"Go back to your own country!"

"Go back to your own country!" shouted my neighbor when I took a shortcut through her yard from the neighborhood soccer field to my house after a pickup game with some friends during the summer between seventh and eighth grade. While one might expect my first response to be stomach-burning anger, my first feelings were of pure surprise. I thought to myself, "But...this is my country..." It wasn't until I did a face plant into my bed that I burst into tears.


If you know me, I don't have an ounce of an Indian accent. I don't say this as a point of pride; its just a fact. I was born in Detroit. I graduated from the same neighborhood school where I went to Kindergarten. Adding to the confusion, the country to which my neighbor referred is a place I have visited exactly twice (once as a baby and once when I was eleven years-old). So in my opinion, I was as Michigan as they get. As a result I would frequently forget that I looked different. After all, human eyes face outwards. Perhaps to her surprise, I wasn't constantly examining the fact that I look different.


Let me provide a little background on my family. My mom and dad were born in Chennai, India. My father came to Detroit to receive training as a General Surgeon and sub-specialty training in Vascular Surgery at St. John Hospital (Mack and 7 Mile in Detroit) and has been treating patients there for over thirty years. My mother earned her MBA from Wayne State University School of Business Administration at night while managing our household which included tutoring me in chemistry between her own rigorous studies (which is fitting because she also used to teach chemistry at Wayne State College of Nursing). Since graduating she has worked in banking all over the metropolitan Detroit area for nearly twenty years. So while my parents were born and raised in India, they have spent the greater part of their lives in Michigan. Their roots are Indian but their hearts, minds, and citizenship are Red-White-and-Blue American.


I'm an American citizen with Indian heritage. I'm married to an American citizen with European heritage. We have a child who is an American citizen with Indian and European heritage; she's a living, breathing symbol of the American "melting pot." I've never felt more like an American than I do now. To the woman who yelled at me as a child, I'd like to say this: Thank you for reminding me that we're such a young country that we don't always know a true American when we see one, especially if their skin looks different. As an aside, if you need some minimally-invasive microvascular surgery by an American who was trained in your neighborhood, has lived in your area longer than you, and loves his country, I know a guy. No need for microscopic surgery? Maybe we can provide some banking assistance from an American who studied locally and understands the economics of the area like the back of her hand. Either way, let us know if we can help you out: it's the American way.