Swapna Kakani - Coming of Age

 

I'm 13 years old and I'm standing in my childhood bedroom with my arms out, standing tall. And the women of my family have engulfed me. They're tying, then wrapping, pleating, draping and pinning, making sure they're accounting for every inch of nearly nine yards of my first sari. 

 

As they're wrapping, I get to see the details of the sari for the first time of this cotton silk fabric. It has a saffron auburn tone to it. It has a shine. It has gold plated designs on the border and the blouse that was altered to just fit me has a deep cut in the back. It's almost scandalous for a 13-year-old. And the sari is almost lengthy. 

 

As I am standing there, my mind wanders to the walls of my bedroom. And they're dotted with farm animals. I have a wall that's a mural of a farm. My bed is filled with stuffed animals. I think, is this what it means to come of age to feel like my room is not fit for a woman? It feels childish when just the night before it was perfect. And I think, is this what it means to feel like a woman, to not feel like a kid anymore but to feel like an adult? 

 

My sari ceremony in my Indian heritage is a coming-of-age ceremony, where a girl wears and receives a sari for the first time. This is a big deal for my family and I. This is the first time my parents are able to share their traditional Indian ceremonies with their daughter, with their family, with their community. 

 

In Hinduism, there are so many ceremonies. It's hard to keep up. They start as early as birth. At six months, there's a ceremony called Annaprashana, which literally translates to introduction of solids, [audience laughter] introduction of rice, first solid food. So, it's a celebration of a child eating solid food for the first time. As important as these ceremonies are for my family, I was not able to partake in them because of my birth defect. I was born with an intestinal birth defect called short bowel syndrome. It's a GI chronic rare disease, where I was not born with all my small intestine. And from day one, I was dependent on IV nutrition from an IV in my chest and a feeding tube in my stomach. 

 

My first year of life, I was in and out of the hospital, had multiple surgeries and my parents were not allowed to feed me by mouth. In my 27 years, I've had 62 surgeries, including a small intestine organ transplant. These ceremonies were not a priority, but my sari ceremony was their first opportunity to celebrate this tradition with their daughter. As I'm standing there, tall and with my hands out, I come back to reality when I feel a sharp pinch. It's shocking. And my aunt says, “Oh, did I just stab you?” And I see the final pin coming in at my shoulder to pin the back of the sari, the pallu. 

 

I'm standing there dressed in my first sari. I'm literally weighed down with jewelry from head toe. I have hair extensions to make a long braid in my back. I take my first steps just trying so hard to keep the folds together, not ruining anything. And all I can think is, don't faceplant, don't face plant, don't face plant. [audience laughter] 

 

The ceremony ends in our living room with all our guests watching. My parents invited our entire family from both my mom and dad's side have flown in, and over 100 mothers and daughters from the Huntsville South Indian community are present, which is a herd in itself. The ceremony ends with them coming to me and dropping dried rice mixed with turmeric on my head, which signifies blessings for the future. I officially came of age in the culture I was born in. 

 

Seven years later, I'm in college at the University of Alabama at Birmingham UAB. Go, Blazers. [chuckles] It's spring break. I've come home, like the responsible child I am, and I see on the kitchen table a cream envelope written in calligraphy writing is my name, addressed Miss Swapna Kakani. I rip through the seal, and I read the card and it says, “The Symphony Guild quarterly invites you to be a 2009 debutante.” What the heck is a debutante? [audience laughter] 

 

Fortunately, I've watched a lot of Gilmore Girls in high school, [audience laughter] including the episode, where Rory is escorted by her boyfriend, Dean, to her debutante ball. She's wearing a white wedding dress and he's wearing the tuxedo, and they dance the night away. And I think, oh, no, I don't want to have anything to do with this. 

 

Well, I call my friend, who I know is also invited. She explains, this is their coming of age, their tradition. Their sisters have done it before them. Their mom has waited for this moment. But to me, I see it as an expensive party to which I have no connection. I already had my coming of age, my tradition. 

 

Regardless, I got to tell my mom about this invitation that I got, and our duties and what this card is. I find my mom in her doctor's scrubs cooking an Indian feast for us for lunch. I go and stand next to her, and I'm in my athletic tomboy outfit, shorts and T-shirt and Chacos. And in between breathing in cumin and coriander, I explained to her my rudimentary understanding of a debutante ball, and this fancy card and what our duties are for the next six months. To my surprise, she says, “Yes, you must do it.” 

