American Like Me

by America Ferrera

  Within a couple of years, I had joined Geeta in Los Angeles. She was assisting a screenwriter, and I had begun my career as an entrepreneur, starting a poker magazine called All In Magazine. Soon thereafter, Geeta’s friend asked me to come audition for something, and a few months after that, I was a full-time actor and Geeta and I became roomies. A couple of loser Patels who had thrown their parents’ hard work away to become struggling artists. Of course, Mom was begging Geeta and me to just let her buy a motel for us in Los Angeles, not only because of the financial stability, but also because she felt being able to say “Ravi owns a motel” was way more marriageable than “Ravi was the other guy in the McRib commercial.”

  Fast-forward to 2008. Geeta and I are now in our thirties, still poorish, still unmarried, and our parents were in Code Red: you-guys-need-to-get-married-now mode. After a family trip to India where relatives badgered us relentlessly to find spouses, I had an idea. What if Geeta and I made a documentary together featuring us and our parents about this crazy pressure in our family to get married the way our parents did? Geeta had zero interest. Documentaries take too long to make and nobody watches them. And also they make no money. But in the end, she said yes. Why? Because Patel. She cared more about me than herself.

  For the next six years (yes, six years) that we were grinding away at making Meet the Patels, I regretted this decision. Geeta and I had entirely different sensibilities, and we were horrible at working together. What we were trying to do was fairly ambitious for people who didn’t have much experience—we wanted to make a romantic-comedy documentary, because it sounded like something sexy that people had never heard of, because we made it up. We would regularly spend many hours debating small ideas, and the debates would consistently devolve into passive-aggressive conversations or full-on shouting matches. Like many siblings, we had a lifetime of baggage. But like Mom and Dad’s arranged marriage, divorce was not an option. We couldn’t fire each other from our lives, and we had put too much into this film to let it crumble. We had no choice but to find a way to love each other, to find what was there instead of what was missing. It didn’t happen overnight, but by the time we finally finished the movie—six years later—Geeta and I were best friends.

  We thought the movie was great. Nobody else did.

  After being rejected by every major festival, Meet the Patels was finally premiering at a documentary festival called Hot Docs. Even though this meant that the film we just spent six years making was surely going to never be seen by anyone, and would bring zero return on our investment, Dad insisted on making a big deal about the premiere. He wanted to “treat” everyone.

  The night before the premiere, there I lay in this motel room that I was sharing with Geeta. Dad had gotten a Patel discount on a gross spot in downtown Toronto. I was lying on top of the sheets because I wasn’t emotionally prepared to see the sheets. Geeta lay next to me in her bed two feet to my right—it was kind of a separate bed, and it kind of wasn’t. I was trying to sleep, but I had anxiety. Maybe it was that I was worried about my career. My life. Geeta had fallen asleep and started snoring. Mom and Dad had their own room across the hall but came over to do their usual party: Indian snacks, chai, and opinions. Mom was busy with what can only be described as an Indian-snack assembly line. At the end of this assembly line was Dad, who loves eating snacks (he loves saying that’s why he and Mom go well together, because she likes making food and he likes eating it). He was sipping on tea, sitting on my bed announcing all his Facebook notifications. He had decided to send messages to every Patel he could find in Toronto—this is literally tens of thousands of Patels—inviting them to our movie’s premiere the next day. I may have rolled my eyes or cringed, so he changed the subject.

  “Ravi, guess how much I got this room for? You won’t believe it,” my dad said.

  “I’ll believe it.”

  “Thirty dollars! Downtown Toronto. Thirty dollars!”

  “I believe it.”

  But I didn’t believe what happened next.

  On the ride over to the theater the next day, Dad told us about a few local Patels who had responded to his Facebook requests and planned on showing up to the movie; he had promised free tickets to some of them, because Patels will even do things they have no interest in if they get a good deal on it. His excitement was contagious, and I found myself feeling moved that he tried so hard to invite people to show up. I realized I wanted to say something and made a little speech in the car.

  “Guys, how many families get to have an experience like this? Look how much closer it’s brought us. We got to make a movie—this was film school to me. I feel like I found my voice, and I’m actually excited to be an artist now, because I now know how art can impact my personal journey. This experience has made me a better person. A better brother and son. It’s been the most introspective journey of my life. Let’s be grateful. Whatever happens tonight doesn’t matter.”

  It was the kind of speech a coach gives a team that’s about to lose.

  As we approached the venue for the film festival, we saw what appeared to be one of the more successful movie screenings in the festival. There was a crowd of people lined up along the entire side of the building. We turned left after the building and the line continued around the block.

  The car stopped next to this long line, and we got out.

  “Hey, do you know where Meet the Patels is showing?”

  “Right in here. I think the back of this line is on the other side of this building.”

  That night, a packed theater of something like four hundred people gave us a five-minute standing ovation. People were going nuts. Mom was crying. We ended up winning the Audience Award at the festival. And then after winning more festival awards, the movie was released in real theaters, prompting Dad to Facebook the entire country. He basically set up a call center in his house to get the word out. He even made Meet the Patels yard signs that thousands of people displayed around the country to market our little movie. It ended up being one of the highest grossing documentaries and one of the most-watched films on Netflix that year. It was a true grassroots movement. It took a village, and fortunately for us, Mom and Dad know everyone in the village.

