Brown people in the West (okay, mostly desis) complaining about their families, about brown families, about the cultural drama and the marriage circus acts and the rest of it have become a staple of Brown People in the West narrative - sometimes accompanied by a dose of guilt-assuaging "but they were immigrants who worked so hard for us so here is a token note of appreciation, mostly about food because we're all still too lazy to learn our grandmothers' recipes."
We write angry hot takes about our racism (which is bad), our colourism (also bad), about arranged marriages and cultural expectations (although apparently arranged marriages are lowkey trendy now? I can't keep up tbh).
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I love my father's sarcasm and his tales of how he was of the first generations of Brown Kids Growing Up in the West; or:
My grandmother's blunt racist comments about our own people (and others) are horrifying but also contain an entire history lesson on Partition, Apartheid, and growing up Muslim in a non-Muslim land that was not in the West; or:
My mother's lingering FOB habits are still mildly annoying and occasionally cringe-worthy, but now I feel fiercely protective of the way she pronounces certain words and only I can laugh at her, but I never want her to stop being the way she is.
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: Tribalism is wrong, but I understand why people went to war over the blood they share between one another's veins.
The blood that flows between us is hot with our family pride; it is the blood that we have spilled between ourselves over inheritances and bitter marriages, but every drop is cherished.
Any outsider who dares prick one of us with shame or humiliation will die a thousand deaths from a war raged upon them by every one of us who shares blood and bonds of kinship.
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: When my cousin gives birth, her parents will fly from another country to this one; her mother will try to make her the same foods that she once consumed during her confinement, even though my cousin will insist on going for walks with the baby and sneaking some fast food.
When my cousin gives birth, her child will be precious, like mine is: we, this new generation, are reluctant to birth the four, five, six, seven children that our mothers and our grandmothers produced, and so our offspring are ever more carefully guarded.
When my cousin gives birth, her child and my child will the youngest of us, our blood shared in their veins; even now, we all feel the faint tug to cousins and second cousins and third cousins, and their children, despite the distances and the fact that we forget their names or that they even exist.
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I'm sorry you lost your inheritance to that other branch of the family, but thank you for the scandalous stories - of the aunty living under her dead co-wife's identity for over fifty years; of the distant cousins who allegedly committed murder most foul; of the great-aunt and great-uncle whose pot habit was just a matter of fact; of the grandmother's sister's husband, who refused to pray behind anyone else because "they know nothing about the religion!" (and who had a disturbing penchant for schoolgirls, because apparently he knew nothing about what religion had to say about that...).
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I bear the scars of the time I was disowned, of the bitterness that never really went away after divorce, of the terse words and angry tears over a decision that no one will ever really forgive - but still, we are family;
Even when we are tense over certain topics, or barbed comments still slip from our tongues, or we forget sometimes to pretend that nothing really happened, and our voices rise, some shrill, some low, some sharp - still, we are family;
These tongues share the same sharpness, these voices carry the same tenors, these noises hold the same pride, these chins share the same stubbornness - these veins hold the same blood, and so: we are family.
We are bound by a love and loyalty that has no justification or explanation; it lays in the marrow of our bones and the flow of our blood.
Who will write the love letters to our families?
We write angry hot takes about our racism (which is bad), our colourism (also bad), about arranged marriages and cultural expectations (although apparently arranged marriages are lowkey trendy now? I can't keep up tbh).
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I love my father's sarcasm and his tales of how he was of the first generations of Brown Kids Growing Up in the West; or:
My grandmother's blunt racist comments about our own people (and others) are horrifying but also contain an entire history lesson on Partition, Apartheid, and growing up Muslim in a non-Muslim land that was not in the West; or:
My mother's lingering FOB habits are still mildly annoying and occasionally cringe-worthy, but now I feel fiercely protective of the way she pronounces certain words and only I can laugh at her, but I never want her to stop being the way she is.
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: Tribalism is wrong, but I understand why people went to war over the blood they share between one another's veins.
The blood that flows between us is hot with our family pride; it is the blood that we have spilled between ourselves over inheritances and bitter marriages, but every drop is cherished.
Any outsider who dares prick one of us with shame or humiliation will die a thousand deaths from a war raged upon them by every one of us who shares blood and bonds of kinship.
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: When my cousin gives birth, her parents will fly from another country to this one; her mother will try to make her the same foods that she once consumed during her confinement, even though my cousin will insist on going for walks with the baby and sneaking some fast food.
When my cousin gives birth, her child will be precious, like mine is: we, this new generation, are reluctant to birth the four, five, six, seven children that our mothers and our grandmothers produced, and so our offspring are ever more carefully guarded.
When my cousin gives birth, her child and my child will the youngest of us, our blood shared in their veins; even now, we all feel the faint tug to cousins and second cousins and third cousins, and their children, despite the distances and the fact that we forget their names or that they even exist.
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I'm sorry you lost your inheritance to that other branch of the family, but thank you for the scandalous stories - of the aunty living under her dead co-wife's identity for over fifty years; of the distant cousins who allegedly committed murder most foul; of the great-aunt and great-uncle whose pot habit was just a matter of fact; of the grandmother's sister's husband, who refused to pray behind anyone else because "they know nothing about the religion!" (and who had a disturbing penchant for schoolgirls, because apparently he knew nothing about what religion had to say about that...).
Who will write the love letters to our families?
The notes that say: I bear the scars of the time I was disowned, of the bitterness that never really went away after divorce, of the terse words and angry tears over a decision that no one will ever really forgive - but still, we are family;
Even when we are tense over certain topics, or barbed comments still slip from our tongues, or we forget sometimes to pretend that nothing really happened, and our voices rise, some shrill, some low, some sharp - still, we are family;
These tongues share the same sharpness, these voices carry the same tenors, these noises hold the same pride, these chins share the same stubbornness - these veins hold the same blood, and so: we are family.
We are bound by a love and loyalty that has no justification or explanation; it lays in the marrow of our bones and the flow of our blood.
Who will write the love letters to our families?
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