“You consider yourself white, don’t you?” a college dorm mate of mine asked me my sophomore year.

“No," was my reply. "Do you consider yourself Indian?"

That was almost twenty years ago, and I know now what she meant was, “You consider yourself one of us, don’t you?”

And the answer is: I consider myself American.

As a child of Indian immigrants, I’ve spent thirty-seven of my thirty-nine years here, watched my parents become U.S. citizens, and have tried to integrate into mainstream American society.

I consider myself American, even though people tell me at dinner parties how much they love “my” country. I consider myself American, even though my father wears a turban and I would ask him to pick me up a block away from school so the other kids wouldn’t see him. I consider myself American, though strangers still ask me if I speak English.

I thought I would be considered more American if I married what most people thought of as a “real” American -- a white male of northern European descent. For a while, I think I was. But he is adopted and has a slight Asian quality to his eyes. So we both feel without country at times.

And now we have children.

My daughter came out pink, with Asian eyes. When they brought me to her, I did not believe at first that she was mine. In Spain, my son is Spanish. In Greece, my son is Greek. In Egypt, they think he is Egyptian.

What culture will they identify with?

Will they be confused, or empowered?

I hope that they will be culturally sensitive, yet feel more accepted than I was. What I hope for most is that my children will be comfortable in their own skin.

By Meeta Arcuri

Labels: Meeta Arcuri

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