"HOW IT FEELS TO BE DIVIDED ME"
RIYA GUPTA
Once again I was the new kid, the girl no one knew. I felt the all too familiar gazes of my soon to be classmates on me as I walked down the hall to yet another counselors office, to yet again give the same spiel “Hi, my name is Riya Gupta and I just moved here”. I am 16 years old and I have moved 9 different times, lived in 6 different states, and 2 different countries.
My parents have always had their reasons: work, school, the weather, the people … and the list goes on. Although no matter how many times I moved or where I went one thing never changed: the first day of school. For what felt like the 100th time, I look around the cafeteria on the first day of school and see the “cliques” immediately. Everyone already knew who they were friends with and who they weren’t. I clutched my lunch tray tightly in my hand as I desperately looked around to find the group I fit in with, but of course, no one wanted to let someone new into their friend group. I was used to it though, once again I began to learn the culture and slang of my new classmates as I struggled to assimilate in an environment so different from the one of Massachusetts.
As a child, I learned pretty quickly that you did whatever it took to fit in. In a new school, you made friends if you were “normal”. The problem was, with each move the definition of normal would change and again I would begin the tiresome process of succumbing to what qualities people in that state appreciated and tried to mirror it to the best of my capabilities.
As a first grader, moving from India, I learned that my classmates would marvel over the other foreign students and their foreign accents, but never mine. The new British kid with a cool British accent, the Australian kid everyone was obsessed with solely due to his accent. But no one was obsessed with the Indian accent I had. I didn’t understand why my accent was deemed lesser. All I knew was that I didn’t fit in and so made every effort possible to concealed my accent. I tried hard every day to somehow hide the fact that I was Indian. I was used to it though, and as I predicted, the next year I already had more friends. I was finally normal.
As a 9th grader, moving from Massachusetts to Georgia, I faced a large culture shock. When I choose what clothes to buy, or what to wear, what accessories to purchase, I simply choose what I like. Although, almost every day without fail someone will tell me that my “outfit is really white” or say something like “omg, you have a James Avery ring, wow you’re the whitest Indian person I know”. Of course, I know they are joking and that the comment is intended to be a compliment, and so I shrug it off and simply reply with a simple “thanks”. In Massachusetts, I lived in a predominantly white town, with a predominantly white population of students in school. In my old school appearing to be white was not only celebrated but was simply a way to fit in. Northview by comparison, with its diverse student body, encouraged cultures of all sorts. Here, I was referred to as whitewashed. It seemed as though people were never satisfied. If I was too Indian, I didn’t fit in, but if I was too white, I was labeled as “uncultured”.
And so my identity is divided: I am part Washington, part Massachusetts, part New Jersey, part New Hampshire, part North Carolina, part Georgia. I wonder where I'll move next, who I’ll be next.
My parents have always had their reasons: work, school, the weather, the people … and the list goes on. Although no matter how many times I moved or where I went one thing never changed: the first day of school. For what felt like the 100th time, I look around the cafeteria on the first day of school and see the “cliques” immediately. Everyone already knew who they were friends with and who they weren’t. I clutched my lunch tray tightly in my hand as I desperately looked around to find the group I fit in with, but of course, no one wanted to let someone new into their friend group. I was used to it though, once again I began to learn the culture and slang of my new classmates as I struggled to assimilate in an environment so different from the one of Massachusetts.
As a child, I learned pretty quickly that you did whatever it took to fit in. In a new school, you made friends if you were “normal”. The problem was, with each move the definition of normal would change and again I would begin the tiresome process of succumbing to what qualities people in that state appreciated and tried to mirror it to the best of my capabilities.
As a first grader, moving from India, I learned that my classmates would marvel over the other foreign students and their foreign accents, but never mine. The new British kid with a cool British accent, the Australian kid everyone was obsessed with solely due to his accent. But no one was obsessed with the Indian accent I had. I didn’t understand why my accent was deemed lesser. All I knew was that I didn’t fit in and so made every effort possible to concealed my accent. I tried hard every day to somehow hide the fact that I was Indian. I was used to it though, and as I predicted, the next year I already had more friends. I was finally normal.
As a 9th grader, moving from Massachusetts to Georgia, I faced a large culture shock. When I choose what clothes to buy, or what to wear, what accessories to purchase, I simply choose what I like. Although, almost every day without fail someone will tell me that my “outfit is really white” or say something like “omg, you have a James Avery ring, wow you’re the whitest Indian person I know”. Of course, I know they are joking and that the comment is intended to be a compliment, and so I shrug it off and simply reply with a simple “thanks”. In Massachusetts, I lived in a predominantly white town, with a predominantly white population of students in school. In my old school appearing to be white was not only celebrated but was simply a way to fit in. Northview by comparison, with its diverse student body, encouraged cultures of all sorts. Here, I was referred to as whitewashed. It seemed as though people were never satisfied. If I was too Indian, I didn’t fit in, but if I was too white, I was labeled as “uncultured”.
And so my identity is divided: I am part Washington, part Massachusetts, part New Jersey, part New Hampshire, part North Carolina, part Georgia. I wonder where I'll move next, who I’ll be next.