Proud to be an Indian
Location
Tears roll down his cheeks like
condensation on a cold, clear glass.
I laugh as he tries to stomach my mother’s homemade curry.
I forget sometimes- you know?
I forget that I’m different,
forget that I’m not white like he is.
I hear my sister scream,
"Michael, go get him some water!"
Still laughing, I walk to the fridge. I hold the tall glass under the dispenser.
Cool air chills my fingers.
Ice clinks against the sides of the
transparent shield. I press the cup
onto the adjacent button. Water falls in a
constant stream.
Liquid caresses solid.
Two different states.
Same substance.
I walk back to the table, set the
sweaty cup next to his plate.
He takes a sip, squeaks a small
“Thanks” through the
spices suffocating his esophagus.
I could barely even taste
the spice.
I'm American-born, American-raised,
but I don't look the part.
I feel part of the wrong culture,
feel a disconnect with my parents' roots.
Ethnicity is a funny thing.
Kids get made fun of for their
color. They get angry because
they’re different.
I get made fun of for my
color. And
I’m different.
And that’s just okay.
I'm Indian.
I'm proud.