The stuffy air was a warm blanket on my skin during our hot and humid summer evening in Kutch, India. Nostalgic of my childhood summer, where the day was mine to catch the fairy light fireflies in the front yard, play tag with my neighborhood friends, or draw butterflies with all the colors of chalk. I was fifteen years old, and visited India during the summer of 9th to 10th grade. My family and I were staying at Nechropethi Center during the time, a rejuvenation and relaxation retreat.

 

My dad, sister, and I left by rickshaw to the neighboring village, and we all sat behind facing the opposite direction of the driver. My sister, sitting to my right, was a head shorter than me, and had a sloppy ponytail hiding a black bush of uncombed hair. She was bouncing up and down full of hyper excitement. She had smooth brown skin, and wore tights with a random t-shirt. My dad, on the other side, was wearing a light yellow cotton shirt with a sun in the center and light blue shorts. He was making light fun of me with my sister, and took a selfie with his love for technology. 

 

Nechropethi Center did not have any junk food, so my sister and I were deprived of our weekly ice cream, brownies, and chips. We hoped that the village nearby would have small shops that held the refuge for my sister and I’s fundamental sustenance, a beautiful snow covered rectangular fridge, that housed our favorite butterscotch ice cream. 

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Getting off the rickshaw, our feet kissed the dry mud floor, ready to navigate to the ice cream. Many villages, just like this one, were not stereotypical of suffering people who were struggling to survive. Sturdy white shacks in the shape of a cube appeared here and there, with kids walking in white and blue salwar kurtas from school. There were small white shacks here and there, with not much other scenery. Swirly white cotton candy slowly took over the sky, leaving drops of water to annoyingly tap us. Usually, drizzle smelled of fresh life and rejuvenation, but today, it was irritating me and getting me wet. A few villagers stared in our direction like I was doing something wrong. 

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“What is she wearing?” I could hear them thinking, “she’s not from here.”

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The villagers could spot that we were foreigners, suspecting that we were one of the occasional visitors from Nechropethi Center who adhered to a different genre in clothing, and occasionally talked in the interesting English tongue. This was a usual scene for them, so what caused them to stare was that my dad, but especially me, was wearing shorts about one inch above our knees. 

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We continued walking to the small convenience shop we spotted, a normal interior and exterior, except that it stood alone, not part of a strip mall, and was one story. We sniffed our gold, and after checkout, we started eating the beautiful ice cream. Somehow, the sky was inspired and let go of the clouds and drizzle. As we approached the edge of the village, I saw my mom, who joined us after her yoga class finished. Five feet tall, a short black bob on her round face covered with silky light-brown skin, she looked intimidating with her glasses, and like a cute panda without. She did not smell of anything because she did not believe in perfume, and she wore red straight leg pants, with a white cotton Old Navy t-shirt. 

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“Mumma,” I yelled, “we are here!” 

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“Hello Ditu, you already finished your icecream, huh,” she teased. 

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“Yeah,” I patted my stomach, and looped my arm around my mom’s, feeling a warmth around the woman who was also my best friend. She had similar views to me and understood me. 

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We continued onwards, and after some background computing, I blurted, “I think that men and women are not equal. At the train station, why is there a separate women's sitting room and then a unisex sitting room. Because women can feel uncomfortable, while men are less likely to face that scenario.” 

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“Deeti, we live in an equal society. In fact, having a woman’s room means that we have more privilege.” 

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A deflated balloon, I willed a storm. Nature, who knew the natural power structure of the world, agreed with me, and the clouds were summoned, screaming injustice with the strong pellets of rain hitting our skin. My mom, who was supposed to agree with my brilliant findings on the world, had now disagreed with a fundamental right that I felt that I and half the world had. How could she betray me and herself to men? I wanted to yell at her and get a divorce. 

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Storming off, we left in the rickshaw back to Nechropethi Center in an angry silence. I buried myself in my head, contemplating. If I were a male and wearing shorts, would the villagers not look at me because a man can wear many things without being judged? Why was one gender free of expectations on conservancy while the other was not, and why would one gender be judged while the other would not? It may have been because we had only seen this, so it was all we knew and accepted it. Or, it could have been because some believed that men inherently have differences that entitle them to special privileges like wearing a variety of clothes, whereas women are more objectified, thus this results in stares. Either way, people ended up with the same mindset. Although lots of people have accepted this as the way of society, this was a new discovery.

