In the 90s, before using turmeric and doing yoga became trendy, I was an Indian American girl growing up in suburban Minnesota. I was your average girl – constantly listened to Spice Girls (this has not changed – let’s be honest), wore jelly sandals (pretty pumped they are coming back in style) and played MASH during class (sorry kid- you didn’t end up with the mansion or a pink Jeep).
Aside, from the unfortunate bowl cut, I thought I was like every other kid in my class… until the teachers took attendance. I remember getting a pit in my stomach every time a teacher would call names because this was a time it was clear I was different. I’d wait for the long pause as they try to figure out how to pronounce my name and I’d just jump in and say “here” before my name could be butchered.
It got so bad that in 2nd grade when I had a crush on a boy, but he liked another girl, I wanted to change my name to Nikki (an iteration of his girlfriend’s name🤦🏽). Surely it couldn’t have been my terrifying bowl cut or the fact that I had barely spoken to him, it had to be because I was too different.
There were many other incidents throughout my childhood where I would try to hide from my heritage. Looking back, I’m so glad I didn’t change my name to Nikki (although, it’s become a good joke with my friends #NikkiWithTheGoodHair). My name Neha means “love” and today I am proud to identify with it.
If I could go back and give 2nd grade me any advice it would be to be proud of what makes you different and for God’s sake get a new hairstylist.
Any other first generation kids feel me on this? What’s your story?
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