english is my mother tongue<\/p>\n
because my own mother was afraid<\/p>\n
to teach me hers.<\/p>\n
as if hindi\u2019s rough edges,<\/p>\n
would taint me,<\/p>\n
burden me,<\/p>\n
and otherize me.<\/p>\n
and so a coat of fresh white paint<\/p>\n
was plastered over my brown body.<\/p>\n
the same brown body that danced kathak<\/p>\n
every saturday morning in tenafly, new jersey<\/p>\n
where i\u2019d tie bells around my ankles<\/p>\n
and do chakkars in my guru\u2019s basement<\/p>\n
until the soles of my feet burned.<\/p>\n
that\u2019s when my guru would call me upstairs and fill my stomach with food,<\/p>\n
dosas and idli sambar,<\/p>\n
the same food i told my mother to hide when my school friends came over<\/p>\n
because i was scared<\/em> our samosas would scare<\/em> them away.<\/p>\n and so she bought lay\u2019s potato chips<\/p>\n and i\u2019d beam at their shiny, yellow labels,<\/p>\n reminders that i was american.<\/p>\n american like burgers on the fourth of july,<\/p>\n american like the star spangled banner,<\/p>\n american like the kids at school<\/p>\n who i loved<\/p>\n who i wanted to be.<\/p>\n i\u2019d watch them descend from staircases<\/p>\n and glide down hallways<\/p>\n as if they were made of gold,<\/p>\n as if they were worth more than me.<\/p>\n and when i heard them call me dirty,<\/p>\n or my hair too thick,<\/p>\n i wore sunscreen in the winter<\/em><\/p>\n to make my skin lighter<\/em>.<\/p>\n but to them,<\/p>\n i was still riya,<\/p>\n another addition to the blob of brown bodies.<\/p>\n see me.<\/p>\n tell me i am saya<\/p>\n and not the brown girl to my right.<\/p>\n i am tired,<\/p>\n bored,<\/p>\n angry.<\/p>\n angry like that man<\/p>\n in the restaurant<\/p>\n on 72nd and 2nd<\/p>\n who banged his fists on the glass table<\/p>\n when my family was being too loud.<\/p>\n \u201cgo back to your own country and act that way,\u201d he yelled,<\/p>\n hatred, like blood, dripping off his words,<\/p>\n like we had stolen what was his.<\/p>\n thieves,<\/p>\n hungry for his country.<\/p>\n i don\u2019t like talking about that day.<\/p>\n i don\u2019t enjoy the guilt that prickles my skin when i tell these stories<\/p>\n because my voices tell me \u201cit\u2019s not that big of a deal\u201d and \u201cthere are bigger things in the world\u201d<\/p>\n and \u201cthink of your brown sisters who came before you,<\/p>\n the seas they crossed,<\/p>\n the stories they stomached to bring you here.<\/p>\n and think of your mother and father<\/p>\n who walked through fire<\/p>\n to place the world before your eyes.<\/p>\n think of the charcoal stains on their bare feet.\u201d<\/p>\n four years ago i would have stomached this story.<\/p>\n i tell it now because<\/p>\n i am whole,<\/p>\n pieced together by my mother, grandmother, and friends of color,<\/p>\n lost in the beauty of my culture,<\/p>\n thanking the sun for painting me with a heavy hand,<\/p>\n drowning myself in the sweetness of my homeland\u2019s language.<\/p>\n but mostly<\/p>\n i tell this story so that<\/p>\n the next<\/p>\n brown girl<\/p>\n won\u2019t have to.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Saya Shamdasani english is my mother tongue because my own mother was afraid to teach me hers. as if hindi\u2019s rough edges, would taint me, burden me, and otherize me. and so a coat of fresh white paint was plastered over my brown body. the same brown body that danced kathak every saturday morning in… <\/p>\n