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SAI provides assistance with homework |
Standup comedian Aziz Ansari is not the only South Asian
making heads turn! In the recent primaries in the U.S., a
fresh set of South Asian aspirants has emerged in the
political arena. South Asians who struck roots in the new
world and called it home but soon realized that without
active political participation and partnering with the
mainstream, these accomplishments could be at risk.
Setting aside mute acceptance and apathy, South Asians are
increasingly participating actively in local and national
issues to ensure that our voices are heard and that we as a
group are not marginalized politically. The electorate has
responded favorably, and finds appeal in the immigrant’s
fresh, diverse, and often unique perspectives. Old world
notions seen in the light of the new world acquire relevance
once again: Vedic math classes and the Gita on the syllabus
of MBA programs are a few example |
Suguna Chunduri of Avon received most of her education
outside India, having lived in Indonesia, Singapore and the
U.S. Raising the Chunduris’ two children, Ramya, a ninth
grader and Rajiv, a seventh grader who attend Avon public
schools, the parents – Suguna and her husband Mohan – were
concerned at the increasing loss of programs at public
schools. Faced with taxpayer revolt and budget cuts teachers
are being asked to do more with less. The loss of
after-school programs, homework-on-the-internet and the
phenomenon of the latchkey kid have added to the worsening
of person-to-person contact.
In 2008, the Chunduris launched Skills Advancement Inc. (SAI),
a nonprofit organization with a mission to help children,
youth and adults achieve their full potential through skills
advancement and quality education. SAI officers include the
Chunduris, Jatin Desai, and Joyce Kristin.
In Avon, SAI has partnered successfully with the electorate,
a political action committee, and with civic bodies to
ensure that Avon’s schools continue to provide a high
standard of education, value and accountability to the
taxpayer’s dollar. Prompted by a public rally held on 5
April, 2010 with over 2,000 citizens participating, the Avon
electorate broke voter turnout records on election day, 12
May, 2010, and voted to pass a referendum to increase Avon’s
Board of Education’s budget. Avon residents, who were not
U.S. citizens and could not vote, chose not to sit back.
They mobilized the electorate, prepared publicity/canvassing
materials, sent e-mails and stood on the roadside with
banners.
SAI has provided one-on-one tutoring for school children of
all ages and has conducted moral/ethics leadership and
communications workshops, math quizzes and competitions for
middle and high students, counseling of college-bound
seniors, and parenting workshops for Indian moms and dads to
enable them to come to grips with the issues faced by their
school-going children.
SAI has partnered mostly with schools in Hartford County.
Future plans call for including schools in other counties in
Connecticut and neighboring states. SAI has analyzed data on
reasons why students entering high school fail to graduate.
An explicit aim of SAI is to provide targeted assistance to
would-be dropouts.
To achieve its mission SAI needs community support,
like-minded volunteers, and financial support from
businesses, public agencies and private foundations.
If it is takes a village to raise a child and if you want to
help, or need help, consider contacting SAI at
suguna17@gmail.com.
The Americanization of Haarati
By Yamuna Kona
Amid this economic slump,
I tremendously admire young adults from India who scrimp
and sacrifice everything to leap to America in hopes of
a bright future. They land on American soil and can’t
help infecting everyone they know with their contagious
optimism during their struggles. While I do admire them,
I’m baffled when I see these students a year later; all
that is recognizable are the features they were born
with.
I still remember how the innocence in Haarati’s demeanor
exuded through her smile, as we barreled through the
scorching sun at the bazaar, which was around the corner
from her home in Visakhapatnam. Scavenging through the
overflowing wicker basket, she chose the spiciest green
chilies, and covered her upper chest with a colorful
yellow and fuchsia duppatta, coordinating her native
south Indian cotton salwar. Her classic, waist-length,
thick, dark braided hair dangled forward, and she swung
it out of her way as she fumbled through the vibrant
colors of fruits at the market.
Wrinkling her nose each time her thick eyeglasses slid
down the bridge of her nose, she groaned, “Ahba!”
