When Code Switching is Not Enough

I remember walking into the department store in Troy, Michigan. It was Sears, one of the largest stores I had ever been to. It was a cold weekend in October, and I needed winter clothing.

I had been in the US for about a week and did not have suitable clothing for life in Michigan. The whole process of buying clothing in a new country felt unfamiliar. I was more confident with my sense of style back in India. I knew the proper outfits for an occasion, but here I was, a stranger in a strange land, not knowing how the clothing style worked, what one wore to church, or what layering was. I had never owned a pair of gloves or boots, let alone a wool dress coat or a winter jacket.

For someone who had spent her entire life in tropical countries, this was my first time shopping for winter wear. It felt strange and almost like an out-of-body experience. But I knew I needed to get it done. I needed the clothing to fit in. It was my armor. This was not my first time feeling unsettled and unfamiliar in a clothing store. I had experienced this feeling before when I first shopped in India.

I might have been of Indian origin, but I spent my childhood and teenage years in Oman. I knew what being a stranger in a different country felt like. But it was all I knew. My immigrant parents raised me in a foreign country where I had a culture that was not entirely Indian, not quite Omani, but somewhere in the middle. Cross-cultural relationships were the norm. Christmas parties had people from Oman, North and South India, Britain, Kenya, China, the Philippines, Nigeria, and even the US. We all spoke English, but we were familiar with different accents. Wearing clothing from our countries of origin was common and celebrated. And as for the food, it was a banquet of global delicacies!

That was my norm. I knew the immigrant ex-pat bubble. I knew that cross-cultural life. Though my parents did not use such terms during my childhood and formative years, I still remember the tears flowing down my face when the flight took off for India in 1995, as my parents relocated us back to India. Seeing the lights of Oman fade broke my heart, as I knew the chances of returning were limited. I would probably never return.

Oman was home and would always be home. I knew deep down I was not a citizen, and I wondered why I cried for a country that was not mine. But it was. It was the only home I ever knew, and it broke my heart knowing I might never return.

Landing in India felt uncomfortable. The sounds, smells, heat, humidity, and crowds overwhelmed me. There was guilt in my heart because I knew India was where I belonged. It was my home country, the land of my birth and ancestors. It was the country I had visited dutifully as a child every summer for four weeks. But in my head, I was screaming; It's not my home! I don't belong here. I longed for what I had left behind and hung onto the bits and pieces of my past life. I missed seeing Islamic architecture, the ocean from my window, the date palms that lined the roads, and the bustling souks (street markets) that had been a part of my life for nearly fifteen years.

But here I was in Chennai (Tamil Nadu), India. I was in the country of my birth, surrounded by people who looked like me, spoke my native tongue, and accepted me. Technically, I belonged, but inside, I felt lost and confused. These were not my people.

At that point, I realized I would be a stranger in my homeland, and if I needed to fit in, I needed to adapt and learn the traditions. Those who knew and loved me accommodated my differences. But I knew I could not expect people to change for me. I needed to adapt. So began my journey with code-switching.

Over the next five years, I tried to build a life in Chennai. Spending time with my grandmother, cousins, uncles, and aunts was helpful. I learned from my friends at college. I learned Tamil culture, improved my language skills, and used my new Indian clothing as armor.

Every summer, I went back to visit my parents in Oman. My heart soared when the flight took off, and just seeing the Arabian Peninsula come into view often made me teary-eyed. But I realized even though I had become adept at code-switching over the years, when I returned to Oman, while I desperately wanted to fit in, I could no longer. I was a stranger in the country, which had been home for so many years. People had moved on, and I was no longer a little child. My friends were no longer there, and my parents had a new routine as empty nesters. I had become more South Indian than they wanted me to be, and they found my new habits different. I had learned to move adeptly between two cultures, but I was neither here nor there.

As David Pollock, in his book Third Culture Kids, describes, “I had grown up between two worlds and did not belong to either.”

In the summer of 2000, I took one of my last trips to Oman before graduating. The next time I returned, I would be married and expecting my first child. I no longer cried on that flight as we left for India. I was 22 and knew then that the part of my life formed on the Arabian Sea’s shores was over. However, I would always find familiarity and comfort in Arabian culture. Being among people from diverse cultures and backgrounds would always feel like home to me, but I would always be the person who walked in between.

