Estimated reading time: 11 minutes
I thought I fit in
I didn’t think racism still existed.
After all, I learnt in school that Martin Luther King Jr. eradicated racism back in the 60s, and that was a bad thing that used to exist back in the day, but only typically in the south. And I lived in Ohio, so it’s definitely not a place like Alabama. I also went to a Christian school, so there was no reason I should ever experience anything of the sort.
Anyway, it wasn’t like I was any different from everyone else. After all, I spoke English with a thick, Midwestern accent. Even my parents had American accents. I ate mac and cheese and pizza pretty often, I wore American clothes, I played sports like everyone else, I went on American vacations, celebrated American holidays, and all my friends at school were American too.
I was happy, oblivious. I thought I fit in.
But starting in Kindergarten, I began noticing little differences.
The Early Years
In Kindergarten, one of my friends told me her parents didn’t want her hanging out with me because they wanted her to “spend time with different types of people.” In first grade, a friend made fun of my dal chawal and said it looked gross, and asked me repeatedly how I could ever eat such a thing.
In second grade, I noticed that my friends’ mothers started to avoid eye contact with my mom, greeting her only with stiff smiles. At birthday parties, they’d whisper to each other and glance at us like we didn’t belong. They would always make excuses for why they couldn’t come when my mom would invite them for coffee or lunch.
In third grade, one of my white friends told me that her mom got mad at her for liking a Black boy, saying that she could “never marry one of those.” In fourth grade, I had my first crush (it was on a white boy, ‘it’s a canon event’); he was so kind to me when we were alone doing our advanced English homework and would ask me to hang out with him after school and play basketball. But in front of his friends, he started to make fun of me.
In fifth grade, I scored highest on my math test; instead of saying “good job,” the boys in my class started making fun of me and calling me a nerd. That name would stick for years. In sixth grade, I couldn’t help but notice how all the boys were fawning over the American girls in our class, calling them pretty and cool, while I was labeled the nerd: the quiet girl who no one looked twice at unless it was for homework answers. I wondered why all these things were happening, but I just thought that maybe there was something wrong with me.
The High School Years
In my class of twelve girls, three were girls of color: two were Black, and I, the only Indian. The rest were white. These girls came to school wearing expensive Nikes, flawless makeup and hair, perfect outfits, and had what seemed like perfect bodies. Many came from wealthy families and seemed effortlessly put together. They played multiple sports seasons a year, had good grades, many friends, and boys chasing after them.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t help but feel like I didn’t belong. I felt I could never add up to and or compete with these girls, much less be a part of their crowd.
That’s when the cycle of self-hate started. It went on for years. I wanted to be the spitting image of the perfect American girl, and I was determined to be that. I copied everything they did. I joined the volleyball team. I straightened my hair every single night. I tried to lighten my skin with homemade masks. I tried to do my makeup and hair just like them. I convinced my parents to get me the Nike shoes and socks they had. I thought that if I changed everything about myself, maybe I’d finally belong.
Regardless of what I did, I did not fit in. I was just a shadow of these girls whom I wanted to be so badly. I was convinced that there was something wrong with me; either it was my parents strict going out rules, the fact that I was not as rich as some of them; maybe it was because I was not as pretty as they were, or I was too quiet, not social enough, or just too uncool to to have good friends.
Undateable
Instead of being more included, I felt increasingly excluded. It started with the boys at school crowding around and asking, “Will you go on a date with me?” or the classic, “My friend likes you.” I got nasty looks and comments whenever I was paired up with them for an assignment.
There was this boy who would text me and who tried to start conversations with me, but the reality was that it was his friends in study hall who were bored and thought it would be funny for a boy like him to text someone like me, so they sent me messages for fun. At first, I had no clue that they were messing with me. But eventually, it became more obvious. Whenever I had a presentation, they would sit in the back laughing at my face so loudly that no one could hear my presentation; the teachers did nothing.
They would play Indian music in the halls and make fun of it in front of me. I was called “cocoa butter” and “undateable”. Some guys made sexual jokes about me, not in a way that was ever okay, but with a specific kind of cruelty, like the idea of finding me attractive was disgusting to them.
Every single thing I did and word I said, no matter how harmless, received a demeaning response, but I was the only girl it happened to. Every day, I came home feeling defeated because no matter how “American” I tried to be, it did not lead to a normal, happy teenage life.
No one could see beyond my color, and it crushed me.
Growing up South Asian
Casual racism remains a harsh reality for many South Asian children growing up in Western society. After the recent Air India plane crash, TikTok comment sections were flooded with lines like, “Oh, that’s why I didn’t get any scam calls today,” or “The plane went down because of a stink blast.” Jokes like these mock a tragedy and dehumanize an entire community. South Asians are often the punchline of online trends.
In videos asking ‘What race would you not date?’ responses like “Anyone but Indian” and “At least I’m not Indian” show up far too often. These are not just one-off remarks, but they’re consistent patterns. And they’re often dismissed as harmless or funny, even though they send a clear message: being South Asian is something to be embarrassed about.
This kind of casual cruelty isn’t new. In an interview, actress Priyanka Chopra shared how she was bullied in high school in America by other girls of color. She made to feel like she didn’t belong, simply because she was of Indian origin (Dr Ranjan Chatterjee via Youtube).
