26 Apr Beyond Race? Not Quite.
Having moved from Bellwood, Illinois to Rialto, a suburb in Southern California, most people would be elated: sunshine almost all year round, palm trees, and a mere one hour drive to some of the most famous places in our country. But at the age of 12, having left what I knew of home behind – including Tanessa, my childhood best friend – I was devastated and like most soon-to-be teenagers spent my days in an emotional abyss because “no one understands me, no one has ever gone through what I am” and a general woe-is-me attitude.
One day to Umme’s delight, I came bursting in the door, “The girl around the corner asked if I could come over and play,” I said breathlessly.
“Buchee, calm down,” she said, while making chai (chai was always being consumed in our home). The smell of cardamom, cloves, milk, Indian tea bags, and Umme’s henna which she used to dye her thick, long hair encased us both in a cocoon.
“Pleeeaaassee, Umme,” I implored knowing my family was very hesitant sending their children to anyone’s home where there hadn’t been a vetting process. “She seems really nice,” I said.
“Samita, how do you know she is ‘nice’?” she questioned. Now her gaze was searing into my skin. Only 17 years older than me, but having lived an eternity by the time she was 22, she knew the cloud of deceit some human beings portrayed all the while their true selves lay beneath a shiny, false exterior.
“She wears really nice clothes, her hair is clean with pretty ribbons and barrettes, and her yard looks good,” I went on.
“Baytee, all those things are outside,” Umme said, never looking up from the pot of chai because as soon as it reaches a boil, the burner should be turned off.
“Okay, but take your brothers,” she commanded.
My two younger brothers – the bane of my existence! I’ll take Sarmad, my youngest brother, but not Sarim, I thought. I didn’t want anyone to meet Sarim, my special needs brother who had gentleness about him, a kind smile for everyone, an obsession with recycling before it was cool, a bike junkie, and compassion beyond human understanding, but I was embarrassed of him. (Did I mention that I was a self-absorbed teenager?)
“Umme, please let me take Sarmad and if everything goes well, I’ll introduce Sarim,” I negotiated. The look of “I get it – you’re a teenager, but I’m thoroughly disappointed in your behavior” said it all. (Much like echolocation, Umme can send messages across a crowded room.)
Soon, Sarmad and I walked the one block to my future best friend’s home: her grass was green with watering and maintenance; the fence stood intact and painted; the curtains gently blew from an open window; there was a plaque announcing the address where we had arrived. I took a deep breath and rang her bell. She opened the door.
“Thank you for inviting my brother and I over,” I said. My mouth was parched from the excitement of finally making a friend before the start of the school year.
“Hi,” she sweetly smiled.
The blue carpet – almost as pretty as her eyes – the matching furniture, and perfection of the home looked like it came straight out of the Spiegel Catalogue that Umme worked for in Bellwood. It seems we had walked straight onto one of their sets. Sarmad and I were still in the entryway waiting to be asked in just like we had been taught (vampires got nothing on Desi people). My new friend walked away towards the living room which was right across from the front door, and on the movie-set sofa sat a younger brother and a couple of other boys about our age from the neighborhood.
Sarmad and I smiled. We still hadn’t been invited in.
“So, it seems you’re not from around here,” my future best friend began.
“We recently moved here from Bellwood, a suburb outside of Chicago,” I began but before I could finish she interrupted me.
“No, it seems you aren’t from around here,” she said again. “Where are you guys from? You smell different…you look different…you act different… there’s so many of you.” Behind her the boys were pointing and snickering.
“The shame and judgment robbed my words.”
“Ummmm,” I began but my voice failed me. The shame and judgment robbed my words.
“Are we going to play?” Sarmad asked still holding my hand.
I shook my head no, “Not today,” was all that came out.
“Just so you know we don’t want your kind here,” my no-longer best friend said. “Our family is moving because people like you are making this area bad. No one wants brown, poor people living next to them.”
At some point, with my hand shaking I opened the door, and turned to leave. The laughter followed me the short walk home as tears trickled down my cheeks.
“Samita Appi, are you okay?” Sarmad asked.
The silence that greeted Sarmad let him know that I was far from okay but this moment was sealed for all of eternity, never to be mentioned again. Other moments of harassment and bullying happened until the girl around the corner moved away and the boys moved away as well. Bullies can move away, their physical presence gone from the neighborhood, but the damage – conscious or otherwise – festers until the wound seeks salve, healing from within.
A few months ago, sitting across from Carol, my therapist, I declared, “I think I’m a racist.”
She looked at me, having known me and the inner most workings of my heart for 14 years, and laughed.
“You?” she chuckled. “Okay, why do you think you’re a racist?”
Last summer, one of my best friends, having recently separated from his wife, was in the middle of a divorce, and decided to give dating in the 21st Century a shot. He’s the equivalent of the Benetton spokesman for dating – race doesn’t matter to him – but every woman he dated was White, most of them some version of blond (well, according to my Hair Stylist/Goddess Terri, as “blond” as anyone can be in their forties), and had light colored eyes. Every time he mentioned one of these women, my skin began to crawl, my voice became harsh, and after some time he noticed.
“What problem do you have with me dating White women?” he asked one day.
Therefore, I sat with Carol. Not surprisingly at all, she asked me to go deeper. And there it was – the memory – sealed for all of eternity, waiting patiently to be healed, and the emotions asking to be unearthed. I cried for 20 minutes straight, feeling the shame and judgment on my brown skin, brown hair, and brown eyes against the version of European-beauty I’ve been brainwashed to believe.
“Mental well-being is a luxury afforded to those with time, access to insurance, and support.”
After some time crying, I discussed the pain that harbored within me for decades where I was just trying to survive within a family where there wasn’t time for sentiments and therapy. We were immigrants and trying to forge a life. Mental well-being is a luxury afforded to those with time, access to insurance, and support. That was far from my childhood.
“I’m White,” Carol continued. “Do I threaten or bully you?”
“Of course not,” I laughed, snot running down my nose from sobbing.
“Now, name me every White woman who has supported you,” she said.
Some of my circus soul sisters.
Sandy, whom I met shortly after my no-longer best friend moved away; all of my teachers, who looked out for me, were white women; my husband and his family (they’re Jewish…is that still White?); girlfriends from college; my circus sisters; neighbors; temple friends; my children’s friends’ parents; the yoga studio staff and my fellow yogis; the girls at Trader Joes; the Costco crew; my girls at Gerrards; the list was (is) endless.
“I see kind, White people everywhere!” I exclaimed.
“That’s right,” Carol agreed.
What I’ve come to realize is I’m not a racist, but…I am well aware of that yucky feeling I get being “different” – especially when I’m within a White community – so I breathe, go back to that moment of bullying from decades ago, sit with it and explore the junk that arises from not being enough, not having worth or value, breath some more, cry if needed and realize I am worthy of love – my own love. No one can bully me, judge me, or shame me. As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” My consent shall never be given.
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