I live my life with each of my parents on my shoulders. Their influence seeps into every decision I make, from what I choose to do in my lifelong career to the clothes I wear when we go out to dinner. Life revolves around the family: My parents crossed oceans, moved to a foreign country with so little to their names in order to create a better life not just for me, but for the family they left behind in India.
While this origin story is shared by a number of different cultures, there exists a key parenthetical, an unspoken rule that accompanies this familial veneration: Your family transcends even yourself. I saw this proven true time and time again within my community. Divorce is considered a taboo topic and an unspeakable action. In my entire community, comprised of hundreds of Indian families, I have heard of one divorce in my life. The same sentiment goes for things like therapy, medications for mental illnesses and the manner in which the children of a family dress. The children of a family are expected to put aside their own desires, even if doing so infringes on their identities or beliefs — for the sake of their family and its reputation. Children are raised to put aside their wants if it differs from their family’s beliefs in the name of respect.
On first read, this isn’t a crazy idea; its premise is selflessness. My family made sacrifices for me, changed their lives for me, raised me, loved me. Of course I owe them. But how much can you owe someone without stripping yourself of your own personhood?
I recently attended my cousin’s graduation with her sister and her friend. Toward the end of the ceremony, my cousin and her friend stood up on the bleachers and held signs up over their head, bold messages demanding the University of Michigan to divest from the ongoing genocide in Palestine. I watched as my parents, my aunt and uncle and their friends all turned a blind eye. They gave small, close-lipped smiles and skirted around discussing it, instead aimlessly asking my younger cousin to “come take a picture” without directly looking at her. When a young man came up to my cousin and her friend, calling them terrorists, they weren’t looking. They made no mention of it in the hours or days that followed, content to let their children fend for themselves in the name of upholding blissful ignorance.
What struck me wasn’t necessarily the lack of anger. It was the degree of disregard — the way in which the adults’ demeanors changed to absolute indifference. It wasn’t a “You need to stop doing this!” followed up by an argument, it was, “What you’re doing is so shameful that the only way I can deal with it is by pretending you’re not doing it at all.” This is all to say that there are very firm, hard lines when it comes to what is acceptably “loud,” and this rings especially true when it comes to expressions of morality and beliefs.
When I spoke with my graduated cousin, she rationalized this phenomenon by loosely paraphrasing one of Indian-American comedian Hasan Minhaj’s sets. He talks about a divide between generations: Our parents’ generation, who immigrated here from India, grew up being taught never to rock the boat, to be happy with what they have and never draw attention to themselves where it’s not absolutely necessary. In part, this is because they had already committed the ultimate act of “rocking the boat” by immigrating to America, a country that they had only heard of by word of mouth and sensationalized TV depictions. They were told that America was the solution to their hardships, and that they should be grateful to even be there, in the “land of the free.” For my parents, this wariness of drawing attention to themselves was a survival mechanism, because they came here without choice — their lives, their family’s lives and their children’s lives depended on their success. There was no alternative. To do anything to jeopardize this success was unthinkable, and this extends into how my parents believe morals should be expressed: quietly and compliantly.
In contrast, the principles I grew up being taught were completely different from those that my parents were taught. I grew up being sold an idealized version of what it is to be “American”: the fundamental right to free speech, freedom of belief, freedom to protest and the pursuit of happiness. I think of being taught of events like the Boston Tea Party and the American Revolution — defiance in the name of beliefs, in the face of moral injustice. I have learned over time that there is a subtext to these lessons, the contingency that defiance is only palatable in the name of a white American belief. But no matter how my views on these teachings change, this is what I internalized in my childhood: I have the right to act in the name of my beliefs. Whether I actually have this right or not is irrelevant — I find that the institutions that are deeply engrained in my daily life uphold a set of beliefs that push my own to the sidelines.
The beliefs that American institutions adopt aren’t rooted in compassion for those that struggle against oppression, but rather in the mentality of the American nationalist. Take, for example, the responses from American universities to solidarity encampments that arose in response to the ongoing genocide in Palestine. Universities across the country sent militarized police forces to brutally remove protesting students and tear down the encampments, the symbols of belief that these students had built simply because the sentiment underlying the encampments did not align with what our government has deemed the “American” belief: an unwavering support for Israel. The same government that supposedly supports the individual right to uphold personal beliefs brutalizes my peers for doing so. However, I still fundamentally believe that I hold the right to defiance, regardless of whether or not it is met with acceptance or disdain.
This is where I, as the child of two Indian immigrants, have to grapple with the divide between myself and my parents. When does it become a sacrifice of my own beliefs to stay quiet in the name of my parents’ beliefs and wishes? It also begs the question of necessity: if my family’s fate no longer hinges on my success (or lack thereof), there is no value to me in continuing to “not rock the boat.” My parents sacrificed their voices and kept their heads down precisely so that I don’t have to — I have a voice, and I have a right to use that voice. Again, the question of whether I actually possess this right or not arises; it seems as though the very institutions that taught me to be unwavering in my beliefs seek to suppress them at every turn. And this in turn forces me to consider why my beliefs were shaped against the grain of what America’s institutions believe, despite being raised by them at every stage of my life.
As someone who constantly tries to find a balance between two identities, being American and being Indian, I frequently wonder why, even though I am American, my beliefs seem to veer in the opposite direction of the American mainstream. I find that it’s precisely because of my two identities that my beliefs differ — solely American beliefs serve solely American interests. The American identity, by itself, will only hold beliefs that consider the American welfare. But when I have another identity to consider, when I have 20 years of Indian heritage behind me and generations of struggle in my lineage, every single issue becomes a matter of consideration. It’s no longer as simple as considering what an American would do. It forces my beliefs down a different path — to know the pain of oppression and see it reflected in so many facets of the world, I choose to root my beliefs in that compassion, not in my American identity. This sense of empathy that has been nurtured by my experience as an Indian woman, coupled with my upbringing as an American through institutions like public schools and news, create a sort of reverberating echo that culminates in the form of a moral responsibility that I feel a need to fulfill. To stand up for my beliefs to the absolute fullest extent that my body and mind allow me to, not just for myself and my own rights, but for those that I empathize for, those that shape my beliefs.
I am fortunate in the sense that I know, for a fact, that my parents’ love is unconditional. If I were to be arrested tomorrow, if I lost my job, if I experienced any of the many repercussions that I might face for holding and expressing beliefs that aren’t “American” to an American institution, my parents would give as much as they had to support me through it, no matter the magnitude of their anger or their disappointment. But my circumstance is unique. There are many in my community that don’t share this luxury. I have peers whose parents would disown them, cast them out, revoke things that their children depend on at the first sign of rebellion. How long can we respect our parents’ wishes before it comes down to the ultimatum of choosing between them and ourselves?
There are a lot of people who risk a great deal in their lives for the sake of their beliefs. And in this case, it’s a matter of choice. We, at some point, have to choose to be steadfast in our beliefs. And by doing so, we keep our lives’ philosophies alive, preserving the parts of ourselves that can so easily be lost in the name of pleasing our families and communities.
MiC Contributor Siya Modi can be reached at siyamodi@umich.edu.
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