The Bohemian State

Just so you know, this is a very serious post.

We live behind God’s back, which is an expression that really means, it takes us forever and a day, to just get home with the trains, and those are the fastest ways home. Only in New York, would highways be bumper to bumper at say, oh, five in the morning. I would know, I’ve been through it, many times. Recently, well not so recently, but the last time that I remember a subway story, I was buying, Tic-Tac’s from one of those newsstands. Typically, the owner or the manager is almost always Indian, or some sort of ethnic looking Indian.

“How much?” I said.

“Seventy five dollars,” he said in a thick desi accent.

Not even phased by his comment, I took out a dollar, “Here you go.”

He started laughing, “Seventy five dollars.”

I said, “Uh huh.”

This apparently is the time where I know the typical is going to happen.

“Where you from?”

I popped the pill like mint into my mouth, as I waited for my change, I contemplated answering him, but it always leaves me confused. “Umm…” I said and then smiled, “New York?”

“No, originally, where you from?”
“You Bengali, I know you Bengali from anywhere.” He said.

I didn’t know what to say, I’m always left confused by this question and I don’t think it needs to be so laborious. And I snapped in my head, “Why can’t I just buy damn mints in peace that be bombarded with identity questions.

“Uh huh,” I said as I collected my change.

“Can I get the New York Times please?”

“Where?”

I pretended to not address his question fully, and point to the news papers, “Why, the ones in your stall?” I said.

I paid him again, this time I didn’t care about change.

“Where in Bengal?”

“My train is here.”

“Where?”he screamed.

I motioned that I couldn’t hear him by twiddling my thumbs at my ears and zipped off in the other direction.

It always leaves me unnerved that through-out the train ride I kept thinking, why does it matter where I’m from? All, that matters, is where I’m going, right?

I don’t like subway rides for the simple reason that I seem to have a identity crisis every time a desi person comes up to me, and they always seem to do so.

My friend, B, said that it’s because I have this “look.” What ‘look’ I asked?

“I don’t know, but you don’t look Guyanese-y enough to be a Guyanese. You look more Indian.”

“Aren’t Guyanese people just brown people that live in a different place?”

“Yeah, but there is this sort of laid-back attitude, like you know when you see a Guyanese walking on the street you can instantly say, that person is Guyanese, and when that person is Indian, you can say Aha… Indian. It’s the look. You have the Indian look.”

–Flashback to 4 weeks ago, when I was out doing some errands with my mom, in Guyanese-ville, Queens.—

“Let me get this one thing straight, I’m only coming with you for the food.” I said to her.

“The food?” my mother never really understands us, but she keeps in mind that we’re just weird in general. “You know there is food home.”

“Yeah, but I want Guyanese food.”

“I made-”

“But I want the… traditional traditional ones… saturated in oil.” There really was a twinkle in my eye when I said it.

“Oh, well I don’t eat unhealthy foods.”

We stopped the car, and I quickly ran into one of the busiest Guyanese quick stop stores. I could smell the fresh curry in the air and the just ripe dhals.

“Hmm… “, I thought, finally.

I walked in the store and everyone was in a hustle, there were 10 people being served at once, and a few more lined up. And everyone ordered in this country dialect.

I took a number, and waited for it to be called.

“104″…. “104!”

“Can I have this, and this and that?” I said.

She looked at me weirdly, as if I didn’t even belong there, and then I smiled nervously, “Oh, and two bags of tennis rolls,” these sort of dinner rolls that look like tennis balls.

“Uh huh” she said as she sort of held back a giggle in the way I said the names of, and pointed at what I wanted.

“Yeah…” I said and then thought to myself, “So, I so don’t belong here anymore.”

“Baby,” said a little old man, “Ah you Guyanese?” “Yah nah look it, yah know?” I nodded, “Yeah..I know.” “Yah nah even sound like wan [one]”

“Oh.. I didn’t realize there was a way I had to sound.”

I picked up my order, and I wanted to storm out, only it was a windy day and I couldn’t even open the door.

My mother noticed that I was pissed, “What’s wrong with you now?” “Not Guyanese enough?” as she laughed driving away.

The rant started, “I don’t understand what that even means. I mean, I was born there, I know more about the culture than any history book, I’m a walking encyclopedia for that country and it’s like that doesn’t even matter, all I need to do to fit in is to put on a fake country-boondocks accent, and turn into some sort of ghetto-fabulous, the only thing it isn’t ghetto or fabulous, that and listens to music that talks more of sex than anything else. I don’t need to prove myself to anyone, just so that I can get food.”

—-Flashback to a few days ago—

“So which do you identity more with?” said P.

“I’m human,” and I could feel my blood slowly beginning to boil as I thought, “Great not one of these again.”

“Yeah, and so am I, but which is your primary identity.”

I started to think really hard, what exactly is identity? Is it the country in which you’re born in? Is it your cultural ethnicity? Is it more link to your religion? Is it where you lived the longest? Is it where you live currently? I don’t even know which one means more to me than the other. Could they all be equally important to me?

“Which is your primary identity” P urged on.

Defensively I lashed out, ‘Uh huh, what’s yours bum?”

“Oh I’m Punjabi.”

“Great,” I said as I was secretly jealous of how swiftly he answered.

I used to say it was a great thing, having such a rich Bengali heritage and then living in Guyana and engulfing that culture and then finally being a New Yorker. But that’s not so true anymore. When you identify with this and that and everything else, you essential lose everything. It’s like when you’re everything you become nothing.

“I think I’m Bengali-Indian,first. ”

“Then what?”

“Then Guyanese. And then finally a New Yorker.”

“What do you think I am?” I bit my tongue, I was trying to gain some sort of acceptance I thought, some sort of validation.

“I think you are more Indian that anything else.”

Why does identifying with a primary culture feels as if I’ve betrayed another one?

—Flashback to Italian store—

“What are you?….Indian?” said the shopkeeper.

“Nah… I’m just an engineer.”

And then I left. Don’t need anymore battles in my head.