India still did not feel quite like home, but for now, it was familiar.

Over the next four years, I built a family and a home, but I always felt like I was in limbo. I had spent most of my life building relationships with two cultures while I did not have ownership of either. There were different elements of each that I had incorporated into my life as an adult. They related my entire sense of belonging to others from similar backgrounds. Yes, I had friends; I was married and had an extended family. But my identity, my roots, and my origin were all adrift. I lacked people around me who spoke the language of my soul in a way that needed no explanation.

And then, one cold evening, I found myself on another continent buying winter clothes. My journey to the United States, which occurred at a point in my life when I was so adrift in my identity, only reinforced feelings of being lost, misunderstood, and confused. While moving to the US seemed exciting, landing in another foreign land brought anxiety and panic.

Once again, my life seemed upended. I was in an unfamiliar place, though I was not alone this time. We were a family—my husband and baby. Once again, I was a round peg in a square hole, and this time, there was no one to teach me the ropes. Clothing, furnishing a little apartment, learning to drive, learning to speak with new vocabulary, ordering at a drive-thru, and figuring out “spring forward” and “fall back” were all challenging and stressful.

I knew what I needed to do to survive. If changing my speaking style, wearing muted clothing instead of the bright ones in my closet, calling petrol, gas, pavement, sidewalk, biscuits, and cookies, made for easier assimilation, then that is what I would do to survive, to fit in. I worked at code-switching until it became seamless, I felt assimilated, and until I knew those around me felt comfortable. Because I had been around enough people to know that when one is unfamiliar with your language, accent, or appearance, they struggle to interact with you, I wanted to make it easier for others. So, I changed. I did what I could to fit in, survive, and make assimilation easy for my family and me. Through this, I met some fantastic people who are now integral to my life. These people know the real me, share meals around my table and listen to my story. It took time, but where code-switching was once a necessity, it's now a tool used occasionally.

It's been nearly two decades since that evening in Sears. While, on a certain level, I feel like I have settled in well and figured out my place, there are moments when I struggle. We return to India every year to visit family, and the moment we land, I watch my children unconsciously code-switch. However, I can also sense myself doing it, so I try to rein it in and live authentically.

All people have a version of code-switching, whether you live in your country of origin or whether the people surrounding you are like you. We do it to ingratiate ourselves with others and our surrounding community. It helps us convey ideas and communicate better. We change accents and mannerisms depending on whom we are speaking with.

The world is becoming more multicultural, and I realize that code-switching is a good skill. Today, as an adult third culture kid (TCK), I now have skills I did not always appreciate.

An expanded worldview is something most TCKs have; they have a global perspective and the ability to view others' lives differently. When I travel these days, I realize I have a three-dimensional worldview. We don't just learn from books but from our senses, too, and they impact our feelings and emotions. The ability to engage cross-culturally is truly a gift! Taking my shoes off in an Indian home, appreciating the fragrance of food in an Indian or Chinese restaurant, eating with my fingers, or using silverware is of absolute value.

There are still times when I struggle to navigate a gathering with friends from different countries and backgrounds. I want to be with everyone simultaneously, but sometimes, people do not care to intermingle. They often stay in homogeneous groups or find like-minded people.

The constant code-switching drains me and encourages me to find a middle ground at such events. We live in a global world where cultures melt and mix, and we should be able to preserve our unique selves and encounter others without the need to code-switch.

When worlds collide, we need to adapt and thrive. I am now more aware of when I code-switch. I have relationships with people from multiple backgrounds who don't require me to be someone I am not. But these relationships have taken the time and have been a two-way street.

I am thankful for those who have taken an interest in asking me about my story, understanding my background, and educating themselves. Our world is diverse, and it's OK if it challenges our notions of identity and home. We can be lifelong learners, ask good questions, refrain from making assumptions, and move through life with an awareness of a world much larger than the one we inhabit.

This essay originally appeared in Reclaim, a publication of the Asian American Christian Collaborative. Posted here with permission.

Learn more about their work at www.asianamericanchristiancollaborative.com

Photo by Rengan Visweswaran on Unsplash

Photo by Niklas Weiss on Unsplash