On Contrary Coasts
By: Shreya Manikandan
I don’t have a Boston accent, but I perk up with nostalgia every time moments from my quintessential New England upbringing are mentioned in passing. I sip iced coffees amidst blizzards and spend my summers meandering along the sea, basking in boat sunsets and exploring lighthouses. Throughout the seasons, Massachusetts’s diverse and vibrant tapestry sparks my creativity, whether it is the cobblestone streets of Beacon Hill, the iconic summer hydrangeas by the ocean, the numerous train stations, or the thrill of ice-skating in the city. Like every Massachusetts resident, I proudly claim to be “from Boston,” but I grew up in Andover, a tight-knit, cozy town north of the city. My fond memories of growing up here mainly include our festivity — holidays were relished, not just acknowledged. During Halloween, families could be seen inflating giant ghosts for their front lawns, and children would create unique scarecrows for the Annual Scarecrow contest. And Christmas was magical. The lights would go up downtown in early November, and moods instantly uplifted — the boutiques downtown would play carols that could be heard down the brick streets. Summertime was the neighborhood amateur gardener’s boasting season, and every cul-de-sac would bloom with roses, peonies, and lilacs.
My suburban childhood in this charming town was also tinged with — to the Andover perspective — jarring Indian touches. Though they accepted my ethnicity, there was a clear distinction between a bit of dabbling and being too ethnic. The underlying rhythm beat to the drum of assimilation — don’t be ashamed of your background, but make sure to conform. But my parents raised me to be an Indian-American, not merely an American. I would bring my tiffin (South Indian lunch) in my Thermos and share it with my friends, who were bored with their daily PB&Js. My neighbors visit my house for Navaratri Pujas (Hindu Devi holiday rituals) and revel in our bomma golu (idol altar). I lovingly forced friends to watch my favorite Bollywood movies with me. My family’s house is decorated with Thanjavur paintings and Ravi Varma canvases collected in India. Though I was happy to indulge in my heritage, there was always a persistent sense of alienation. As stereotypical as it sounds, I didn’t feel a solid connection to my Indian or American counterparts. Romanticization was my escape.
Occasionally, I imagine an alternate reality where my parents never immigrated to America from Tamil Nadu, India. Envision growing up walking through winding paths adorned with street vendors selling fabrics, spices, produce, flowers, and an array of miscellanies. Bargaining is a prerequisite, so buying a garland of flowers and a bag of okra for less than five dollars is possible. Aunties donning colorful saris and churidars with aromatic garlands of mallipoo (jasmine) in their hair make their way to the kovil (temple), stopping to greet and gossip. Though architecturally astonishing to outsiders, the kovil is a daily visitation for locals. Despite being a place of worship, temple-goers frequent it for the prasadam, pulihora rice, and saffron milk, given as a reward to devotees for their worship. Typical meals for those not partaking in prasadam consist of thayir sadam, masala dosa, and strong filter coffee. It isn’t uncommon for toddlers to have raging caffeine addictions. Cars share the road with cows, goats, motorcycles, and autos, and the sounds of horns combine with moos and Kuthu music blasting on speakers at chai stands. Movie posters, political marketing, and religious prints add vibrance to highway dividers. The smell of gasoline coalesces with wafts of saltwater closer to the coast. This chaotically artistic combination of modernization and tradition creates a unique beauty for the current state of Tamil Nadu.
I wouldn’t trade my world with trademark colonial houses, neighborly neighbors with spoiled dogs, small coffee shops, and excessive holiday decorations, all of which emanate a sentiment of comfort. However, as I grow older, I seek independence from societal boundaries on my ethnic identity. The immigrant American experience doesn’t readily lend itself to high self-esteem and comfortable identity acceptance. In many ways, I regret not purely existing and feeling like I belonged as both Indian and American. From my stance, romanticization is an easy way to cultural appreciation. The harmful trap of over-romanticization or deprecating to an extreme is a phenomenon many first-generation immigrants succumb to. Especially for those coming from culturally disparate circumstances compared to those in America, even a hint at ethnic living is a chance to relive their ancestor’s stories. When knowing what could’ve been clashes with existing conditions, resentment results.
I want to embrace the potential of wearing saris and mallipoo in my hair, reminiscing in coastline temples, and eating idlis with sambar in the villages my parents grew up in. Simultaneously, I’m well aware of the often misogynistic and casteist climate of Southern India and the implications this had regarding poverty and education levels. Is it a tangible aim to strike a balance when such a spectrum exists? Of course, corruption and systemic discrimination exist in both nations, just as they do in every crevice of society. However, it is crucial to acknowledge that issues in India parallel those in America. In other words, reducing developing countries to their economic levels without first sparking change regarding prevailing problems in America itself is an act of prejudice. Still, it is an unfortunate anthem in American citizens’ hearts. Displacing issues is an easy fix for the entitled. First-generation immigrants, including myself, have struggled for some time with attributing America to betterness and diminishing our origins.
I last visited Tamilnadu in the summer of 2018. As a 14-year-old, I didn’t view the aspects of my parent’s home as a complicated entity. Instead, I saw India as a dichotomous paradox — traditional charm, vibrant culture, and remarkable people coexisting with muddles of pollution, discrimination, and widespread unawareness. Six years later, I now better understand the intricacies of being multicultural. Complexities are inevitable. By getting rid of my subconscious Western savior mindset, I have since realized that imperfections lie in every society, even at the most romanticized levels. Though pleasant in many aspects, small New England towns with blissfully ignorant liberals create a cozy bubble of surface-level acceptance. In retrospect, my identity journey spanning the enchanting Tamilnadu to the illustrious Andover highlights a truth we should all ponder: maybe it isn’t about finding a group you belong to, but instead, fostering a genuine understanding of imperfections and desirable aspects will lead to an embrace of diverse unity.
Shreya Manikandan is a sophomore at Cornell University from Andover, Massachusetts, majoring in Human Biology, Health, and Society. One of her favorite travel destinations is Guatemala because of the pristine scenery and diversity of wildlife.
