The word “Asian” covers such a vast amount of culture, people, and experiences that it seems underwhelming to group it all under one simple umbrella term. Considering this, I would rather refer to myself as Punjabi.
From Sunday school classes, to learning the traditional dance Bhangra, and countless other cultural traditions, being Punjabi is an integral part of my life. I have had a muddled experience with embracing my Asian heritage, and this is largely due to my struggle with the essential aspect of culture: language. I vividly remember going through a phase that I am sure many other first-generation Asian Americans can relate to, a time where I tried to turn away from my culture and my language and decided that it would be “cooler” to be “fully American” and speak exclusively in English. As a child, I had a nanny who taught me to speak Punjab so well that my parents and grandparents would always boast this story to a countless number of aunties and uncles. But while my parents felt a sense of pride, I did not feel appreciative of this in any way. The novelty quickly wore off when I saw these lessons led to my inability to pronounce certain English words correctly when it would be my turn to read a passage aloud in school. It made all of the kids look at me as “different or “alien” because I was not the “traditional” American. I would frequently stumble over many different English words, and even worse, I would say them with confidence only to have someone make fun of the way I said it afterwards. A hard blow for someone who stubbornly refused to list any other hobby besides reading on her getting-to-know-you pamphlets at the beginning of every school year.
I managed to get by with speaking little to no Punjabi all the way until middle school when I started to realize that my sister was now getting praised for her exceptional fluency in Punjabi. Always looking to compete with my sister, I tried speaking Punjabi again and spent more time with my grandparents to help improve my communication skills, subsequently segueing to my next phase, when I spent a lot of time researching my culture and where I came from. To my pleasant surprise, my school had seemingly decided that learning about other cultures was deemed “cool,” so when I proclaimed I was bilingual (which I was far from being) in class and heard the teacher offer up a compliment in return, I was delighted. The stories I read of Asian culture in general were so much more interesting to me than the classic “Mayflower/Pilgrim/how America was founded” narrative we would platitudinously study in school. My culture was what made me special; I no longer felt isolated from my classmates, I finally felt “cool.” The situation was the same as in elementary school, but it was my perspective on my cultural identity, from disregarding it to appreciating my luck in having such beautiful traditions.
I am now at the point where I can appreciate how my Asian identity is a part of what makes me the person that I am, and I have realized how much more boring life would be without it. I cannot imagine not having that culture in my life anymore, nor can I imagine what my whole personality would be like if it was not influenced by this amazing gratuity for all these diverse experiences around. In essence, growing up Asian has allowed me to recognize, relate with, and respect others for their individuality, and that is a privilege I no longer take for granted. Being Asian American does not mean that you have to fit into one mold or another. It does not mean that you cannot blend the two parts of yourself and instead share the true wonder it encompasses. Being Asian is being myself, and being able to express my true self without fear. And that is the most beautiful thing.