and dreams and a better life for your children makes you a
bad person.
So, you swallow the pain like a bad tasting medicine and
spit back out the immigrant hustle. The endless well of work ethic springs up
because failure is not an option. You left your family, your home behind, to be
alone in a new country that doesn’t really want you. So, you work. You make a
name for yourself and get a big house and lots of money. Only for you to realize
that they look at you like a stranger, in a land that you’ve lived in for over
15 years.
Only for them to ask: “Do you speak Indian?” You inhale
and say there are over 200 languages in India and it’s the most ancient culture
on earth and your question reduces all of that to language that doesn’t exist. They
assume much and know little. But to answer the question, Indian is not
language. You speak a proud and ancient tongue that is from the oldest country
on earth. A tongue filled with poems, myths, and legends. A tongue that is
beautiful and magnificent.
Because there are immigrants that came here with five
dollars in their pocket and a dream. They struggle to speak in different tongues
and when they finally master it, they are judged by their skin, their accent
and clothing. They are not white so they are judged. The pressure to adapt is
internalized. It bakes within you. The colonial ideals sit and fester in the
mind like mold. Then the products come out; the skin-lightening soap, bleach,
flat-iron for the curls, and wax for the legs and face. Adapt or die. Scrub the
brown skin so much that it feels raw. You wish you were white. That idea has
seeped into the minds of the people across generations like a great poison. Cut
out your mother tongue and replace it with cold, confusing English. The words
tumble from your mouth. There is no place outside the home to practice your
language so it evaporates like water in the desert.
You stop speaking in tongues.
You reach into your mouth and rip out your culture
because you don’t want it. You can’t even answer your grandmother when she asks
you “How was your day?” You swish your tongue over blocky sounds and guttural
excuses. Stilted words fall from your mouth as you try to remember a tongue
you’ve forgotten. Until you are crying and screaming for your mother. Your
mother tongue that you destroyed because it wasn’t proper to speak in public.
Because of all the glances and whispers and “this is America speak English”.
Because of the frowns and complaints when you blast Bollywood music and wear
clothing that is bright and colorful and loud. Jewelry that sparkles in the
light and gorgeous sun-kissed skin is the envy of all the white girls. As much
as you want to be like them, they want to be like you.
So, you grab a tall glass of culture and swallow it. It
coats your throat and you ditch the products because you don’t want to be a
colonial Barbie Doll. You want to be you. But being you meant going against all
the people that swallowed the poison of colonization. You exchange Fair
& Lovely for dark skin. Stern voices tell you that you’ll never find a
husband. You answer back that if a man can’t even love the color of your skin
then he can’t love you. The flat-iron goes in the trash because curls adorn
your head like a crown. You taste a familiar tongue. Adapt or die. You realize
that your grandmother didn’t come here to adapt or die. She came here for a better
life. Even though the country she sits in has washed her history clean and
smooth like rocks on the beach. Even though she left her degrees and schooling
and family to work in a factory. She came here for you to blast the Bollywood
music and speak your proud and ancient tongue.
Memories return like leaves in the spring. Fresh and pure
words dribble down your throat and chin. Babbling like baby, bubbles of speech
pop and burst. You re-sow your cut tongue. Painstakingly with needles of
heritage and strings of tradition. You re-learn to swallow the meaning of
family. You chew through customs and history. You devour legends, myths, and
Gods.
You answer your grandmother.