As my family, friends, and I eagerly anticipated our journey from the San Juan Airport terminal to the Vieques, a small island off mainland Puerto Rico, an older woman approached me, speaking in her native tongue asking how to get to her designated terminal. However, my confusion was evident, and I couldn't respond. Sensing my struggle, a Spanish-speaking friend intervened in to help and gave her the directions. Despite our efforts, the woman gave me a disgusted look, waved her hands, and muttered something angrily, clearly upset at my inability to understand her.

Once the woman had left, my friend burst into laughter, finding the whole encounter amusing. Curious, I pressed her to share what had tickled her funny bone. It turned out the woman had taken a jab at me, branding me as "uncultured" due to what she perceived as my inadequate grasp of Spanish. She even went as far as to blame my parents, exclaiming, "Shame on your parents!" She compared me with my friend, who didn't fit the stereotype of a Spanish speaker and spoke Spanish, and said, "You don't even know your language - it is disgraceful!" I thought to myself, shame on my Nepali parents who didn't teach me Spanish, but that's my friend's point - the irony of the situation. The absurdity struck me, and I couldn't help but join in my friend's laughter. 

This incident reminded me of similar encounters, almost daily, that I had faced living in Queens, New York, where my inability to speak Spanish often led to utter the simple phrase, "No hablo español." Yet rather than receiving understanding or respect for my linguistic limitations, I was met with murmurs of disapproval and judgment. Words like "shame on you," "pretentious," "disgraceful," "sellout," and "uncultured" were thrown my way, leaving me feeling a mixture of frustration and exasperation.

I maintained a composed face during those moments, offering a polite smile. However, internally, a storm of anger and frustration brewed within me. It was infuriating to be criticized for something beyond my control, to be labeled as lacking culture or integrity simply because of my inability to converse in a particular language. I was just learning English then, and speaking Spanish was beyond my grasp (Although, I would have eagerly embraced the opportunity to learn). Despite my efforts to remain outwardly calm, the weight of those hurtful comments lingered.

Even when I attempted to redirect the conversation by revealing my origins—mentioning that I come from Nepal—instead of fostering curiosity or understanding, I was met with puzzled expressions and the simple question, "Qué?" It was a stark reminder of the vast gaps in knowledge and experience between cultures and languages. 

Despite previous experiences of feeling overlooked and disheartened by being mistakenly identified as Mexican or Latino, the aftermath of the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center brought about a surprising shift in perspective for me. At that time, I attended LaGuardia Community College, known for its remarkable diversity with over 22,000 students from 130 countries and boasting the most extensive English as a Second Language (ESL) program in New York City. I found myself immersed in a dynamic blend of cultures that were proudly embraced by everyone, a scene that swiftly transformed on that fateful morning.

Before 9/11, many South Asian students, including some who held prominent positions in student government, were an integral part of the college community. However, in the aftermath of the attack, the atmosphere drastically changed. One of my Bangladeshi friends was absent from school for weeks, when she returned, I noticed absence of her headscarf, I couldn't help but stare, aware of the strict religious and family norms she adhered to. Noticing my puzzled look, her response was both depressing and revealing: "I value my life more than my religion." Although she later admitted later that she left home with her headscarf on, she took it off when she was on the train.

The aftermath of 9/11 brought about a disturbing reality. Anyone resembling a stereotypical image of a brown, South Asian, or Middle Eastern person became a target of suspicion and hostility. This indiscriminate targeting even extended to Sikhs, who were distinct in their religious practices and attire. The lines blurred, making no distinction between Hindu, Muslim, or Sikh individuals solely based on outward appearances.

In the face of rising hate crimes, harassment, and pervasive stereotypes, I found an unexpected relief in being perceived as Mexican rather than South Asian, Arab, or Muslim, despite being none of those identities. While complex and distraught with challenges, the shift in perception provided salvation from the dangers of being unfairly targeted based on a perceived ethnic identity. 

However, this sense of safety within our community was abruptly disrupted during the emotional atmosphere of the 2015 presidential campaign. The emergence of heated debates surrounding immigration policies and threats of deportation, regrettably, soon penetrated the sanctuary of my own home. It was a painful moment when my second-grade son timidly posed a question that pierced through the familial cocoon of security: "Dad, can the government send you to Mexico?"

