Multicultural upbringing is a very nuanced childhood experience. There are many highs and lows to this experience. It can come with many trials and tribulations of these mental games and self confidence that you must overcome. With March being Women’s History Month, we at Her Campus wanted to highlight some women who have been brought up in multicultural households.
Hafsa Ayubi – How I love the hate I gave myself
I hated my culture at first.
I attempted to wipe it off my skin like filth, like it was something I shouldn’t have, since I loathed it so much. I wanted not to be Afghan. I wanted no name that would cause people to stutter or hesitate when reading it. I wanted parents not whispering to their children as I passed by or to get those subdued, nasty looks. I wanted not to be different.
Nonetheless, I was.
Searching for a better life, the so-called American Dream, my parents left Afghanistan only for me to grow up in an area that made me feel like an outsider every single day. Born in Fairfax, Virginia, I grew up in Woodbridge surrounded by professors who never attempted and others unable of pronouncing my name. My gut would knot every time a substitute instructor arrived since I knew what was ahead: the pause, the struggle, the mispronunciation, the embarrassing class chuckle. It was a continual reminder that I belonged nowhere
“It’s your fault my brother has to go to war in Afghanistan,” a kid said to me dead in the eyes in second grade during Career Day. I knew nothing on how to reply. Though I had nothing to do with a war, I didn’t know how to handle the weight of one. Still, in his view, it was my fault. Hoping to wash away the guilt of something I didn’t even understand, I went home and scrubbed my skin very vigorously in the shower.
One of my friend’s parents branded me a terrorist while I was in middle school. In casual language. Like it was merely a joke. Like it was expected. It was the first time I understood that, perhaps worse since grownups should have known better, adults could be as nasty as children. I laughed it off since nothing else could I do. Though I assured myself it wouldn’t hurt, it did. It smoked. It anchored itself in me like poison, and I began to despise all about me.
I thought my name was terrible. I felt bad about my complexion. I despised my dark eyes, black hair, traits that screamed where I came from. I even started introducing myself by a gentrified form of my middle name for God’s sake, hoping to simplify matters for folks. Maybe I could blend in if I could simply be a little less Afghan, a little less alien. Perhaps they find me more appealing. Possibly I would at last fit.
I envied others who radiated pride in their culture. Celebrating it, adoring it. As I observed them. Why not I could do the same? Why would I feel ashamed if I dressed traditionally? Why couldn’t I publicly speak in the language of my parents without drawing looks? Why had I to bear the weight of being “other?”
I didn’t start loving myself for a long time.
It commenced modestly. I stopped using my middle name and began identifying myself once more as Hafsa, my entire name without any short cuts. When others mispronounced it instead of letting it go, I began correcting them. I began listening in my car to Afghan music without turning it off at stoplights. I began gently asking my parents about their Afghanistan memories and allowed them share their tales without flinches.
I began to appreciate my culture slowly. Instead of wishing my curly hair straight, I began to appreciate it. I came to enjoy my height, dark brown eyes, and full features. When I told people where my parents were from, I started raising my head slightly higher; I stopped shrinking myself and started not apologizing.
For so long I had been wishing I was someone else, someone simpler to eat, someone who fit in. But now I strive every single day to love myself … all of me …even the bits America told me to loathe. Plus challenging. Certain days I still find myself wishing I was a bit less Afghan. I am learning, though. I’m still healing. Though it took me some time to arrive here, I am recovering my identity.
So, no, I no longer despise my own country. I take great satisfaction in it. Where I come from makes me proud. And should somebody object to that, well, that sounds like their issue rather than mine.
Emily Chipman – Growing up Mexican American on the West Coast vs. East Coast
My mother was a Mexican woman from Los Angeles, California and my father was a Southern American boy from Virginia. The two met working at a law firm, had me, and started a family together. From the beginning, I could tell my childhood was a bit different.
