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This essay was adapted from Wajahat Ali’s new book, “Go Back to Where You Came From: And Other Helpful Recommendations on How to Become American,” which published in January.
Some people cry, some rage and some laugh when they are always asked to be welcoming but are still never welcomed to the American barbecue. Each emotional response is valid in processing and dealing with the daily pain of knowing your own country doesn’t want you.
I try to find some dark humor embedded with the perpetual discomfort and absurdity. Humor, both sublime and silly, sophomoric and sophisticated, unleashed with purpose, can often help communicate very real, hard truths about American society.
My name is Wajahat Ali. I am what diversity and outreach coordinators refer to as a “Muslim man of color.” I am neither White nor Black. Instead, I belong to a growing, miscellaneous tribe known as “people of color.” Recently, I’ve been informed that I’ve been inducted into something called BIPOC. It’s an acronym for Black, Indigenous and People of Color. It also sounds like a malevolent cybernetic entity from a dystopian science fiction novel or an advanced breathing apparatus for people suffering from sleep apnea. I apparently belong to the POC part of BIPOC.
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I have also been affiliated with “Other” and “Asian” during high school. I briefly flirted with “Pacific Islander” in college, but who doesn’t experiment in their youth? I was born and raised in the Bay Area of California, in the year of “The Empire Strikes Back,” or 1980. I was also blessed with a trisyllabic name. Today, people at least tell me my name is unique and memorable, even as they insist on pronouncing it incorrectly.
I learned early on that I always had to explain, educate and at times defend my very being. I often became the token Pakistani and Muslim friend for many of my peers who had never met someone who fasted during Ramadan and didn’t eat pork. Once, I ordered a slice of pepperoni pizza and took off all the pepperoni except a small piece embedded in the side of the cheese. It was delicious, but for the rest of the week I felt like a cursed character in a Poe short story, wracked by guilt, convinced Allah would punish me. My friends were curious as to whether I’d go to hell if I ever ate pork. I assured my friends that the earth would not swallow me up whole if they poured bacon bits on my salad during lunch. (They did it anyway. I did not go to hell. Well, I haven’t … yet.)
I was always the odd duck. I went to an all-boys Jesuit Catholic high school in the Bay Area, where I dominated the yearly religious studies classes to the point that Father Allender almost wept when reading out the highest grades in the class: Wajahat Ali, the Muslim, followed by Kalyan, the Hindu. I carpooled with Brian, a Jew; Gaurav, a Hindu; and Allen, a Christian son of Nigerian immigrants. My America was a United Colors of Benetton ad.
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In the ’80s and ’90s, my parents used “Amreekans” synonymously with White people. It’s almost as if they knew, without consciously realizing, that they still weren’t part of the tribe.
“Amreekans say, ‘I love you’ all the time. After waking up, going to the bathroom, going to school, on the phone. What is this nonsense?” my mother asked. My parents are not “I love you” people. To this day, I’ve never said it to them or heard them say it to me. My parents weren’t spartan or miserly with their love; I always felt it, but they just have their own way of showing it. My father still slobbers me with big wet kisses on the cheek and my mother smothers me with hugs. They do this in public, alongside giving me unsolicited, critical comments about my wardrobe, fluctuating weight and thinning hair. They always thought “I love you” was superfluous nonsense goras did that cheapened the sentiment. Gora is what we use for White people. (“Ghora” is the word for horse, so be careful.)
Goras also celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas. We didn’t. Christmas was easy because it was a Christian holiday and my mother told me point-blank at the age of 4 that Santa Claus was not going to give me presents because he didn’t exist and was simply created by goras to sell toys. She then told me I should be grateful for all the toys I already had. That same year, she decided to become the serial killer of all imaginary creatures. I was informed that the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny also weren’t real, and that they would not be bringing me quarters or chocolate.