 

When I went to India, it was 2019, and under Trump’s presidency the government shutdown to push for a wall that would limit immigrants, a trans ban in the army to suppress trans people, a ban on California emissions reductions to limit counteracting climate change, etc. 

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Later on, my political science and economics teacher in 12th grade, Mr. Budde, told the class that the one thing he admired most about his dad was that he wanted to consider new perspectives because new injustices are always being discovered. I realize that some people value new ideas, and society becomes more equal from this. I see that I can stereotype other people if I do not learn more from the media, similar to how without the introspection that I did after going to the village, I would not have been open to the idea that women are stereotyped. 

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A month later, we left back to California, but summer break still offered one more month of freedom. I felt betrayed by my mother and fought with her every so often when bringing up if women face gender stereotypes, a combination of teenage angst and unmet expectations.

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A few families and ours went camping to San Bernardino State Park for three days. It was a mountainy drive, and tall pine trees of all widths, heights, and needle types lined the pathways and camping grounds. We set up our six person gray and blue tent on the most flat area that we could find, and set up a hammock between one of the many trees loitering in our sandy campsite. We saw a few scorpions strolling through the sand for the first time, and made sure to keep our tent closed at all times. A few minutes walk from the sidewalks linking the campsites was the beginnings of the vast pine tree forest. At night, we saw the rare unpolluted night, the starry sky stealing the show. 

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Our family and the other family we came with made a last round to go to the bathroom before sleeping. While walking over, I started as usual, “Why would you want a “feminine” motorcycle? Femininity is not even real, it's just what humans created to keep women in a sphere.”  My mom was growing tired from my sister and I’s complaints during the car drive. Five feet tall, I later realized that my mom was anything but average. Encouraging us to have fun at school, even if it meant going to the principal’s office, smothering my sister and I with kisses and hugs whenever near us, or telling others how proud she is of us, she is a doting and loving mother. I, on the other hand, am an analyser, who often fought with her because I analyzed her too much. 

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“Deeti, I can buy what I want,” my mom snapped. 

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“Yeah, but, you should not subject yourself to fake ideas” I said, not ready to let go. 

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Sataaack! My mom slapped me across the face, tired of my control. 

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I shut my mouth, and my friend’s mom, witnessing everything, spoke to her kids in an annoyed tone. My friend’s mom, Shilpa Aunty, had curly frizzy hair typical of many Indian women and was 5’’5’. Earlier that day, the other teenagers were playing video games with their virtual friends or went to the grocery store, leaving me alone with the adults. Shilpa Aunty saw me sitting alone and played Jenga with me instead of creating fun memories with her fellow adults. 

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Usually, their family was a harmonious orchestra, comprised of different instruments but working towards the same goal, similar to Frankenstein’s family’s dynamics. That day, I accidentally scratched my nails at the strings of the integral cello by not letting go, and so, Shilpa got angry at her kids over a small issue, which I had never seen before. “Did you guys shower today?” she asked accusingly. 

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“No, there is no shower here,” Ojal, her older daughter, said, not realizing her mom’s tone. 

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“You could have showered in the morning before we came,” she said, her voice louder, “Now you will be dirty and sweaty, so good.” 

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“Okay,” her kids said in appeasement, “we will shower before next time.”

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Following the camping trip, I wondered, “Was I wrong in noticing the stereotypes? Was I wrong in bringing it up?” My mom and I still fought about it occasionally, and I felt that she was not meeting my expectations. Both of us were not ready to let go of our beliefs because we were in a fight for power, I tired of unmet expectations and my mom tired of control. 

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In 12th grade, my media teacher, Mrs. Kessler, told me that everyone argues with their parents because of differences in the times. Previously, I had started to realize that one cannot change another person, like how I could not change my mom. But, with Mrs. Kessler’s idea, I realized that I have to accept that many people, if not most, are stereotypical. 

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My mom and I were still close during our fighting phase, except the occasional times we were angry at each other from fighting. But, learning from Mrs. Kessler, I stopped arguing with my mom, and my mom started to consider my ideas because I stopped fighting with her.

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