Growing Up Ethnic in America: Contemporary Fiction About Learning to Be American

by Maria Mazziotti Gillan

  Then, incredulously, “How can you not have a God? You must have been born something…. Oh, if you’re Catholic, then you must take the name of Jesus Christ, I think. Yes, I have many gods—their names are Rama, Krishna, Vishnu, Lakshmi, Siva, Parvati—there are many of them. But you should go to your priest and ask him for a blessing…. You’re welcome. Don’t be scared. God will help you.”

  Mira hung up, feeling quite pleased with herself. Here was something she understood well—the world of gods and demons, spirits and superstitions. Vicky, who was on the same shift, was looking at her oddly.

  “What was that all about? Sounded bizarre.”

  “Oh, this poor man thinks there are some witches who are putting an evil eye on him.”

  “Oh Christ, not that nut! You didn’t take him seriously, Mira?”

  “What do you mean? These things are very serious.”

  “He just calls in for shock value. This is great, though. He probably wasn’t expecting to be taken seriously. Perhaps now that he has, he won’t bother us again. But all that stuff about chillies and salt—you were joking, weren’t you?” She laughed. “You’re really something else, Mira,” and without waiting for Mira’s answer, she picked up the phone to answer another call.

  Mira reflected quietly while waiting for her next caller. Why did Vicky refuse to take this kind of call seriously? Maybe because they didn’t have any living myths and legends in their culture. In her world, gods came in human as well as animal forms. Loyalty and intelligence brought forth the image of Hanuman, the monkey god. Wealth and prosperity and wisdom conjured up the image of Ganesh, the elephant god. And whenever you had an unexpected stroke of good luck, you knew deep inside that the goddess Lakshmi was pleased with you. And evil Ravana had many incarnations, mostly human. What was myth, what reality? For Mira, the one was part and parcel of the other.

  Most of the calls she received dealt with relationships—between spouses, siblings, parents and children, lovers. She was intimidated by the male callers, unused to being in any kind of position of authority in her relationships with men. And the women were all so different from her, demanding, strident, defensive. What could she say to a woman who was contemplating divorce because her husband refused to give up his two beers a day and she hated the smell? Or to the one who threatened to walk out on her husband because he hadn’t washed the dishes for a week? She would try to remember the things she had learned in the training sessions. But they didn’t come naturally. She was constantly in awe of how these women treated the men in their lives. Sudhir would think she had lost her mind if she so much as suggested that he do the dishes even once.

  The phone rang again. Mira rushed to pick it up.

  “Emergency counseling,” she said. “Yes, I am a mother. How can I help you?”

  The voice at the other end was weary, exhausted, desperate. “I think my daughter’s pregnant,” the woman said. “And she’s only sixteen. I don’t know what to do. Her father will kill both her and me.”

  Mira paused. “How do you know?” she said.

  “Because a mother knows. The girl’s been throwing up every day for the past week. Her face looks so thin and pale, she reminds me of a waif. I don’t know how to tell her I know, that I want to help. That we can talk.”

  Mira felt herself stiffening, as one does when one’s instincts have already registered what the mind has not—or cannot—yet.

  “What will you do?” Mira asked, sensing there was little advice she could give the woman. How could she advise someone on her own worst nightmare?

  “I don’t know. What would you do?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a big problem. I haven’t really thought about it before.”

  “Is your child a girl, a teenager?”

  “Yes, she’s fifteen.” Mira paused. “And like your daughter she’s been throwing up every day and looks like a refugee. I don’t think it’s pregnancy that is making her do that. I think she’s bulimic. You know how these teenagers think—they all want to look like sticks because that’s what the magazines tell them they must look like.”

  “Yes, I agree. But bulimia is different. They usually want to get sick late at night, when nobody’s listening. The morning would be an odd time to force yourself to get sick. They have to go to school, after all. And she isn’t eating all that much.”

  “That’s true. Preeti’s the same.”

