Sticks and Stones and the Fourth of July by Annam Manthiram
I suppose every child at some point in her life wishes she could have a new mother.
My mother was different than what I’d read about in books or seen in movies. She didn’t bake chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies, but instead fried brown sugar treats called banyarum, and cooked various curries and concoctions that made our house reek of cumin and coriander and hundreds of other spices I couldn’t even pronounce. She didn’t read books to me at night – or at all – choosing instead to unleash me upon the local library and let me have my pick of reading material. She also didn’t wear the costume pearls that looked like tiny marbles or muumuu-shaped dresses that buttoned in front. She chose to clothe herself in the traditions of her country: elaborately embroidered saris of motley colors, her neck and arms buried underneath gold necklaces and bangles given to her by my grandmother.
Because she was different, I knew that I was different. No matter how I spoke (accent-free), what clothes I wore (hand-me-downs, but American hand-me-downs), or how nice I was (I gave away my lunch frequently), I was ridiculed in school. I grew up hating my culture, the dark skin, the language of being foreign. I wanted to be like those dolls my mother would buy me for Christmas: blue-eyed and utterly American.
A family trip changed all of that.
My father decided one summer that we would take a cross-country road trip across the United States, leaving from California and ending up in Washington, D.C. – timing it perfectly so that we would arrive on July 4th to see the fireworks display above the Washington Monument. A teenager, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of traveling with my parents, my brother and sister, and in the back of my mind, though I was afraid to admit it to myself, I was terrified of how we would be received elsewhere.
One night, partway into our trip, we drove through a small town in South Dakota, looking for a place to eat dinner. We settled on a Mexican restaurant, and when we walked in, everyone stared at us, especially at my mother and her brilliantly-flowered sari, consumed with pinks, purples, and hues of every kind. I looked down, convincing myself that if I held my breath, the gawking and whispering would go away. The hostess seated us somewhere inconspicuous, and though I was thankful, I was also furious with my mother for what she was wearing. Why couldn’t she just wear pants and a shirt like everyone else?
The meal ended without incident. When we left the restaurant and walked across the parking lot, though, young men crammed into a small car stopped their vehicle on the street and began yelling racial slurs at us. I looked down again, a coward, wanting it all to go away. The entire exchange lasted for a minute, the assault like firebombs on my ears, and then the men drove away, laughing and pointing their fingers at us – at our difference.
After they were gone, I turned to my mother, ready to deliver a volley of insults. If she was going to live in the United States, then she needed to assimilate. She couldn’t keep putting her children in these positions, having to defend ourselves against wanton ridicule that was hurtful and nauseating.
But when I looked at her, she was smiling. She was oblivious to the remarks, and when my sister told her what happened, she just laughed. “So?” she asked, and waved her hands in a cavalier way. She had refused to allow those men to demean her. By ignoring their insults, she had retained control – had shown them that she wasn’t afraid or humiliated. She was just being herself, and nothing they said could change that.
When we arrived in D.C. on July 4th and spread our blankets on the grass in front of the Washington Monument, I thought it fitting that I had finally learned what it was to be American – and to love this country. My mother, for all of her differences, was more American than I had realized. She embodied what this country had fought for during its struggle for independence: the freedom to be yourself.
I smiled for the first time on that trip – the kind of smile that fills your insides with a dizzying sort of happiness – and admired the fireworks, feeling proud of my Indian-American heritage.
The eSSSence of Annam Manthiram
Style: My mother’s saris have influenced me. I try to incorporate color and pattern into whatever I wear because the world is not black or white or neutral, so why dress that way?
Substance: Whatever I do in life, I do it with passion and vigor. And I try to be the best person I can be because there is so much goodness in the world, I want to be a part of it.
Soul: I’ve often been told that I’m an “old soul.” I don’t know exactly what that means, but here’s my translation: I’ve had to grow up fast, and in the process, I have tried (and continue) to extract greater meaning from those experiences. Good or bad.
The essence of being an American citizsen is freedom. Freedom for all people. The freedom of religion and culture. What a wonderful story to share for the 4th of July. Thanks for sharing.
What a beautiful tribute to your mother… and what a wonderful lesson, to not let others demean you, to keep your power. I look forward to reading more essays from you!
Thank you, Susan and Jennifer.
I love the fabric and the bangles and the close family, but most of all, I love the happiness that your mother felt about participating in the highest ideals. What an example of self-confidence, positive self-identity and happiness. Your mother had a good influence on you, and your “essence” blurb shows the ideals she modeled for you. Wow–I’m so happy I know you, Annam. Your positive outlook is contagious and I will do my best to absorb your wisdom!
Now, about those dark and creepy stories of yours . . . . ha ha
I love and salute your mom for embracing her heritage. My mom whose family were Jews from Syria, Egypt and Turkey only embraced all things American – which deprived us of a lot of historical knowledge which has since been destroyed. Happy Independence to your whole family!
LOL Merimee – where there is light, there has to be dark!
Happy Independence to you too, Linda! Thanks for reading.
Thanks for sharing this story, Annam. So often, we don’t appreciate our uniqueness until we’re older. Your mom has beauty and grace.
I loved the way your mother was still loving her country and culture and not caring about how the small people reacted! I enjoyed your learning experience that your mother was able to relate to you. One thing i discovered while growing up, is if people are not happy with themselves, they try to feel better by making other people miserable. That is not the America I belong to. Enjoyed your story!!
Thanks, Yasmeen. My mother is beautiful!
Cheryl, that is so true about people not happy with themselves and demeaning others as a result. But like you said, that is not the America I love or belong to. Thanks for reading.