 

My parents, both of them, are so excited. And I think, what's their excitement? What's their desire? Why? I didn't get it then. But today, I can share that they appreciated and enjoyed the formality of it and how it was a fundraiser. And as an immigrant physician, to have their daughter, the first Indian-American to be presented to society in Huntsville, Alabama, was a milestone in itself, and something they were proud of and something I should be proud of. For my mom, I said yes. 

 

The ball was in October of 2009, the summer before we had the task of finding the dress. We were told it was going to be a white wedding dress with straps. Those were the rules. I was in summer school at UAB, and so every week, I would drive home. My mom and I would go on these shopping excursions. It was the blind leading the blind. [chuckles] We didn't know anything about American wedding dresses. But my mom, being the social butterfly she is, she knew people who did, her white nurses that knew the selection in town. 

 

They gave her a list. We consumed our Saturdays, going to each store and crossing them off. There were five stores, and of course, the last one was the charm, the something blue shop in Huntsville, Alabama, [laughs] halfway between Birmingham and Huntsville. The dress I chose off the rack was a floor length gown with an intricate beaded center and a prominent train and it was strapless. But unlike my sari, it was white with hooks and zippers and no personalized blouse. 

 

The ladies at the store were the epitome of Southern hospitality. They went above and beyond to accommodate us. They were very nice. At the last fitting, they said, “Oh, please come back when you get married.” [audience laughter] There's this awkward silence. [audience laughter] I think I'm most likely going to wear a sari to my wedding. 

 

The weekend finally came. I was escorted by my version of Dean, Christopher Dean, who was a high school classmate who flew in from out of town for the event. And just like the sari ceremony, this was a big deal for my parents and my family. My mom invited nearly all 20 Indian family members who live in town. I got special permission from the debutante committee for the women of my family to wear saris to the event, their evening gown of choice, their tradition. 

 

The day before the ball, my mom, dad and I were to take pictures in our clothes the next day. My mom in her dark, elegant sari, my dad in his black tuxedo and me in my white wedding dress, white leather gloves and hair done in Shirley Temple curls. The photographer took me away from my parents to take solo portraits. 

 

While he's taking the photos, he nonchalantly says, “Your mom, she just fell.” I think, that's weird. She'll get right back up. Nothing phases her. But then, I hear commotion to my left and I see my mom tangled in her sari, laying on the floor continuously saying, “I'm sorry, I am sorry, I've ruined the day.” And then, I hear her say, “I can't feel my leg.” That's when I knew it was much more than just a bad fall, she was not getting back up.

 

Shocked and not wanting to get in the way with my big, white dress, from a distance, I see my mom wrapped head toe in her sari, unable to move, get rushed to the ER by ambulance. The result was a clean break of her left femoral bone. It turned out that she had a stress fracture that went undiagnosed the whole entire year prior. She had to have immediate surgery that night and then she was not going to make it to the ball the next day. 

 

Sitting in the surgery waiting room, I had my most true coming of age moment. I was nervous. I was constantly looking up at the screen to check her status, “Is she done yet? Is she done yet?” I was wringing my hands, bouncing my feet. 

 

The PB&J sandwich my aunt gave me was not comforting. I barely could touch it. My entire life, my parents sat in the surgery waiting room, while I was rushed to the operating room. Saying goodbye to my parents at the double doors of the surgical suite was almost a ceremonious ritual we did multiple times every year, our unfortunate tradition. 

 

At the age of 20, this was the first time the roles were switched. I sat there in the surgery waiting room waiting to hear the fate of my mom. This surgery was 30 minutes at the most, minor. She was going to be fine. I've had many minor surgeries of the same title. It was then I realized that no surgery is minor to the family, no surgery is the same. 

 

I've had so many surgeries that have become numb to the process. I've forgotten about the risk. But my parents, they haven't. And still, they continue to stand by my side and show strength and poise and are amazing caregivers. That's all I wanted to be, to show that strength, that poise, that faith and no expression of fear. I couldn't though. My heart ached for what my parents go through. It wasn't the sari ceremony. It wasn't the debutante ball. It was realizing what my parents have and continue to do to save me was what it means to come of age. Thank you.