I shake my head again. “What do you mean?”
She gives me a hard look. “The enemy during that war was anyone of Japanese ancestry.”
I nod. “So…?”
“Who’s the enemy now?”
I wonder why she would ask the obvious. “Terrorists?”
“And what do they look like?”
Suddenly the breath is sucked out of my lungs. Uncle Sandeep.
“Aaaah! Mission control, we have contact! They look like you and me, Sammy. They look like my brother and my father and my uncles.” She sits quietly next to me for a moment, as I struggle with that realization.
“But, but…you don’t think they could…that they would…”
She shrugs. “Who knows?” Then she crumples up her brown paper bag and stands up. “C’mon,” she says. “We have to get back.”
That night I get to work on my paper. I start by going right to Wikipedia and typing in “Japanese internment camps.” Wow. Balvir knows what she’s talking about. Everything she said is true.
I follow link after link until my heart is pounding furiously in my ears. I stand up and pace back and forth in my room until I hear Mom in the kitchen, then sprint downstairs.
“Mom! Did you know about the Japanese internment camps during World War II?”
She stops running the water and turns to look at me. “A little. It’s something that affected a client I had some time back. Why? Are you doing research for school?”
“Do you think they could do that again? You know, round up people who look like ‘terrorists’ and send them to some kind of internment camp?”
Hearing the note of hysteria in my voice, she steps forward and holds me in one of her tight Mom-hugs; the ones she gives me when she’s trying to wring all the panic out. “Who told you that?” she asks, leading me to the table and sitting down.
“A…a friend…at school.”
She wrinkles her brow and stares down at the table for a moment. “Sammy, we’re at a real turning point in the history of this nation. We’ve had an attack on American soil….”
“But that’s what happened during World War II! Pearl Harbor!”
She nods slowly. “Yes. There are similarities.” She reaches for my hand, stroking the back of it slowly with her thumb. “But it doesn’t help to become frantic, Sammy. We can’t predict what’s going to happen…fear isn’t going to help us gain control over anything.”
I swallow hard. Mom always resorts to therapy talk when she doesn’t know what to say. I get the sinking feeling that she might be a little scared, too. I pull my hand from hers and push my chair back. “I’m going to go back to my paper.”
She nods but doesn’t move from her spot. “Don’t spend too much time worrying about things that might never happen, Sammy.”
As soon as I’m in my room, I dial Uncle Sandeep.
“Hello, Samar!”
“Uncle Sandeep, do you think they’ll send people who look like terrorists to internment camps like they did with the Japanese in World War II?”
A long pause. I squeeze the phone even closer to my ear.
Finally, he says clearly, “No.”
I exhale. There is certainty in his voice. No shadows or doubts. For the first time since my conversation with Balvir, the panic in my chest gives a little. “No?”
“No,” he repeats.
I drop onto my bed. “Why not?”
“Because, Samar, people today would not stand for it. We have evolved since then.”
“But why did people stand for it then?”
He takes a deep breath, and I picture him looking up at the ceiling like he does when he’s putting sentences together in his mind. “Well, I suppose for the same reasons people stand for any kind of violation of human rights: fear, anger, suspicion…But Samar, you must understand that the government apologized for what happened with the Japanese. There were reparations—not enough, of course, because you can never make up for something like that in dollars, but it was an admission of wrongdoing. And that is something.”
I think about that for a moment. “But so what? That doesn’t guarantee that it won’t happen again.” The panic isn’t completely gone, but my heart is no longer pounding in my ears.
“Of course not.” His voice is gentle. “We never have those kinds of guarantees, my dear. But we must have some faith in the evolution of humankind. There is more good out there than you’ve been led to believe…more people are searching for the truth and discovering major flaws in the way things have been set up in the world than ever before.”
I get the feeling that he’s not even talking to me anymore. He seems to be off on some sort of inner ride through his mind.