  “Maybe your daughter’s pregnant too?” the woman suggested.

  “No, no. She can’t be. She knows better than that. She isn’t experienced. I watch her very closely. I don’t think anything like that could be the matter in Preeti’s case.”

  “But if she is, what would you do?”

  “I would rather die,” Mira said. Then, remembering she was supposed to be helpful, she added, “No, I wouldn’t say anything until she chooses to tell me. Then …”

  “Yes?”

  “Then I would try to understand, I think. But I know I would feel terrible and I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “Would you suggest abortion?” the woman asked.

  “No, she’s too young for that. But she’s still in school. How can she have a child?”

  “This is exactly my problem too. We’re Catholics, and abortion doesn’t sit very well with our religion, know what I mean? So I can’t really suggest it. But I can’t let her have the child. Her life would be ruined.”

  “Yes, we’re Indians…. No, from India. And in our culture, girls are supposed to be chaste until they get married. You go straight from your parents’ house to your husband’s. And if there’s anything like this in your background, somehow they’ll find out—I mean, the prospective in-laws. I don’t know how, but they know everything.”

  The woman laughed. “That’s just like us Catholics. With us, too, everybody seems to know everything. And her father is so devout, he’ll probably whip her or something. I don’t know what’s going to happen. Don’t you think it’s difficult being a mother? When things go right, the fathers take the credit. When things go wrong, the mother’s to blame.”

  “It’s the same with us. My husband would probably turn into a block of stone, stop acknowledging her as his daughter. He would start treating her as a diseased thing. And it would be all my fault. I couldn’t bear it.”

  Mira could hardly believe it. Here she was, talking to an American mother as though they were friends. It had never happened before. She savored this for a minute. It was because the woman couldn’t see her, couldn’t see her dressed as she was, her foreignness. They were two disembodied voices, really talking to each other.

  Mira forgot her counselor’s role. “What shall I do if she is pregnant?” she asked.

  “Well, you’ve got to protect her from her father, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but how will we live? Things will never be normal again.”

  “Not normal, just different, I think. I’ve always wanted a closer relationship with my daughter. I don’t think we’ve ever really understood each other. I come from such a straitlaced background. Things are different now. You have to try and understand their point of view.”

  “But how will one explain to all the others?”

  “You don’t really have to, if you’re strong enough. The only explaining you really have to do is to yourself.”

  “You know, this is funny,” Mira said. “You called me for advice and I’m taking it from you instead.”

  “That’s because we’re both lost, both unsure of how to cope. We can learn from each other, we can take comfort in each other.”

  “Yes,” Mira said. “My name is Mira, and I’m here every Tuesday from ten in the morning to four in the afternoon. You can always reach me here.”

  “And I’m Helen. I’m so glad we talked. I hope things go well with your daughter. I’ll call you again next Tuesday.”

  “That will be very nice. And good luck with your daughter.” Mira put the phone down and immediately started worrying. How rational, how manageable it had
all seemed while she was discussing it with Helen. Yet if Preeti really was pregnant … could that be it? The reason for the mood swings, the early-morning sickness?

  It was three-thirty. “Vicky,” Mira said. “I have to leave. I don’t know—my daughter. Do you think you can manage on your own till the next shift?”

  “Sure, Mira. Go ahead. Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to find out.”

  Mira opened the front door quietly and entered the house. There was a strong smell of alcohol in the air. In the living room, the liquor cabinet door was wide open and a bottle of brandy stood at the front, its cork barely pushed in. It had been an unopened bottle; now it was only half full.

  She put her bag down on the sofa and slid out of her sneakers. Then she walked up the stairs to Preeti’s room. As she passed the bathroom, she heard muffled sounds of crying, followed by deep retching. Mira prayed it was the alcohol.

  “Preeti, are you all right? Please open the door.”

  “Oh hell, oh hell,” Preeti cursed. “Can’t you just go away?”

  “No, I can’t,” Mira said. “I have to come in.”

