Growing up I’d always correct people’s pronunciation of my last name. It’s not complex, I thought it was easy to pronounce, and yet I would always have to hear people mess it up somehow. It bothered me having to explain it over and over again to people. I wished I didn’t have to explain it all the time. After correcting them, they’d be curious about other things too: “That’s an odd name”; “Where do you come from?”; “What language do you speak?”; “Are you sure you’re Bangladeshi?”; “Is that even a country?”; and the list goes on. I’ve never hesitated to gently correct them or give a short explanation, but it bothered me that I even had to explain.

In school, nobody shares my name, my background, my culture, none of it. They all speak a language I’m not fluent in, have a culture I’m unfamiliar with, and eat foods I’ve never tried. “But that makes you unique!” And sure there’s a sense of honor in being the person representing my ethnic background, but I’m not some ambassador-of-all-things-Bangladeshi (trademark pending). There’s this weird pressure to it, as if everything I do is representative of my ethnic group, especially since people usually never know much about my culture. The pressure of being as perfect as possible so nobody looks down on my background takes its toll on me like a pair of weights that are a couple of pounds too heavy, and unfortunately, I don’t have a spotter.

I remember struggling to connect with others from Bangladesh. As a first-generation immigrant, I’m not considered “authentic”. Bangladeshi blood runs through my body but a whitewashed Walmart version apparently. You’d think people who share your culture would be your spotter, share the weight on your shoulders, and help you as you work your way around people who see you as alien. But they deem you alien too. We speak the same language yet the way I speak is strange, because “There’s an accent to it.” We eat the same food yet they’re surprised I’m used to eating it, “Are you sure that isn’t spicing you out?” We have the same gene pool yet they say, “You really don’t look Bangladeshi.'' I can’t fit in with the people in the community I live in, that’s obvious. But to not be accepted by people who share my ethnic background isn’t something I expected nor a pleasant feeling. When not even your own people can accept you, who can share the weight on your shoulders? A weight that’s only added to by their disapproval, suddenly the dumbbell that was just a bit too heavy feels like the weight of the world on Atlas’s shoulders. It’s as if I was scrambling for approval from anyone, striving for some form of acceptance and encouragement to not feel like an alien.

I know now that to perfectly fit in with either party is a futile struggle. It’s pointless to try to fit in with others when, quite frankly, I’m not like them. I’ll never perfectly fit into one box or the other and I’m fine with that because I know my identity has multiple facets to it whether or not others can see them. I no longer focus on that imaginary weight on my shoulders for the simple fact that it was imaginary. I never had to carry it nor do I now consider it my duty to do so. Whether or not others accept me isn't a fact I need to dwell on, nor is it something I’ll ever strive for. Who I am should never have been something to see as a weight to drag but a point of pride. My ethnic background is a huge part of who I am and something I will always cherish. My name is Fatima Ahmed. I am a first-generation immigrant. I’m Bangladeshi. I’m American and proud of all of it.

© Fatima. All rights reserved. If you are interested in quoting this story, contact the national team and we can put you in touch with the author’s teacher.