Personal Narrative: I Am Indican

I am “Indican”
In elementary school, I was asked to list my race. My father is Asian Indian with a Christian last name of John and my mother is Mexican American with a maiden name of Torres. The class was instructed if our race was not listed to mark “other”. “Other,” my young mind could not fathom why “other” would be my only option? Instead, I wrote in “Indican.” The teacher said the made up word was not an option. I firmly stood my ground as a part Indian and a part Mexican boy and refused to mark “other.” Consequently, the answer that made me whole was “Indican.”
Dressing up in Indian clothes for functions was a norm for me growing up when visiting my father’s family. Listening to them speak Malayalam, a South Indian language was common. Although never speaking the language, the insulting words like “parti” when someone was calling another a “dog” in jest was quickly learned. Also, when in trouble, the tone spoken to me when engaging in something that was not acceptable was clearly understood. Growing up as an Indian boy was normal and I did not feel any different from the other Indian children.
Driving down to the Rio Grande Valley to visit my mother’s side of the family was like visiting Mexico. All the restaurant employees and even the
major department store employees spoke Spanish. During my early years, the lack of knowledge of the geographical location of the Rio Grande Valley’s close proximity to the Mexican border made it difficult to understand why everyone catered to the Mexican population. The Torres family speaks a little Spanish, but mainly English. I was a Mexican boy and did not feel any different from any other Mexican boys.
The race question that was asked in elementary school did start me questioning if I was different.
Realizing that a traditional South Indian boy or even a Mexican boy did not fit my profile. Are there others in the world like me? I asked my mother if there was a difference between my relatives in the John and Torres family. Her response was yes, you are different, buy you are “Fearfully and wonderfully made… Psalm 139:14,” and our Lord does not make mistakes. Of course she would quote scripture to console me. Surprisingly, it did make me feel better. Indian on my father’s side and Mexican on my mother’s side is what make me whole. Filling in “other” on a form will never be an option for me because I am not an
“other.”
I am of Asian Indian and Mexican descent. I will never be arranged in marriage like my father’s family was or enjoy eating interesting delicacies like sweet bread (veal thymus gland) like my mother’s family enjoys to grill. I am a mixture of both races and do thoroughly enjoy going to lavish Indian weddings and cozy intimate Mexican gatherings. My recent research revealed what the United States government would label me. I am identified by my father’s race. My Mexican side will not be recognized in legal paperwork. Although in strong opposition to the definition of my race, I acknowledge that not everyone can make up his or her own words. However, “Indican,” part Indian and part Mexican is my identity. Yes, the two cultures are extremely different, but I am honored to be a part of both. I am “Indican,” and very proud to be different.