This article is a part of the Cultural Confusion series. Read more here.

“Where are you from?” A question that most could answer with ease, but one that always catches me off guard as I struggle to put together a coherent response. I could say that I am

1. An American citizen who speaks and acts like a Briton;
2. A former U.K. resident who returns home for mere days out of the year and is planning a future in America
3. A second-generation South Indian.

So, which is it? I do not speak my mother tongue and have never lived in India, so is it fraudulent to claim 3) from above? But then, I feel similarly fraudulent denying my heritage and ethnicity. Should I instead attempt to hold all three identities simultaneously, the very embodiment of multiculturalism?

Or, should I quit trying to be an identity hybrid, a cultural impostor wherever I go, and instead stay faithful to a single culture?

Certainly many people I have met are keen to place me into a box the minute they meet me. “But where are you really from?”, they insist when I reply with 1) or 2) above.

Unfortunately, the problem goes both ways. During a summer internship spent rooming with a first-generation South Asian girl in New York, I endeavored in vain to highlight and take pride in my Indian heritage, only for her to inform me rather bluntly at the end of the summer that she still thought I was a “fake” Indian.

I was crushed.  I had never had to face so tangibly the possibility of being an impostor when I took such pride in my background. I was no stranger to this type of reaction as a child, when, during summer holidays in India, extended family members would make fun of my “odd” British accent and mannerisms.

Phase I: Growing Up in the UK

Back “home” in the U.K., however, I felt just as alien, attending an exclusive almost all-white private girls’ school in London. I ate Western food, wore Western clothes and only learnt and spoke English at home. But, still a narrow-minded child, I ultimately didn’t feel as if I belonged to this cliquish sliver of society, not like the posh English kids who surrounded me.

My family upbringing, while Westernized in many ways, was markedly more conservative and sheltered than my peers. The few British friends I did have thought it bizarre that my parents took such interest in my grades, insisted on chauffeuring me up and down from school and extra-curricular activities, and imposed strict curfews on after-school outings. When I complained to my parents that they were different from everyone else, they insisted that maintaining a close-knit family was part of their own culture, that they were proud of it, and I should be too.

Except that I wasn’t proud of it. On the contrary, I was ashamed of the fact that I felt so marginalized.

I was the clichéd high-school reject, wilting at the fringes of society in my pigtails and waistcoats, desperate to fit in.

I socialized with only a small group of friends, mostly first or second-generation immigrants like me. The similarities in our background gave me some comfort, but throughout my teenage years, I was still plagued by an uncomfortable, persistent feeling of displacement.

Phase II: Living in the US

Once I moved away from home and arrived in the U.S. to pursue my post-grad degree, these immediate disparities in upbringing became less obvious. I spread my wings, so to speak: I became financially independent, picked up new hobbies, and expanded my social network. On the most immediate level, I have now assimilated into society here, which, at least in the cities I have lived in, is a veritable melting pot of different races and cultures.

On the other hand, throughout my career as a consultant, I have continued to encounter a niche of society that remains, despite the efforts of women and minorities to break the glass ceiling, fairly undiversified—just like the private school that made me feel like such an outsider. To succeed in this business, one has to build relationships with clients, make “small talk” and network. But even though I try valiantly to accomplish all these tasks, I feel out of place and even at a disadvantage for not being the typical “All-American.”

I have no knowledge of most American sports, and my eyes glaze over when we talk incessant baseball, hockey, or football. At happy hours in my male-dominated office, the guys crowd around the foosball table or the television to watch a sporting event, while I lurk awkwardly in the corner, hoping that someone might engage me instead in a conversation about music (my passion) or international travel.

Part of me resents that these “Americanized” interests are placed at the top of the list of “acceptable topics of conversation.” Perhaps I am being unpatriotic. Are these topics really more “American” than anything else, or am I looking for excuses?  Am I just fundamentally doomed to always be “different” from most other people?

Phase III: Observing How Others Deal

So, here I am, almost 30, and still haunted by the feeling that I haven’t found a place in the world where I feel comfortable yet. I wonder if it is normal to always have the sensation that you’re on the outside looking in. I ask this question of my husband from time to time. Like me, he was born in the U.S. but is of Indian origin. He does not speak his mother tongue either and professes to have very little knowledge of Indian traditions and culture. His own parents emigrated to the U.S. when they were very young.

I taunt him occasionally with the label “ABCD” (“American-born confused ‘desis,'” a slightly mocking nickname for Indians).

What makes us so different, though, is that he is actually secure in his identity as an American, and considers himself as such: as a result, he does not suffer from the same identity confusion that nags me.

Being a second-generation immigrant, I am acutely observant of others who have had the same experiences or come from similar backgrounds.  I have met others who don’t appear to be comfortable in their “Western” skins, yet are not completely children of their own culture either. On the flip side, I have also encountered people who appear to fit into Western cultures seamlessly, but have simultaneously maintained strong ties to their ethnic roots, whether they are Indian, Chinese, Latino or Turkish. I envy the ease of their response to the question above. How convenient must it be to know who you are and be unreservedly proud of it—and in so doing, fit neatly into the identity box I crave?

Phase IV: What Now?

When I step back and think about all I have experienced, I find myself returning to one inevitable viewpoint: it is deeply important to feel connected to your heritage in some fashion, whether through tradition or family. Otherwise, it leads inevitably to a feeling of cultural displacement like mine. What this means can vary from person to person. For example, I regret not learning my mother tongue and engaging in more cultural traditions as a child. However, I aim to at least educate my children about their background and hope they might eventually take an interest in their heritage in whatever way is meaningful to them.

Ultimately, though, the identity confusion I feel is not dependent on becoming allegiant to any one culture. Indeed, it will not go away until I become more confident in who I am and who I want to be as a person – not a cultural product. After all, maybe there isn’t one ideal “home” for me. Maybe, I am destined to be a cultural nomad. And, if I’m comfortable with it, perhaps that’s alright. You can never go wrong with being yourself. Upon reflection, my answer to the question above would be (4): I’m a citizen of the world, darling. And that’s something to be proud of too.

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By Ahalya
Photograph by Jetfuel