From ages 0-12, I lived on the West Coast. Most of the people around me were Hispanic. I would hear Spanish spoken every day and feel the dry hot sun on my head. My elementary schools and middle schools also required me to be bilingual. My father learned Spanish, and my two parents would speak both languages to me. My basketball teams were mostly made up of Hispanic individuals as well. Sometimes our end-of-season parties consisted of the white plastic chairs and tables out in someone’s backyard and loud Spanish music playing until sunrise.
When living on the West Coast, I felt very connected to my Mexican culture. It was all I had ever known, though I was still kind of the odd ball. I was very faired skinned, had blue-green eyes, and fiery red hair. My mother was very faired skinned as well, although she still had some Mexican features, like her dark brown curly hair. I did not really look like a lot of my Mexican relatives, including my own sisters. Sometimes, I did not care, but other times, it got to me.
From ages 13-present, I lived on the East Coast. More specifically, I moved to a rural Southwest Virginia town, where the total minority percentage is less than 25%. Anytime I told people that I was Mexican, I would get outright disrespected. People would use the Mexican slur around me, or make fun of my appearance, or just compare me to Mexican culture with a negative connotation. Ironically enough, I moved to this town in 2016, and when most of the people in this town were right-leaning and saw minorities as a threat to this country, you can infer how I was treated. I also stopped speaking Spanish daily because it just wasn’t needed anymore. I would run into a Spanish speaking person once in a blue moon. Therefore, I lost my native/bilingual proficiency.
I remember many experiences where I would just be sitting in class, and someone would say something derogatory. One time, I remember the movie Encanto came out that year, and someone came up to me and said, “I finally believe that you are Mexican because you look like the Encanto girl,” relating me to Tia Pepa in the movie. It was small comments like that that damaged my self-esteem.
The only time, I felt respected was my Spanish classes in high school. I had many teachers tell me my Spanish was perfect compared to the other children, and they tried to push me to move into upper-level Spanish classes. I never pushed myself in Spanish because I was ashamed that I wasn’t as talented in the craft anymore. I spoke at a limited working proficiency, but that was still better than my classmates who struggled to grasp the accent.
When the kids found out that my mother never went to college (and no one on my Mexican side had been to college) that’s when the talk about my scholastic success came into play. I would have kids constantly tell me I wasn’t good enough, or that I couldn’t get into my dream colleges. I remember hearing kids discuss why I am going to end up like my mother, which I got deeply offended by because my mother was a good person, despite not having gone to college. This school was immensely privileged and would continuously make fun of those who did not have the same upbringing as them.
Once I graduated high school, I was deeply damaged. Not only by the constant bullying I had endured, but the multicultural phenomenon in my head. I wasn’t American enough for my classmates in my high school and I wasn’t Mexican enough because I didn’t look it, nor did I speak the language very well. What really made me uncomfortable is that I speak English to my grandmother, and she will respond back with Spanish.
Attending Virginia Tech made me change my outlook on myself. I was accepted for being a little different. People did not judge me for being me. I met people who are just like me; they had a full Hispanic parent and a full American parent. I think knowing there were others like me, made me feel so complete. It did not matter how much Spanish I knew or whether I had the stereotypical look of a Hispanic person. I was just me, and that was enough. I fully embrace the fact that I had a different upbringing, and I love that my mother and father tried the best they could to implement both cultures into my life.
Zora Dancy – How I Grew to Love My West Indian Roots
Growing up, I began attending private school pretty early on. I woke up every day and put on a variation of the same uniform from first grade until I was a high school senior. I loved private school, don’t get me wrong, but despite wearing the same uniform as everyone else, I stuck out like a sore thumb. In my small pre-k through eighth grade school, I was one of under ten Black kids in the whole school, the only Black kid in my grade for all eight years I attended, and I was the only black girl in the school until I was well into middle school.
I was alone.
