Month: January 2024
The Luxury to Hate My Name
Like so many other girls, when I was little, I used to dream about getting married. Sure, I loved the idea of wearing a beautiful dress and getting swept off my feet by a prince, but there was more to my fantasy. Not only could I have a fairytale romance and spend forever with someone I loved, but I would also be able to shed my identity and meld it with someone else’s. More specifically, I could finally get rid of my last name and adopt something prettier, more palatable, and more distant to my parents. This had always been my plan. I never considered the sexist implications of a woman taking her husband’s name – I truly believed that I just wanted to do it for myself.
I maintained this mindset well into sophomore year, when I was assigned a project that required me to ask my parents about our family’s history and the lives of my grandparents. I assumed the assignment would be simple, and I could just write about their professions and how that influenced my life and my decisions today. While my parents were detailing the differences between both sides of the family, however, it occurred to me that I didn’t know the names of my great grandparents and that I needed the information to accurately trace my family tree. My parents began explaining the names of their respective relatives, including my great-grandmothers, when they mentioned something that shocked me. Both of my great-grandmothers, whom I never met, had two names: one from before marriage and one from after. Not only were these different last names, they were different first names. In Indian culture, women used to not only forfeit their family names in marriage, but their identities were also rewritten, and they weren’t even in control of it.
It only got worse from there. I learned that even my grandmothers had to participate in this tradition. I learned that my dear maternal grandmother, Vageeshri, who I consider to be one of my closest relatives who I don’t see very often, was actually named Maansi at birth. After she became engaged to my grandfather, his father and hers worked together to create a new name in marriage for her. While they did this out of love and respect, merging the names of multiple dieties in order to craft her new identity, I just couldn’t get over the fact that my grandmother had an entirely different identity from what I had known all my life. The idea that generations of my female ancestors, even those who were privileged and wealthy, had their names taken from them altered my entire perspective.
I recognize now that my parents chose my name especially for me, as well as the privilege I have just by being able to keep that name for my whole life. Both my first and last names are symbols of who I am and where I came from, and I’m honored to be able to share any connection with the generations of Joshi women who came before me. If I do get married one day, even if my husband has the most fabulous last name, I’ve ever heard, I will certainly not be forfeiting mine. While India has since evolved drastically, enough so that even my mom, who got married around 20 years ago didn’t change her last name, there are still so many countries across the world that have overtly granted women equal rights but still perpetuate inequality through customs like these. If my grandmothers had truly wanted their names to be changed, something I can’t know for sure, I can embrace the tradition; however, I know that there must have been millions of women whose names were taken from them without their approval, and from those women, I have gained another lens through which I can acknowledge my privilege. I will keep my name with pride, simply because I can.
Ideas for Other Blogs
Personal is Political: People have pointed out to me and my roommate how often we do this thing where we cite something we read in high school in reference to a real life situation. It’s hard for me to explain, but basically I’m considering telling stories in my life and then tying them to a poem or some kind of literature that discusses a greater issue. I think it’ll make more sense when I actually write it.
Civic Issue: I’m still planning on discussing the abortion debate and highlighting the different arguments on both sides that make me believe that choice should come first.
“This I Believe” VERY rough draft
NOTE: i know its rough i dont wanna talk about it <3
I was in preschool the first time it happened. I remember trying to find the words through tears to explain to my mom why the kids at school had been so cruel to me that day. When I finally found the explanation – it’s because I’m Indian – all I got in response was denial. But I remember knowing even then that I was right.
I wasn’t being shoved into lockers or called degrading nicknames. The bullying I knew was far more discreet, implicit, and effective. In elementary school, it came in the form of “missed” invitations to birthday parties and stolen toys on the playground. It got louder as I got older, and the culprits got cleverer. By middle school at the same district, it was applause meant to humiliate me and my Brown friends as we entered the cafeteria. Explicit songs centered around my ethnicity and screams of my name down hallways, just because my name amused them. By the time we got to high school, the blatant racism had subsided. Everyone knew who their friends were and who to avoid, so actual conflict was rare enough that I didn’t even think about the fact that I was Indian everyday.
The heart of the story takes place on the dance floor of senior homecoming. I remember feeling anticipation rise again between songs as everyone waited to hear what (typically hit-or-miss) song the DJ would choose next. I remember looking around the decorated gymnasium in confusion, trying to place the melody that started playing. I remember recognizing it and thinking I was going insane. The DJ was playing the song “Chammak Challo,” a popular Bollywood classic and a staple in every Indian household. Never in my life had I imagined that a song that I usually heard in my living room would ever play at a school dance, and what I saw next bewildered me even more. I watched as everyone resumed their mosh pit dancing, with a few modifications to replicate the steps that the Indian students in the middle of the floor were using. No mockery, no prejudice, no malintentions. And as I watched these peers of mine, who I had known since preschool, singing and dancing and appreciating my culture, it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know the words to the song. I knew the melody, I knew the chorus, but I didn’t understand the words because I didn’t speak the language. So as I joined my Brown friends in the middle of the dance floor, a new feeling replaced that confusion and fear that I originally experienced when I heard “Chammak Challo” playing: shame.
Since then, that same shame has hit me in waves every time I had to confront the reality of the situation. Every time someone asked me if I could speak my mother tongue and the answer was no. Every time my friends discussed a Bollywood actress’s marriage, and I didn’t know who they were talking about. Most recently, when I visited India, none of my family members could understand my heavy American accent.
Prejudice is embedded into my earliest memories. I’ve always known this, but only as I was standing on that packed homecoming dance floor did I realize that it was my own hatred that lingered there. The other kids at school were mean, but their cruelty was temporary. Any long-term damage was caused by my own internalized racism. I stunted my own growth by subscribing to the short-sighted belief system of a couple bullies that rendered me inferior to them. By refusing to speak Marathi until I didn’t know how anymore and mocking my parent’s Indian accents when we were in public, I thought I could distance myself from my Indian-ness. Little did I realize that one day it could be seen as an asset instead of an imperfection.
Luckily for me, I had this epiphany at 18 and not 80. I’ve been working towards celebrating my culture more and more everyday, from proudly wearing henna and posting pictures in Indian clothing on my Instagram to working with my dad to pick up some of the language I lost. While I once believed that the only way I could ever be “normal” was by denying my identity, I’ve since learned otherwise. I believe that only you can decide who you are and that embracing the unique parts of one’s identity can enhance their life.
Spring Blog Ideas
This I Believe:
- One of my ideas is to talk about respect and how American attitudes toward the concept are shifting. The importance of respect was always stressed heavily in my house when I was growing up, and I think it’s a wide topic that I can narrow down on later.
- I’m also considering highlighting all the ways that I notice waste in my life at Penn State, the consequences of it, and how we can improve our choices to limit waste.
Personal is Political:
I’m still not completely sold on a topic for this, but I’m considering tying several stories to the theme of echo chambers, and how they can be dangerous. I think that specifically with the internet, it’s becoming easier and easier to be “radicalized” to a degree in any belief. This could relate to political indoctrination or just the perils of the TikTok algorithm.
Civic Issue:
- I feel very passionately about reproductive freedom and protecting the right to choose. I’ve done a lot of research on the debate about abortion, and I think I can uncover interesting arguments on both sides.
- Education, specifically at the elementary age, is so important, even outside of the debates about progressive vs. traditional curriculum. I think that how we teach students of that age can heavily impact the trajectory of their future academic experiences and their lives in general. I think that learning psychology is so interesting, and I’d like to learn more about it.