“In Which Curry Girl Goes on Safari” by Ami Sheth
I am 11 years old and I’m wearing a safari outfit. I am not going on safari—where I’m going is far wilder, far more exotic, and far stranger than the remote jungles of Senegal. I’m on my way to the first day of school, 6th grade, in all white Simi Valley California, where we are the only Indian family. I have waited my whole life for this moment. Last year and every year of my whole life in school, I was not only the only brownie but I was also the only one in easter dresses. Flouncy, ruffley, pink, lavender and baby blue dresses; church clothes the other kids called them. I’m 5’6, brown and until today I’ve been a curry girl in easter clothes. I wore those dresses because my mom, disturbed my friendlessness, thinks fancy clothes will win me friends. The dresses and my penchant for books and science experiments, my freakish height and overall bigness, and many other things make it impossible to make friends at this school that I’ve been at for three years now.
We have a neighbor named Darlene who often comes over to our home during the day. She has permed, brown hair that doesn’t move and sleepy hazel eyes. When she comes over, the whole house reeks of her Thrifty perfumes, Chantily Lace or Malibu Musk or Tahitian Breeze, and while my mom cooks dinner Darlene sits and complains about her husband.
She came over a few days ago to show my mom some cellulite cream while my brother and I were watching cartoons and eating cereal. She asked for the millionth time if mom had anything to drink. Chai? Water? Soft drinks? My mother offered worriedly because she could tell Darlene wanted something else. Darlene stood up abruptly and said she’d be right back. She bounded to her house next door and came back with Jack and cokes. I like this ‘strong American flavoring,’ my mom told Darlene. It makes the coke taste better. Darlene spit out her coke laughing and said when you say coke it sounds like cock.
Then I heard my mom lower her voice and say I need to tell you something. My mom never tells anyone anything. She is very private. And what does she have to tell. At first all I could hear was Ami shupshuspshp friends shupshupshup… very hard…. how….This was ridiculous. I got up and snuck around the corner, away from the T.V., so I could properly hear every word she was saying.
I don’t know what to do with her. She doesn’t seem to have any friends. She just doesn’t seem to care…and she’s not shy or unfriendly. What bothers me is….she just doesn’t seem to care…
Your daughter just needs a new wardrobe….the other kids don’t dress like that. Haven’t you noticed? They wear acid washed denim and LA Gear and Guess. Ami dresses like she’s at an Easter party.
Whaw. I never thought of this. I buy her dresses from Macy and Nordstrom. Very expensive. In my school the girls who wore the most expensive clothes had the most friends.
Your daughter just needs to fit in more. I say you take her to Mervyn’s…and with that they clinked their glasses of coke and strong American flavoring. Despite myself, I felt a little thrill in my belly. LA GEAR!!!!! Guess Jeans!!!!! Maybe even Reebok’s. I wanted to wear fluorescent, hyper-color everything from head to toe, no more pastel, ever again. The idea of looking like the other kids was too good. Perhaps this would be a good year.
The next day, a Sunday, mom woke me up and smiling down at me said Hurry up! Eat! Get ready! We’re going shopping.
Oh the cool air blasting from the air conditioner. Oh the organization and the smell of new clothes. Oh the possibilities. Except nothing would fit. None of the cute LA Gear stuff, none of the Guess or Jordache jeans…I couldn’t shop in the same sections as the rest of the kids. As I tugged the last pair of size 12 acid washed jeans off my hips, I screamed Nothing fits me and… I hate you!!! My mom slapped me and said control yourself. Then, she added, Well, maybe we should put you in sports.
I hate sports I screamed. I want to be an actress or a singer.
You don’t have a good voice and you’re Indian. There are no Indian actresses here. You’d have to go to India and you can’t speak Hindi.
Why can’t I learn how to sing? I can learn!!!! I couldn’t stop screaming. I was very upset. It seemed as though my entire life was crumbling and there was no one there to help me. In the dressing room I cried as I listened to mothers help their daughters into cute, trendy, age-appropriate clothes next to us. I cried about being fat, being tall, having no friends, while my mother was incredulous that I cared about any of this. Even I didn’t really know I cared this much. When I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe my mom said quietly Come Ami, let’s see what we can find here. I’m going to buy you the cutest outfit.
Outside of the dressing room was a single mannequin on a platform on her way to Africa. She even had a suitcase near her plastic ankles. I have no idea how we missed this mannequin in a safari outfit.
But my mom stood in front of the mannequin, mouth gaping and breathed, Ami! Look! You’d look nice in it and I think it will hide your stomach and hips. I wasn’t sure what I thought of it but my mom sold it to me by saying over and over again, it’s so cool. It’s so cool, Ami.
This was, at least, better than the dresses I wore; this seemed like something ‘people’ would wear. Maybe she had something there. When I tried it on I thought I looked like Indiana Jones’s girlfriend, which my mom agreed with but insisted all the girls would want to be my friend. She bought me the entire outfit and $70.00 later, I had a jungle print top with beige pants to match, a mustard-colored neckerchief and safari hat.
I woke up very early today. I put on my Madonna cassette tape and sang into my hairbrush I’m not the same! I have no shame, I’m on fire! I’m burning up, burning up for your love…my bangs, normally a dark clump over my eyes, I blow dry so they are smooth and frame my face. I put on the safari outfit and tie the mustard-colored neckerchief. I look… not like me. But I like this Ami better, the new improved, the one who’ll win loads of new friends or at least just be accepted. We get to school early. Normally I make my brother walk to his class by himself but today I volunteer to walk him. I am so proud of my outfit I want everyone to see it. I walk very slowly with my brother, letting everyone enjoy my outfit and the new me. When we reach his classroom, I kiss Amit’s head and even smile at his teacher. I am very kind because I feel like I look really good.
The bell rings and my heart pounds for what feels like my debut. When I walk into class the kids look and whisper. I smile, yes, yes, I know. I look different—here I am! Rock you like a hurricane. Our teacher is bent over her desk while kids mill around with purpose. Seeing all the kids look for name cards on desks I follow suit and find the desk that has my name on it, next to a boy named Jason Pridgin. As I hang my backpack and take my seat I hear the giggling. I look to see what everyone is laughing about but the kids seem to be looking in my direction and then Mrs. Banks. My heart falls.
Mrs. Banks my 6th grade teacher is wearing the exact same outfit as me. The same safari outfit inspired by the same mannequin. The only difference is where I tied my kerchief so that the knot lies on the right, hers is on the left. We both opted not to wear the hat. We both have never been on safari but that’s where the similarities end. She is in her 60’s with coiffed white hair and she has pink skin and pink lipstick. She winks at me, walks over, and adjusts her neck kerchief, so that the knot is on the same side as mine. With all the kids pointing and laughing at the bizarro me and the bizarro Mrs. Banks I sigh, put my head down.
Copyright © Ami Sheth, 2010