Meanwhile, my cousin got to stay in Brooklyn where she was surrounded by West Indian culture in and out of the home. I would be embarrassed when my mom spoke with an accent, because none of the other mom’s spoke like that. I didn’t grow up eating callaloo and saltfish for breakfast, I ate Eggo waffles like every other kid I knew. I came from people who were so proud of their culture, but I didn’t even understand my culture enough to be proud of it.
When I got to middle school, I realized how disconnected I was from my Caribbean roots. My pop-pop, as I affectionately called him, was dealing with Dementia and didn’t have a great short-term memory, but his long-term memory was still very sharp. He always talked about Belize, what it was like to grow up there, and all the friends that had since passed. Belize was a part of Honduras until it was colonized and named British Honduras until 1973. It’s a peninsula in Central America bordering Mexico and Guatemala, so, much of the population speaks Spanish and it is geographically considered part of Latin America. Now, think to yourself, how many Belizeans do you know personally?
If your answer is none, I wouldn’t be shocked.
I remember taking Spanish lessons when I was younger and trying to bond with other kids from Latin backgrounds and they would say “well, you’re not really Latina”. Then I would meet other kids from the West Indies, and they would say “well, you’re not really West Indian”. Eventually, I would just say I’m Black and my dad’s family is from the South, because that was easier for people to understand.
I still struggle to refer to myself as an Afro-Latina, even though that’s what I am. I have such deep roots in the Caribbean with family in Belize, Barbados, and Jamaica. The easiest way for me to connect to my culture is through cooking, and while my Patois nor my Spanish is exceptional, I show my pride in other ways. It’s still hard to feel connected in my own family because there’s lots of “basics” in our culture that I don’t know and it’s easy to poke fun at me for not knowing, but no one taught me while I was growing up. I always knew a lot about my Southern roots, but I am making up for a lot of lost time with my West Indian side.
I think the younger me would be proud of where I am now. In high school, I met a girl whose family is from Jamaica and Guyana. Her mom also grew up in the same neighborhood of Brooklyn that my mom did, East Flatbush. Now, I have friends who are also from Barbados, Jamaica, and who also have a parent that grew up in East Flatbush (every West Indian has a connection to East Flatbush). Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ashamed of my Southern roots, but when you know there is more to your story, you can’t help but want to learn and understand it.
I love fried catfish and mac and cheese, but I can make a mean curry shrimp with rice and peas. My kitchen has sweet tea, Ting, hot sauce, and scotch bonnet pepper sauce. My playlists have Beres Hammond and Fantasia. I do not have to pick one over the other because both cultures blended together make me who I am.
I am and forever will be proud of where I come from.
Riya Shah – Falling in and out of love with my Indian culture
My parents are everything to me. They came to the United States with nothing but a dream to start fresh and ended up creating a beautiful life for themselves. My brother and I were lucky enough to live a childhood free of financial burdens or stress—we were always stable, always safe.
But growing up with immigrant parents wasn’t without its challenges. Not because of hardships, but because of the cultural differences between home and school. I remember a distinct moment from first grade. My mom had packed me a simple Indian dish of rice and spinach curry—one of my comfort foods. After a long game of tag during recess, I was excited to eat it. As I opened my thermos, a loud voice interrupted me: “EW, WHAT IS THAT SMELL?” I froze. A boy sitting two seats away was holding his nose, staring at my food. Suddenly, I felt embarrassed. Ashamed, even, for bringing something that bothered my classmates.
I ran home crying that day, telling my mom never to pack me Indian food again. For the next six years, she never did.
This is not to say that I was the only first-generation student in my school, there actually were so many other first-generation Indians that I grew up with. Being able to have people to relate to became one of the main reasons I was able to gain support and courage to embrace my culture. In fact, I’d been trained in classical Indian dance since I was 4—a practice that made me feel more comfortable in my skin. Dance was my bridge to understanding Hinduism, mythology, and my roots. Every time I stepped into the dance studio, I became more in love with my culture.
