Growing up as the child of Indian immigrants in predominantly white suburban Connecticut, my childhood was marked by a stark awareness of my difference. In elementary school, I was often the only person of color, a reality that brought with it a constant barrage of race-based microaggressions and outright bullying. It felt as though my very Indian identity was a source of shame and ridicule in the eyes of my white peers. Simple things, like my name, became a point of mockery, twisted and butchered by both children and even teachers who seemed to find humor in my otherness. My home, filled with statues of Hindu deities and the unfamiliar aromas of Indian cooking, was “weird.” I was an anomaly, an “Indian kid” whose presence in their homes was noteworthy enough for some of my friends’ mothers to comment on. In retrospect, these experiences, these subtle and not-so-subtle questions of “why are you different?”, or implicitly, “why are you not white?”, began to shape my understanding of myself and the world around me.
My mother, in her own way, tried to bridge this gap, always pointing out other Indian children in public spaces, urging me to connect with them. “Look! Another Indian girl! Go say hello, maybe you’ll make friends?” she would say. As a child, I was perplexed. Why would I automatically have something in common with a stranger simply because of our shared ethnicity? “Just because she’s Indian doesn’t mean we have anything in common!” I would retort, failing to grasp the deeper, unspoken understanding she was trying to foster.
By middle school, the relentless pressure to conform had taken its toll. Years of being singled out for being different had taught me a harsh lesson: to survive socially, I needed to distance myself from anything that marked me as “Indian.” Assimilation became my strategy. I consciously chose to present myself as culturally “white” as possible. My musical tastes shifted to bands like Phish and R.E.M., my wardrobe embraced tie-dye and Birkenstocks. I even went so far as to tell my peers that I disliked Indian food and that my family celebrated Christmas “just like everyone else.” I actively avoided the Indian community my parents were tentatively involved in, consciously looking away when I encountered other Indian kids in public. This was my attempt to answer the unspoken, ever-present question of “why are you different?” by trying to erase the difference altogether, by trying to be “white enough.”
Crafting a “White” Identity: Seeking Social Safety and Escaping “Why Are You Different?”
Adolescence became an exercise in constructing social armor, built from Grateful Dead and R.E.M. CDs, friendships with white kids in flannel shirts, and relationships with white boyfriends sporting long hair. By the time I reached college, I felt a world away from the child who had been ridiculed for her otherness, and I desperately wanted to keep it that way. Seeing posters for Desi student groups on campus, I felt no connection, no desire to participate. I continued to distance myself from my ethnicity, from everything my parents represented, believing this was the key to avoiding the overt race-based bullying of my childhood. In a way, I was still trying to answer the question, “why are you not white?”, by becoming as close to “white” as I could manage in my outward presentation and behavior.
Of course, the insidious nature of racism meant that even in my assimilated state, it was inescapable. While the overt bullying subsided, microaggressions became a constant undercurrent in my daily life. The ticket taker at the movie theater, the host at the diner – they nearly always assumed I wasn’t “with” my group of white friends. These subtle assumptions, these constant reminders of my “not-whiteness,” were a persistent echo of the childhood question, “why are you different?”.
More deeply, the years of racial bullying had left an indelible mark, etching themselves into my autonomic nervous system. I recall watching The Simpsons with college friends, a wave of discomfort washing over me as the room erupted in laughter at Apu’s catchphrase, “Thank you; come again!” Surrounded by friends, I felt a sense of dread, a nagging unease I couldn’t fully articulate, yet knew was linked to my cumulative experiences of growing up brown in a white world. It was a visceral reminder of my otherness, a subtle reinforcement of the unspoken question, “why are you not white?”, and the implicit message that true belonging required suppressing my reaction, swallowing my discomfort. Calling out the racism inherent in Apu’s character, in that moment, felt impossible.
For a time, pushing down this discomfort, this constant low hum of “not-whiteness,” seemed to work. I married a white man I loved, started a family, cultivated friendships with white individuals who I believed accepted me, and moved to a community that superficially appeared diverse and welcoming. I had built a life that seemed, on the surface, to have successfully navigated the question of “why are you different?” by creating a world that appeared to minimize that difference.
The 2016 Election: Re-Awakening Racial Trauma and the Illusion of “Whiteness”
The 2016 election shattered this illusion of safety and belonging. The election of a president who campaigned on a platform of racism and hatred ripped away the carefully constructed layers of assimilation and brought years of suppressed racial trauma surging back to the surface. Suddenly, even within my progressive neighborhood, surrounded by white allies, the memories of childhood taunts and exclusions flooded back. The body remembers, and it remembers with a vividness that transcends time. The hypervigilance, the constant state of alert, ingrained in my neural pathways from years of navigating a white-dominated world, returned with renewed intensity. Walking down the street in my seemingly liberal bubble, I felt on guard, the question “why are you different?” no longer a whisper but a shout. The strategy of proximity-to-whiteness, the attempt to answer “why are you not white?” by blending in, was exposed for what it was: a fragile shield against racial trauma.