At that moment, I realized the profound impact of societal rhetoric on his childhood innocence. Despite my Nepali heritage, the phantom of deportation loomed over my 7-year-old son, threatening to tear apart the fabric of our family. I gently reassured him to squash his fears, "No, Aiden. I am not Mexican, and the government is not going to send me to Mexico." However, the exchange lingered as a stark reminder of the fragility of our sense of belonging and the imperative of safeguarding our loved ones from the turbulent tides of political discourse.

This incident, coupled with memories of being mistaken for different nationalities during travels abroad, highlighted the complexities of identity and perception. When I had the privilege of visiting Egypt in 2007, our tour guide consistently ended each outing with an extra ticket in her hand, scanning the group for anyone she might have overlooked. Without fail, I would raise my hand, and upon noticing me, our guide would casually remark, "I always mistake you for an Egyptian." It was an intriguing observation, especially amidst a crowd predominantly composed of white Americans and a few Singaporeans. Clearly, I didn't fit the stereotypical tourist mold in her eyes. 

During my trip to Galapagos Island in 2009, a similar incident occurred. The guide hesitated to hand me the ticket, prompting me to remind them of my presence. They admitted to momentarily forgetting about me with a smile, assuming I belonged to another group. Once again, I stood out among the American tourists, who, with their Spanish-like appearance, seemed to represent a distinct tourist archetype, even in far-flung places like Ecuador and Peru in 2016 or during multiple visits to Puerto Rico.

In 2006, during our trip to Northern India, we explored the captivating cities of Delhi, Jaipur, Jodhpur, and Udaipur, marveling at the enduring monuments and architectural wonders dating back to the Mughal era, as well as the sacred Hindu site of Varanasi. However, at each tourist hotspot, my wife Kim, who is White, was relentlessly targeted by vendors. They would swarm around her, pressuring her to make purchases. She often looked to me for guidance in those moments, silently asking, "What should I do?"

Despite feeling pressured, Kim would express her lack of interest in the item and say, "No, Thank you." However, vendors would not take no for an answer. In such cases, I would intervene, communicating in Hindi with the vendors and politely informing them that we were not interested or didn't require the product.

However, this courteous refusal often prompted strong reactions from the vendors. Some became angry, cursing me out, while others pleaded desperately to help them make the sale, disregarding our preferences. Some even questioned my motives, asking, "What does it matter to you? It's not your money." Then, I revealed that Kim was my wife, and we made decisions together. Some vendors reacted with disbelief and ridicule me with words like “Sala hamme chotiya samachtahe.”  They assumed I was merely a tour guide posing as her husband to obstruct their sales. Their dismissive remarks, such as "Yeah, right" or "What a joke," reflected their disbelief and frustration at being denied a sale they believed was within their grasp. Despite their attempts to guilt-trip us into buying, we remained steadfast in our decision not to purchase anything unnecessary.

I began questioning the authenticity of allowing others to perceive me however they pleased. Depending on the individual I was engaging with, I adopted personas from various cultural backgrounds: Latin American, Arabic, or South Asian. However, once I opened my mouth, the person would know I was neither a Spanish nor an Arabic speaker.

In the streets of New York City, I was Mexican; in Egypt, I blended as Egyptian; in Peru, I was considered Peruvian; in Ecuador, I was Ecuadorian; in India, I was considered either Pakistani or Indian; and in a City like San Juan, Puerto Rico, I was an obnoxious, uncultured Puerto Rican who did not speak Spanish.

This behavior left me with a sense of cowardice. I felt like an imposter as if I were wearing masks tailored to suit the expectations of others. It deeply troubled me. Thus, instead of remaining passive in the face of assumptions, I resolved to profess my true identity. In a world where assumptions and prejudices abound, I refuse to compromise my identity for the sake of convenience or acceptance. Since then, I have decided to engrave upon my metaphorical forehead: "I am Nepali," I am an unapologetically Nepali immigrant, proudly embracing my heritage and rejecting any misconceptions imposed upon me. 

***