When people meet me for the first time, the question I am always asked—besides the ever-so-condescending, “How tall are you?”—is, “Are you, like, Indian, or something?” Well, okay, they don’t sound that ignorant, but in my head that’s how it translates.  And my response to that question is, “Yes, I am Indian … or something.”

I have tan skin and full eyelashes complete with long black hair that gets stuck in weird places wherever I go. Yes, I do look Indian. However, when people ask me that question, I always feel a twinge of guilt in the back of my mind that I’m not telling the complete truth. It’s not that I’m rejecting my heritage, or anything of that nature, I just don’t know anything about it.

With that said, I have been fortunate enough to venture to the “motherland” once. I never knew what a true food craving was until I spent a week in the stuffy Bombay air and started to have Big Mac hallucinations. There were no real showers, so we used buckets. But we had to be careful not to swallow any of the water because our weak, coddled immune systems couldn’t handle the bacteria. I want to say this experience was life changing, seeing all the impoverished Indians living on the street; but the truth is, there was no way I could comprehend the struggles they faced every day. I wasn’t going to pretend to know their stories by flashing them sympathetic looks as my parents pulled me along.

On my return from India, I was immediately catapulted into high school. Now when people inquired about my ethnicity, they weren’t only asking about my ethnicity, but about my assumed plans to gain a medical degree, get a full ride to the Ivy League of my choice and maintain a 5.3 GPA throughout. “I’m Indian,” suddenly became a one way-ticket into a vortex of stereotypes.

Two years later I took the ACT for the first time. Our instructor held out my future on a flimsy pamphlet and told us to bubble in a box to indicate our ethnicity. American Indian or Alaska Native, Asian, Black or African American, Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander, and White—those were the choices. I knew I wasn’t Native American, Black, Hawaiian, or White. The only choice left was Asian. While India is technically in Asia, not once in my life before that moment had I ever been categorized or perceived as Asian. Russia is in Asia but Russians aren’t Asian. It felt to me like saying I was Hispanic because I can make a taco. I closed my eyes, and the other students stared at me for taking so long to bubble in a box. Then a realization hit me.

It would be just as absurd to call myself Indian.

Although I have nothing but respect for my strong, independent ancestors and hardworking immigrant grandparents, I would be lying to say anything further than I have the look of an Indian person. Even though I have been to India, I have also traveled to China, Russia, Egypt, Japan, Italy, and England—but that doesn’t mean I am Chinese, Russian, or Egyptian. I was born and raised in Troy, Ohio, and my back yard is a farm that alternates growing corn and soy beans every other year.

I don’t fit into just one category. I am a combination of my heritage, travels, experiences, surroundings, choices, and struggles. I was raised to believe in pushing boundaries, brought up in a society that told me to take immense pride in being that one kid that stands out in a room full of strangers because different is the new normal.  
I am an American. Let’s create a new box.