  Making that film was one of the best experiences of my life. What nearly destroyed my relationship with my sister resulted in a movie that affirms our friendship and our love of family. We heard from people all around the country telling us it made them feel better about their own family relationships. And my family is still having fun because of it. People approach my parents constantly, and it’s always such a scene because they are as wonderful in person as they are in the film. They are kind of famous now because of Meet the Patels and they also kind of love it. They have both retired and gotten acting agents. They started a “club” with their retired Indian friends called the Life Is Great Club, which involves going on field trips around the world, playing a lot of golf and bridge, and consuming a lot of snacks and wine. After running their own business together for more than twenty years, they focus even more of their efforts into volunteer and charity work here in the United States and in India. Dad now talks about Meet the Patels as if he made it himself. His current obsession is funding a movie for us to make together. It’s so cool that this is even a thought in any of our minds.

  * * *

  Fast-forward to the Carnival cruise sad place. My phone rings: our friends found the passports. We had to go on this cruise. My first thought is that I had let my daughter down on the occasion of her first vacation. I remember thinking, I have to aim higher for my kids, to break this cycle of poverty-themed vacations.

  As we walked onto the boat, the smells started almost immediately. It was as gross as expected. Maybe it was the Trump times I was living in, but watching people gorge themselves on buffets, alcohol, and hot tubs really bummed me out. Mahaley and I were both sleep-deprived, and the stress of almost not getting on the cruise (coupled with the stress of unfortunately getting on the cruise) had given her
a terrible headache. When we arrived to our room, Mom and Dad came out of their room, adjacent to ours on the left, and then Geeta and her boyfriend popped out of their room, adjacent to ours on the right. They were all excited and ready to party. I had to deliver the bad news: I think the three of us need to relax for a few hours, but maybe we can just catch you guys for dinner. Dad said, “Tonight is the big opening-night gala! Seven p.m. Dress up!”

  Great, a cruise gala, I’m sure it’s gonna be a hot event.

  Dad continued, “It’s going to be a hot event!”

  Cut to Mahaley and me, eyes barely open, seated at a large empty table. Just us and the baby monitor, which was transmitting the sounds of my daughter’s white noise machine from the bathroom of our cabin where she was sleeping. Geeta and her boyfriend showed up first. “Sorry we are late; we were partying in the hot tub.” Then Mom and Dad showed up. “Sorry we are late; people keep recognizing us from Meet the Patels. What can you do?”

  It was a six-course meal of lackluster cruise food, and my dad loved every last bland filet of fish, every last soupy casserole, every soggy vegetable, every watery cocktail, every overly sweetened dessert. My mom on the other hand did that thing where she complains about how she could have cooked every single dish better. Mahaley loved laughing at Mom, and I loved seeing both of them laugh together. I couldn’t believe I had found Mahaley, this incredible woman who loves me back and was willing to enjoy the world’s least luxurious vacation with me. I watched her nervously eyeing the baby monitor, pushing away more plates than she ate, sweetly enduring this floating-Patel-motel experience. People love telling me that she’s way out of my league, which is totally true and offensive. Sure, this first year of our marriage and a new baby had not been easy. But it was getting better. It was clear to me how much I love being her husband. And how much I love being my daughter’s father. Geeta was drinking more wine than I’d ever witnessed her drinking, which was a good thing. She was completely relaxed, at peace, in love—I hadn’t ever seen her this happy. Next to her was her boyfriend, Sean, who would propose to her a couple of months after that. I remember everyone in tears laughing at so many points. I remember my mother toasting to the fact that none of us had had a boss in several years. We were all living life, making our own work, healthy, happy, and building things together. It was a very Patel ending to my hectic year.

  By the time dessert showed up, Dad was on his second glass of merlot and seemed to be making a toast every five minutes. It seemed the older Dad got, the more sentimental he’d become, and the more he felt the need to constantly point out how lucky we all are to have one another. I had gotten used to it—we all found it adorable—but this time felt different. The only reason I can give you is that becoming a father had done all the things they say it does to a person. My perspective had changed in life, my priorities. I realized I don’t want to work so much anymore. I don’t even care as much about achievement and adventure. I still want to do cool things, but only if they give me a lifestyle that brings me closer to my wife, daughter, parents, and sister. A few months after that cruise would mark fifty years since Dad stepped foot in this country with the weight of an entire village on his shoulders. And now here he was with our new village. For the first time, I felt his pride—his achievement as a father. I thought to myself: I want my daughter to spend more time with her grandparents. I want her to have what I have. One day, I want her to want off this Carnival cruise as bad as I do.

