This month we are featuring two pieces by student writers who are engaging theologically with their cultural identity. We are thrilled to give platform to these up and coming voices who will surely shape the trajectory of the mestizo church. -The Editors
When I was a little girl
I would get up in the morning to get ready for school
Amma was already up,
showered and dressed before the sun
She had prepared breakfast, lunch and dinner
before the day had begun
The monotonous routine of the Indian woman
Was the pillar of our household
When everything else was falling apart
The rich spices were strong and bold
like coffee, the daily aroma functioning as an alarm
Flavors that burnt my nose
but comforted my heart
The clunky metal pressure cooker was on the stove,
Yet again
Just like me, it was imported all the way from India
And just like me, it existed as a daily functioning member of this household
And just like me, it cooked consumed rice everyday
Not a day went by in my first 11 years of existence
that white basmati rice did not enter my system
The clunky metal pressure cooker became my nemesis
As it’s whistle blew it reminded me of a train
That had the capacity to steal me and take me faraway
Reminding me of how nothing ever felt safe
Amma.
Why do you let the pressure cooker get so hot that it screams?
Surely the rice is cooked now and we can eat.
Day after day, the pressure builds up and the whistle screeches
Make it stop.
And just like the white rice it cooked
The whiteness boiled inside of me
Pressurizing into a pristine product for others pleasure
I bathed in the waters of the pressure cooker thinking it would cleanse me
But now I feel dirtier than ever
pain was the corpse that i buried thinking it was dead
but pain isn’t a corpse it’s a seed
once it's in the ground and nourished
it sprouts up into nasty weeds and surprises you
There is value in my culture and I don’t want to throw it away
Throw it into the melting pot to let it boil and disintegrate
A one way ticket to a faraway place
The train is waiting.
The whistle is screeching.
Next stop--your life long American dream.
Amma, I never was strong enough to open the lid and escape
Why couldn’t I have been strong enough?
Why couldn’t you have been strong enough for me?
Amma.
Why do you let the pressure cooker get so hot that it screams?
Surely the rice is cooked now and we can eat.
Day after day, the pressure builds up and the whistle screeches
Make it stop.
White rice is not enough flavor for some
But paired with too much and suddenly
you are overwhelming
A dangerous game people play
When they control their intake
Thinking they can tolerate more spice than they can handle
The aftertaste
Leaves an unpleasant mark on their face
Eyebrows furrowed
Lips puckered
Confusion is uncomfortably sour
Regret floods in
as they reach for a glass of water
Foreign flavors to them
But savory memories to me
That train will take them to a museum
Where they can gawk and gaze in amazement
But walk out the minute their eyes get tired of looking
Like a field trip where the kids have to go for school credit
But the minute they get off the bus
They are no longer at school
And therefore,
done learning
Foreign concepts to them
But second nature to me
But if only that train were taking me to my utopia
Where nothing has to be sacrificed
And I wave goodbye to all my fears as they fade off in the distance
Fear of man
Fear of exclusion
Fear of abandonment
In this faraway land,
chickappa and chickamma will send me Indian care packages
And I open them up with excitement instead of remorse
In this faraway land,
I never get tired of eating Indian food
And I never complain
Because this time I won’t have to learn the hard way
What I had when I had it
In this faraway land,
The nuances of my culture are known and understood by all those around me
Like we were watching an old movie we had seen a hundred times
Nobody is even wondering what will happen next
But from memory, they annoyingly recite the next character’s lines
In this faraway land,
My heritage is defended by my loved ones
like one would argue their favorite superhero or sports team
And instead of our culture being like a set of clothes we could donate once it didn’t fit anymore
it would be our precious keepsake we tucked away to pass down to future generations
It would be intrinsically woven inside of us
Amma.
Why do you let the pressure cooker get so hot that it screams?
Surely the rice is cooked now and we can eat.
Day after day, the pressure builds up and the whistle screeches
Make it stop.
You see, the white rice is boiling to be plain and simple
Affordable and safe
I am made into something digestible
Spicy flavors are dangerous and to be placed on the side
Eaten in the tiniest increments only if one so chooses
We put Jesus into the pressure cooker
And cook him into a white, fluffed up rice
steamed of any unnecessary and extra components
Now He is digestible
Culturally gnosticizing the gospel
Extracting Him of his ethnicity
A palatable Jesus,
we take Him in aculturally
Generational sin has the nastiest fruit
Because the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree
the tree that was planted must uproot itself and leave
far away from getting entangled in the same old roots
of the same old trees
and if all i am to you is red on the outside and white on the inside
than you just picked the wrong apple
and there begins your sin cycle
And we produce safety
Because once the rice is cooled down it's safe to eat, right?
Because they are safe,
I have to be pressurized
Day after day
Laughing and playing the same game
To protect myself in this melting pot we call tasty
Give up the charade
It's not a melting pot where every flavor stays the same
But a pressure cooker where whatever was left disintegrates
Washed away
Washed white
White washed
The American pressure cooker
Has lost its taste
And now I am the whistle screaming
About Shreya Ramachandran
Shreya Ramachandran is a sophomore at Moody Bible Institute, studying Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages (TESOL). She was born in India and moved to the United States when she was two years old. After many life transitions, Shreya is beginning to embrace her identity in Christ as an Indian-American woman. Being mestizo resonates with Shreya, as she has always lived on the borderlands of culture. Shreya shares: “I am blessed by the ministry at WOS, one that deals delicately with the nuances of culture in order to equip the Church and be the Church.”