  There was silence. Mira pushed the door open and went in. Preeti was sitting on the floor, her eyes red and bloated with crying. On the floor next to her was a paper cup that looked as though it still held some brandy. The bathroom smelled of vomit and alcohol.

  Mira walked up to Preeti and wordlessly wiped her face clean with a wet towel. Then she pulled her off the floor and led her into her room. Preeti didn’t protest. She seemed to be in a daze. As they left the bathroom, Mira saw the easily recognizable torn packaging for the pregnancy kit. She had used the same brand herself a few years before, when she thought she was pregnant. It confirmed her worst fears. She knew now, even without asking the question, that her daughter was pregnant.

  Preeti worried that her mother might suspect, Mira worried that her daughter might think she knew. Mira wanted it to come from Preeti. She couldn’t even begin to deal with the problem without Preeti’s participation. So she kept silent, tormented deep within as she listened to Preeti being sick in the bathroom in the mornings, watched her pull herself together stoically to get dressed for school, carried on outwardly as if nothing were the matter. When Sudhir called from California, she tried to sound as normal as possible, asked questions about the hotel and the conference as though they were of prime importance to her, and even discussed their weekend engagements with neighboring Indian friends. If he seemed nonplussed by her mindless chatter on a long-distance call, he didn’t show it. She must have convinced him that everything was fine at home, Mira thought, because he hadn’t called again last night. So much the better; in her own territory, she was much more in control of things. She would handle Sudhir when the need arose.

  The evening before Sudhir s return, Mira went into her room to pray. The atmosphere had been so tense these last few days, Preeti saying nothing, just going up to her room and listening to music or chatting at length to her friends on the telephone. Mira had asked her once or twice, “Preeti, are you all right?” trying to initiate a conversation, but the girl would just say, “Yes, Ma,” and disappear into her room. This evening, Mira resolved to give up trying. Leave it to God. Pray. Then clean the house. Do anything rather than sit in the kitchen, waiting for Preeti’s footsteps on the stairs. To this end, she was assembling her prayer things and had switched on a tape of devotional hymns. As the little diya flames danced before her eyes and the smell of incense filled the bedroom, Mira began praying earnestly. She was so deep in prayer that she didn’t hear her bedroom door being opened. Preeti entered the room and lay down on Mira’s bed, watching her mother seated cross-legged on the floor, praying silently.

  When Mira turned around and saw her daughter waiting for her, she knew that the time had come and quickly prayed that she would know what to say and how to get through this. Whatever happened, she could not lose her daughter. But Preeti made it easy. She came across to her mother and sat down next to her, her bow-shaped lips quivering, then burst into tears. Mira hugged her tight, saying softly, “Preeti, I know something’s wrong. Please let me help you. I love you so much, I would do anything for you. You know that. Why can’t you tell me?”

  Preeti was crying so hard she could not speak. Eventually, the tears subsided, and it came out bit by bit: the pressure at school to be part of the “in” crowd, the feeling that if you were inexperienced at fifteen, it was because none of the guys considered you worth their while; the guilt, the sense of shame now that she was pregnant—Mira winced at that, there was a finality about its coming from Preeti that made it harder to bear—since smart people never got pregnant, only dumb people got themselves into that situation, the way her friends were avoiding her now, the intense fear of what Sudhir would do to her, the fear that she’d wrecked her life forever. Preeti had been living with a nightmare, Mira realized. If her child had not already been an out-and-out ABCD, the cruel acronym India-born Indians used for American-Born Confused Desis (“Desi” was a colloquial term for Indians), she was certainly on her way to becoming one now. India would reject her now as surely as she had previously rejected India. So much for Mira’s dreams of taking Preeti back to India as often as she could so that she would meet an Indian boy and settle down there. No one would have her over there now. She would be tainted by scandal; teenage pregnancies were unheard of among the professional Indian classes. And unwed mothers represented a social disease of the West.