By eighth grade, I was beginning to understand who I was—my identity was coming into focus. I felt proud to talk to my mom about the latest Bollywood gossip, share stories with my grandparents in India about my dance performances, and brag about the dresses and jewelry I wore. These moments, small as they seemed, became integral parts of my identity.
Then came high school.
The news hit like a punch to the gut: we were moving. It wasn’t the distance—it was just 30 minutes away—but it felt like the beginning of a new life. Suddenly, I found myself on the other side of Northern Virginia, in a world I didn’t understand. We had moved to an affluent neighborhood where everyone seemed polished and confident, and I felt like a fish out of water.
Walking into that high school on the first day, I was hit with a wave of insecurity. The feeling of not fitting in was overwhelming. I was the only first-generation, visibly Indian student in my classes that seemed cultured. No one spoke the language, embraced the religion, or even understood my background. The pressure of trying to blend in was suffocating. I remember standing in the hallways, feeling like a shadow. I couldn’t talk about Bollywood movies or classical Indian dance without feeling like I’d just said something completely alien. It was like the world around me was moving, and I was frozen in place.
For the next year, I wore my culture like a burden. I couldn’t share who I was anymore. I stopped speaking the language at home, started avoiding religious ceremonies I once loved. I felt torn between two identities: the Indian girl I was at home, and the “American” version I had to be at school.
I felt too Indian for my peers at school, but too white when I was visiting India or around Indian immigrants.
Everything in my life started splitting in half. There were my Indian clothes and my American clothes; my Indian music and my American playlists; my Indian dance classes and my ballet classes; my Indian friends and my American friends.
It was exhausting. And confusing.
I started questioning who I was. The girl who loved Bollywood, the girl who felt rooted in her Indian heritage, was slowly being erased. I hated myself for trying to fit in. I hated that I had to hide parts of me just to make friends. It felt like I was living in two worlds, both of which rejected me in different ways. I considered transferring back to my old school—back to the place where I had felt comfortable and accepted.
But one day, something shifted.
It was junior year, and I was driving to dance class. A Bollywood song came on, and I felt my whole world crack open. I burst into tears. The music, the memories, the longing for my culture—it all hit me at once. I shuffled through my playlists, flipping between American and Indian songs, but it only deepened the emptiness. I had been trying to change who I was for so long, trying to suppress the very things that made me whole.
When I walked into class that day, my teacher saw it in my eyes. She pulled me aside and asked, “Are you okay?”
It took one simple question for everything to come pouring out. I broke down in her arms, confessing the internal battle I had been fighting for so long.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I sobbed.
She listened quietly, then shared her own story. She had come to the U.S. from India, just like my parents, and faced the same fear: would she lose her culture in this foreign land? But they didn’t – because they surrounded themselves with people who understood. My parents had each other, they had a whole friend group of Indians who had immigrated, and they knew how to navigate this weird situation. They were able to stay rooted and translate their culture to their kids.
That conversation was my turning point. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone. I had my dance friends, my culture, my family—these were the things that kept me grounded. I had been so focused on fitting into a place that didn’t understand me that I had forgotten the things that truly mattered.
I didn’t need to pick a side. I could be both. Indian and American. I could embrace both parts of me and make them work together.
From that moment on, I stopped hiding. I began to celebrate my heritage again—wearing bindis, dancing in Indian dresses, making Indian food. And when I got to college, I made sure to surround myself with people who valued my culture. I joined an Indian dance team and became involved in the Indian Student Association. These communities helped me stay connected to my roots and celebrate my identity fully.
Though I’ll never be just one or the other—Indian or American—I’ve learned to embrace both parts of me. I’ve found peace in the balance. And I’ve learned that sharing my culture with others not only helps them understand me, but also strengthens my love for who I am and where I come from.
Conclusion
It is so important to recognize these upbringings. The more we recognize them, the more we can grow to understand and give empathy towards everyone’s experiences. This Women’s History Month we want to appreciate all our differences and grow a better understanding of one another.