Do you know how everyone usually has that one family member that sponges off you and everything they do irritates you to the nth degree? Well THAT family (son of my dad’s cousin and his wife- what does that make them? My cousin twice removed? Who the heck knows or cares) showed up at our doorstep last weekend, just as we were getting ready to head out the door for a good friend’s daughter’s 1^st birthday party. Who even does that anymore?!!! Couldn’t they give us a heads up? What If we weren’t home? Come on people- it’s the 21^st century- use that cell phone of yours to at least give us the courtesy to let us know you guys are coming to sponge off us. Like we have all the time in the world- you know, as if we don’t work 5 days a week full time, as if we don’t have a 9 month old baby and almost 4 year old preschooler. I barely have time to talk to my husband- and here are these people- SURPRISING us at the doorstep. Excited much? UGH, I wish I could have made them disappear. 

Every Sunday night, I prep for my week. I had to get Zoya’s camp bag ready, prepare my Blueberry Steel Cut Oatmeal in the slow cooker, and put together all the milk bottles for Zayn the next day. While I’m doing all this- this uninvited family member asks, “Why are you so busy?” WHY AM I BUSY? SERIOUSLY? And then he proceeds to tell me I should cycle over to work and back (since it’s a 15 min commute). Ok sure Uncle, let me just throw Zoya onto my back, cycle over to her camp, drop her off, then cycle over to work, with my big ass backpack which I use to transport my breast milk and pump, and probably show up to work with sweat stains on my work clothes. 

The woman had told me that she would get my kids something (a gift) later in the week. Well guess what, they came, they ate my food, stayed in my house, and not once, were we gifted anything. Quite honestly, I usually don’t care about such materialistic needs- but at least pick up one tab, or get us groceries, or cook us a meal at home/help with meal prep. No, no such thing was done this week. 

What do they say? You can’t choose your family. No, I guess you can’t, but next time I can surely choose not to open that door.

THIS IS FINALLY HAPPENING. I have the courage to finally unleash my inner thoughts and start this blog. It’s been a long time coming my friends. And what better way to get the ball rolling than a big fat family wedding. We recently just came back from my cousin’s wedding in Atlanta. Like the million other Indian/Pakistani weddings we have been to, this one was no different in the drama category. Despite all the happy smiles, the intricate henna designs, the designer Indian outfits, and the beautiful people, the negative memories seem to be the ones that people talk about the most. For us, there was an unfortunate incident that I would love to erase from memory, but it has consumed me with all my whole and left a big wound in my heart. Friends- it was the first time I felt the stab of racism. Or maybe it was the first time I was fully aware of it. The first time it was a direct aim at my family, MY DAUGHTER. Yes, Atlanta, Georgia- you have broken my heart. The home of Dr. King………

It all happened in my aunt and uncle’s beautiful home in Alpharetta, Georgia- a beautiful suburb outside of Atlanta. My Aunt had been preparing for a religious ceremony at home, in honor of her son (my cousin).A few of her closest friends and family were there.  I dressed up Zoya in one of her Indian Outfits, hoping she wouldn’t embarrass me throughout any of the ceremony. I started thinking, “What if Zoya gets up and starts clapping during a religious recitation or starts watching You Tube at full on volume when everyone is praying”. It would just have given people more ammo to attack us with. Thankfully, she was on her best behavior. After the ceremony was done, Zoya befriended some kids- there were older, maybe 7, or 8- but she appeared to be having a blast. The group amongst us appeared to be very nice- Xin made a friend who also happened to serve in the navy around the same time he was in the navy. So here I am thinking- wow, the Bhori population in Atlanta is really forward and nice. Well fast forward to later in the night……..

“SHENAZ. SHENN AZZZZZ!!!!!!! COME DOWN AND LISTEN TO THIS” Everyone had left, and Xin is yelling at me to come down and listen to Zoya. I come down, and Zoya is running around referring to herself as Little Chinky. I think to myself- “Wait, did I hear that right? Did she really just say Little Chinky?” I look at Xin, and he has that same disappointed, heart- shattering look on his face.  At that moment, my heart sank deep to my stomach, and I felt myself turn hot, raging with fire and fury. “ZOYA, WHO SAID THAT TO YOU. WHO SAID THAT!??” “Don’t you EVER, EVER repeat that again. Those are not nice words. You are ZOYA, a beautiful, smart, half Indian, half Chinese girl. You don’t let anyone get away with calling you THAT” She knew. She knew from our reaction, that something was wrong. She cried, tears of sadness. She told us it was one of the small boys that said it. Sure, the boy didn’t know any better. But guess what- I’m sure his parents do. I’m sure his peers do. What are they teaching him? What is he learning from his peers? I needed to find out who his parents were. They needed to do a better job of educating their kids on being open minded and embracing diversity. 

I never did succeed in finding out who that boy was or who his parents were. But I told my story. I told my story to the people that listened. I had one family tell us that they were so happy to have met us – we were the cool, grounded, open-minded family in their eyes– the perfect Anti Trump poster she said. That was music to my ears.

Someone told me that I am the only one that is able to bridge the gap, what does this feel like for me now vs what I would have felt like if I didn’t choose the Chindian path? Truth be told, I most likely would have turned the other way. I wouldn’t have felt the stab or the heartbreak I felt when my daughter was called a Chink. I would have just gone about with my business, because it didn’t affect me, nor did I reflect on how it affected others.  I used to see the world through a different pair of lenses- in those lenses, words of racism didn’t register.  I never really paid attention to the little boy that used to ask me where my dot was on my head, or when the little girl would tell my friend Jenny her eyes were weird because they were almond shaped. I saw everything with an edited filter – almost removing the objects in the background, making the image just picture perfect. That’s how it was growing up in an Indian household. But, now the lenses have changed as the world around me not only affects me, it affects my family and loved ones.   Words hurt, and the wounds run deep forever.  We all have subconscious biases, and we need to work harder than ever to remove them from our existence.  In my eyes, I don’t see a Chinese man in my husband. I see a kind, warm-hearted, strong, intelligent individual. I see past the outer existence. Sure, I don’t think I saw past that initially. My subconscious bias had something to do with that. If I had this subconscious bias, imagine my parents’. However, they have come a long way, and I am super proud of them for kicking those inner racist thoughts to the curb. I demand change and the change can start with YOU.  Do it for the Zoya’s and Zayn’s of the world- I never once want them to feel like they don’t have a place in this world.

We have a purpose. We are CHINDIAN- a strong and united force, and we will conquer hate through love.