The Curry Kid

I was almost 8 years old when my family decided to leave the beautiful island of Indonesia. I always wondered what America would be like. As my innocent eyes gazed out the window of our plane, I turned to my older brother and asked him, “So does this mean we’re going to be white now?”. It was hilarious. To my pleasant surprise, my skin remained caramel brown when we landed. *Phew*

It was so strange being in a new country. But it didn’t nearly feel as scary as it must have been for my parents. My mom barely spoke English. She told me she would take public transportation and speak to strangers just so she could practice. I knew we had left a beautiful life behind, but my parents made us feel safe, and together. Everything was a game, they could only afford a 1 bedroom basement apartment and she always made it fun to sleep on the ground. Like we were camping. These moments bring so many tears into my eyes. My parents sacrificed so much.

What struck me the most out of my experience was my first encounter with cultural appropriation, of course being an immigrant kid in New York in the 3rd grade...I had no clue what that was. It was Halloween and I saw a young white girl from another class dressed...like me. By that I mean, she was wearing our clothing, South Asian clothing to be exact. She wore a lehenga which was one of my favourite things to wear. To my surprise, I didn’t quite understand, because it was my first Halloween, and my mother didn’t want me to be the only kid who showed up at school without a costume. She stayed up sewing a princess costume for me that night. I asked that girl what she was dressed as and she said, I’m a princess! I quickly looked down at my dress, everyone stared at me. I had a big poofy dress, very appropriate for the '90s but made with blue fabric from one of our curtains, some lace, and I had my frilly socks and dress shoes on with a plastic tiara. I don’t think I was able to even reply before everyone started laughing at me. I was the only kid with a homemade costume. This was the first of many times I stuck out like a pig in the city. All my clothes were different. I didn’t understand why I was outcasted, and I didn’t understand everyone else’s need to always make me feel different. I just wanted to make new friends. I begged my mom for new clothes because I desperately wanted to fit in. I remember they bought a few items that years later I realized must have been so expensive for them. They worked day and night for us, they started over from having a beautiful life to having nothing. I didn’t understand, I just wanted to fit in.

Eventually, when we settled in Canada, my urge to fit in grew stronger. I was the brown kid with a lunch that repelled everyone, with a hair regimen that is only now accepted as if it has just been discovered. When I’d come to school with my hands covered in beautifully decorated henna (mehndi). People ran away as if I was diseased. Now everyone wants their henna done. It is a tender wound at times because when I see people here getting henna done they never had the luxury of being yelled at in their face, “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT ON YOUR HANDS? WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

Now that I’ve entered the race of adulthood in my 30’s. I can say I am much more comfortable with the things that were once a struggle. I feel like those twist-flavoured ice cream cones, blends of eastern and western culture. I’ve definitely found the balance between it all. I’ve gained the emotional intelligence of being so proud of my heritage and merging it with Candian life. I do always hope to stand out now, I do naturally anyway because of my skin, my looks, and the way I dress. I love it.