For the entirety of my life, I have been afraid of being called 'F.O.B.' - a derogatory term used to describe someone who is foreign in nature and doesn't meet the status quo.

I sat in my room, staring at the two options that lay before me: my favorite, simple authentic Indian kurti or my pink shirt with an embroidered, sequined soccer ball. I sighed and pulled the pink shirt over my head, surrendering to the powerful urge to assimilate. I stared at the mirror, almost satisfied with my appearance. I picked at the corners of my shirt and sniffed hard, trying to catch any lingering "curry" odors or remnants of Indian culture. Although I could only smell the dull "Moonlight Path" fragrance I generously sprayed on all my clothes and belongings, I did not want to take any chances. The stakes were too high. Hoping to avoid her embarrassing, confrontational questions about my routine, I quietly tiptoed to my mother's room. I grabbed my usual perfume and drenched myself in it once more, to ensure that the heavy scent suppressed any residual aromas and distanced me from the Indian stereotypes. Being accepted into the predominantly Caucasian community was essential for me to survive and so I would spend the next seven years attempting to fit in.

After those seven years of constantly focusing on assimilating, to the point of bleaching my heritage, my family and I moved to Maryland. It only took a few short months of living just outside of Washington, DC to feel the drastic change that the short journey of one hundred miles that separated Pennsylvania and Maryland had brought into my life. Shortly after I moved, I was acquainted with an Indian girl, just about my age. Throughout all the years I had spent despising my Indian culture, she had spent welcoming it. She was a popular, extroverted girl who was confident in embracing her dual Indian-American heritage. She was a "FOB" who successfully fit into her environment and did not see any negatives in being Indian. As time passed, and our friendship strengthened, I became more interested in learning about how she was able to be so secure in expressing her Indian side. Because of my curiosity, it was not difficult for her to convince me to join the Bollywood dance team.

The first time I performed my Bollywood dance routine, adrenaline pumped through my veins. After the show ended, the audience jumped up from their seats and roared; their applause sent shivers up my spine. I recall that with each deep breath, I reveled in the victorious feeling of conquering all the insecurities that were hidden within me for so long. It was in that moment that I was overwhelmed by a strong feeling of liberation as if the chains that held me captive for seven long years finally ripped off their anchor. As I walked off the stage that day I found myself following the once repulsive smell of curry to where my family stood near the buffet. I let a small smile escape at the irony of the deep admiration and attachment I now felt to my culture. My friend had shown me that I didn't have to make a choice between the two cultures. I was beginning to understand that everyone in America could think I was Indian and everyone in India could think I was American. But all that mattered was I knew I was an American who is Indian as well.

I now wake to the sound of the alarm clock placed beside me. I go through my usual morning routine: brushing my teeth, combing my hair, and putting my clothes on. I quickly run to my mother's room to grab a jacket. On the way out, I spot the familiar perfume, the bottle nearly full. Smiling to myself, I exit the room.