I Hate Fall 🍂

And other confessions from a Indian-American

Photo by davide ragusa on Unsplash

“I am loving this weather,” a white friend told me the other day. I was faced, in the moment, with a choice. Do I quietly let the remark pass, agree with it (and lie)? Or do I speak up and tell the truth?

I ran the calculus in the precious seconds I had to respond. The math said this was a safe person, safe place and safe time.

“Actually, I miss the summer heat,” I said. “I’m always a little bit cold from now until April.”

There’s this thing white people do. They say things and then assume everyone else feels the same way. Especially in groups, I’ve noticed. If you’re the sole person of color in the group and speak your truth, it can kill their vibe.

Keeping my mouth shut during those moments is one of those unconscious habits I built up as a homeschooled kid whose only social outlet was Sunday church services with white evangelicals. I learned to treat my Indian-ness as incidental, almost an embarrassing quirk of birth.

I found myself avoiding and even disliking other Indians. I didn’t want to be considered “one of them.” So I made sure to tip generously, so I couldn’t be accused of being a “cheap Indian.” I was loathe to become a programmer since the nerdy Indian coder is a cliche at this point. I would entertain friends by using an Indian accent as the punchline to a joke.

At one point I told a friend that I thought of myself as a white person with brown skin. And I remember saying to someone, “Why would I want to be part of a culture that has been dominated by another?”

Today, I recognize those beliefs and behaviors as something called internalized racism. It’s a form of self-hatred based on the belief that another race is superior to your own. Sometimes I see and hear it among more prominent South Asians here in America:

“Who the heck is this skinny guy with a funny last name and what the heck is he doing in the middle of this debate stage?”

Vivek Ramaswamy, Republican Presidential Primary Debate, August 2023

“I know it’s an Indian thing, but my forearms look like the frigging floor of a barbershop.”

Devi Vishwakumar, Never Have I Ever

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Discovering that I rejected parts of myself was like living in a horror movie. I went down into the basement only to discover that I had been poisoned and desperately needed an antidote.

The cure is ongoing.

I’ve changed my name to honor my ancestors in Kerala, I took some Hindi on DuoLingo, dipped my toe in the ocean of Indian cinema, met up with other South Asian journalists and filled my Instagram feed with brown folks.

Honestly, it doesn’t feel fair. I have to do all this extra work that my white peers don’t have to. I’ve realized that parts of the American dream just aren’t for me: I’ll never be as desirable to women as a white guy, the presidency is still blocked off for brown folks and I’ll constantly have to be the only or first brown person in a room.

I was born and raised in this country. And yet I still have to explain, again and again, that I hate fall.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash