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Picture-Perfect Identity
The Invisible Lens
What the homecoming photos did not show
Gemini Ghibli transformation of the author’s photo.
My kids are not Indian. I mean, they look Indian-ish. My older one looks a bit like an Indian movie star, teen version: tall, dark, handsome, lanky, with a perpetual five o’clock shadow because who wants to waste time on a close shave? He can’t do a Bollywood dance number to save his life, though. My younger one is more compact, more like a Latin American soccer player, all explosive energy and forward motion.
But neither of them is Indian. They are American, with Indian genes and heritage. Neither of them is fluent in their mother tongue; it is English all the way through. Born and bred American, they hold a cricket bat like a baseball bat whenever they wander onto a cricket pitch. They worship football, baseball, and basketball.
My former neighbor in San Diego is from Maharashtra, India. As his daughter grew up, he revised his expectations in stages. First, it was, “I would prefer she find a Marathi boy.” A few years later, an Indian boy would do. Another year or two passed, and he came down to this: just a boy would do. This wasn’t because he was racist, or against same-sex marriage, or anything like that. He is one of the most open-hearted, inclusive human beings I know. It was because…
