Tears roll down his cheeks like

condensation on a cold, clear glass.

I laugh as he tries to stomach my mother’s homemade curry.

I forget sometimes- you know?

I forget that I’m different,

forget that I’m not white like he is.

I hear my sister scream,

"Michael, go get him some water!"

Still laughing, I walk to the fridge. I hold the tall glass under the dispenser.

Cool air chills my fingers.

Ice clinks against the sides of the

transparent shield. I press the cup

onto the adjacent button. Water falls in a

constant stream.

Liquid caresses solid.

Two different states.

Same substance.

I walk back to the table, set the

sweaty cup next to his plate.

He takes a sip, squeaks a small

“Thanks” through the

spices suffocating his esophagus.

I could barely even taste

the spice.

I'm American-born, American-raised,

but I don't look the part.

I feel part of the wrong culture,

feel a disconnect with my parents' roots.

Ethnicity is a funny thing.

Kids get made fun of for their

color. They get angry because

they’re different.

I get made fun of for my

color. And

I’m different.

And that’s just okay.

I'm Indian.

I'm proud.