At home, my culture is loud and colorful.
It smells like spices and home-cooked food. It sounds like my family talking over each other, laughing, arguing, telling stories I’ve heard a hundred times. It feels warm and familiar, like something I don’t have to explain.
At school, I make it smaller.
I don’t bring certain foods for lunch because I don’t want the questions or the looks. I stick to things that won’t smell too strong or sound too different when I say their names. I don’t talk about certain holidays or traditions, especially the ones people wouldn’t understand without turning them into jokes.
I’m embarrassed of my mother’s accent, even though I hate admitting that. When she comes to school events, I feel my body tense up. I worry about how other people hear her, how they look at us. Later, I feel guilty for ever wishing she sounded different, knowing how hard it was for her to learn another language at all.
When people mispronounce my name, I laugh instead of correcting them. It feels easier than explaining. Easier than watching them struggle or roll their eyes or say, “That’s too hard.” Every time I let it slide, a small part of me disappears, but at least I don’t stand out.
Sometimes I feel like I’m living two versions of myself. One at home, where I belong without trying. One at school, where I blend in as much as I can. I love my culture, but loving it quietly feels safer than loving it out loud.
I wonder what it would feel like to bring my whole self with me everywhere. To say my name the right way. To stop shrinking things that matter to me. I’m not there yet. For now, I exist somewhere in between—half visible, hoping one day I won’t feel like I have to choose.
