I am Indian. I am skinny, I wear glasses, I have lots of facial hair, I have hairy legs, I have thick, straight black hair, I am good at math, I prioritize academics over other activities, I eat Indian food, I like to code, I like science. So to other people, what makes me different? To the stranger that sees me in the passenger seat of my parents’ car on my way to school, to the guy who I have to talk to order my burrito from my favorite Taqueria every Friday, to the random Freshman in my high school who I have never talked to before, what makes me different from the stereotype that most Americans have in their head? Who am I?

In Indian culture, identity, among other things like mental health, isn’t something that is talked about that often. When I joined my new middle school back in the beginning of sixth grade, coming from an elementary school that was relatively very rigorous and was demographically almost completely Asian, I was more or less shocked by the new emphasis they placed on identity, community, and mental health. Coming from such a background, understanding and accepting these ideas was at first a struggle. I was never too sure, rather too interested, to ever take part in the activities my school provided us with. Only now, in my junior year of high school, on this fine Thursday evening will I try to understand who I am.

“My spice tolerance isn’t that great. I feel that to an Indian person, I’m American and to an American I’m Indian,” I said to my dad’s friend who was joining my family for Thanksgiving dinner two years ago. When I said this, I meant it in the context of spice tolerance and spice tolerance alone. My dad’s friend, however, understood it as I understand it now–that as a result of not speaking the language and being raised in the states, to the Indian community, I feel that I will never be truly Indian, and to the American community I feel that I will never be truly American.

I enjoy–no–I love Indian culture. I love playing cricket. I love the crazy Bollywood movies and their extravagant songs. I love eating Indian food. But there are some places where I don’t exactly “check the boxes”. For example, I don’t speak nor do I understand the language. Not Hindi, not Marathi, not Gujurati. These elements on top of other things, such as where I go to school, separate me from being truly “Indian”. Actually, let’s talk a little more about where I go to school.

I go to a tiny, private high school in California. In other words, I go to school in a bubble. A self-aware bubble at that. Going to school in America has made me American. It’s not my citizenship and it’s not my birth certificate, but it’s those debates about American politics or about teachers or about internet conspiracy theories or about who the best rapper is during lunch that have made me American. It’s my closest friends (none of which are Indian by the way) which have made me American. It’s my teammates on the cross country and track team which have made me American. It’s my classmates and teachers which have made me American.

So, in the end, who am I? There’s no getting around it. I am Indian. I am skinny, I wear glasses, I have lots of facial hair, I have a big nose, I have hairy legs, I have thick, straight black hair, I am good at math, I prioritize academics over other activities, I eat Indian food, I like to code, I like science. Sure, I could try to get more muscle, maybe curly hair and dress differently too, to ward off some stereotypes, but it probably won’t change much. But what the stranger that sees me in the passenger seat of my parents’ car on my way to school, the guy who I have to talk to order my burrito from my favorite Taqueria every Friday, and the random Freshman in my high school who I have never talked to before don’t know is what makes me, me. I run, I blog, I teach art, I watch anime, I read manga, I listen to music, I play Fortnite, I read (every now and then), I play table tennis, I love my parents, I love my brother, I have no pets, I had two fish once, I always wanted a dog, I would like a cat too, mom dad are you guys reading this (take notes)?

There’s no getting around stereotypes. Especially, I guess, when they are true. As my dad keeps reminding me, I gotta make sure I don’t conform to their judgement. All in all, I love being American and I love being Indian.