My Identity (?)

A professor once asked me to describe my identity in five words or less. I wrote: woman, Indian-American, privileged, compassionate, and logical. The first is simple and indistinguishing. The second: Indian-American. I put Indian first because my heart and soul are Indian, but I chose to bridge this word with American because my ideals are American. America has given me (and my parents) the opportunities to be who I want to be. I have had the freedom and dignity to define myself and choose the options that would strengthen us without many limitations. The hyphen acts as a bridge between the two words, implying my place as both a part of, and stuck between, these two cultures.

Privileged – it is something that has allowed me to cultivate the worldview with which I can appreciate what it means to have money, education, the access to power and the ability to make the choices I want. Choice is a symptom of privilege; the freedom to decide between choices that are beneficial to us is a rare advantage. Being privileged has left with me a sense of guilt – why is it that I have so much when others have so little?

I have been given every opportunity, freedom, and liberty possible. I was once a seven-year-old tourist in her homeland, who sat besides her uncle in an air-conditioned Mercedes and leapt back from the tinted window when withered hands pressed themselves against it in requests for money. I am now twenty-two years old and I ride in auto-rickshaws so that I don’t have to roll down windows; I can reach out and touch those tired hands. My heart goes out to the women who walk barefoot on the sun soaked tarry roads, leading their children behind them, wandering between the lanes of honking cars who live their lives off others’ moments of sympathy. We have been endowed with the righteous fists of justice and it is our obligation to use our privilege to help others.

Compassion and logic. I think the greatest and most aggravating facet of my identity is comprised of two antagonistic elements: one is my compassion for others – the ability to empathize and transcend the boundaries which segregate people – socioeconomic privelige, religion, culture, language, etc; and the other is my logic.

I am always able to see, understand, and sympathize with multiple perspectives on any situation. It is because of this I find myself less opinionated, something I pride myself on. I once met an astrologer in Jaipur who told me my future was defined by a “double life.” He explained to me that I would always be of a “double-mind” – and I take this to mean the constant war that is waged between compassion and logic in my mind. Simply, it is the battle between following your head and heart. I am grateful for that open-mindedness that allows me evaluate situations so thoroughly while considering the predicaments and emotions of others, but it often leaves me feeling hesitant to act. It is this hesitancy that makes me question my strength and conviction.

My father chose the name Komal for me. It means delicate in Hindi. And for so many years, I thought he made a mistake; the name of his choosing had no bearing on my personality. I resented the fact that my name had the connotations of weakness, and perhaps that is why as I grew older, I placed greater value and significance on the ideals of independence and strength. And I still do. But the more I confront the world and the more I engage myself in various relationships, I find that the one ideal I place above them is compassion.

Compassion does not come easily to many; it is often stricken down by apathy and self-interest. And apathy is humanity’s greatest plague. But compassion and the conviction to fight for what we love is made possible by hope. Hope is so powerful because it is ignorant of the chances for success; it vilifies the idea that some things are worth fighting for and believing in, regardless of the consequences.

In a way, I have found that compassion reinforces our strength; it dignifies our convictions and allows us, in turn, to be strong. But delicacy implies sensitivity and I choose to define the “delicacy” implied in my name, as sensitivity to others’ pain and suffering. It is this sensitivity that makes us strong – we are able to see and appreciate the differences between ourselves and others, and appreciating them allows us to consider and fight for change. It is easy to be hurt, to get lost in pain and to complain about the static, sluggishness that feeds on helplessness but it takes strength to wage battles that may not end in victory. It takes strength to take on the burdens of others and forego the privilege and benefits that we feel so entitled to and deserving of – and I don’t know if I am so strong yet, but it is certainly an ideal that I hope to be defined by at the end of my life.