How do we deal with cultural insensitivity?
Last week, I was at a Notary Public office, getting
some papers signed to send to my mother in India. I
had taken a couple of witnesses with me—my friend
Prema and my husband. A woman came into the
office and engaged in some banter with the notary for
a few minutes. They appeared to be friends or sisters
and the exchange had an argumentative edge to it.
The banter subsided as the notary started to work
with me, and the woman decided to make small talk
with my introverted husband, starting by complimenting
his clothes. I could see she’d crossed a boundary
with him and invaded his space, but it was not my
priority at the moment.
As I was explaining to the notary that I was re-doing
the paperwork because the Indian bureaucracy had
not approved of some small detail, her friend chimed
in that we should have put in $20 in an envelope if it
was for India, and that would have solved everything.
A bribe, in other words.
I continued to focus on the notary, but out of the
corner of my eye, I saw my husband whip around and
say to her, “That is quite offensive.” I flinched slightly,
but I could see his point. The woman responded with a
surprising, “Yes, it is.” (In retrospect, I think she thought
the idea of having to pay a bribe was offensive, not her
comment!) Then the conversation became white noise
in the background as I focused on the paperwork and
said my goodbyes to the two women.
As we walked out, my husband said, “I cannot
believe you were so nice to that woman! I wanted to
cut off all conversation with her and there you were,
happily saying goodbye as if nothing had happened.”
Apparently, I’d missed the part where the woman had
gone on to say, “This is a huge problem over there (in
India). We do things differently here. They really need
to fix it.” My husband couldn’t believe that she could
call an entire country of people corrupt, when there
were two Indians in the room who were not. And there
was something about the distancing and dismissive
“they” who needed to fix things unlike “us” who are
seemingly perfect here, that really irked him.
I’ve been thinking about this conversation all week.
Did my husband overreact?
Did I underreact? The thing is … although
there are times when I might be offended and simply
do not find the nerve to speak up, this was not one of
them. No doubt I thought it was the truth. After all, if
another Indian had said it to me, we would’ve ruefully
shaken our heads together about the palm-greasing
that moves things in India. Even the Broadway hit (Avenue
Q) pays a playful tribute with the song, “Everyone’s
A Little Bit Racist”:
Ethnic jokes might be uncouth,
But you laugh because they’re based on truth.
Don’t take them as personal attacks.
Everyone enjoys them—So relax!
Perhaps I was trying to allow her that gaffe, given
that I felt bad for largely ignoring her while I was working
with the notary, even though the woman had been
rude in the first place to interject herself into a business
conversation that did not concern her. Whatever
my reason maybe I was supposed to have been as offended
as my husband was.
Oh, did I mention that my husband is not Indian?
A few years ago, I took a class with a professor
who went to great lengths to explain white privilege.
As a white man, he continues to struggle with it and
he is very focused on teaching people to recognize
the subtleties of privilege imbued in the dominant
culture. At the time, I argued with him that I had
seldom, in my 30
years in this country, felt the
ugly glare of discrimination.
My experiences were in graduate school and the
Silicon Valley workforce—not your typical place to call
out my race or country of origin. I have Indian friends
who would disagree. However, I told him, when I think
someone is being unpleasant to me, I simply attribute
the attitude to their having a bad day and it having
nothing to do with me. Or maybe growing up in India
as part of the dominant culture (with the privilege of
education, and an unspoken understanding of what an
upper caste assignment entails), gives me a certain immunity
even when transplanted into another culture.
The professor did not say much, but I’m fairly sure he
thought I was being blind or passive.
I have not felt the need to defend India or my Indianness
to anyone (except other Indians who accuse
me of not being Indian enough because I don’t love
the spiciest of spicy foods or wrapping six yards of
sari around my small frame). And yet, my husband
seems to see things and stand up for things I do not
feel the need to defend. I suspect subtle racism is there
all the time. I don’t necessarily mean overt acts of
hostility, but stereotyping, and assumptions, based
on one’s life experiences, are par for the course.
When my daughter was a toddler, she was at
Macy’s with my husband, laughingly pushing her
stroller up against his legs as he paid at the counter.
The saleswoman snapped, “Ugh, wonder where the
child’s mother is! I’m so sorry.” My husband replied
that it was all right, and he was the child’s father.
The woman responded, “No, you’re not.” Granted, my
genes won in this case and there is not a trace of German
in that beautiful little being I call my child, but
my husband, shocked, and not knowing whether to
laugh or be insulted, repeated that he was the dad. The
woman retreated quickly with, “Oh, she just looks so
exotic … ” Nice save, lady, but not enough. Calling
my child exotic did not negate all the insinuations of
the previous five minutes.
I say this now, 15 years after the event. And yet …
I was absent at the time, but I know that if I had been
there, I would not have reacted to that situation either.
I might’ve cringed internally at her tone, but I would
not have taken it into the broader realm of the distinctions
between “us” and “them” that was probably
the undercurrent of that conversation. No, I would’ve
smiled and said “thanks.”
So what is my point? The event last week made me
look again at the delicacy of the boundaries of what is
acceptable to say and by whom. I don’t often see discriminatory
behavior until someone points it out to me.
I wonder if I have thicker skin than most or if it is my
reluctance to confront anyone because I don’t want to
be thought of as hypersensitive or having a chip on my
shoulder. Or is it that piece of middle-class educated
India that taught me that dignity meant being polite,
brushing off insults, and holding my head up high?
I believe earnestly in what Kofi Annan had to say
on the subject: “Our mission … is to confront ignorance
with knowledge, bigotry with tolerance, and isolation
with the outstretched hand of generosity.” There
is nothing there about being offended and reacting
with anger. Still, encounters like the one we had last
week nag at me as I get older, and it is unsettling. It’s
not that I have suddenly discovered the existence of
subtle insults; it’s deciphering my responsibility when
I am faced with them. I now carry that dubious label of
“mature with life experience” so it might be my lot to
educate, as my husband attempted to do. Then there is
role modeling to consider, as I wonder if my kids view
my conciliatory ways as classy and dignified, or lacking
in assertiveness. Unlike my old self of 20 years ago, I
could not even be annoyed with my husband last week
for what I would have called “making a scene” in public.
Age, wisdom, and my children’s experiences growing
up as first generation Americans have made me zoom
in on nuances I used to miss.
I need bifocals these days, and yet, in another
sense, it’s as if a little windshield wiper went across my
eyes and brought some things startlingly close. Blindness,
clouded vision, or passivity—call it what you will,
it was a comfortable and comforting place to be. But
tendrils of discomfort and irritation are curling around
me, because when I am forced to look at the subtle yet
complex nature of cultural and racial denigration, I
have to make choices about how to deal with it. It’s like
having had a cataract operation I did not want. Ironic …
since my husband is an optometrist!
Gayatri Subramaniam is a San Jose-based instructional designer
and writer. She is an ardent tennis fan who believes that if she had
only been taller, stronger, faster, and blessed with more talent, she
would’ve been a Grand Slam champion.