Generations ApartAn Essay
I am a confused man. No, I am not stupid or lost, but I am confused. People who pass me do not see my confusion, but I can see it vividly. Every time I glance in the mirror or see my dark complexion reflected in the window of a passing car, I see double. I see an American citizen, born and raised in the small town of Carterville, Illinois, population 3,650. I see another figure; I see a man with soft brown eyes, charcoal hair, and an extremely big nose (a gift from my mother). That man is Indian. People refer to my unique double identity as "Asian-American," a broad generalization that I cannot help to detest. I, along with a myriad of first generation "Asian-Americans," am completely confused as to my personal identity. I suffer from the generation gap. No, not the infinite gap between parents and their offspring, but rather the gap between the generations before and after my existence. Neither you, nor I, can pinpoint who I am. Sure, I could walk around boasting that I am an "Asian Pacific Islander." And although this exotic term is useful in obtaining a girlfriend in the second grade, it is not specific. In sight I am Indian, but in sound I am an American, and in reality I am a mixture of both. The crevice that first generations face is ominously wide and dangerously deep. The generations preceding us, our parents, have total confidence in who they are and what they stand for. First generations only know that they are some mixture of both. Generations following my faint footsteps will for certain face a fork in the road. They will either become stronger in their respective identities or have no identity with which to relate. And so it is ironic that the only thing I know for certain is that I am confused. My present confusion will undoubtedly remain that way for eternity. Am I Indian? Am I an American? Am I both? I am none of these. I am merely myself, a man not invisible like Ralph Ellison, a man confused and a generation apart from his true identity. Amar Rajagopal Chadaga MS I |