Growing up without inherited cool

Reflecting on my experience as a child of Indian immigrants in an American community

For a long time, I lived with a constant awareness that I was missing something everyone around me seemed to have. It was not in a dramatic or obvious way. In a quiet, accumulating way that showed up in conversation, in taste, in what felt effortless for others and strategic for me.

I want to say this clearly before anything else. I deeply love my friends. Nobody understands me the way they do. They are the people who have seen me most fully, who have welcomed me, celebrated me, and made space for me. This reflection is not about resentment toward them. It is about proximity. Growing up and coming of age alongside people who had access to something I did not, and how being constantly aware of that shaped me.

I grew up around a lot of immigrants and people of color, but very wealthy ones. Later, in college, most of my friends were white or white-adjacent, and we were largely embedded in a Greek life and social club ecosystem. The crowd was overwhelmingly well off. I could count on one hand the number of people I would consider a friend whose parents had not gone to school in this country. That detail matters more than people like to admit.

Even when we shared race or immigrant backgrounds, many of my friends had parents who were educated in the U.S., who understood American systems instinctively, who knew how to navigate schools, social spaces, and institutions without friction. There was a fluency they carried that I did not feel I had.

It showed up in small details that were never meant to exclude anyone. Friends would mention growing up listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers with their parents. Ski trips every winter. Watching certain 2000s movies as a family, bonding over bands, concerts, shared cultural touchstones. Holiday traditions on holidays my family never celebrated. Being devoted to a sports team. Someone would wear their mom’s vintage Dolce and Gabbana blouse and tell a story about it. None of this was framed as special because it was always normal to the people around me.

My parents did not grow up with any of that. My parents immigrated after they got married. My mom comes from a literal village in India. The idea of American high school alone was incomprehensible to her. Social hierarchies, extracurriculars, college prep, dating, parties. None of it mapped onto her reality. I don’t think my mom to this day could really name a single American celebrity. She does not wear makeup or care about her clothes. She knows nothing about her curly hair texture (another thing I deeply resented having to figure out myself). She rarely goes on trips or watches television. And you know why? Because she’s been fighting to survive in this country and keep my family afloat for nearly three decades now. That’s not something as a child, I can ever fault her for.

My brother went first and had to explain every move he made. By the time it was my turn, I already understood that I was not just growing up. I was translating.

I spent so much of my childhood teaching my parents what it meant to grow up in America that it often felt like I was parenting them. Explaining systems, norms, expectations, and decisions before I fully understood them myself. Culture was not something I absorbed passively or had the privilege of exploring.

When one of my parents went through a serious illness for several years, our income dropped rapidly basically overnight. Growing up in a well off community made that shift especially stark. The gap between me and the kids around me widened quickly. Experiences that felt casual to others felt unattainable to me. I felt that gap everywhere.

By high school, I became acutely aware of all of it. Conversations felt like pop quizzes. People referenced movies, bands, books, trips, childhood memories, and I would nod along, sometimes lying outright about knowing what they were talking about. I was embarrassed admitting how much I did not know. Embarrassed that my parents did not share the interests other people bonded with their parents over. Embarrassed that I felt like I was always arriving late. Embarrassed that I knew I was a phony in most of these conversations.

What made it harder was that so many of the things people around me viewed as cool, chic, or tasteful were things they had been carrying since childhood. Their taste felt innate because it was inherited. I resented that. Not because I wanted to take it away from them, but because I could not imagine how I could ever compete with that or be perceived the same way when I was starting from zero. How do you build ease when others have had a decade-long head start?

So I tried to consume culture aggressively. I watched everything. I listened to everything. I learned references constantly. It did not feel optional. It felt like survival. I felt behind, and catching up felt urgent.

That urgency delayed my sense of self. For a long time, I did not feel like I had real taste or identity capital. I was still learning what culture even meant before I could decide how I felt about it. I did not know what I genuinely liked versus what I thought I should like. While others were refining their preferences, I felt like I was building a foundation, brick by brick.

College intensified this. I found my people and built deep friendships that still mean everything to me. At the same time, being surrounded by a wealthy, primarily non-immigrant crowd made the contrast unavoidable. Most people around me had parents who understood college culture, social clubs, dating, and drinking intuitively. I was still explaining those things at home.

It was not until the end of college that something shifted. I started to randomly feel really confident. My interests felt internal rather than reactive. My taste felt grounded. I stopped feeling like I was borrowing culture and started feeling like I was choosing it.

Living with that insecurity for so long, being hyper aware of it, and pushing through it shaped me into someone deeply confident. The confidence I have now is built. I am proud of the things I like. I trust my instincts. I know how I move through the world and why.

I think children of immigrants who can show up in spaces dominated by third generation Americans have a lot to be proud of. Simply being there requires so much effort to present the same as peers. Adaptation. You do not wander into those rooms accidentally.

For the life I want, especially wanting to work in consumer culture and act as a cultural engine for South Asians in America, this work started early. I had to become a palatable, Americanized child of immigrants. I had to carry my parents’ culture and traditions while reaching outward, learning everything my friends, schools, and surroundings could teach me about America. That balancing act shaped me completely.

I would be lying if I said I do not feel sadness hearing about the experiences my friends have with their families and grandparents. Trips together. Concerts. Movies. Exploring dining together. Casual conversations about stuff I could never imagine telling my parents. I know my family will never look like that, and sometimes that still hurts.

At the same time, things have changed in ways I could never have imagined. Going wine tasting with my family. Bringing my boyfriend home and watching them love him, respect him, and genuinely try to understand dating culture. Gossiping about friend drama with my mom. Seeing my parents learn alongside me has warmed my heart in ways I cannot fully describe.

Parents weekend in college crystallized this for me. Watching my dad feel nervous around my friends’ parents made me feel an overwhelming gratitude. Being able to bring him into that space felt meaningful. He had an amazing time. He took shots. He learned how to play pong. My friends welcomed him with open arms and made him feel comfortable. I will always be grateful to them for that.

All this to say, I am really proud of myself for raising what feels like one half of who I am. At the same time, I am endlessly grateful to my parents for coming here at all. I think often about what this experience must have felt like for them. The culture shock. The forced assimilation. Having your children explain things that feel terrifying and unfamiliar. Watching your kids get frustrated when you cannot understand in the way their friends’ parents do. That thought makes my heart ache.

All I can do is express my gratitude and continue to give them experiences they never imagined for themselves. Because that is what they gave me. And that is everything a child could ever want from their parents.