There I was ““ half Indian, half white, but 100 percent awkward.
My cousin Raj married his long-time girlfriend Carrie in Ohio after a week of Indian and Christian festivities. Considering my ethnic background, I had no worries about having to transition between the two cultures for the parties and the ceremonies, but I’d later find out that I wasn’t as comfortable with this cultural mix as I thought I’d be.
But then my aunts and mom decided that we were going to go in full Indian dress to everything. So amid the pastel, spring-tea dresses, stained glass and white skin, there was the easily outnumbered Indian clan dressed to the nines in blinding ruby red, lime green, neon orange and hot-pink salwar kameez.
My plan was to disappear into oblivion whenever the family busted out the Bollywood dance hits. But after my mom turned her flashing eyes on me, I meekly toddled onto the dance floor to make a fool of myself.
I was participating, but probably not with all the zeal I should have when it comes to participating in the Punjabi culture inherent to my existence. Frankly, I didn’t want to freak out the bride’s family and friends with all the crazy Indian energy.
But I learned my lesson fast. Carrie and her family had this enthusiasm for Indian culture that put me to shame. They had no reservations about throwing themselves into a new culture wholeheartedly.
As I danced unenergetically next to a wall during a dinner party earlier in the week, Carrie was in the middle of the dance floor with her soon-to-be mother-in-law. Wearing a lime-green salwar kameez, she had more rhythm than everyone else in the room.
She watched intently at the aunts’ dancing and mimicked them perfectly. She absorbed the feeling and music so fully that she became Indian in just a few minutes.
At the wedding-rehearsal dinner, we had a pallah ceremony, where my uncle and aunt offered a blessing for the couple. Carrie was luminescent in the traditional Indian red wedding dress and walked with such grace even in the heavy, embroidered dress, a heavy contrast to the white wedding dress she wore not much earlier.
The voluminous skirt coupled with the heavily beaded tunic and a 6-foot, slippery silk scarf is hard to manage, even with 19 years of exposure, as I clumped along beside her with my cousin Jesspreet.
Why was I so anxious when actually confronted with an opportunity to enjoy my culture? If I can’t appreciate the diversity of my own family, how can I appreciate the diversity of cultures of my friends at school? This struck me as hypocritical.
UCLA strives on all administrative levels to obtain a diverse mix of people, cultures and religions, yet there is no point to the hoopla if we decide not to take advantage of diversity, whether out of fear or apathy.
Many of us hear foreign names and joke about how they’re hard to pronounce, yet have no thought of their origin or meaning. We see turbans or hijabs and resort to preconceived ideas and ignore the complexities. We hear taiko drums and foreign beats coming from festivals in the quad and close our windows.
A lot of the time, as I felt compelled to do at the wedding, we stick to what is comfortable, what we know, and ignore all the rest.
If we want UCLA to be a melting pot, we should try to get to know each other a bit better. We can learn so much ““ and not just in the dry, educational sense of learning about other cultures.
The next day at the wedding, I proudly wore my deep burgundy salwar kameez; no more clumping around for me. And later at the reception, I was the one flashing my eyes at my mom to get her to dance.
I still have no rhythm and my hips can’t do much of anything, but I can deal with that.
I guess I’ll just have to ask Carrie for some pointers.
E-mail Bissell at abissell@media.ucla.edu. Send general comments to viewpoint@media.ucla.edu.