Independence Day has just passed. I’ve never been into fireworks, even when I was living on the east side right next to the FDR Drive. I had this amazing view of the Macy’s Day fireworks special, but it didn’t really mean that much to me. It’s not because because I don’t love this country, I definitely do. But I don’t feel the need to outwardly celebrate my appreciation and gratitude for living in America.

I grew up in dual cultures. There were times (especially during adolescence) when I wasn’t really sure if I was American or Indian. Indians from the homeland would call this syndrome: ABCD (American Born Confused Desi). Desi refers to anyone from India (the ‘country’) or of Indian descent. Frankly, I don’t think I was/am an ABCD, but more likely an ABD. So as an ABD, I had two identities. One identity was at home, eating very traditional food, growing up in a conservative and traditional household, having to fulfill my parents’ expectations of doing well/succeeding. I identify this as Eastern. My other identity was at school, liking boys, complaining about my parents and their expectations for me to do well, and wearing Champion sweatshirts, stonewashed jeans with big baggy socks over them. Oh and Reeboks. Don’t ask me. It was a Long Island 80′s thing. I identify this as Western.

I was born in Queens, NY, but somehow, I felt like an expatriate growing up. It was strange, since I never gave up on the country where I was born. Both my parents are Indian and they endowed a strong Indian identity for me. Childhood summers were spent essentially in India. I distinctly remember the last day of school ending, my family would be boarding a plane from JFK a few days later and we would return a few weeks before school started in New York.

9/11 triggered a lot of people to realize how the world views Americans. I got a good taste of it since I was a child. It wouldn’t be more than one to two days getting off the plane in India  (the jet lag was still present) when my cousins would hound me for being “American”. “Why does your country feel the need to bomb other countries?”, “Why does America always have to interfere?”, “Why can’t Americans mind their own business?” I wanted to answer, “I don’t know! I’m only six!” My interests at that time were Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys and watching as many cartoons as possible. Every summer would be spent like this. It became more problematic when I entered into adolescence and felt the need to answer back (even though I still didn’t know anything about American politics). I remember feeling that I couldn’t wait to go back home, to get away from my relatives.

When I did come back, it wasn’t necessarily a refuge. I would come back to classmates in Long Island who would ask me if Indians in India “are anything like  Indiana Jones: The Temple of Doom?” I would be bombarded with questions about my food, my clothes, my culture. It was exhausting. I was a girl without a country, I didn’t belong to a particular nation or group. It was lonely.

Moving to New York City changed all of that for me. I was fortunate that I was able to go to school in Manhattan right after I graduated high school. I was blessed to go to medical school and residency in the Big Apple. This was the first time I felt accepted, acknowledged and appreciated. Instead of questions about “Why is Indian food so smelly?”, I was asked to share recipes. People appreciated the styles of Indian clothing and culture. I could wear my sweats or a sari and nobody would look at me any differently. Who knew that 35 miles from where I grew up was this amazing island of acceptance?

For that whole time, I never really forgot how most people viewed Americans. I essentially stopped going to India since I was 14, using my studies as an excuse. The real reason was I couldn’t bare to be tortured by my cousins anymore. In 2000, I was able to study at Oxford for one year. Even though the U.K. is a Western nation, I again got a taste of what it was like to be “The American”. First off, my experience there was phenomenonal.  But from the very beginning, I had to fight off the American stereotype that so many Brits wanted to place on me. One time I went to a local pub with some acquaintances. Someone commented that they couldn’t believe that I was American because I was so nice. Umm, what is that supposed to mean? Are Americans not nice? Another person commented that they knew I was American right away because of my teeth. What?!?!?

So, the morale of this story is the title: Yes, I’m American, but don’t hate me. I’ve learned to become an ABD who defines what it is to be American. It’s a heterogeneous mix of my Indian and Western heritage. It’s the distinct aspect of being a New Yorker. It’s the freedom to become a doctor. It’s the ability to be fluent in English and Bengali. It’s the opportunity to learn and love speaking Spanish. It’s the blessing of having your own business. It’s the freedom of speech, to choose who I love, to be able to laugh out loud, to show my legs in a skirt and to write and express myself in countless number of ways. Welcome to America.