In the aftermath of the election, I found myself drawn to spaces and communities of color in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I craved environments where I didn’t have to explain my sense of unease, where shared experiences of racialization were understood implicitly. I sought out people whose neural pathways were activated by the same triggers, who carried a similar history of pain and shame. I wanted to be among those who felt the same simmering rage at the casual appropriation and commodification of our cultures, who understood the irony of seeing the grown-up versions of childhood bullies now sporting yoga gear emblazoned with Sanskrit symbols. In these spaces, I felt a sense of relief, a lessening of the hypervigilance, a respite from the constant pressure to justify my existence in a white-centric world. Finding these connections felt like finally exhaling after years of holding my breath, years of living under the unspoken question, “why are you not white?”.
Even in college, while no one explicitly said “thank you; come again” to my face, the racism inherent in Apu’s character remained unacknowledged by those around me. Then and now, white individuals around me could and often do ignore racism because it doesn’t directly impact their lives. This dismissal often left me questioning my own reactions, wondering if I was “crazy” or “overreacting” whenever I experienced that visceral response to racism. Racist internet memes, like those misusing “Namaste,” continue to trigger self-doubt. If white people close to me don’t see the racism, am I imagining it? Am I being too sensitive? Logically, I know I’m not, but the lack of validation over years has ingrained this feeling of doubt, a constant echo of the question, “why are you reacting this way? It’s not really racist, is it?”.
Perhaps the most challenging aspect of navigating a white-dominated world, of constantly being asked, implicitly or explicitly, “why are you not white?”, is the repeated gaslighting. Just when I believe I’ve reached a new level of comfort or understanding, I am blindsided by racism, and then further wounded by the dismissal of my experiences by white peers. “Well-intentioned” comments on parenting forums, racist remarks dismissed as “just the speaker’s perspective” – these are constant reminders that my perception of reality is often invalidated, that my experience of racism is minimized or denied. Faced with this choice between silence and potential alienation, I often find myself expending enormous energy calculating the pros and cons of speaking up versus staying quiet, perpetually navigating the question, “is it worth it to challenge this, or should I just let it go?”.
Parenting Biracial Brown Children: Moving Beyond “Why Are You White?”
As a parent of two brown children approaching adolescence, I often reflect on my own experiences and consider what advice will resonate with them. I remember my mother’s well-intentioned but somewhat simplistic approach of urging me to connect with any Indian girl she saw, as if shared ethnicity alone was enough for friendship. What did she imagine we would gain from those interactions? Perhaps she hoped we would find validation in shared experiences, that we would talk about the mispronunciation of our names, the subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways we were made to feel different, the unspoken question of “why are you not white?” that permeated our lives.
Thankfully, my children do not face the same overt racism I did. Yet, I feel a responsibility to caution them against the illusion of proximity-to-whiteness as a shield against racism, and to encourage them to make different choices than I did. In our ongoing conversations, I want to impart this crucial message about resisting racial oppression:
“Build strong bonds with friends of color. Racist incidents will happen, and you will need support. Your white friends may or may not understand your experiences, and that can be painful. Friends of color are more likely to validate your experiences because they, too, have lived them. These are the people who will help you trust your own truth and avoid self-doubt. Remember, experiences of racism differ across racial identities and other forms of oppression. Be a strong ally by supporting friends of color whose experiences might be different or even more challenging than your own.”
I hold compassion for my younger self, the child who learned to construct an identity based on fear and the desire for social survival. I wish someone had validated both my fear and my yearning to fit into a white-dominated world. I wish I had been offered alternative paths beyond assimilation or isolation. And I wish I had understood earlier how my own access to white spaces granted me certain privileges while simultaneously denying them to others. Reflecting on these layers of understanding I lacked as a child and adolescent, I hope to guide my children in navigating the complexities of oppression and privilege.
What if I had approached those Indian girls my mother pointed out years ago? Would we be lifelong friends? Perhaps not. But we might have found connection in shared experiences, a sense of solidarity in navigating a world that constantly asks, “why are you not white?”. Perhaps, with that early connection, I might have made different choices, forged a different path as a brown girl creating space for herself in a white-centric culture. It took me years to find spaces where I could truly exhale and speak my truth about racism freely. My hope is that my children will grow up with those spaces readily available, built into their social fabric from the beginning, surrounded by peers who understand, who can say, “Yeah, I get it,” and who can help them navigate the persistent, often unspoken question of “why are you different?” in a world that still too often equates “different” with “less than.”