Ineptly, Haarati kept pushing them back into place, as
we walked back to her house, carrying heavy burlap bags
through the unpaved alley, imbued with the aroma of
mouth watering samosas.
* * * |
Haarati’s parents decided it was best for her to get a B.E.
in engineering first, and then she was to concentrate on
completing a B.S. in computer science. Or was it a B.A. or
B.Com? Or B.Sc? There are so many! An ABCD like me can
easily become confused! Like most Indians, she aspired to
leave her motherland, hoping to acquire a piece of the most
desired, extraordinarily over rated, American Dream.
Her multicolored bangles chimed, like melodious music, in
unison with the charms on her silver anklets she’d worn
since she was a toddler. Haarati’s dark brown eyes grew
larger, and her thick brows arched full of excitement, as
she opened the make-up kit I brought her from the U.S. She
began scattering all the containers of pressed powders,
brushes, tubes of lipstick, and bottles of nail polish on
the twin bed. Her English had a distinctive Indian accent
and was grammatically perfect, yet she chose to converse
with me in our native Telugu. “I don’t know what all this
is. How do you use this…what does that do? I’ve never worn
any make-up before.”
* * *
With bouquets of flowers in one hand, and a dozen ‘Congrats’
and ‘Welcome’ balloons wavering above us, we held handmade
posters in the other hand that read, “Welcome to America,
Haarati!” Peering above and between crowds of roughly two
hundred people, eagerly anticipating the arrival of their
loved one, impatiently we stood. After pacing the scuffed
tiles outside the arrival gate in John F. Kennedy Airport
for nearly three hours, I turned in the direction of a
familiar voice shouting in English, “Hello! Hi! Look here… I
am here!”
Poised and lean in her slim-fit dark jeans, she flipped her
shoulder length, bob haircut to the left side and walked
closer, incessantly adjusting her heavy tote bag on her
shoulder. The gold pendant of Lord Venkateswara glimmered on
her neck, and drooped over a long sleeve, black,
Indian-embroidered cotton shirt.
“My God, Haarati! It’s only been about six months since I
saw you last in India, but I almost didn’t recognize you!
Your hair, it’s so modern!” Amazed, I stared at her before
leaning in and hugging her. Soon after, the rest of the
family joined in and welcomed her to America.
“I’m so glad I’m staying with you until the apartment next
to campus is ready!” Haarati exclaimed, as she snapped open
her overstuffed canvas suitcases and flipped her hair again
to the opposite side. “I don’t know why my mom packed all
these obsolete clothes! I told her these clothes are going
to make me look ridiculous, but she didn’t listen to me!”
She moped, speaking in her native tongue. “The college has
given me a small allowance. Can you please take me to buy
some new clothes?”
Later that week, Haarati and I rode the escalator up to a
popular young adult clothing store in the mall, and slid
past a crowd of giggling girls. We tried to escape an
elegant woman dressed in black, but she cornered us and
handed us each perfume sprayed cards, then we browsed
through spiral sale racks of designer shirts, slacks,
blouses, skirts, dresses, and jeans. Haarati draped the high
piles of clothes over her arms and danced in the fitting
room, positive she would love all of them. She wouldn’t step
out to show me if the outfits complemented her or not, but
soon I heard sighs of disappointment. She flung each piece
of clothing over the door, and asked me if I could find a
similar blouse with a higher scoop neckline, or a loose
fitting t-shirt with at least a short sleeve, and realized
most of the current fashions were less conservative than she
still was.
* * *
“Wow! I can’t believe I haven’t seen you in a year!” Haarati
pronounced. Wrapped in a fitted designer jean jacket, she
reached out her arms, and we hugged briefly, before she
plopped on the couch. Pink gloss shimmered on her perfectly
painted lips when she smiled, and her dark brown eyes
gleamed behind delicate eyelids, dusted with pale grey eye
shadow. Her eyeglasses had disappeared, along with the
golden locket of Lord Venkateswara. Haarati peeled off the
jacket, tossed it on the back of the leather couch, and ran
her hand through her hair, letting the strands fall
naturally to the other side.
