Before I knew the color of my skin
One of my most vivid and cherished memories from my childhood is of watching Speed Racer on TV. The charming character, the vibrant colors, and the captivating music drew me in completely, even at the age of three. With a yellow cape blanket tied around my shoulders, I sat diligently on a little red chair in the basement of our New Jersey home, completely absorbed by the excitement of the show. Among other distinctly American memories were the big backyard, swing set and golden retriever next door named Prince. Erica, our babysitter with long red hair who let us run through the sprinklers until dark. My older sister’s top bunk falling on me as I slept. Scribbling on the walls of my room with a sharpie with my younger brother.
I have memories from that time that are deeply connected to my Indian heritage as well. My paternal grandparents visiting from India for the birth of my baby brother. The smells of my mom’s aromatic cooking; the taste of her delicious food. Running around wearing beautiful chaniya choli’s, Indian garments sent over by my relatives. Gatherings with my dad’s friends, all of whom had migrated from India to the US only six years before as part of the “Brain Drain”. The sound of Indian music from Bollywood vinyls or the melodic voices of my mother's friends added to the tantalizing atmosphere of those evenings.
At the time, I was blissfully unaware of the weight of my dual identities - American and Indian; my only struggle was that of a “typical“ child of Indian immigrants. When we moved into our second New Jersey home, it was 1978. I was four, my sister, Sonal, was eight, and my brother, Tej, was two. It was an exciting time for my parents; the house was new construction and my dad could influence the architecture, and it served as a momentous achievement for both he and my mom. They grew up much differently, and now they were embarking on the bona fide American Dream. Here, at the house on 72 Appleby Street, with 4 bedrooms and 2.5 baths, I vaguely began to understand that my world was significantly different from others. It was also in this house on a rainy Saturday afternoon when I was nine that a VHS tape would become a symbol for my future aspirations.
“Priti, I have a Bollywood movie for you to watch. I rented it at the Indian store. It’s called Mahaan” my Dad yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
“What does Mahaan mean?” I asked.
“It means great in Hindi,” he answered, stoically.
Even before the movie started my giddiness had begun, heightened by the satisfying click of the tape being inserted the VHS player.
“Are we all watching it together?” I asked, curious about my siblings and mom. I hadn’t seen them in a few hours.
“No, they don’t want to watch. They went to the Mall. I’ll watch with you,” he said.
I was upset they didn’t ask me to join them until the movie started and I locked eyes with India’s biggest superstar, Amitabh Bachan. The movie did not have subtitles, so I was reliant on my father to translate, and by the second song I was hooked. The lead actress had long, thick black hair and she was wearing a bright red dress with gold dangling earrings. Surrounding her were hundreds of dancers, moving their bodies in unison to the catchy beat, transporting me to the scene. The movie had ignited such exhilaration, that as I climbed into bed that night and I knew I wanted to become a Bollywood actress. I didn’t know Hindi, but I could learn. I didn’t live in Bombay, but I could move.
Becoming a Bollywood actress became my only future vision until a year and several VHS tapes later. My parents assumed I wasn’t being serious and suggested a different, more practical goal. I called it the desi trifecta; study hard to attend an Ivy League school, marry an Indian doctor, and give birth to four boys. I agreed due to social norms, slight insecurities, and practicality. The "trifecta" appeared more attainable and less far-fetched than striving to become a movie star, and a chubby, darker Indian girl from New Jersey could never make it to the big screen.
“Doctors make good money,” my mom reminded me as I was helping her in the kitchen after dinner. “And everyone will be happy. You will make us proud., and you will be the first to get married out of all our friend’s daughters the same age. It’s very hard to become an actress, becoming a doctor is a better idea” she said as she dropped the last plate in the dishwasher.
“The first to get married? Really? What about Dede?” I asked. I called Sonal “Dede”, it meant big sister and traditionally, if you were lucky enough to have a big sister, she got married first.
“In your age group, ” my mom responded. “Unless you meet someone before her. We can work it out then,” she winked.
I stood in the kitchen after my mom walked away. Although I had agreed, suddenly the idea of giving up on my desire felt like a punishment. I sat at the kitchen table unsure of what to do next until curiosity convinced me to broach the subject once again with my father. Maybe he wouldn’t think my idea was imbecilic if I could logically map out achieving both; a move to Bollywood and marriage to an Indian doctor? I crossed my fingers as I approached my father in the den. At ten years old, I didn’t have substantial points to win him over aside from my new found conviction, and the idea my father loved me more than my siblings. There was evidence to support that theory, but I believed in its truth.
“Dad?” I said in my inquisitive voice. He had The New York Times in one hand, folded on his lap as he watched his favorite Sunday night show, 60 Minutes. It was good timing. He loved Andy Rooney, the TV writer who would appear at the end of each hour with a satirical story and deadpan delivery. When he didn’t respond, I sat down on the opposite chair and quietly watched with him. Fifteen minutes later, Andy was done, and my father was still laughing as he picked up the paper once more.
“Dad!” I said once again.
“Yes, yes beta what’s up?” he said. When he threw in beta (Gujarati, our native language word for child) it meant he was in a jovial mood.
"Remember how I wanted to become a Bollywood actress?" I started. “I know I decided on a doctor, but now have a plan. I could start taking Hindi and dance lessons next month. A few friends are part of a group that teaches dance. Maybe someone knows of a Hindi teacher. I think it will take be about two months to perfect both. I have time, eight years maybe, before I move to Bombay and ask someone if I can be in a movie.”
