My house has always been adorned with beautiful hues, courtesy of colorful tapestries depicting Hindu epics, decorations from my grandparent’s village, and traditional Indian artwork delicately framed in oak. As a child, I watched my mother come home with decor from India rather than Pottery Barn, leaving me to question why she chose to ship something all the way across the world when she could simply drive to the Home Goods store four blocks away. Even more curiously, my dad usually questioned the need to spend extra money on anything, but he would never dispute my mother’s purchase of an extra rug handcrafted in India or an added home accent that reminded her of her own childhood home. He told me that when my parents left their families and homes in India to immigrate here, my mother felt heartbroken over leaving her home. She missed her parents, her hometown, her culture, her family. And in this land that was so foreign to her, she needed these little reminders of India. It was her way of making herself feel a little more at home in a place where she felt alienated.

Going sto a friend’s house meant seeing how different our houses were, from the food being cooked in the kitchen to the television shows playing in the living room. The homemade meals sitting on my friends’ dinner tables were vastly different than the heavily aromatic garam masala meals that left turmeric stains on my nails. I would come downstairs to my parents watching loud Telugu speaking dramas that seemed unnecessarily dramatic rather than “Seinfeld.”

My mom used to entrap the spicy aroma of the previous night’s dinner into my lunchbox for the next day. When I took out my lunch at school, the strong smell of curry seemed to bother those around me who weren’t accustomed to its distinct scent. Their noses turned outward and faces crinkled in response to the ethnic aroma, and I suddenly felt self-conscious of my food. I felt embarrassed of how different my lunches looked from other’s and began asking my mom to pack me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches rather than her homemade idlis. I felt like I was missing a piece of my childhood that everyone else had, that just because I didn’t have the same experiences, I began discrediting the experiences I did have.  Looking back, I wish I could tell myself to embrace those differences. My mom’s food is a large part of our culture, and this led me to embrace other cultures apart from mine. Now, when my friends ask to go eat Vietnamese pho or traditional pelmeni, I eagerly say yes.

In middle school, my friends all crowded around a single vanity getting ready for our first school dance. I had never been allowed to put on a lot of makeup and the excitement I had to finally do so quickly died down when I took out my brand new Maybelline liquid foundation, and the white girl behind me exclaimed, “That looks like shit!” I looked around, realizing none of these girls had seen dark skinned foundation before, and quickly shoved it back into my bag. Back then, when I used to go to the makeup store I would see racks and racks of products for Caucasian girls, with shades varying from “Porcelain Sand” to “Warm Olive Tan” and the options for girls with dark skin buried deep into the last row. I was so used to hearing these eloquent names for them, and hearing names like “Chocolate Milk” or “Shit” for my own.

Throughout the years, growing up as an Indian-American in high school where I could count on my hands the number of other ethnic kids in my class, frequently reminded me that I was different. I came from a different background than most of my peers, my parents were not accustomed to social norms of a new country, and I watched as my family members dealt with the kinds of people that are “intrigued” by our “exotic” culture, yet did not see my family as a part of their community. But as the years went by, I saw how with every instance that occurred, there would be an even bigger experience I treasure with my culture. Rather than being led to believe I was missing out on “normal” experiences, I saw that my culture also gave me memorable experiences. Rather than being distant from my peers, I found people that were accepting of my differences. Rather than wishing my parents were more “normal,” I admired the hardships they went through leaving their homeland and how well they assimilated to a new life in a new country. Now when I see any item of Indian decor I picture my mom loving, I bring it home not just for her. I bring it home because the “artificial” home she made for me had become my real home.