Color Hungry

In which I tell Smythe of my experiences as an Indian-American in Dublin

April 29, 2024

Dear Smythe,

Back home, in Washington, DC, almost all of my friends are the children of immigrants. Some are immigrants themselves. DC is an incredibly diverse place. Due to its role as (arguably) the center of world power, it tends to attract people from all around the globe. And this is added to by America’s (highly debatable and mythical) general status as the land of opportunity. The United States has attracted millions of immigrants.

My friends and I share things in common: differing skin tones, speaking a language other than English (or at least understanding more than one language), the dichotomy of living in one culture at home and another outside, and most importantly, the unspoken weight of a responsibility our parents had placed on us. All of our parents had moved to America, a place utterly unfamiliar to them in language, culture, weather, and people, for the sole purpose of giving their children – us – a better life. It is on us to live up to that. Where I differ from many of my peers is that in addition to the conflict between home and the outside world, I also lived with one in my home. With a white American father and an Indian immigrant mother, I spent my childhood torn between two differing identities, cultures so opposing that questions such as “is love contingent on obedience?” (any Indian son or daughter knows exactly what I mean) or “am I only being educated so that I’ll make an eligible wife?” (see parenthetical above) was never answered but hung as a heavy, looming question mark. My parents constantly argued about the appropriate way to raise me, and this was certainly made more difficult by the fact that I was homeschooled, and I had no outside peer group to refer back to for answers.

Still, once I left home and began to make friends, I was lucky enough to discover that there were so many like me, people who were American but also Indian, or Peruvian, Colombian, Ghanaian, Korean…you get the idea. We had all grown up with at least two different concepts of cultural, and thereby individual, identity. Through our different-ness, we found union.

And then, at 28, I moved to Dublin, Ireland. I had never visited and didn’t know anyone there, and only had a vague idea of what the country was like from my Irish friends, who didn’t tell me much other than that the weather was terrible (they were a little too right, and somehow, I still don’t own an umbrella). I knew what the country had been through under the British, that it was still recovering, and I had (and still do) enormous sympathy for the centuries of suffering that my new home had undergone and the resentment the Irish carried. I’d read about how Ireland was the fastest growing democracy in Europe, that it was a center of technical and artistic innovation, that it attracted people from around the world. Ireland, by all accounts, was the place to be. So, when I did arrive, the one thing I did not expect was to find that nobody would look like me.

The melting pot I had previously taken for granted was gone. In my master’s class of twenty-five, I was the only person of color. It was a few days before I saw my first Black person in Dublin. There were more Indians and Brazilians, but they took me a while to find. The only time I’d felt like this before was when I attended my undergraduate university – Dickinson College – a hotbed of wealthy prep school kids. There, every time I entered the cafeteria, I would see a small group of people of color sitting in the corner, and everyone else in the enormous room was white. It took me months in Ireland before my eyes adjusted to only seeing one skin tone.

In fairness, I have never been treated any differently here because of how I look. I have only ever been treated warmly and from what I understand, Dublin is far more diverse and welcoming than it used to be. An older Irish friend told me that growing up in the 70s, non-white people were virtually non-existent. He had one Black friend who everyone called (I wince writing this, Smythe) “Billy the Nig.” He and his friends meant no offense but Billy was the only person of color around. I don’t think I’ve met anyone in Ireland who would dream of using such terminology now. I say that, but it would be inappropriate for me not to acknowledge that levels of anti-immigrant sentiment are rising in Ireland. “Ireland is full” protests have been rampant since 2022, and after a knife attack last November, the city burned as anti-immigrant rioters looted stores, attacked officers, and set fire to vehicles.

Because I have only ever been treated kindly, it feels unfair to complain about feeling different from the people around me, or to complain about missing the diversity back home. But racism in Ireland is real, and additionally, there is a level of understanding that’s missing in my life now. Though as I write this, it occurs to me that I am only echoing what my Indian mother went through when she moved to America. She too was an outsider in a strange land, who looked different from the people around her and was used to every aspect of her life (diet, language, custom, culture) being different. Back in DC, my peers and I were the lucky ones, the new generation who had the privilege to benefit from the sacrifices our parents made for us, and to have people around us who understood what that meant. In Ireland, I have the chance to hang in there for the same reason our parents did – to try and forge a better life and also to give my new home a chance. I believe in this country. In another ten years, or twenty, it will be clear how much Ireland has continued to change for the better.

What do you think, Smythe? Shall I stick it out?

Love,

Marguerite

P.S. Trying to fit the question of race in Ireland in a letter under 1,000 words was probably a mistake. I only wanted to share a bit of how I feel. An adequate analysis would require many tens of thousands of more words and substantial research. Which, by the way, I hope to do.