My childhood was not an over-the-top, Romeo and Juliet tragedy. I didn’t have to run away, I didn’t have feuding families and I (obviously) didn’t die in the end. Instead, I went to public school, had friends, loved chicken tenders like every other kid in the country and detested bugs. So am I just like every other typical American kid out there? Nope. When you are of Indian descent, there are many internal stresses. Just to name a few: the need to get good grades, the need to please your parents, the need to find a husband (because of grandparents), the need to become a doctor, the need for people to pronounce your name right.

The odd part is that I don’t experience any of these, save my last name pronunciation, which I can’t believe is actually an issue for other people. (It’s Morris-wa-la, not some complicated foreign word.) So what am I complaining about then? I’m not living the stereotypical life under the pressures of a very traditional Indian family, so what right do I have to complain? The problem is, at least as a kid, I didn’t fit in with the kids who felt the pressures that are previously listed since I didn’t experience most of those issues. I didn’t fit in with non-Indians either, because many of them didn’t understand the bit of culture I did have, or they insulted me because of it.

For instance, I can recall multiple instances in which classmates assumed my religion just because of the color of my skin. Like in the sixth grade, I was walking to school when a student asked me, “Are you Muslim?” This would’ve been fine because it would just be a bit of a misunderstanding, but his tone said otherwise.

Even with other Indian children, I’ve been criticized. I remember that in middle school, I started talking to this Indian girl who seemed kind. One day she asked me, “What language does your family speak?”

“Gujarati,” I replied. But then I made the mistake of adding, “I don’t speak it though.”

To this day, this girl hasn’t spoken to me.

I started to feel as if I was on a thin, endless tightrope, balancing two different parts of me that were both true but not complimentary. My nationality is American, my culture, Indian. I indulge in meat such as beef, yet that goes against the belief that cows shouldn’t be harmed. I can’t speak the language, yet I practice parts of the culture. I’m agnostic by choice yet I’m Hindu by birth. What makes me “me” is a bunch of contradicting facts that shouldn’t occur in the natural universe. My first name even agrees with this, as “Maya” is Sanskrit for illusion: a deceptive appearance or perception.

An identity crisis.

But maybe it is OK that I am this way. If anything, I enjoy deciphering the histories of people and expanding on my knowledge of both American and Indian cultures, as well as other cultures that I know nothing about. In gaining this information, I learn that there are many people of different races, ethnicities and religions who deal with the same problem I experience every day. Maybe that is what comes with being a minority, small fish in a humongous pond.

The next step, one we should all take, is to share our experiences with each other. Your family may blend Chinese and American cuisine at your Christmas feast. You may be constantly pestered by your parents you about getting “bad” grades on tests (according to their standards of course).

As for that tightrope I mentioned earlier, I’m still walking it, but with more confidence and more knowledge that can cushion me if I fall and forget important parts of myself such as my history, my country, my homes.

Actually, I’ve discovered that every single one of us is on that same tightrope. Each of us is facing some of the same stress that comes with trying to remain stable as we balance two different truths. However, what we have to remember is that we are all connected through this challenge. We are indecipherable, even by ourselves. We are mismatched puzzle pieces that miraculously form a whole. We are sets of contradictory facts that make an illusion. We appear ordinary, but beneath the surface we are extraordinary.