Malik Hyman

Professor Geoghan

FIQWS 10113

September 14, 2022

“How are you, beta?” my intrigued father asked me as we drove down the bustling street. The name, “beta,” rang sharply through my eardrums like a song. It meant “son” in Hindi and was a commonly used name for kin in my dad’s culture.

It was the middle of summer, and the usual seasonal festivities were in full swing. The morning was bright and filled with an unequivocal sense of joy. Outside the passenger seat window, I could see the customary sights of summer: children running and playing, an open fire hydrant gushing water, and the not-so-unfamiliar Mister Softee trunk with its blaring song. “How are you, beta?” my father asked again. Only then did my mind reconnect and I remembered my current reality.

“I’m good Dadu,” I responded in a confident, yet reserved, tone. Dadu was the name of my biological father. To be honest, I don’t really know where the name came from. All I know is that was my special name for him.

Dadu is a man from India. He is Punjabi, about 5’11 in stature, pale colored, and lean. He is a Sikh; a follower of the religion of Sikhism. He always wears a turban, wrapped to perfection, and consistently has a very clean look to him. He is polished and always filled with smiles and laughter. I did enjoy his company, any chance I got, even though it was very limited throughout my life. Ever since he and my mom separated when I was a little boy, I rarely saw him. Along with drifting away from him, his culture was also lost to me. I never really understood the food, the religion, or even his way of life. In some ways, I resented him for this. He was never there for any of my major life milestones, cheering me on, or treating me like a close son. He always watched from the sidelines, and that’s if he even did that. Because of this, the times he did see me were always covered in a cloud of doubt; does he love me like he says he does? A father that loves his son would surely try to be more present in his life.

My skin grew hot and clammy. It was boiling outside. The joyful heat turned into a searing burn on my skin. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Can we cut on the AC Dadu?” I asked. “Sure beta,” he responded in a polite tone. Where he was taking me today was somewhat of a mystery. As a result of this fact, my mind wandered as I thought of the many potential possibilities.

The drive seemed like forever. I looked around to distract myself from the minutes slowly grazing by. My eye was caught on the Khanda dangling from my father’s rearview mirror. I had remembered he explained to me the meaning and power of what it was in the Sikh religion. “The symbol,” he had said, “represents fighting for what is right.” His religious stories and tales had always fascinated me. Growing up in a predominantly Christian household, I never really was exposed to the influence of the Sikh religion, so my interest was always piqued whenever I heard it.

I had always heard the saying, “Curiosity killed the cat.” I never really believed it until this very moment. My curiosity was, in fact, killing me. “Where are we going Dadu?” I finally had the guts to ask my father. “We are going somewhere that is going to connect you to your roots beta.” In my mind that response was inadequate, as I was still left wondering what he meant.

We finally turned a narrow street corner and I saw a familiar sight down the street; the same symbol Dadu had hanging on his mirror was emblazoned on a temple-looking structure. It then hit me. “I decided to take you to a Sikh temple beta.” It took my brain a minute to process. I was finally going to see what my patriarchal culture had to hold. I would finally see my other side. Maybe then I finally wouldn’t feel like an ‘outsider’ in my own identity, wondering who I was and what culture I belonged to.

Upon walking into the building, I marveled at the grandiosity of the architecture, The walls and beams, stonework, and artwork were all displays of wonder. I saw and heard things I never had before. The songs and chorale of voices flooded the halls and the paintings danced across the canvasses; in a way had never visualized before. I was awestruck. I took off my shoes and went deeper into the temple. I saw religious people kneeling on the floor with a man humming hymns from a large book up front. I couldn’t believe it. To my juvenile thirteen-year-old brain, to say that this moment was enlightening would be an understatement. I never was connected to my Indian roots, and in this moment I felt a feeling I never had before.

As a young child, the principles of Christianity were always drilled into me. My mother, a black Guyanese-American had raised me like this most of my life. Any other religion was foreign to me, so it was crazy to see that this was a part of my culture; a part of me.

As I walked through the temple, I saw a lot of faces turn around, astonished to find a black-looking boy in a Sikh temple. I mean..you don’t see that every day. At this very point, I did feel like an outsider; an individual who does not belong to a particular group. My father, though, continued to reassure me everything was fine. As I walked through the grand halls of the temple, he explained the achievements, art, and history of the Sikhs; the history of my ancestors. I could finally say it…MY.

Although I may never be fully in-tune with my Indian side, I can proudly say that this day was the day I finally figured out who I was; a Black and Indian boy who was proud of his culture….both of them.