“Certainly, there are still incidents and pockets of hatred…but on the whole, there is a mass outcry and movement toward justice and peace everywhere; it’s something you won’t see on television and in most news stories—”
I jump in before he can begin again. “So you’re pretty sure nothing like that will happen?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, very sure. Call me an eternal optimist, but I believe that while we’ll no doubt deal with incidents like the one in the car several weeks ago, something on the scale of internment camps for women, children, the elderly…I don’t think it’s likely.”
I lean back against my pillows. “Okay. Thanks, Uncle Sandeep.”
“Of course, but what brought this on?”
I heave a sigh. “I was talking to a girl, Balvir, at school today about a paper we have to write on the attacks in New York City. She wrote about the internment camps during World War II…like what if that kind of thing happened now.”
“Balvir?” He sounds hopeful. “She’s Indian?”
“Yeah.”
“Fantastic! How is your paper coming along?”
“It’s not.”
He laughs. “Well, I guess you’d better get off the phone, then.”
When I hang up, I feel calmer. Still thrown off by the little tidbit of history Balvir dropped on me, but not panicked like before. Why didn’t we learn about this in American history class?
I think about Uncle Sandeep and how much of a mystery he and Mom’s parents have been to me my whole life. How much more about American history don’t I know? How much more about my own family history don’t I know?
I jump off my bed and boot up the computer. I type “SikhOut.org” into my browser. The site is warm: burgundy, amber, and rust, with gold details. I click on the Members Forum and am directed to a page where I have to register. I make sure it’s free and register under the user name JerseyCoconut.
Once I’m in, I’m amazed. You’d never know it was a Sikh site if it didn’t say so at the top of the page. The posters use phrases like cray-z, wat a hotT!, and the girl is tight. It’s kind of like Myspace, or Facebook. There are lots of little things you can play with other members, too—you can have snowball fights and throw ninja stars. I don’t know what I expected, maybe all religion, Sikh stuff. And that’s there too, but there are all kinds of other topics, from Politics to Sexuality to Plastic Surgery. I scroll through the subject headings:
Help! My parents won’t let me shave my armpits!
To the dork who thinks grlz shouldn’t wear turbans
Sexing up before marriage?
Help! I have a Muslim boyfriend!
For some strange, unknown reason, I wonder what life might’ve been like for Mom if sites like this had been around when she was in high school. I push it aside. Who cares?
I click on To the dork who thinks grlz shouldn’t wear turbans.
HardKaurGrl: U R a total loozer. Why shouldn’t grlz wear turbans? I’ve seen some American Sikh women wear them, and they look amazing.
Reply from MasalaBabe: I tried it once and my mother wuz OK w/it, but Dad told me take it off. NOW.
Reply from KingSingh: turbans r 4 guyz, man. get over it. u have ur chunni’s. keep em on ur head.
I move on to My parents won’t let me shave my armpits!
>
PunjabiKuri: I can’t handle gym class! My parents won’t let me shave my underarms and everyone makes fun of me. And they should! I stink! Then I have to pour perfume all over myself and I smell like a flower with B.O. Help!
Reply from HarmindHammer: my sister uses some kind of cream.
Reply from JattiRules: ya, i use Neet, or Nair. u could wax 2. they say we can’t cut hair, they don’t say nothing about waxing or Neet.
Reply from KingSingh: It’s the same thing. God put each hair on your body for a reason. If you mess with it, you’re spitting in the face of the Gurus.
I notice that no one on the forum calls themselves Indian; they all refer to themselves as “South Asian.” I look it up and discover that “South Asian” is a term used to refer to people in the “diaspora,” which means any place outside of the mother country that people from that country live.
I jump to SepiaMutiny.com and Sikhchic.com. I wonder how people know all these things. Must be a lot of researching and a million years in college. The posts on popular culture and entertainment are my favorites. Sikhchic has a film review titled “Dr. King and I” by Valarie Kaur, about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The subtitle is “Our freedom is inextricably tied up with the freedom of those next to us.”
