Nimisha Ladva - Badass Lessons

 

I grew up in England, the daughter of Indian immigrants. The spring that I turn 11, there is violence in Brixton. It's an area of London. Skinheads, police and dark-skinned people, some who look like me, are clashing. On TV, there are images of things on fire. My father talks to my brother and me and says, “There's nothing for us to worry about. We don't live near the violence, we don't live near any skinheads and we should just carry on doing what we do and being who we are.” 

 

So, one of the things we are is vegetarian Hindus. When bugs get into our house, we don't kill them, we take them outside. So, that spring, a gigantic wasp gets into the house. The stinger is visible to the naked eye. My mother rolls up a newspaper, asks God for forgiveness, [audience laughter] and then does what she has to do. She hands the weapon to my father. [audience laughter] But my dad does not take it. He walks up to the window where the wasp is, and with his bare hands, cups them around the wasp and walks outside and simply lets it free. Then he turns to me and my brother and says, “I'm your father. My job is to put things where they belong, including you two monkeys.” 

 

To be honest, my brother and I do not care that we have just been insulted. Because in that moment, we are figuring out that our father, skinny shoulders, thick glasses, Indian accent, that guy, that guy might be badass. [audience laughter] So, in the neighborhood where we live, we are the only people of color. We are such anomaly that there's this one day, I'm outside in the front garden, visible to everyone, when a neighbor walks by with a friend and announces passing my house, “Here is where the colored family lives.” The kids at school could sometimes be cruel. When the incidents added up, my father would come to school, talk to the headmistress and leave with assurances from the grownups that they would seek to make my condition better. 

 

Now, that said, I will say that I did have friends at school. For example, there was Deborah. I not only liked Deborah, I really liked her little brother, Michael, as well. And Deborah's mom was a baker. She would tell me things about sponge cake, and fruit tarts, and shortbread in three flavors and chocolate biscuits. I'm just amazed, because in my house, when my mom finds an eggplant at the market, she makes eggplant curry, and that is supposed to be a treat for us. And it's not working for us.

 

So, when I get invited to Deborah's house for tea, I'm really excited. So, I ask my parents’ for permission. They say yes. I go to school the next day. I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait for the school day to end. It finally does, and it is time to go to Deborah's house and eat that stuff. I'm really excited, actually to also meet Deborah's mother, because she's making all this magical stuff. And she's raised these lovely children. I'm really just so excited. 

 

So, we start walking to her house. And the pavement's a bit narrow, so we have to take turns holding Michael's hand. We're talking about how many treats we can eat before we get into trouble, and is it rude to eat two at a time? We finally get to the door and I'm really excited. Deborah presses the doorbell, and her mom opens the door and I look at her. As soon as I see her, I know that something is wrong. So, I watch her eyes, and I look to see where she is looking. She's looking at my hand, holding Michael's. 

 

The first thing out of her mouth. “Michael, why don't you go inside and wash your hands? Wash them twice, dear.” Then she turns to Deborah, “Deborah, is this your friend you wanted to bring over for tea? Is this Felicia?” I'm so shocked and scared. I don't have the nerve to tell her that I am not Felicia. My name is Nimisha. Then she says to Deborah, “Well, dear, you really should have known better. Why don't you tell her that she can't come inside and that she's not welcome.” 

 

Each word is poison. And I am stung. I am stung with shame and fear, and the brand-new knowledge that the touch of my hand is something that has to be washed away. I wish and wish and wish that my father was here, that he would come and do something about Deborah's mother for me, because I am not ready. I am not ready to do anything about Deborah's mother myself. Deborah doesn't say anything to me and I don't say anything to her. And at school, we pretend nothing happened. 

 

A few weeks later, my family and I are on the bus. We're coming home, like we always do. We get to our bus stop, we get off. The only thing we have to do to get home is cross the street and walk about 10 houses down. The problem is, on this day, we get off the bus. And right across the street, right where we have to walk, there is a group of maybe 15 young men with very closely shaved heads, skinheads. Some of them have armbands with swastikas on them. They are like the men I've seen on TV. 

 

As soon as they see us, they start to shout at us, “We hate you. Go back to where you came from. Go back to the jungle.” And then, to my mother, who is draped in a sari, “Take it off.” So, my mother takes my hand and my brother's hand and she walks away. She walks away from the skinheads, away from our house. But my father stops her, “[foreign language] Our house is this way. And he points right into the middle of the nest of skinheads. 

 

One of them looks up. He makes eye contact with my father. And once they see each other, my father walks so fast and so sure across the street that even the skinheads make way for him. Then he puts his dark face right next to the young skinhead. And I see what my father has just seen before. It's our neighbor's son. My father speaks. “Good God, Frank. Does your father know you are here? You are with these people?” Then he turns around, and he grabs my hand, and he grabs my brother's hand, my mom comes with us, and we walk home right through the skinheads. [audience applause] 

 

Because my dad really is badass. [audience laughter] The next day, I hear my parents talking. My dad wants to go to Frank's house and talk to his father. My mom really doesn't want him to. She doesn't want to make things worse than they already are, and they start to argue. And then, I hear my father, “I am going, okay? I am going. It is the right thing to do.” So, he goes. 

 

A few hours after his visit, the doorbell rings. I go to the top of the stairs to see what's happening. And it's Frank. He's not wearing his skinhead jacket. Just his school uniform. My father opens a door, “It's good to see you, son. Come on in. Cup of tea?” So, they have a cup of tea and talk for a while. And Frank apologizes. My dad says to him, “You did the right thing coming here today, son.” Frank is blushing. He looks like an ordinary boy now. No stinger. My dad cups his hand, puts it on Frank's back and simply walks him outside. 

 

As the news keeps bringing more and more reports of violence and racist hatred, my dad decides, it's time to leave England. So, he moves us to America. [audience laughter] In this country, I have grown up to be, among other things, a dark-skinned woman married to a nice Jewish boy from Chicago. [audience laughter] I've always assumed a happy, multicultural future for us. Diwali and Hanukkah, samosas and latkes. [audience laughter] Two cultures, double the fun, twice the love. Perfect. 

 

This summer, I stopped taking that future for granted. We're at the beach in Delaware. My children are digging a giant hole in the ground with their father. It's what they do. So, I take a boogie board and I head out into the ocean. I'm waiting for a wave and I'm behind a group of young people and I'm closest to a man. He's probably 19 or 20 years old. I catch something that he says. “Hey, Rachel, are you a Jew?” The girl says, “No.” And he says, totally casual, “Well, that's good. And you know what? I just knocked down two hijabis down there.” I look to where he's pointing. I see the two girls with headscarves. They are barely middle school age. 

 

The next wave carries me back to shore. The same wave knocks the young man down. I get out of the water and I join my family. But I can hear him cursing. He is in a foul mood and he is getting closer to my family. I stand up, I put my hands at my hips and I stand in front of my children. The man is getting closer and my heartbeat quickens, I start to breathe shallow and fast. I look back at my children, they are lost in their play. But for the first time, I'm worried. I am worried that with their two cultures, can they be hated two ways? I'm thinking of my father. 

 

In this September, he will be 75 years old. He has had a brain tumor, operated on twice. He now walks with a walker, and his hands shake a lot. I look back up at the man and I wonder, is my children's burden twice mine? The answer comes to me in my father's voice, “No. Not today. Not now.” I look back at the man. My father can no longer take the wasps out himself, but I can and I am ready. Thank you.