What Do Third Culture Kids Owe Their Culture?

If everything we experience is woven into the fabric of our being, I might be the most mismatched, unfinished tapestry you’ll find on the market. Having lived across the world, my Indian-Singaporean-Californian (and now Scottish) experiences don't fit together neatly, but I promise they make for a good story. 

Like many third-culture Indians in the process of moving, I tried to do my best to stay as firmly connected to my roots as possible. I dreaded the prospect of being labelled an ‘NRI’ or a non-resident Indian. I had only heard them (us?) described as flashy, out-of-touch, and hyper conservative — can you blame me for not loving the title? So, in my desperate attempts to cling to my Indian heritage and be the perfect immigrant, I stuck to the three Fs: Film, Food, and Fashion. I watched every Hindi blockbuster that was released, I learnt about regional cuisines, and, most intentionally, I wore saris to every milestone event I could. 

Saris, as most Bengalis will tell you, are our idea of generational wealth. Wearing your mother’s age-old sari is a rite of passage — nothing makes you feel as beautiful or grounded as being wrapped in six yards of intricately hand-woven silk. Wearing saris to balls and galas while surrounded by the gorgeous gowns of my peers is intimidating, but also incredibly freeing. Not only do I feel more like myself, but I'm always pleasantly surprised by the number of people who come up to me excited to see traditional designs represented in the youth, passionately declaring that they too might muster up the courage to wear a lehenga to their next function. 

Unfortunately, back in India, the joy sparked by hearing these comments often meets its enemy: comparison. Woven into my relatives' compliments are usually some not-so-subtle slights against the broader NRI population: something along the lines of “Oh! You looked lovely in that sari, you don't seem like one of those tacky NRIs at all!” 

Once upon a time, I would have celebrated that I had successfully avoided the scarlet NRI letters, but something about the sentiment nagged me, like a pebble in my chappal. By last summer, I’d finally come to accept that after living life in three countries, my mindset was different from the average Indian. I’d learned to love the pieced-together, patchworked quality of my NRI identity and the fact that the term was used as an insult frustrated me. Sure, I saw beauty in the traditionality of a sari, but that was no more significant or authentic than the happiness I found wearing jhumkas with jeans and speaking in my broken Hindi-English slang. The comparison made it feel like I just happened upon the singular acceptable way to explore identity … but why is there only one way? Why do third culture kids and immigrants owe their heritage anything other than respect?

In reality, with the homogenisation of media, it has never been easier for immigrants to culturally assimilate into new environments and completely abandon tradition. Despite all the visa-sponsorship-financing hurdles we have built successful lives outside our birth countries, surely we shouldn't have to shoulder the burden of being perfect ambassadors of culture, too. Still, we see young people finding unique ways to embrace their backgrounds, moulding them into something exciting in their daily lives. Negative discourse around terms like NRI only sets us back, deterring people from such ambition and innovation: if we are to be judged for trying, why try at all? 

All-or-nothing approaches to assimilation only lead to artistic, ideological, and social stagnation. In actuality, whether it involves making paneer pizzas or wearing bindis to work every day, it should be a matter of pride that people go out of their way to preserve their cultures in ways which are sustainable to them. 

So, please, cheer on those who carry forward your customs and legacies while staying true to the people and places which raised them (however many there may be). And to all my fellow third culture kids, this is your reminder that we are nothing if not six yards of scrappy, brightly dyed, gold bordered silk — I hope you know this makes us beautiful too.

Illustration from Wikimedia Commons