2007

“Schedule.” The girls at the birthday party burst into a fit of giggles. My slight Indian accent was bleeding through, so it came out like “sked-yule”. My face burned brighter with each time they made me repeat my words. I wish I knew how to talk more normal.

2009

I sat down at the cafeteria table, my hands trembling as I shielded my Dal Chawal (rice and lentils) in the shadow of my lunchbox. “Hey, what is that?” “That looks sooo gross!” To my shy second-grade self, even the smallest comments would stir a panic in me. I wish I had a more normal lunch. 

Growing up, I seamlessly flitted between two versions of myself, akin to the flip of a coin. Americanizing myself was a golden ticket to obtain this highly coveted status of normal, or at least so I thought. I prided myself on being malleable and sculpted myself to appease my peers. Sure, I knew which box to check under ‘what race are you?,” a seemingly unconscious choice. But I constantly clashed with who I was. Who am I going to be today? I obviously didn’t know, so I left it up to the fates: heads or tails. 

2011

By the fourth grade, I had solidified my view on what it meant to be normal.

My dad answered the door in his usual white Kurta (a long tunic-shirt over matching pants). Oh no, it was a Boy Scout from my class selling something. I felt my cheeks go red. I dove behind the staircase in hopes he wouldn’t recognize me. I wish Papa dressed more normal. 

In a world where we are engrossed in broadcasting our individuality, fashion is one of the most intimate forms of doing so. Our fashion choices dictate who we are before we even have the chance to say a word—a double-edged sword. This gives people the power to formulate preconceptions about who we are, whether we want them to or not.  In turn, you have to be comfortable with who you are and what you express. This is something I struggled with for a long time; I was not comfortable with who I was. I was not comfortable with what I was wearing. I was not comfortable being seen. 

 2019

 I had been excitedly awaiting this day; it was Garba, one of the rare occasions I got to finally wear my Indian clothes. I stepped out into the steady cold of Seattle, the little bells on the end of my Lehenga jingled. Students flocked into Center Table going about their usual dinner routines. Should I take the longer, more secluded route? For once, I didn’t care. 

There is no such thing as normal. 

In a country where “acceptable” fashion is often very homogenized, breaking through these barriers is not easy. The westernization of fashion and the stigmas that arise from cultural clothing have yet to be broken down. Those who choose to fearlessly own and showcase their heritage are often looked down upon. I hope moving forward we all can appreciate the beauty of different cultures and traditions through fashion and inspire social consciousness within our own communities.