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My parents appreciated Thanksgiving and the entire tradition and concept of showing gratitude. However, they did not indulge in the customary dinner because they refused to cook this “strange,” “tasteless,” “dry bird” that goras inexplicably loved. By the early 21st century, however, they were hosting their own Thanksgiving parties, deep-frying the dry bird, respecting it with a proper masala base, and also adding achaar and chicken korma on the side.
Share this articleShareEventually, they too became Amreekan. I always knew I was Amreekan and also a Brown-skinned kid with a strange name. I was awkward and creative. But that same dorky, shy kid who couldn’t speak English ended up graduating with an English degree from UC Berkeley and practicing law, and eventually grew up to write “so well” for the New York Times and speak “so well” on CNN. I also married way up.
My wife, Sarah, is way smarter, kinder and better-looking than me. I know this because my parents remind me. “Beta, you know she’s better than you, right? Don’t mess this up,” my father warns me once a week. Remember, I am an only child, so this makes the advice that much more coldblooded. She’s also a doctor, a former athlete and a former cheerleader, and somehow she has still retained her abs despite birthing three children. If you are the person who gains weight simply by looking at food, then you are my brother or sister in this cruel journey called “Life Without Metabolism” and share my frustration at the unfairness of it all.
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I still fast during Ramadan, try to watch every Warriors game and do an awesome Yoda impression for my kids. I have learned how to make my mom’s excellent Pakistani and Hyderabadi dishes during quarantine.
I’m about as American as chicken korma, apple pie and chai, but even after 40 years I’m still told to “go back.” Where, exactly? In America, who (and what) are you when you’re both “us” and “them”? When I’m a native but seen as a foreigner? When I’m a citizen but also seen as a perpetual suspect? When I’m your neighbor but also seen as an invader? When I’m a cultural creator but also seen as an eraser of White identity and European civilization?
According to mainstream code, I will never be “ordinary” or “a real American” from the “Rust Belt” (unless you consider California the heartland, which, let’s face it, no one does). My parents are seen by some as potential terrorists because they’re from Pakistan, even though they’ve lived in this country for over 40 years. Can I be a “real” American, when I’m not White no matter how much Fair & Lovely cream I slather on my skin? The answer in 2022 is “Yes, but with conditions.”
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But I don’t want conditional love. I want more from America and my fellow Americans. I am not content being the token, the diversity hire, the moderate Muslim, the magical minority or “that one Brown guy” who gets the invite to the prestigious festival or space on the cover of the brochure so the company and university can show the world they are open-minded and tolerant.
With the resurgence of radicalized white power movements, many are now forced to confront the reality called white supremacy that the rest of us have had to deal with our entire lives.
For many, resisting meant protesting. For the rest of us, our resistance is simply walking out of our house and breathing, just holding our head up, smiling, having hope and telling our children that America belongs to them.
For us, surviving is an act of resistance. There are forces that have always attempted, and ultimately failed, to make America static and rigid. But America has proved to be elastic. Our ancestors have always had to push and stretch America to accommodate its many residents and communities. We now have to do our part.
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If any of you have been active students of U.S. history, you know that with every two steps we march forward toward progress, we always get pushed one step back. The racially anxious men and women with hoods, tiki torches and business suits will do everything in their power to put America in a violent chokehold and drag it back to 1953. This is the year before the Supreme Court in Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka ruled that segregation in public schools was unconstitutional. I’m convinced that 1953 is also the year that many enemies of diversity and progress believe America was allegedly “great.”
You might disagree with me, sometimes passionately, about my opinions, choices and what the appropriate path is for America to move forward toward becoming “great again.” But boring an audience is a grave sin. I believe God said in one of the Holy Books, “Verily, thou shan’t boreth an audience or thy Lord shall smite thee and make ye eat stale naan.”
Bismillah.*
* In Arabic, “Bismillah” means “In the name of God.” People generally use it to invoke a beginning. If you’ve already said it, you’ve become a Muslim. Gotcha.
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