ReWriting Me

As an Indian child growing up in the US, there were many things that made me different from my peers. But the one thing that always filled me with shame was my lunch.

The cafeteria was already a frightening place for an awkward third-culture kid who seemed to attract bullying like a magnet. I still remember the anxiety that crept in as lunch period approached. Walking into that massive room, with its perfectly divided tables organized by rank and popularity, was one of the most intimidating parts of my day.

But what always made it worse wasn’t the social hierarchy. It was opening my lunch bag.

First came the strategy: make it quickly and quietly to the table of my choice. Avoid the cheerleader table with the perfectly layered blonde hair. It felt straight out of Mean Girls, the way they commanded every space they entered with that effortless confidence I longed for. Fast-forward forty years later, and let’s just say those girls have nothing on my ability to command a room now.

Then avoid the gorgeous jocks. I had such a complicated love-hate relationship with them. I so badly wanted to be the girl draped over their arms, yet they were often the ones behind the bullying. It doesn’t make sense, right? Wanting attention from the very people who hurt you. That confusing dynamic shaped so many of my self-esteem issues and eventually played out in a seven-year emotionally abusive relationship in college. But that’s a story for another time.

Back to the lunchroom strategy: head down, no eye contact, move quickly to the table where my friends sat. My friends were the AP, overachieving, drama-class, played-a-hundred-instruments girlies. My tribe. Not because we shared everything in common, but because each of us knew what it felt like to live on the outskirts of everything that was considered normal.

Now, back to the point of this entire story.

Every day, I hoped and prayed that my lunch would be normal today. I just wanted a sandwich. My mom, being the dedicated Indian homemaker she was, believed a wholesome lunch meant hot, nutritious, homemade food. American food didn’t qualify. So some days I opened my bag to find a box of spiced rice; other days, roti with dry sabzi. Sabzi is basically what the world calls curry, though that’s a whole conversation for another day.

Opening that lunchbox wasn’t just about the unfamiliar aromas or bold colors rising into the air. It was a window into a world I was desperately trying to hide from my peers. I wanted so badly to fit in, to be American. But that aroma of turmeric and cumin drifting across the cafeteria felt like a spotlight exposing every part of my Indian-ness to the entire school.

When you grow up treading a tightrope between two drastically different worlds, even the gentlest breeze can knock you off balance. For me, that whiff of sabzi was the breeze.

As a forty-year-old woman who has learned to give zero fucks about anyone’s opinion of me, I look back at that awkward twelve-year-old and wish I could hug her. I wish I could whisper in her ear: the parts of you that you want to hide today will become the very things you are most proud of.

Yes, I wanted a sandwich to fit in. But today, my food and my culture are my greatest sources of pride.

I love everything about being an Indian woman. My capacity to love deeply, to care fiercely for those around me, to keep a warm home-cooked meal ready for my family, to carry an entire home on my shoulders with strength and grace. These are gifts I learned from my Indian mother. And I can say with absolute certainty: no one nurtures, protects, or holds a home with the tenderness she does.

I also hold deep pride in the parts of American culture that shaped me: my feminism, my drive, the audacity to dream big, and yes, the privilege of an American passport that has opened doors across the world.

Now I’m learning to fold in a new layer. The pieces of Spanish culture slowly folding into the trifold dessert that is my life. The art of slowing down. The joy of being present. Of all the places I’ve lived, few cultures love life and family as deeply as the Spaniards. The Mediterranean sun probably helps.

My children will one day face their own versions of these identity battles. My goal as their mother is not to shield them, but to equip them. Pride in their curls. Love for their skin. Honor for their roots, whether they choose to identify as Indian, Nigerian, American, Spanish, or a beautiful blend of all four. I want them to learn sooner than I did to honor themselves, to offer themselves grace and kindness when the world doesn’t.

What I’ve learned is that life isn’t just about loving yourself, it’s about accepting each new version of you as she arrives. Identity is fluid, always shifting, always expanding. Every phase of your life is a step toward who you are meant to be, and yet that version of you is allowed to change again and again. That is the point. We aren’t here to arrive at a final destination. We are here to walk the road, to wander a little, to pause when we need to, and to enjoy the journey in whatever form it takes.

So today, wherever I am, I open my lunchbox with pride. No matter what it contains, I invite people in. I let them learn about where I come from, who I am, and, if they’re lucky, I let them take a taste of what my life has been and what it’s still becoming.