My own cousins, who grew up in the American South, were physically attacked at school. They were called names like “curry monster” and “gorilla”. This couldn’t have been just a “joke”; it was meant to humiliate them. They began to feel ashamed of who they were, just for existing.
Whether it’s through jokes, schoolyard slurs, or exclusion, racism against South Asians has been normalized for far too long. And the damage it leaves behind doesn’t just disappear.
Not enough
Somehow, racism is always considered wrong—until it’s directed at us. South Asian kids growing up in Western society are surrounded by subtle messages that make us feel like we’re not enough. From a young age, we’re conditioned by the media we consume, the jokes at school, the exclusion from typical childhood experiences, and even the comments online, to hate ourselves.
We’re taught by our environment that our culture is embarrassing, our food is gross, our skin is too dark, our hair is too curly, our features are ugly, we are too nerdy and different, and our names are too complicated. We’re consistently told, through stereotypes, exclusion, and ridicule, that we’re nerdy, weird, stinky, undateable, and invisible.
Over time, it’s not just noise; it becomes internalized. We start to question our culture, our looks, our worth. It’s not always one big moment; it’s the buildup of a thousand small ones that shape how we see ourselves. These messages don’t always come from one place; they’re everywhere. And they build deep insecurity.
We’re Different But Enough
I also want to be clear: South Asian American kids, myself included, often grow up with privileges that many others don’t. We come from families that push us to succeed, that make sacrifices to give us opportunities, and that often thrive in spaces never built for us. And bullying, racism, and exclusion aren’t unique to South Asian kids. School and growing up are difficult experiences for everyone, and kids don’t always need a reason to project their own insecurities onto others.
Even within our own communities, we see colorism and casteism. South Asian kids mock each other for their skin tone, accents, way of expression, or simply competing out of jealousy. I’m not writing this to victimize myself. I’m writing this because it’s time we talk about the specific kind of subtle, quiet racism South Asian American kids face and how it deeply impacts them. It is so often overlooked or brushed aside. It’s easy to silence our pain under the image of success and perfection. But many of us have quietly struggled with confidence and self-worth for years, shaped by a culture that constantly tells us we’re not enough. And that’s heartbreaking, because our culture is deep, beautiful, and powerful.
The truth is, we’re not lacking, we’re different. And that difference is something to be proud of. It is okay to be different. Awareness is the first step. Maybe it’s time we start recognizing the beauty and value we’ve always had, even if no one else ever told us.
Acknowledging Our Worth
It’s important to remember that South Asians are some of the most resilient and high-achieving people on the planet. India is now the fastest-developing economy in the world and the 5th largest globally, 75 years after gaining independence; it successfully sent a spacecraft to Mars on its first try.
Over 30% of Fortune 500 companies are led by South Asian-origin CEOs, the highest out of any other ethnic minority group, and South Asian children are consistently the top-performing ethnic group in academics. Historically, ancient Indian universities like Nalanda and Takshashila were the Ivy Leagues of their time, attracting scholars from across the world. We went from British rule to having an Indian-origin Prime Minister in 10 Downing Street.
And historically, European travelers romanticized our beauty—our golden skin, almond-shaped eyes, and shining dark hair were often described as exotic and mesmerizing. We were seen as powerful then, and we still are now. We are the product of thousands of generations of culture, strength, and excellence.
Against all odds, our families sacrificed everything to come to Western countries, starting from scratch and rising to the top through sheer grit, intelligence, and determination. We’ve achieved dreams our ancestors couldn’t even imagine. And in doing so, we carry the legacy of our culture through our accomplishments.
We have always been beautiful. We have always been brilliant. We have always been powerful. We have always been enough.
Reclaiming My Worth
Reclaiming my worth isn’t something I’ve fully mastered;, it’s something I’m still working on. But I’ve come a long way. I’ve stopped obsessing over what would make me more accepted and started asking myself what I actually like.
I’ve found joy in my culture – in the food, the clothes, the music, the language, the color, the stories, the people, the celebrations, and everything about it. It’s fun now. It’s rich, vibrant, and mine. I’ve started loving my features and embracing the beauty of being South Asian. I can now look in the mirror without wishing I looked like someone else, even if I still have moments where I feel small or not enough.
Sometimes, that old voice creeps back in… the one that tells me, they won’t like you, or you can’t be like them, you’re Indian. But I’ve learned that if someone doesn’t like me because of that, it says more about them than it ever did about me. A huge part of this growth has come from being in a new environment, one where I’m surrounded by other immigrants and people who embrace their culture. I know that’s a privilege many South Asian kids don’t have. But being in this space has helped me realize I can do the same. I’m learning to stop blending in and just be myself, not for approval, but because who I am is enough.
I still have days where insecurity creeps in. But this time, I’m choosing, intentionally and actively, to be proud. I carry generations of strength, beauty, and brilliance, and I finally see it in myself.
I thought being Indian made me less than. Now I realize it’s my greatest power.
Photo By: Kaboompics.com: https://www.pexels.com/photo/girl-sitting-on-a-chair-while-holding-her-laptop-7281552/