immigrant

Indian, American

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 8 Comments

I’ll tell you when it happened to me

floating unsuspectingly

inside a watery balloon

muffled Tamil filtered through.

 

The world outside awaited me

Mama and chittis, thatha, and patti.

dhal and iddli, curds and rice

scents of spices to entice.

 

My fate was settled it would seem

a child of India I would be

destined to live in families’ arms

plying my first- granddaughter charms.

 

But then, a hairpin turn in fate.

My life in Bharat would have to wait.

A conversation passed between

mother and father still unseen.

 

He left for opportunity

she stayed and waited there for me

then later she would make her way

the crying babe would have no say.

 

Together they would meet him there

and build a life in Delaware.

And now I am the me you see

American minority.

 

So much of who I am today

the things I think and do and say

are born of one small change in course

that had an immeasurable force.

 

Indian I will always be

but American is what makes me, me.

———————————————————————

NaPoWriMo 2013: Day 9

Naturalized.

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 2 Comments

Born in New Delhi, capital city

of the largest democracy

in the world.

Raised in Delaware, first state

to ratify the constitution

of the USA.

Chose to become, U. S citizen

on my 21st birthday.

Relinquished allegiance

Pledged allegiance

Listened to the speaker

U.S. war veteran

telling us all

to speak English only

from now on.

Wondered why

I had chosen

a land of one language

over the land of 100 tongues.

Posed for pictures.

Voted for change.

Watched towers burn.

Mourned with my countrymen

but feared persecution

by the Real Americans.

All the while

lyrics swim in my head

from the dozen fireworks displays

of my youth.

“I am proud to be an American,

where at least I know I am free…

and I’ll gladly stand up, next to you.”

But sometimes I still wonder,

will you stand up next to me?

 

 

Something about Shashi

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There’s something silly about Shashi

Something strange. Something queer.

When she’s here, she wants there.

When she’s there she wants here.

 

There’s something odd about Shashi

Something hard to define.

Shashi’s heart has two homes

She lives life on the line.

 

There’s something sad about Shashi.

Something making her sigh.

She left there to come here.

But she can’t say goodbye.

 

There’s something changed about Shashi.

Something strong, something true

Though her heart says, “Go back there.”

She can’t leave without you.

three worlds

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 2 Comments

World One

homeland, old country, country of origin

the place where mother’s mother lives

the place where things make more sense

the “where you came from” when they say

“go back to where you came from.”

World Two

the adopted homeland, the country of presents and futures

the place where mother’s body lives

the place where things are what they are

where i grew up: Wilmington, Delaware

a place to be somebody

World Three

immigrant’s house, the space in between, home

where mother speaks Tamil and I answer in English

the place where we can rest

from the push and pull

of all the worlds, and all the selves, and all the homes.

 

 

 

Going home

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 2 Comments

Delaware:

The kids sleep in my old bedroom.  I sleep in the guest room.  There are rooms to spare and we spread our things  across the house knowing it will take hours to find them again when it is time to leave. My parents get up in the morning and do the same things they have always done.  Dad’s arms sway up and out and down to the floor.  He stretches to get the blood flowing.  Mom lights the candle on her altar, says a quick prayer under her breath as the kettle sings its insistent song.  “I am ready! I am hot!”  She makes the first of three cups of morning coffee. Each one will be left in an unknown location in the house, two-thirds full, stolen away by the coffee elves.  The kitchen smells of incense, and cumin, and burnt toast.   The floor is cold.  My kids run around, and around, and around from the kitchen, into the hallway, into the dining room, and back into the kitchen.  Outside, I hear leaves rustling, acorns drop, birds twitter.

Delhi:

For the first week I am groggy. Day is night and I cannot keep my eyes open. I have never been good at dealing with changes in sleep.  The air is thick with the smell of dust, and sun, and people.  Vendors sell vegetables and hot chai. They sing their insistent songs, “Hot chai!  Ready! Good price!”  I roll out my mat to sleep on.  The floor is hard, but I soon become accustomed to sleeping this way with my cousins nearby.  I wander the streets during the day, to market and back.  I am absorbed into my uncle’s family.  We catch auto rickshaws to go to see a movie.  The roads are jammed with people and cars and motorbikes and animals. I can hardly hear myself think.

