Is This Woman Indian?

Shopping at the garden center in Clifton, NJ. One of my favorites due to the extraordinary selection of Perennials. My intention is to grab a few robust annuals to replace the expired pansies in my potted containers. I realize I will need more than two hands to hold half a dozen pots of Portulacas. So I gingerly ask the cash register guy if I may leave my plants on a pedestal contraption near his machine. He's a short brusque man of Indian descent with a sharp face, and no doubt equally honed mind to be the owner of this well visited establishment.

"No," he barks. "Nothing here. Nada! Nada!" Now first of all I'm not deaf. Secondly, I"m not Spanish, although I certainly understand his meager attempts at the language. At first I'm incensed that this man, while probably not from the same state as I'm from in India, is certainly of Indian descent. So why can't he tell that I'm from the same motherland? I'm still gibbering in anger when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. Red tank top, jean skirt, hair piled high in a pony-tail. I look very much, um, darkish. Very much like a woman of mixed Latino, Indo, Caribbio descent. In other words, no I don't look Indian.

This got me thinking about my ancestry. Do I honor my Indian-ness? Well sure I do. I cook fabulous curries, I dress in saris for special occassions. I speak my native tongue, Telugu albeit haltingly with my parents and family. Isn't that honor enough? Should I emulate my mother and wear a sari when in public? Should I do as my parents and speak Telugu to each other in public?

I think not. I think I'm a woman of a rich heritage who happens to live in the U.S. As such I mix one with the other, taking the best of both worlds and merging them into an existence that could live nowhere else on earth.

So to the annoying cash register guy, I AM Indian dammit! And I make no apologies.