Growing up in a traditional Punjabi household, I was constantly surrounded by color, fragrance, music, and flavor. I was also, at a very young age, acutely aware of how different I looked from the rest of my white American classmates.
There were a handful of colored children in my classes throughout elementary school — but they were different from the white kids in ways that were different from my different. So I couldn’t relate to them.
My “otherness” dissipated when I was at home. When I went to gurdwara (Sikh temple) every Sunday. When I went to visit relatives and attended Punjabi parties.
Growing up as “the other” should have provided my family with a deep-rooted understanding of the minority experience. An understanding that was infused with compassion and empathy for a shared struggle.
Unfortunately, it didn’t. I was brought up with the belief that white people and Punjabi people were the only kinds of people I should really spend time with. South Indians? They were too dark. Black Americans? They would rob you and are poor. Mexicans? They do your landscaping, and sometimes construction. Asians? They rip you off at the market (especially the Koreans) but they do have tasty food (excellent use of spices).
