I chose to be the wrong kind of doctor — an academic

By all definitions, I’m a successful scholar and teacher, although I still shrug off questions about why I don’t work on Indian History

y family arrived in the United States in 1970, five years after immigration quotas had been lifted. Not on a “boat” (a question posed by a high school teacher), but on a plane landing at JFK (New York). We already had ample experience living abroad, a symbol of “globalisation” before the word became a part of everyday vocabulary. My parents had left India in 1961 and I was born in London. From there, we spent nearly two years in Zambia. They represented the trickle of South Asian professionals seeking better employment opportunities and education for their children.

One of my earliest impressions of American life was watching TV. That meant re-runs of I Dream of Jeannie, Gilligan’s Island or The Brady Bunch. Each in its own way conveyed a certain sense of normal. But I really didn’t need TV shows to remind me that I wasn’t “normal” in this world. Growing up Asian in the US in 1970 meant negotiating compartmentalised lives: The American child’s world of school and play and the diaspora world of Bengalis. Every weekend, the same Bengali families gathered for elaborate dinner parties. The women were the gatekeepers of culture, who used food, language and dress to police who was a good Bengali. They may have been outsiders in the US, but in this community, they made American culture, or a caricature of American culture, seem foreign and substandard. They flipped “us” and “them”, redefining who was the other. But my family took a different route in 1975 when my father, a civil engineer, was transferred to Tehran. Some parts of my childhood remained the same — Bengalis have an uncanny knack for finding one another and re-creating their culture (or their nostalgic memory of that culture).

But now, I attended an international school with mostly Iranians, Americans from all over the US and other nationals. In the autumn of 1978, the Iranian Revolution broke out and I learned that being American or associated with America was not a safe thing. Later, as a History professor, I would teach revolution in terms of origins and causes, agency and contingency. But at 14, I experienced it as disbelief and loss, especially when my father’s company gave us 36 hours to pack up and leave.

In shock, I entered high school in suburban New Jersey. The experience of revolution and international travel made me detached. I felt alienated from both my American high school and my Indian community.

The patriotism of the Ronald Reagan years was bewildering while the Bengali world seemed static. I strained against the constraints that both societies sought to impose on me to make me belong. Three years later, I found freedom in that unique American institution, the small liberal arts college. I attended Haverford College, an elite college that frankly was not very diverse in the early 1980s. But during the Reagan era, it was an oasis. The atmosphere encouraged intellectual curiosity and self-exploration — the Quaker ethos demanded we engage one another with respect. I could move through multiple communities, an outsider but not one. Ironically, it was during my junior year in London, wandering alone through streets and museums, when I eventually made peace with being an outsider. I discovered strength and comfort operating on the margins.

Financial stability

What I learned in those four years of college was to make my own personal and professional choices. Although my parents took risks coming to the US, like most immigrants, they measured success through financial stability. To their horror, I wanted to be an academic, the wrong kind of “doctor”. Nor did I make it easy for them to understand. I started as an English major, moved into 20th century British History, taught high school and then worked towards my PhD in 18th century French History. My ability to seize opportunities came from class privilege since my parents’ generosity prevailed over their misgivings. But I owe much to a flexible education system that provided multiple paths to success. By all definitions, I’m a successful scholar and teacher, although I still shrug off puzzled questions about why I don’t work on Indian History.

Instead, I make the 18th century my home. In theory, 18th century society had no place for someone like me except to be gazed upon as an exotic other. Nevertheless, the same period also fostered a spirit of critical inquiry that demanded you interrogate your own society like an outsider. It rejected the boundaries that undermined individual dignity and common humanity. The education I received and work to pass on to students upholds these values, which are also the core principles of the US, a country established in the 18th century. Now I must ask: Are these principles being compromised by a fearful nationalism that discourages outsiders with its angry rhetoric of borders and walls? Mita Choudhury is a professor of History at Vassar College in New York, USA.

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