Vernacular

My family comes from India. Most of the time this means nothing to me. In fact, I've noted with some frustration that many people have misplaced pride in their ancestry. Sure, it's kind of cool to see Vishy Anand as the world chess champion, and whenever I see an Indian athlete I'll be sure to cheer for him (My jokes belie my pride). But apart from that, without a doubt I consider myself an American. There are, of course, experiences I share with first-generation Asian kids. Among them, and I cringe at the implied meaning, is my "Asian parents."

That phrase has come to stand for a very specific idea in today's culture, and perhaps especially among my peers. In this particular instance, I would like to consider Asian parents in a different light. The other attribute that Asian parents share, other than being angry and unreasonable, is that they all moved to the United States from Asia.

My grandparents have almost all passed away. It's sad to think about, but as a uni-lingual American I could not communicate with them well. My mom tells her mom if I accomplish something, and she tells me that her mom says congratulations. It's really not the same. I'm ashamed to admit it, but she almost doesn't seem real to me.

But I remember the death of my dad's mother. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I remember how panicked my dad was. He researched the diagnosis for days. He spent hours on the phone trying to track down a top-notch doctor for her. He was distracted from his work, distracted from his life here. It was obvious that he wanted to be back in India, by her side ...

What was he doing here? I asked myself that question many times. Of course, he left for India as soon as possible, but my question still lingered. Why was he in the United States at all? Why separate himself from someone he cared for so much? It was heartbreaking to watch him suffer, although I must be wary of using such a term, since my pain was nothing compared to his.

My immediate answer was what I think is the most natural one - he came to study. With his acceptance into graduate school he was probably assured a reasonable job if he finished. But then why didn't he return to India upon completing his degree? At least by today's standards, that seems to be relatively common practice.

The answer, which may be obvious to some of you, is that he wanted to ensure a better future for his family. He wanted to make sure that they wouldn't grow up in the same poor town that he did, in the same thief-ridden environment that he called home for the first 20 years of his life. In short, he did it for me.

How do you repay a lifetime of sacrifice? It sounds so trivial when you just say "immigrants gave up everything to come to this country." The cliche makes it sound as if they are a part of the distant past. But in truth there is no better way to say it - his friends, his life, but most importantly, his family were all left 8000 miles behind. And while he went on to have an impressive career in academia, his new family has always remained first and foremost. I consider myself fortunate that when he grows old, I will be able to take care of him. That when he calls I will be there in seconds, not 72 hours. This isn't "repaying" by any means. Nor does it have to be. That's what it means, I think, to give up everything for someone else. Repayment isn't necessary - only appreciation.

I carry the burden of his hopes and dreams for his family. The burden of making something of myself, so that his sacrifice will have meaning. I'm happy to carry that burden. Happy to have the opportunity to show the world that my parents, in spite of all the challenges they had to face, were able to succeed not only in their careers but also as a family. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I'm proud to carry that burden.

That's what it means to have Asian pride.