I scan the room, apprehensive,
these are my people
are they my people?
will they be like those Indian girls who made me feel like an outsider for not being Indian enough?
These are my people,
a room full of my people
my
people
here
together
same
different
gathered in this tiny meeting room.
We–are carrying with us boxes upon boxes of memories
memories of two separate lives: one in the majority, completely assimilated, American;
one in the minority, within our tiny, full homes, eating with our hands, chappal at the door, Indian.
Inside this tiny meeting room,
we
are
the story
The one I was so certain was mine alone,
My people
this group
of teachers
of South Asian
affinity
of diverse experiences that somehow sound the same
We gathered today
shared our shared tales of it all
family expectations, racism endured,
hopes and dreams for our students and the future
laid it bare for each other to see
If you could have seen it,
you would have been afraid of the power that rippled from the vibrations of our lips,
you would have shuddered at the sound of our feet standing together.
