By Sucheta Sachdev

Recently, an older cousin confided to me that her parents suggested she apply to an Indian matrimonial service. Upset at her parents' suggestion, but grudgingly agreeing, she filled out a form that asked her to list, among other things, her height, weight, and skin color. Of the more disconcerting things she was asked to record were her cultural values; were they “Eastern” or “Western?” If she placed a tick mark in the former box, she told me, she would be viewed as someone who has been unable to assimilate in America (or, more accurately, as a prude). But, if she checked the latter box, she would be considered too American, too modern for an Indian bride. Which box then, should she check?

Many have claimed that attempts to answer questions of this nature only further confirm the state of the American Born Confused Desi, or ABCD. Perennially torn between obligations to desi family/community values and the desire to embrace Western individualism, the ABCD has been sketched into a caricature that experiences a tumultuous adolescence and young adulthood, never certain of their cultural identity.

My cousin’s dilemma typifies what many South Asian-Americans have faced: which side of the hyphenated label do we ultimately chose to sit and sip our chai? This begs the question, however, of why do we choose in the first place? And, who is asking us to choose? Is it our families, who, through their indirect and not-so-subtle signals let us know that, apart from Western institutions of higher education, anything else Western is a waste of time? This includes the food ("no masala, no flavor"), the religion ("Hinduism/Islam/Buddhism is a peaceful religion, not like these Christians, always fighting-shmighting and trying to convert everybody"), and as marriage partners ("kya 'until death do us part?' We marry for the next seven lives, not only one! And none of this die-vorcing business either"). Such persuasions, over time, may have an effect. One could also posit that perhaps it is ourselves that wants us to choose, tired of the oscillations and uncertainty as to which culture we should embrace. I trust that many reading this column are acquainted with, or even have a friend that is labeled the "coconut" of the group. Others, on the other hand, may be stunned at their friends' deep and thorough knowledge on the latest Bollywood "fillum," who they may affectionately come to term as the "closet FOB."

Lest we forget, though, that a hyphen performs the role of not only keeping two terms apart, but also, of joining them together. As such, is it not possible for myself, a South Asian-American to rest comfortably on the symbolic bridge between continents, grateful for the freedoms of the West that have ultimately proven more virile than my parent's will to keep my curfew at 9pm, and appreciative of the rich cultural fabrics sewn together and presented to me by my parents and extended family? Through food, language, and excruciating Sunday school ("But I don't want to go to the temple! Besides, I thought you said God is everywhere; I can pray from my room!" Door slam. "God is tired of looking at your dirty room and left one hour back. You are going to the temple and put on that salwaar I left on your bed!"), have we not learned to steady ourselves on the seesaw that once teetered between two seemingly polar worlds?

I don't know about you, dear reader, but I for one am tired of playing the banal part of the ABCD that doesn't know if she should date the doctor Mom's friend's cousin's neighbor knows, or, to get it on the with hot Brazilian sculptor who lives downstairs in my building. I am certainly not confused about this situation (hello? get it on with the sculptor, and then go out with the doctor), or anything else, such as what my favorite comfort foods are (mushroom pizza and Mom's vegetable korma), who my favorite writers are (Arundhati Roy and Shakespeare), and what types of music make me want to shake my thang (bhaangra and house with Latin beats). Why should I have to choose? I am an amalgamation of two upbringings; the first by Indian parents with whom I spent most of my time outside of school, music lessons, and soccer practice. The second is from an education that took place within classrooms, on the playground, at band practice, and as I got older, at "girls only" sleepovers. As such, I would like to make an amendment to the term ABCD. After much self-assessment, and the realization that I no longer feel resentment or frustrated about living within two societies, I am proud to declare that I have graduated to being an American Born Cultured Desi. I can honestly say that I now see the hyphen within the term South Asian-American as the link that joins two major parts of myself, rather than juxtaposes them as two distinct entities.

Perhaps though, it is a rite of passage for every young desi who has the misfortune of attending Bharatanatiyam or tabla classes to go through their early life in a confused state, and, to wish hateful things on your mother when she gave you an aloo gobi sandwich when all the other kids had Chef Boyardee. With the exception of a few, almost every desi-American I know underwent similar experiences of torturing themselves with questions of self-identity. After all, living a double-life does take a toll, and makes you believe that choosing one culture over the other will make your life easier. And when you are young, it really is that simple; the complexities of culture really do reduce to what you will force your mother to put in your lunch for the next day ("hey, look at me everybody, I have a ham sandwich for lunch today. I AM NOW AN AMERICAN").

Then again, perhaps I am just getting old, and my words above means little; maybe I am just tired of questioning myself and plowing through more self-discovery. Instead, I conveniently choose both cultures as my own, fearful of stating that one is "better" than the other; who knows? But for now, to borrow Shakespeare's words, I am relieved that "the hurlyburly is done/and the battle's lost and won," so that I can begin to appreciate myself as an ABCD. As it turns out, there is plenty in a name.

Images Courtesy Corbis