In English, we say “I’m third generation”.
In poetry, we say:
“My culture lies somewhere in the in-between.
I was born here, but you can find a part of me
between the borders of countries I’ve never been to.
In places I don’t even know exist yet.
In a language that’s mine, that I understand but can’t speak.
In the drills they used to make us do in Punjabi school when we were little.
In the pride I take having the highest spice tolerance in the family.
In the fact that I eat with my hands even though other people think it’s gross.
In my hair.
In the inter-generational trauma
and the grief
and the ‘why didn’t I ask my grandparents more questions while they were still here?’
I was born here, but I’m still looking for a way home.”