  Toward the end of dinner, a dance party started in the middle of the dining room—a lame cruise-ship kind of dance party. Everyone at the table got up to dance. My plan was to stay back—I was embarrassed. Then Dad came and grabbed me—he’s strong when he’s drunk. As we walked toward the dance floor, he put his arm around me and whispered in my ear—as if it were a secret—“You know, I’ve been waiting for this night my entire life.”

  * * *

  I. I recently filmed a piece for Sarah Silverman’s show I Love You, America, during which time we retraced Dad’s arrival to America fifty years later. We visited that apartment. Turns out it was huge (you can google the clip).

  PHOTO BY HUNTER COLLEGE CAMPUS SCHOOLS

  Lin-Manuel Miranda is a composer, lyricist, and performer. He is the proud son of a Puerto Rican dad and a Puerto Rican/Mexican mom.

  Lin-Manuel Miranda

  “WHAT’D YOU GET?”

  “What’d you get?”

  It is January 5, 1988, school is back in session, and we, the second graders of Hunter College Elementary School, are comparing our holiday haul in the mini gym. The Hanukkah/Christmas split within our grade is pretty close to sixty/forty—whether we got small gifts for eight days or a lot of gifts on the twenty-fifth, the requests are the same. He-Man/She-Ra action figures. Voltron. ThunderCats. Transformers. Raphie Posner got the G.I. Joe aircraft carrier, which is almost eight feet long, so several of us make a mental note to book a playdate with Raphie ASAP. We speak in hushed, excited whispers, envious sighs, a postconsumerist reverie.

  I look across the mini gym and catch eyes with Jillian, with Pacho, with Jason, and with Jiman.

  We share a smile. The holidays may be done for all the other kids but not for us.

  For the five Latino kids in the second grade at Hunter College Elementary School, the holiday haul is not over. For Jillian, Pacho, Jason, Jiman, and I will gather hay for the camels that are on their way to our respective houses and apartments that night. There is no hay in Manhattan, so we will likely dig under piles of snow in Central or Riverside or Inwood Hill Parks for just enough dead grass to fill a shoebox. We will set these humble offerings, our shoeboxes full of dead New York grass and dirt, by our beds, too excited to sleep. We will meditate on the Three Kings, those same ones who came to Baby Jesús, pronounced with the accent, and we will hope that those same Three Kings will bring us anything that Santa may have forgotten the week before.

  January 6. Three Kings’ Day. A school day.

  We wake up and are dazzled by presents, right at the foot of our bed. There is no waiting for parents to wake up on Three Kings’ Day, no homilies about the giving being the best part—Kings are only interested in gifting children, and we are here for it. There, at the foot of our beds, that missing He-Man doll, that rare Pound Puppy, that fancy lunch box—that hard-to-find toy that is perhaps more affordable in whatever postholiday sales the Three Kings frequent.

  Then we look around the house and our minds are blown.

  The grass, for the camels—it’s everywhere. These camels are sloppy eaters, and for a moment our minds blaze with the mental image of real camels, climbing our stairs, somehow clopping in from our fire escapes, navigating Washington Heights apartments, leaving behind toys and a mess of dead, half-devoured grass. We look around and wonder, did we hear them in the night? Do we remember hearing a bump or a snort? Could it be?

  We barely have time to play with our new toys. We scarf down Cheerios and café, heavy on the milk, and race to school, where Pacho, Jason, Jillian, Jiman, and I, for one day a year, are the chosen ones, our new toys in hand. We are the only Latino kids in our grade, and on most days we are friendly but not close, each in our respective corners, unsure of how to share a world and a culture we ordinarily keep at home. But on January 6, we are basically on par with Jesús, because the Three Kings picked the five of us, and all the other Latino kids in the world, and bestowed us with gifts, just like him.

  “What’d you get?”

  “What’d you get?”

  Tanaya Winder is a poet, vocalist, writer, educator, and motivational speaker from the Southern Ute, Duckwater Shoshone, and Pyramid Lake Paiute Nations. She is the founder of Dream Warriors, an indigenous artists management company and collective.

  Tanaya Winder

  WHEN I WAS A little girl, Granny sang to me about leaves in the fall, colors changing from yellow to orange or red; the beautiful process of letting go embodied in each leaf slowly turning away from green. I can’t recall all the details exactly, bu
t I remember the wind. Every time Granny sang I pictured leaves dancing in concert as the wind twirled one after the other, carrying them from one destination to the next. Granny said something about silver, so maybe the song was really about the winter; I think I’d prefer it that way because I was born in December, and I came out screaming like most babies do as they take their first breath of air. In that way, I like to think I’ve been singing since birth, a life song our people have held in their hearts and spirits for generations, songs to always help us find our way back home.

  Granny was my maternal great-grandmother. She was Pyramid Lake Paiute, and she lived on that reservation in northern Nevada. The Pyramid Lake Paiute reservation is also where my mother grew up. Each winter, Granny would come visit my mother, older sister, and me on the Southern Ute reservation in southwestern Colorado, my father’s reservation and home where I would grow up and spend my school years. Each summer, my sister and I would go visit Granny and my maternal grandparents in Nevada. This time of year was always my favorite, because it meant we got to swim in Pyramid Lake.