He looked at me, still smiling, and said, “Unless you come from a family already in the business it’s nearly impossible to be cast. Bollywood is like that, Priti. And, also, how will you live in India? During our trip, you didn’t like it very much,” he said.
As usual, he was correct. Our trip to India was two years earlier, and I remembered the constant ache I felt to return home. The first memory I have after landing in Bombay was the assault on all my senses: breathing in the noxious air; seeing the faces of young, homeless children pounding on the windows of our car demanding rupees; the constant honking of those cars and the intense pollution. My parents allowed us to bring our favorite board game which provided some semblance of normalcy between relatives and parties. Every visit with unknown relatives and friends was the same. The shock at how big we seemed, undying adoration for my little brother, and the excitement over gifts from America; Revlon lipsticks and outgrown clothing.
We all fell sick within the first few days, common for most foreigners, but it added to the misery. When my siblings and I finally got into a groove a week later, my parents removed the one thing that got us through the initial days; our beloved American board game, Clue. My dad tried to reason with us as we let out cries of dismay.
“Your cousins have nothing, he yelled. “You don’t know how lucky you are in America!” he continued as he folded the board into a box. “I was going to replace it, but with this attitude, I don’t know!” his voice trailing as he left the room with the game. I vowed never to return to that dreadful country under any circumstance. I had somehow forgotten about the entire experience until he reminded me during our conversation. I sat there still looking at my Dad, as if he could erase that awful memory of my first visit to his motherland.
“Um,” I said, unflinching yet defeated. “I didn’t think about that,” was all I could muster.
No," he said. "You don't think about these things, Priti. You have to pay attention. Remember last week?"
Last week. How did we end up talking about last week at school when I spent the day at Monmouth Battlefield State Park with my classmates. I didn't realize I had left my lunch on our kitchen. Mrs. Lewis, asked the class to ensure we had our brown paper bags.
“Does everyone have their food?” Mrs. Lewis, my fourth grade teachers asked. All the kids in class eagerly yelled yes as I was still searching for my brown paper bag filled with half a cheese hoagie and a juice box.
I panicked as I brushed the bare insides of my backpack. “No.” I yelled. The class silenced.
“Where is your lunch?” Mrs. Lewis asked.
“I think I forgot it at home,” I answered.
“Priti, you would forget your head if it weren’t attached to your body, ” she yelled.
Her voice startled me and I instantly sobbed. The rest of the classroom was lining up at the door to leave and I followed behind. A few kids offered to share their turkey sandwiches, but I was a vegetarian. Mrs. Lewis didn’t attempt to find me lunch that day, leaving me feeling isolated and angry. When my father picked me up from school, Mrs. Lewis angrily informed him that I hadn’t eaten lunch.
“She said she forgot it, Mr. Tanna. She really would forget her head if it weren’t attached to her body,” she repeated.
“She didn’t eat lunch? You should have called us, or found her lunch, ”my Dad said.
I was startled at his questioning of my teacher. I took my father’s hand as we walked to the car. My dad asked if I was hungry, relieving me of the fear that he would be disappointed at my forgetfulness. Apparently he didn't reveal his dismay until our conversation about my future in Bollywood. I left the den defeated. It wasn’t my unsuccessful attempt at convincing him about my dreams that upset me, It was the reminder of the lunch incident convincing me of my apparent lack of intelligence.
Now what? Anger flooded my mind realizing my dad had derailed my loosely thought-out plans in a single conversation. Would it be easier to go with the designated path all Indian parents had for their children? My mother had talked about marriage, education, and starting a family, and I didn’t think they were mutually exclusive. They were grounded in our Indian roots, yet they felt at odds with each other.
The following day I arrived in the kitchen ready for school to find my mother drinking her morning chai at the table. She seemed to be in a solemn mood as I sat down next to her. An English muffin sat before me, freshly toasted with a cold glass of chocolate milk. I had nothing to say because I was still thinking about the night before. I could hear my siblings coming down the stairs and papers rustling as they stuffed them into their backpacks.
“Sometimes we have to do the proper thing,” my mom said as she placed her empty cup in the sink.
“What is the proper thing?” I asked. “I only want to be happy. No one is ever happy in this house,” I continued.
“Priti, get ready for school. Be a good Indian girl now! And don’t forget your lunch,” she sternly added as she walked down the hallway towards the coat closet.
My mother would emphasize the “Indian” in her request only when my father spoke to her about my behavior. Usually, I would roll my eyes and continue with whatever I was doing but that morning I felt the need to challenge her comment.
“Mom, what is a good Indian girl anyway? Is it different from a good American girl?” I asked.
Midway down the hall, she stopped and let out a deep sigh. I immediately felt remorse for challenging her as she turned around and I caught a glimpse of her face. Instead of anger, I saw weariness, sadness, and a hint of pity etched into her expression.
“Priti, when I say that, I am referring to the values of our culture. They are very different from the values of American culture. In our culture, we respect what our parents say and we don’t question it. We know what is good for you. But you seem to think we don’t know and you think a life of dancing around Bollywood is proper. It is not. And when you do challenge it, especially your father, he complains to me. Please,” she concluded as she turned her back to me.
It hadn't occurred to me that pursuing my dreams or even considering an alternative path could stir up such emotions within my mother. Maybe I could consider finding a partner that aligns with her wishes and our Indian values. Was it worth causing her distress? I didn't have to decide right away, but marrying a doctor seemed safer and less contentious, or so one would assume. It was like choosing the calm waters over the choppy waves, not knowing what lurked beneath them.
