| Growing Up ABCD |
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| February 2007 | |
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We all have distinct memories from childhood. There were mom’s homemade cookies, dad’s Monday night football games and of course soccer practice and band camp. My memories are no different, well, perhaps slightly different. Instead of mom’s cookies there was mom’s kulfi, and dad’s Monday night football games could be more accurately described as Friday night trips to the mosque. Soccer practice and band camp were replaced by Islamic school and Arabic lessons. These were just some of the minor differences between me—the ABCD (American Born Confused Desi)—and my “American” American friends.
I accepted these things and sometimes even embraced them. After all, what’s a little ghee aroma if it results in a Saturday morning brunch of halva poori? Today some of these childhood memories unique to the Desi American upbringing now have new meaning. I grew up watching my parents call their parents in Then there were the dreaded December trips back to Pakistan; buying giant suitcases annually to fill with medicines and current consumer novelties, like Hershey’s chocolates, for our anxiously awaiting cousins. Never once did I stop to think that I was growing up watching my own future. That one day, I myself would be packing those suitcases with Splenda and calcium pills to take back to my own parents; that my house would smell like ghee because of my own cooking; that one day my parents would age and I‘d age with them. My mom is slowly shrinking behind her ever-growing bifocals. My dad is constantly re-telling the same stories. Yet somehow, I still feel like that crusty-eyed child just waiting to crawl back into the safety of my bed. But the time is here, their giant move back to My parents had an arranged marriage. When they came to So my sister and I took the lead in teaching them about American culture… about fast food, brand names and how to say Vons, NOT Wons. We felt our parents were plebeian in every way and at times it was embarrassing. But as an adult, all that embarrassment has given way to
newfound respect and admiration. I see them now in a way that I never have
before, as two very strong individuals. I know they’re going to be truly happy
in They‘ve made many sacrifices in their lives so I can have a better one. Now, even though I will be missing Mom’s kababs, two to a Ziploc bag to be kept in the freezer for when I don’t have time to make dinner (which is always), it’s my turn to take the reins of what they have given me and make everything I can out of it. That will be my tribute to them, to everything they have done for my sister and I and to the strength within them that I never appreciated as a child. Their job is done.
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It rarely occurred to me that our home and my clothes
smelled like ghee. But there were times when I’d suddenly be reminded, like
when I’d open the door for the FedEx guy and the expression on his face would
quickly change into an uncomfortable mix of repugnance and customary
friendliness. I’d blush and smile apologetically, knowing the smell of curry
safely contained within our walls must have hit him like an unexpected slap in
the face. 
