Funnyunenjoyer1
NT Escortcel
- Joined
- Mar 15, 2024
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Hi my name is Raksheem, otherwise known as ravi. I stood at the corner of the bustling New York City street, my heart pounding in my chest. The neon lights of Times Square reflected off the tears welling up in my eyes. I had moved to this city with dreams of becoming a renowned journalist, but somewhere along the way, I had lost myself. The relentless pursuit of acceptance had chipped away at my identity, until I barely recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror.
I've always been proud of my Indian heritage. Growing up in a vibrant, tight-knit community in the deepest slums Mumbai , I celebrated Diwali with fervor, danced to Bollywood tunes at family weddings, and found comfort in the spicy aroma of my mother's cooking. But when I moved to America for college, things changed. The subtle comments, the ignorant questions, and the unspoken expectations started to weigh me down.
"Where are you really from?" my classmates would ask, their eyes betraying a curiosity tinged with skepticism.
"Your English is so good!" they'd exclaim, as if surprised that someone like me could master their language.
At first, I brushed it off. I tried to educate them, to share my culture with pride. But the constant need to explain myself became exhausting. I began to downplay my Indian roots, choosing salads over samosas, jeans over kurtas, and pop music over classical ragas. I laughed at jokes that made me uncomfortable and avoided topics that might reveal too much.
My parents, still in the slums of Mumbai, noticed the change during our video calls. My mother's worried eyes and my father's furrowed brow spoke volumes. "Beta, don't forget who you are," they would remind me gently. But I was too caught up in fitting in to listen.
Tonight, though, something inside me snapped. I had been at a party with my colleagues, all successful young professionals. They had been discussing their favorite cuisines, and when it was my turn, I hesitated. I loved biryani, but I found myself saying, "Oh, I just adore Italian food." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
As the night wore on, the conversation shifted to travel. "I would love to visit India someday," one of my colleagues remarked. "It must be so exotic."
I forced a smile, but inside, I felt a storm brewing. I was done. Done with the pretense, done with the lies, done with hiding. I excused myself from the party and stepped out into the night.
Now, standing in the heart of the city that had both inspired and disillusioned me, I made a decision. I pulled out my phone and opened my social media app. My fingers trembled as I typed, but with each word, I felt a weight lifting off my shoulders.
"I'm tired of pretending I'm not Indian. YES, I AM INDIAN!!!!!!!"
I hit 'post' and watched as the message went live. Almost instantly, the notifications started pouring in – likes, comments, messages of support from friends and family. But the most important reaction was my own. I felt a sense of liberation, a return to the person I had always been.
I took a deep breath, the cool night air filling my lungs. I was ready to face whatever came next. I was ready to embrace my identity, with all its complexities and beauty. I was ready to be unapologetically Indian, in every sense of the word.
4o
I've always been proud of my Indian heritage. Growing up in a vibrant, tight-knit community in the deepest slums Mumbai , I celebrated Diwali with fervor, danced to Bollywood tunes at family weddings, and found comfort in the spicy aroma of my mother's cooking. But when I moved to America for college, things changed. The subtle comments, the ignorant questions, and the unspoken expectations started to weigh me down.
"Where are you really from?" my classmates would ask, their eyes betraying a curiosity tinged with skepticism.
"Your English is so good!" they'd exclaim, as if surprised that someone like me could master their language.
At first, I brushed it off. I tried to educate them, to share my culture with pride. But the constant need to explain myself became exhausting. I began to downplay my Indian roots, choosing salads over samosas, jeans over kurtas, and pop music over classical ragas. I laughed at jokes that made me uncomfortable and avoided topics that might reveal too much.
My parents, still in the slums of Mumbai, noticed the change during our video calls. My mother's worried eyes and my father's furrowed brow spoke volumes. "Beta, don't forget who you are," they would remind me gently. But I was too caught up in fitting in to listen.
Tonight, though, something inside me snapped. I had been at a party with my colleagues, all successful young professionals. They had been discussing their favorite cuisines, and when it was my turn, I hesitated. I loved biryani, but I found myself saying, "Oh, I just adore Italian food." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
As the night wore on, the conversation shifted to travel. "I would love to visit India someday," one of my colleagues remarked. "It must be so exotic."
I forced a smile, but inside, I felt a storm brewing. I was done. Done with the pretense, done with the lies, done with hiding. I excused myself from the party and stepped out into the night.
Now, standing in the heart of the city that had both inspired and disillusioned me, I made a decision. I pulled out my phone and opened my social media app. My fingers trembled as I typed, but with each word, I felt a weight lifting off my shoulders.
"I'm tired of pretending I'm not Indian. YES, I AM INDIAN!!!!!!!"
I hit 'post' and watched as the message went live. Almost instantly, the notifications started pouring in – likes, comments, messages of support from friends and family. But the most important reaction was my own. I felt a sense of liberation, a return to the person I had always been.
I took a deep breath, the cool night air filling my lungs. I was ready to face whatever came next. I was ready to embrace my identity, with all its complexities and beauty. I was ready to be unapologetically Indian, in every sense of the word.
4o
