The Wake

Growing up in the southwest corner of Minnesota left me unexposed to lentils and bitter yogurt—I ate “hot-dish,” which is anything but exotic. The people in my hometown were mostly white and Lutheran. That’s not to say I wasn’t exposed to other cultures. Nobles County, the next county to the south of my farm, has 11 percent of Minnesota’s growing Hispanic population. They were drawn to the area by the now closed Campbell’s soup plant. Still, I had never been confronted with more cultural differences than when my college roommate, Ashama, turned out to be from India. Our lifestyles clashed like curry and cows’ milk, yet our differences eventually faded as we got to know one another.
We were thrown together by need, as is usually the case in college. I was subletting for a friend, who had also—by the way—included Ashama in the arrangement. I was surprised. Nobody had told me, or Laura my other roommate, there would be a third living in the extra bedroom of the new and sterile apartment. But I was also optimistic. Ashama seemed nice and her crisp, almost British, accent thrilled me.

At first, the arrangement seemed to work brilliantly. Ashama was friendly. Offering me her special sweet tea, we would watch television together and talk about each other’s backgrounds. Soon I realized how traditional, and different, Ashama’s upbringing was compared to mine. The school she had attended was taught only in English, despite India’s 18 official languages and Ashama’s native language of Hindi. She told me she could read English better then her native tongue. The school also monitored student’s abilities early on and placed them in career tracks. Ashama had been chosen for the sciences and was trying to earn her Ph.D. in physical therapy. That kind of pressure seemed restrictive to me and other differences became obvious as the summer progressed.

For one thing, she accepted customs I found incomprehensible. Ashama talked about her love life and how involved her parents were. They had to approve of her future husband and could even pick one for her. I had never known anyone who could enter an arranged marriage. My Western opinion immediately fired and I said, “How could anyone share their life with a stranger?” Ashama, exasperated, explained the practice was going out of favor but some families still expected it—including hers.

Another strange custom was India’s caste system, which was so ingrained in Ashama’s values. Upon my asking about a typical day back home, Ashama told me since her family was in an upper caste, they didn’t eat until eight. Only lower caste families ate at five or six because they had to get up early for their labor jobs. Those in India’s white-collar group went to work later. For me this basic lifestyle difference between castes amounted to segregation. I imagined separate meal times meant separate lives and a closed, restricted society.

As the hot days continued, the tensions between Ashama and I switched from odd to irritating. Specifically, Ashama’s cooking really got under my nose. I remember the smell of curry clinging to my clothing. I remember opening the window to suck in the untainted air. I often burned candles like a pyromaniac to cover the smell.

Then there were the phone calls. Ringing woke me at two in the morning, with strange accents on the other end. Ashama’s family and friends called incessantly. Many times I couldn’t understand the other person and they would get upset, demanding to know where Ashama was. Exhausted by it, Laura and I wouldn’t answer the phone. But the calls still came. Once the phone rang thirteen times before the person hung up.

Looking back on the summer, I realize these tensions were normal. Ashama never intended any animosity and the tensions I experienced could have happened with anyone. In fact, they taught me how to live and deal with other people. One afternoon where our differences faded comes to mind in particular.

Ashama had been taking swimming lessons because no one had taught her to swim back home. That week, though, she had a problem: Her menstrual period was in full swing. And she didn’t know what to do. Ashama turned to Laura and me for help. As she spoke of her dilemma I remembered my own first experience with tampons. I could also feel the red rise on my face. But I knew how to help. I went into the bathroom and got a tampon and the instructions that come in box. Laura and I described what to do and where to put what. We showed her the light of superior feminine hygiene products.

I could tell Ashama was embarrassed, but so was I. A bridge came between us. I felt like a mom. Or a sister. Or, simply, one woman helping another.

Ashama was able to go to the swimming lesson. I didn’t ask how the process went for her—I just couldn’t go there—but I think she was grateful. It may seem like a small thing, but it was the stuff of understanding. And as our months together progressed, we taught each other a few more incidentals. I showed her how to bake cookies. She taught me how to make spicy flat bread. In the end, the only real difference between us was the culture that reared us. Thankfully that faded as we got to know each other, even though I still can’t stand the smell of curry.

Kim is a Voices guest columnist and welcomes your comments at .