And A Search for Identity

Last year, I led my first group bike ride. About 15 people joined as we went from 97 Estoria to Patel Plaza in Decatur. We had dinner at Gokul Sweets a casual Indian restaurant which represents years of my history in Atlanta. The owners of that restaurant are part of the Ismaili community. The Patel Plaza on Dekalb Industrial Boulevard is just across the Ismaili Jamat Khane (worship hall) which has been an integral part of my family’s weekly routine since 1989.

What is Ismaili? (TL;dr: an eclectic and esoteric sect of the Muslim world which is in some places persecuted, in other places aggrandized.) The name Ismaili itself comes from a schism within a Shia sect of Islam. There is a lot if you want to dive into a unique cultural history. The Ismaili community in Atlanta is largely composed of an immigrant community with roots in India.

Recently, at one of our cycling family dinners, two US-born friends were wondering about what it is like to be a second-generation immigrant. It was intriguing to listen as they recounted secondhand stories from other friends. For me, pinpointing what is distinctly an immigrant experience is hard to separate from my life story at large.  Making sense of my individual identity requires context that is at least two-fold. There is the (1) palpable, physical body of representation (of how I may outwardly appear) and the (2) undefined ethereal concepts of who I am, or how I define myself.

Explaining my identity has always been a struggle.  I was five years old when my family moved here from Dar-es-Salaam, Tanzania.  As my parents were enrolling me into Briar Vista Elementary, an administrator towered over me. She asked me where I was from; in my naivete, I did not understand the question. In her eyes, something suggested I was different. I was too young to appreciate the nuances of our varied history. Years later, I have come to understand my roots as part of a larger diaspora.

I consider my cultural background, just one element of my identity. Like an onion, identity is a series of varied and deep layers. All of this has come to me after lots of reflection. As I grew up, I relished more than anything the identity of a loner. I was comfortable in aloneness and it allowed me to be unknown, unidentified, and ambiguous.  It allowed me to be hidden. As an introvert, I enjoyed the mystery. All the while, internally, I faced the contrasts of values and behaviors in my outside world.

I consider my genetic heritage, the diseases and the resilience of my ancestors, as part of who I am. Then there is another layer of history of my family’s migrations and struggle in America. Yet another layer of the onion is the part of identity that you self-subscribe. That is, the choices I make and outward manifestations of my ideas.  Ultimately, through travel, I started to unravel my own onion.

When you are not part of the dominant culture group, you can go about with the halo of being unknown.  Without self-identifying, I can often quietly blend in. For example, in my first solo travel experiences in Latin America, people often spoke to me in Spanish. Perhaps based on my skin tone and features, people assumed I was Latina.  My responses in an accented Spanish outed me. As long as I remained quiet, I was a mystery. When I backpacked India, I could often get the local rates at tourist heritage sites because I look Indian. If I did talk, my Hindi was accented and the rates for admission went up by 10-fold.  

Especially against the contrast of a foreign culture, I felt the push to answer what identity is anyway.  Is it what you call yourself or how others identify you? These big questions do not have easy answers. Jung, for example, holds that we are who we choose to become. There are so many facets to anyone’s identity. There are no finite answers to these questions.  In some ways, it is a story that plays in your brain and a constantly rewritten narrative.

To me, the world I grew up in sits apart from the life I have now. Instead of hanging around Brookwood High School for the scene of Americana and football, my sister and I were hauled into Decatur to go to REC (religious education classes) on Friday nights. The students there shared in my skin tone, and had some similar life experiences. They had to navigate multiple cultures and communities in their daily lives. Their parents were also recently arrived immigrants in the Atlanta area reaching towards an American dream. In our Friday evening classes though, there were many reasons I did not feel quite connected. I would ask difficult doctrinal questions to our community volunteer teachers. My classmates got bored of my single-tracked focus. After unsatisfying answers from class, I strolled in the incense laden religious hall marveling at Bollywood inspired worship wear. While I grew up attending Khane events, I have long since disavowed any organized religion. The two worlds, that one, and the one where I live now could not be further apart.

Leading a ride to the Indian part of town was a celebration of several identities I hold. I considered that this community of cyclist is a part of my chosen identity.  I took that group to the heart of the neighborhood I know best. For over 30 years, my family drove to this area, at least once a week, on Friday evenings to attend prayers at the Ismaili Jamat Khana. Afterwards, we sometimes picked up groceries or snacks around what is now Patel Plaza. The Indian food ride was a joining of these two worlds. By guiding my cycling friends through the colorful and spicy desi menu, I get the excited chance to share the multiculturalism that I have always embraced. I enjoyed the coming together of these two communities, one that I grew alongside and one that I grew within. On that ride last year, three new faces showed up! One of them has now become a fixture of our cycling community.

I believe when we share, our world gets bigger.  I enjoyed the experience enough to do it again. This year, I will host a similar ride. This time, on April 25, we will go to a different restaurant within Patel Plaza. My route planning will be better! The ride is a bit hill-heavy. But we go at a casual pace of 8-10 mph. Dinner in Patel Plaza is deliciously worth it; I provide any menu assistance my crew needs. This ride is a welcoming and tasty introduction for those who are open to knowing and connecting across identity boundaries.

Now, on Friday nights I can choose to congregate with a motley crew of cyclists. The worship I choose is to hang with people of many identities and interests; this is where I feel safe riding around with my blue blue bike. The contrasts and changes in my ideas about identity continue to evolve. At the same time, so does my community. It is so surprising and meaningful to me to have found community within fellow cyclists. On my two wheels, I feel I better embrace the various elements of my identity: playful, undefined, and rebellious.

Thoughts?