COLUMN: The richness of family stories

From Shireen Santosham's, "If I Was Your Woman," Fall '97 From Shireen Santosham's, "If I Was Your Woman," Fall '97 My grandfather won my grandmother's affection by wrestling a bull to the ground and claiming a silk scarf from its horns. He was the strongest man in the village. When I knew him, he was a worn man. His bare-feet would scrape and scuffle against the dust of my auntie's house. My grandmother and her sister married brothers so they could always give each other company. Strong and short, they were always very present. Once, when my grandparents were very old, a huge monkey started chasing a little girl. My grandfather went after it with a stick; instead of being afraid the monkey took the stick from my grandfather and started hitting him! My grandmother, 84-years-old, toothless with a sari wrapped tightly around her body, chased the monkey down the street. Because I rarely see my grandmother, I would never have known much about her if not for my mother. When I was a little girl, pigtails and jellies, I would sit on the kitchen floor with a mortar and pedal grinding up my mother's Indian spices. The oil in the pan would crack and scream above my head as my mother threw in her onions and potatoes. She was a violent cook. There was a neverending struggle between the spice and heat and my mother's taste buds. Sometimes, the battle would be so fierce that waves of black smoke would drift down from the stove top and choke me in a coughing fit of pungent aroma. It was there, on that floor, where I befriended my mother. In between chopping green chilis, she would tell me about our family and about her days in a village in India. She used to catch giant prawns by hand in the village river and climb trees in short pants with her brothers. Not until later, as a little girl in Malaysia living with her mother's sister, was she exposed to pretty frocks and white shoes. She used to run down crowded streets, sweet meats in hand, past opium houses and mango trees. Later, when she returned to India for college, she fell in love with my father under a tree in front of her dorm. They moved to America on a cold day. Her first memory of this country is stepping outside the airport and seeing blood splattered over brown snow on a grim New York sidewalk. I don't think she ever pictured herself living the life she experiences today. She came from a different world, a different time. In the mornings, she tapes inspirational quotes to the bathroom mirror to motivate my brother and I -- it has to be the single cheesiest mom habit ever invented. The strangest part about this ritual is in all of the quotes I have ever read, (and believe me, that's a lot of quotes) by all the great thinkers of our time, none of them has affected me like the stories of my own family. These stories have taught me, not only about my roots and heritage, but about myself. In the past, I have come across many people who consider learning about their family and heritage unimportant. However, the stories and experiences of each individual family are unique and important because these stories instill a sense of pride and confidence in today's generation. When I was a child, I never paid much attention to the uniqueness of my culture and heritage. I was never embarrassed or ashamed of it, I just considered this aspect of my life inconsequential. Not until I was much older, did I realize the extent to which my heritage had shaped my character. Today, in our society, there is a tendency to believe everyone is the same. We all listen to the same type of music, go to the same school and wear the same types of clothing. Somehow, we have started to believe these similarities are the driving force behind our strength as a community. Even within specific ethnic groups, we have based our strength and unity on the popular music and fashions of today. We often forget that our true unity comes from the shared experiences of our individual family histories. If we, as individuals want to truly maintain our culture, we have to stop placing so much emphasis on popular trends. We have to look back to our families and talk to our parents and grandparents about their lives. Only then can we have a true appreciation for our heritage and understand the importance of cultural identity.