I emptied a bag of chips into a bowl, grabbed two bottles of
water from the refrigerator, and yelled from the kitchen, “I
know! I can’t believe it either! The last time I saw you, we
ransacked the entire mall for the perfect clothes.”
“I can’t believe I’m almost done with my Masters!” She
exclaimed, while confidently crossing one leg over the
other. She giggled, “That’s my cell ringing – someone is
always calling me!” Childishly, she leaned over the armrest
to track down the ringing cell phone in her Dooney & Bourke
tote bag, perched on the floor. The back of her midriff was
bear. Her much-too-tight, white tank top that read, ‘babe’
across the chest rose high above the waistline of her dark
blue Calvin Klein skin-tight jeans. Flicking open the cell,
she answered the caller, “Thanks for checking up on me,
babe! The train station is only one block away, so I just
walked over. I just got here. Talk to you later, babe.” Her
English was perfect and her accent was barely discernible.
During her visit, a very dear aunt and uncle invited Haarati,
my family and me to their grand home for dinner that
evening. Though biologically unrelated, they are as close as
my own parents are to me. Uncle is a philanthropist and a
well-known doctor. Aunty is a compassionate and devoted
mother of three brilliant, culturally enriched children, and
is definitely CEO of the household! Though their abode is
filled with modern, luxurious décor and the latest,
high-tech devices, they are the most modest people I know.
They met Haarati the first week she arrived in America, and
were eager to hear of her progress and how she was adjusting
to her new lifestyle. They were always impressed by students
who were able to weave their heritage into their American
lives, and incessantly encouraged young people from India to
join many cultural associations, and to have pride in their
native culture.
“Hello sweetheart,” Uncle sang in Telugu and hugged her in
the doorway. “So, how is everything?”
“Everything is fine, Uncle,” She replied in English.
“Come, have some snacks,” Aunty softly said in Telugu. “Give
me your jacket. I’ll hang it for you.”
Haarati buttoned her jacket and answered, “Thanks, Aunty,
but I’m a little cold. I think I’ll keep it on.”
Uncle’s mother, Grandma to me, excitedly tore herself away
from the kitchen to greet Haarati. She was a sweet, pious,
seventy-year-old, and was able to converse only in Telugu.
“Dear, how are you? It’s been a long time since you we saw
you. I remember blessing you last year when you came to
visit.” She caressed Haarati’s head and chuckled, “Have you
found someone to marry yet?”
Shyly, Haarati laughed. “No...No…No!”
“How is college?” Grandma asked, holding Haarati’s chin.
Haarati awkwardly paused before finally responding in
English, “I am still completing my Masters, but I will be
finished soon.”
Perplexed, Grandma walked back to the stove, began to stir a
pot and mumbled quietly to herself. Uncle appeared in the
archway of the kitchen and heard his mother comment under
her breath, “I don’t understand why these young kids from
India learn everything here and forget to speak Telugu,
their mother tongue!”
Disenchanted, he placed his hands in his pockets and walked
towards the dining table. Haarati stopped munching on the
snack Aunty gave her, as he pulled up a chair and sat next
to her.
“Haarati,” Uncle said, “I know it is quite difficult to fit
in here in America. I came here the same as you. Please
don’t lose yourself, your culture, or forget the language
you grew up speaking.”
* * *
I agree that during my pre-teen and adolescence years I was
ambiguous at times, but I never abandoned the culture that
is imbedded into my soul; that has fashioned me into who I
am today. I would be adrift without the knowledge and the
deep respect I’ve learned to possess for my heritage.
No matter how many degrees or how much money we earn, how
far we succeed or travel, or how long we live in America, it
is far more respectable to be true to ourselves, rather than
trying so hard to change into someone else. After all, no
matter how much we try we can never camouflage our culture
to blend in. We’ll always be Indian.
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