  It seemed to Mira as she smoothed her daughter’s hair, just as she used to when Preeti had been a child, that the girl really had nowhere to go. America would never wholeheartedly embrace her now—she had broken an unwritten code, violated a social taboo. An American child might eventually win back social acceptance, but for her child, not ostensibly “American” in the way her friends were, social acceptance had been difficult in the first place. Now it would be impossible. She was an outcast from two societies, belonging to both but welcome in neither.

  Mira hugged her daughter tightly, remembering the story of Sita’s abduction by the demon Ravana. When Rama finally won his wife’s freedom by fighting the demon, he rejected her as she walked toward him, citing Hindu religious principles which declared that a woman who has spent time in a male stranger’s house can never be accepted by her husband again; the woman is guilty of misconduct until proved innocent. Rama subjected his wife to a trial by fire, insisting that she literally walk through a blazing fire to prove her innocence in front of huge crowds of people. Sita emerged unscathed. Mira’s daughter would not.

  Mira felt herself enter a place where none of the values she had grown up with were there to guide her. This situation would, in fact, require her to suspend, if only temporarily, her ideas of right and wrong, blame and innocence, shame and pride, in order to save her daughter from being permanently scarred. And then could one ever be the same again? Having discarded, even temporarily, the values that had been her prop and her stay throughout her time in America, could she go back, as though nothing had ever happened? How would this change her? Would she, too, become an outcast?

  Preeti had stopped crying, and Mira asked gently, “Preeti, can you tell me who the father is?”

  Preeti burst out crying again. “I can’t, I can’t. Please don’t ask me. It’s not important.”

  Mira then asked, “But does he know?”

  “Yes, but he can’t help.” Then it wasn’t important to know who the father was, Mira agreed. It was better not to know.

  Mira put Preeti to bed, tucking her in carefully. She watched her as she cuddled her ragged teddy bear, like a child, Mira thought. Just like a child, with that frightened expression on her face. How could she not protect her—this was her child. Gone was that hardened expression of a few weeks earlier—that jaunty, devil-may-care attitude she had adopted toward her parents and her grandmother. All Mira could see now was fear, need, and helplessness. It broke her heart. Why was her daughter being taken to tas
k so young, so unprepared for life’s trials?

  She went downstairs and switched on the television, wanting to be distracted. But Sudhir’s face kept flitting into her consciousness. For the first time in her married life, she had begun to feel the difference in their ages. Sudhir was approaching sixty, she forty-two. A man of his generation would not know how to handle a situation like this—he would feel it as a deep personal insult. She would have to face him tomorrow evening and she felt sick at the thought. He would condemn, he would blame, he would drag them both through hell with his wrath. Sudhir seldom lost his temper, but when he did, it was cruel and damaging. Mira rested her head on the back of the sofa and shut her eyes, praying for oblivion.

  Preeti was so pale the next morning, Mira promptly took her back to her bed and stuck a thermometer in her mouth. A hundred and two degrees, it read. Mira gave her some aspirin, brought her some lentil soup for lunch, and watched her carefully as she became almost delirious. “When is Papa coming home? He’ll kill me, Ma. Where will I go? Will you come with me? Janet’s parents threw her out when she got pregnant. I wish I knew where she was, because the same thing’s going to happen to me….” Mira just listened, knowing that nothing she said would really make a difference.

  She herself had spent a sleepless night worrying about how they would all get through the next evening. She would have to tell Sudhir as soon as possible. He was Preeti’s father; he had the right to know that his daughter was in trouble. And he might understand. After all, he was a doctor. Doctors knew that accidents happened sometimes. They dealt routinely with unwanted, unplanned pregnancies. He might even know exactly what to do. So she got through the day, trying to rationalize her worries away.

  Still, when she heard the car crunching the gravel in the driveway, she got up from the sofa nervously, her voice threatening to desert her, terrified at the thought of telling him anything about Preeti. It had begun raining earlier in the evening and she could hear the thick rain, like her thumping heart, drumming on the car.