Nowhere Nationalism

It is American to choose. It is American to make informed decisions. And it is American to be an independent thinker. Or so I am reminded by a certain news channel, propelling its patriotic spirit in star-spangled style. But why stop at the news media, in honor of July 4th, nationalism is being touted with extra pomp by virtually everyone this week: car dealerships, furniture stores, even clothing outlets are urging individuals to spend in the name of freedom. Rather than being isolated ideals then, choice, information and independence--the red, white and blue of American psyche, perhaps?--seem to be necessary ingredients in order to produce what may be the ultimate symbol of American nationalism, consumption.

Which brings me to a question I've always wanted to tackle...am I a nationalist? I am actually far from being a legitimate one though on occasion I certainly (and guiltily) crave the connection, reflecting the sort of 'neurosis' that the scholar Benedict Anderson depicts in his discussion of imagined communities: "nationalism is the pathology of modern developmental history, as inescapable as 'neurosis' in an individual with the same ambiguities attaching to it...and largely incurable." The mutated strain of nationalism that I'm plagued with, then, is especially incurable, primarily because it promises to be an unresolved, lifelong sickness.

My symptoms are the most severe when I undergo a procedure I repeat almost biannually: bleary-eyed, nauseous and sluggish, I shuffle through a serpentine line at Detroit Metropolitan Airport, struggling to regain feeling in my legs after a 13-hour flight from Osaka, Japan. Fellow travelers and I are brusquely herded to the appropriate counter—marked with a neon sign that screams, "Visitor" and snapped at if we step out of place. More often than not, getting to the end of the cue means speaking to a gruff-voiced officer who raises his eyebrows at my Indian passport, embossed with a stamp of Japanese permanent residency and an American visa.

On many an occasion, attempting to explain my fragmented background has nearly led me to miss my connecting flight, and it is at times like these I most desperately wish I had a simple answer to "where are you from?" I yearn to be yoked to a single nation, rather than claiming lukewarm allegiances to a handful.

Despite being born in Kobe, I was shuttled to my parents' home country of India when I was approximately 40 days old. Since that trip, my family and I took at least 15 more, deliberate but futile efforts on my parents' part for my younger sister and I to cement a formidable relationship with a nation we would only vacation in. If nationalism is, in fact, about being recognized and being understood and if language is the principle mechanism through which this process of recognition can take place, I would certainly be unable to feel that visceral connection to India—or anywhere else, for that matter.

Up until I started elementary school at an Anglican establishment in Kobe, I spoke a combination of Gujarati and Japanese, awkward and abrasive to a stranger, but pure comfort to me. Gujarati was eventually demoted for British English, and then its twangy counterpart when I switched over to the American international school,promising because of its ability to guarantee admission into a university in the U.S.

Because of my incessant exposure to the international school system, I was increasingly isolated from the Japanese community at large, further contributing to my gaijin or "foreigner" status. It doesn't help that Japan's inconsequential minority community hardly has a place in shaping its political identity in the first place. Besides the Chinese, who make up 0.4% of the nation's population, 98.5% of the country is ethnically Japanese, leaving me and my family in the company of 0.7% "other" nationals.

Discouraged by the lack of national identity and voice I found in both India and Japan, my attention is now turned to the US, where a few years of hard work promises to grant practically anybody the right to (superficially, at least) participate in the patriotic rhetoric of "we, the people".

I'll watch the fireworks next Friday, not quite sure of what to make of "independence" on a Manhattan rooftop, clutching a chilled brew in one fist and what I hope will be a warm hand in the other. Rather than naively hoping to feel an instantaneous connection, however, I am slowly accepting that I'm just adding another nation to the ever-growing list of places I will eventually feel estranged from, further fueling my desire to belong.

Shaadi & The City: Sari So Sloppy

I'm not entirely positive how I've spent 24 years without mastering the art of wearing a sari. With a grandmother who ran a fabric-printing factory, a mother who could probably fold a wicked set of chiffon pleats blindfolded, and a father who's always asserted the fact that Indian women look the classiest when wearing one, I can only think of one reason why I've shirked the six yards of cloth: pure, unadulterated fear.

Thanks to my awkward set of motor skills--something that can be confirmed by my kindergarten report card--I had visions of getting lost inside the intricate folds of the thing, being pricked to death by the numerous safety pins I would foolishly use to fasten it, only to look like a frat boy in a toga three times his size. In short, I'm a lost cause.

On a recent family trip to Mumbai, my mother seemed to think otherwise. Unbenownst to me, I was signed up for a series of sari draping workshops (an effort to raise my newly-wed cred, perhaps?) and cheerily told that I would be starting ASAP. In the past, I'd managed to talk myself out of other "fun" classes I was almost hijacked into taking including but not limited to vegetable carving and napkin folding. I wish I was kidding, believe me I do. But this time, I was out of excuses. You'd be surprised to know what 98 degree weather does to your strategic reasoning. I also reluctantly realized this skill seemed far more relevant and applicable than, say, the ones needed to transform the head of a pineapple into a delicate swan. After all, on the few occasions that I had managed to pull off a sari, courtesy of friends who patiently put me in one, I quite liked the floaty and ultra-feminine feel of it. And as my pragmatic little sister pointed out, I didn't want to end up scrounging around for help every time I decided to wear one.

Which is how I found myself in the home of Mrs. Sushila Bhatia, a few days into my Indian holiday. Sushila Aunty, a petite sixty-something with a tight smile and pair of egg-shaped glasses that gave her a sort of owlish vibe, was optimistic. "Beta, we'll have you draping this thing in your sleep," she proclaimed, in a murky combination of English and Gujarati. And so began my set of five classes in the sweltering heat of her Breach Candy apartment. My classroom was an empty bedroom, bordered by foggy, full length mirrors, containing nothing but a tiny tape recorder that blared the Gayatri Mantra on repeat.

Mornings with Sushila Aunty began with her verbally outlining a series of instructions involved in draping various different sari styles after which she would peer at me expectantly. In return, I would offer a clumsier, choppier rendition of the steps. Most classes ended with the sari, defiantly tumbling down into a massive heap around my ankles and me finding inconspicuous ways to cover up my exposed gut.

The whole thing reminded me of a cross between the military and finishing school. Occasionally, with her hands planted on the hips of her pastel nightgown (ironically enough, I never saw Sushila Aunty in a sari), she would throw in a tip or two about the most optimal place to fasten a safety pin and how to bend down "gracefully." If my pallu happened to be especially neatly placed, I'd be treated to morsels of gossip from the Mumbai wedding scene--on the side, Sushila Aunty is also a bridal consultant.

Soon enough, she accepted the fact that I was not going to be one of her star studded pupils, experts in swathing themselves virtually anywhere--moving vehicles, rooms without electricity, minuscule airplane bathrooms, etc. I was merely a perseverant individual who was determined to keep the style statement from going extinct [For a slightly chauvinistic but well-written take on this, see here) My pleats will always be a little off center and my safety pin wobblier than the rest, but I'm relieved to announce that my fear of the sari is now a thing of the past.

Don't even think about napkin folding though.