Being a Three Quarter Indian

A man named Yusuf Khan lives in Kabul Afghanistan with his two daughters Fawzia, and Farzana. His wife has just passed away and beyond his devastation he realizes life goes on. In order to heal as well as provide for the only family he has left, he decides to leave Afghanistan. He’s heard that India has many financial opportunities to be had. He sells his plot and with a few belongings heads to Hyderabad, India. There he goes through many hardships being that he barely speaks the language and the culture is so different but he manages. His daughters were young enough that they were able to adapt much quicker, they started going to school and in time eventually started their own families. Fawzia married an Indian man named Rauf.  Rauf learned to write in Farsi Fawzia’s native language. He wrote her poetry upon poetry. They had a marriage equivalent to what fairy tales are made up of. Fawzia and Rauf added five others to their family. Romantics that they were they named their daughters with names starting with the letter F. Fawzia also like her mother, had two daughters Fareeda, and Farah.  One daughter she resides in Chicago with, the other lives in Queens NY with her Indian husband. Fareeda is my mother and she named me Faria (also beginning with an F), so the legacy of my grandmother and my Afghan roots are forever with me. This has become a tradition in our family. Ever since I was young if I came across a name that started with F that I liked I have made a mental note to myself. I hold this tradition close to my heart. It accounts for my diversity and that means so much to me. I tell people I’m ¾ Indian and ¼ Afghan since my mother was half Indian on the account of her father.  People have a hard time placing where I’ am from just by looking at me. I’ve been pegged to have features from all around the world. I find this most amusing and cherish it like it is something so extraordinary that I have. 

            I haven’t always felt this way. I remember I was just 5 years old when I came to this country. I was skipped to first grade since my birthday was in September and I aced the test they give to Kindergarteners.   I was promoted straight to first grade. I sat in my class knowing no more than a few words of English. I was put in a regular education classroom. The plan was to immerse me in English and dually have a pull out teacher work with me until I didn’t need his services. It worked I was pulled only for one year. In second grade I was not fluent in English needless to say I still struggled with English, but I was better off and Mr. Mooney needed to focus on other children that needed him more. I grew up in a diverse neighborhood. My school had plenty of ELL students. Asians and Latinos were the majority in my school. You might think then that my earliest memories did not include racial slurs, instead had acceptance of cultural diversity and celebration of differences.  This was not the case. I was made fun of for the clothes my mother sent me in to school. We didn’t have uniforms and on some days my mother would dress me in two pig tales and typical Indian cultural clothing. I wore them maybe once or twice and begged my mother to never wear them again. This was because I was made cruelly made fun of and I was embarrassed to say the least. I remember being proud to be Indian, and losing that feeling with every rude comment and bullying encounter. My cultural pride slipped through me like sand through fingers. At home my parents still watched Indian movies with me, cooked the food, and I still spoke the language but all of these aspects of my culture became part of my private life and I rarely let anyone know this side, too afraid of humiliation.

            One year my teacher for some reason that I can’t remember now let the students choose which name they wanted to be called for that day. I decided I wanted to be called Jessica. It happened to be the name of one of the twins from Sweet Valley High my favorite book series, but also happened to be the name of the prettiest girl in my class. During gym that day I was playing basketball and my name was Jessica. I rejoiced when anyone screamed my new name down the court. I saved that name tag for so long. Now when I contemplate this day, I am saddened to my core. (to be continued..)