I’m about to click on it when I glance at the clock. Two a.m., and I haven’t even started on my notes for Lesiak’s paper.
But this discovering more about myself stuff is addictive. It’s like starting a book that you just can’t put down, only it’s better because the whole book is about you.
Chapter 9
In the next couple of weeks, a plane goes down in Queens, New York, and a whole neighborhood is in flames. That sends everyone back into a panic, and rumors go around that the principal is talking about installing metal detectors in the school. After several outraged parents call the school, the vice principal announces over the PA system that this is “entirely untrue.” Images of flying planes and fires are once again plastered across TV screens and newspapers.
I go home every night and head straight to my computer. I exchange a few text messages with Mike, usually along the lines of—
Me: hey, im home. hows wrk
Him: ok Same0 lame0 u?
Me: ok
Him: miss u
Me: me 2
Him: wtr u doing 2nite
Me: hmwrk wut els
Nothing for several minutes. Then,
Him: l8r
Me: l8r
And then I get to my favorite part—researching me. I’ve made SikhOut.org my home page. I learn more about being Indian—excuse me, being South Asian—than ever before. I download bhangra songs and “Asian fusion” music on iTunes. The more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know. It’s like I’m getting two educations: one at home for learning about who I am, my history, my culture, and stuff about American history that I never learned in school; and the other at Melville, for learning about everybody else and the official version of American history.
Molly’s excited about everything I’m learning too. She even has a favorite bhangra group. But when I blather on about it too long, she starts chewing her hair and looking over my shoulder at people passing by.
Once when I was relaying an online SikhOut discussion to her, I saw her eyes drifting toward a group of guys. I said, “So, Moll, are you a guy or a girl?” just to see if she was listening.
She nodded her head with great interest and said, “Really?”
So I’ve toned it down a bit with her. But I really wish I could keep blathering on about it.
When I get my most recent calculus quiz back, it’s an A–. Molly groans, looking at her C+. “It’s so unfair!”
I shrug. “If you grew up doing math puzzles and games, you’d be a mathlete, too.” I give her a big grin. “It’s never too late to start.”
“Whatever, Wally.”
A warmth blooms briefly in my chest at the sound of her old nickname for me. She hasn’t used it in a while. “It’s not my fault you’re numerically challenged.”
She loops an arm through mine. “C’mon, Wally. You know that without your coaching, I am a math loser. Besides, I’ve got better things to do with my time…like watch that gorgeous new basketball player. He hangs out with that purple-haired guy…the one with the eyebrow ring, what’s his name again—Ajay? Anyway, back to our new basketball forward! Have you seen him? What a hottie!”
As we get closer to Thanksgiving weekend, I’m like one of those clear balls with bursts of static electric energy at the Science Center. Too much going on in the brain. I have to keep it undercover, so Mom doesn’t suspect anything, but inside I’m a disaster. I’m so excited and nervous and…full, that I’m nauseous.
Molly calls periodically to give me mini pep talks. Every time I get paralyzed at the thought of visiting the people who made Mom’s life so unbearable, Molly reminds me of Mom’s own words, “Everyone has their own truth.” Still, I wonder if they would agree with Balvir and think that I’m a coconut, masquerading as the real thing despite all my research.
By the time Uncle Sandeep calls Thursday morning from our meeting spot down the block, I’m a basket case.
“Relax,” he says, fidgeting nonstop with every knob and dial on the dashboard.
Air rushes out of me like an untied balloon. “They made Mom’s life hell.”
“She made their life hell too.”
I remember PunjabiKuri’s posts on the SikhOut forum, about not being allowed to shave her underarms, and having to endure all kinds of taunts and hostility. “They didn’t let her shave her legs!”
“They’re from a different time and place, Samar. They’re overjoyed to finally meet you, their first and only grandchild.”