D.C.

The sun pours in through our windows into our living room, amplified by the yellow of our walls.  It is a cozy apartment.  Living room bleeds into dining area into kitchen.  Two tiny bedrooms tucked away at the back of the apartment hold all our things and all our dreams.  High shelves keep cherished books away from tiny hands.  On nice days, we choose which playground to go to.  Our playground? The school playground? The far away playground?  On rainy days, the children roam the hallway in our building, imagining worlds behind doors.  Outside, birds, sirens, hammers, helicopters, and neighbors all shout for attention.  “We are here! See us working!”

Primary Impressions: Age 6-8 or so (Vol 1)

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Swollen feet pinched by tight fancy Rajasthani shoes that point at the toes.  Been on the plane for 8 hours. This nice old man next to me in the turban keeps giving me candies. They are gross.  They taste like flowers or soap.  I am alone, chaperoned by airline hostesses.  Almost home. Excited to show off my outfit to mommy and daddy. Off the plane now. Waiting in long lines.  My feet hurt!

Up to the counter now.  Airline hostess left to go back to work because I am, “pretty much out now.”  Man asks for my passport and green card. I have my passport, but I don’t know anything about a green card.  My face feels hot. My feet hurt.  My stomach is buggy.  A lady comes over in a suit. “Come with me honey.”

Inside an office. Sitting at a seat.  Man behind the desk asks me question:

Him: “What’s the name of your school?”

Me:  “Jennie Smith.”

Him: “Where do you live?”

Me: “1955 Lakeview Drive.”

Him: “Where are your parents?”

Me: “Waiting for me out there!”

Tears form but I squeeze them back. I am a good girl.  The lady who brought me in says, “Are you sure you don’t have a little plastic card with your picture on it?:

“You mean this one in my pocket? But it’s not green. It’s pink.”

I don’t tell my parents what happened. I am too embarrassed.

Exotic (a silly-sad song)

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If you can say my name,

I’ll give you 50 dollars.

And if you spell it right

then you deserve a billion more.

That’s one for every person

in the country that i come from.

No, I don’t know them all,

or your friends in California.

—-

(Chorus)

Oh I’m exotic

I guess there’s no denying

I’m so exotic

sometimes it leaves me crying

Yes, I’m exotic

That’s why I’m always flying home

To bring you presents from the Taj Mahal

—–

I ride an elephant

Yeah, all my cows are holy

And I’ve got monkeys all around me

everywhere I go

And when I leave the house

I always take my cobras with me

It never hurts to be this charming

when you’re on your own

—–

Well I’m exotic

I guess there’s no denying

And my food’s exotic

sometimes it leaves you crying

I am exotic

That’s why I’m always flying home

to bring you peacock feathers for your wall.

——-

Well that red dot I wear

Means I’m feeling homesick

I lost my identity

Can’t tell you why or when or where

I’ve got a feeling

that it happened when I was a baby

On flight 291

from New Delhi to Delaware

Yeah, I grew up in Delaware.

—–

That’s not exotic

I guess there’s no denying

I’m not exotic

Sometimes it leaves me crying.

So un-exotic

That’s why I’m always flying home…

to bring you presents from the Taj Mahal.

Why American Incarnations?

/ Aarati Kasturirangan / 11 Comments

Because I am American. Because in America I can never be just American. Because I am not White, but I have been told by others, “I just think of you as White.”  Because when I am in India, I am American, but when I am in America, they ask me “Where are you from?” and they are not satisfied when I reply, “Delaware.”

Because I have never wanted to live anywhere else, but I have always thought it might be easier to live somewhere else. Because I am married to a  White, atheist, half Jew/ half Christian man. Because my children are part of us both and something else entirely.  Because I don’t know what neighbordhood any of us belong in.

Because I love America and need so very badly for America to change. Because I work hard to love Americans by helping Americans to change their communities, their organizations, their minds, and their hearts.

Because I know I am not alone in my aloneness. Because I am not unique, though there is only one of me.  Because blogging used to be cool, so I have to start doing it now that it’s not.

Welcome to American Incarnations.