“What if they’re disappointed? What if they think they got cheated—that their only grandchild is a loser who knows nothing about anything? What if they want me to take Punjabi language lessons and go to Sikh camp?”
He glances at me, eyebrows drawn together in the same perma-frown lines that Mom has. “Samar, calm down. If they ask you to do something you don’t want to do, just say you don’t want to do it…goodness! They’ve had to deal with Sharan—you will be a walk in the park for them. Believe me, Samar, they will just be thrilled to see you.”
Then he goes into the same serious instructional mode he was in at the gurdwara. And just like then, it does the opposite of calming my nerves.
“When you meet them, Samar, you will greet them in the traditional Punjabi greeting with your hands together in front. You will say ‘Sat Sri Akal.’ Ma and Papa are your Nani and Nana—that’s Punjabi for maternal grandmother and grandfather.”
I take a shaky breath in and nod.
“But most important,” he says, raising a finger, “just relax…and give them a chance.”
Yes, a chance. This is what I wanted, right? Contact, some sort of connection, my little spot in the jigsaw puzzle, even if it’s not fairy-tale perfect. I lay my head back and watch New Jersey blur past my window for the next ninety minutes and try to calm my stomach.
When we arrive at the house, I’m dumbfounded. I don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t anywhere close. The house is made of stone, a stately mansion type; something I could easily picture Bobbi Lewis living in. There’s a “lawn,” which is actually more like a mini botanical garden, in the middle of a circular driveway.
We park right outside the front door, and Uncle Sandeep scrambles out. I climb up the stone steps behind him, past the tall white Romanesque columns, to the huge, carved wooden doors. He looks at me, gives me an uneasy thumbs-up, and opens the door with his own key.
The entrance is all white marble with gold accents. There is a huge mirror on the wall to our left, with a gold vine frame. The foyer opens up into a vast hall with a staircase that splits off, one side going to the left of the house, and one side going to the right. There is an enormous skylight above the staircase, making it seem like we’re in a bright courtyard.
Des
cending gracefully from the top of the staircase is a thin, dignified woman. She holds herself erect as her eyes remain fixed on me. Nani. Behind her is Nana, slightly taller, but just as regal as Nani. His shoulders are broad, and his eyes dart a quick glance at me before returning to his wife.
Before I can compose myself, a gasp escapes my lips. These, at long last, are my grandparents. Nani wears a light peach silk salwar kameez, with a cream-colored, translucent scarf embroidered in the same peach as her outfit; and Nana wears a crisp white shirt with light gray wool pants. His turban is cream-colored and wrapped differently from Uncle Sandeep’s. Nana’s is more round and drapey, whereas Uncle Sandeep’s is tightly wrapped and comes to a point at the front, like a boat. Nana and Nani are both wearing brown leather slippers.
Nani comes toward me immediately, arms outstretched. “Samar, beta, at long last…” Her eyes brim with tears, and she envelops me in her folds of silk and chiffon. I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Everything seems so surreal. The scene I’ve been wondering about, imagining, secretly yearning for while at the same time dreading, has suddenly sprung to life in front of me.
I put my hands together prayer-style like Uncle Sandeep instructed. “Sat Sri Akal,” I murmur.
Nana puts his hand on the top of my head. “Jeethi raho, beti,” he says, and then adds, “God bless you, my dear.”
Uncle Sandeep steers us all into a gigantic kitchen, where Nani pours freshly brewed chai tea into four large mugs.
“Samar, beta, your Nana and I have waited many years for this moment,” Nani begins. “We’re overjoyed that Sharanjit has begun to see sense. It’s simply madness to keep a family torn. Where is she, Sandeep, still in the car? Why hasn’t she come in yet?”
I look at Uncle Sandeep, who reaches a finger under his turban to scratch his temple. “Uh…Sharan doesn’t know Samar is here, Ma.”
Nani stops stirring sugar into a cup. Slowly she turns to him. “What nonsense is this?” she asks sternly.
Shine, Coconut Moon Page 9