"That is not my name…"
Sonal Shah-Modisette
When Kamala Devi Harris was sworn into the office of the Vice President of the United States on January 21, 2021, I was unprepared for the overwhelming emotions I would experience. Watching the first woman, notably the first woman of color, the first Black woman, and the first South Asian to ascend to the second-highest office in the country, was profoundly moving. The phrase "representation matters" is often used and can feel abstract, but on that day, it truly did matter, profoundly, to me and to so many others.
Growing up in the American South during the 1970s and '80s, some of my earliest memories are marked by the curious, sometimes unsettling questions of my classmates. “What are you?” they would ask, a question that seems simple but is loaded with implications about belonging and otherness. When I answered, "I am Indian," their follow-up questions often came with more confusion— “Are you cold-blooded?” I was asked, reflecting the confusion between South Asian and Native American heritage with the bigoted stereotypes prevalent during that time, and completely negating the fact that I was, in fact, an American, born in this country just like my inquisitors. At that young age, I was unsure how to navigate these cultural confusions, and my immigrant parents, grappling with their own assimilation challenges, could offer little guidance.
Like many of my generation, I navigated two cultures—the first generation of children born in the U.S. to immigrants from India and other non-European countries after the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 abolished quotas and broadened the scope for immigration. We were the pioneers of the Indian American identity, born in this country yet visibly distinct, embracing religions, cultures, and cuisines that set us apart from our peers.
And our names were also different and presumably hard to pronounce…
The deliberate mispronunciation of Kamala Harris’ first name by prominent Republican politicians, including the former president, is personal for me, echoing the many times my own name had been mishandled and the underlying message it carried about identity and belonging.
In the 2nd grade, my desire to fit in—to be liked and accepted—was so intense that I allowed my name, the most personal symbol of my identity, to be altered. Roll call was a nerve-wracking experience, with each call bringing the teacher closer to my name, where she would inevitably pause, struggling with the pronunciation. When she mispronounced my name in a creative attempt and looked at me expectantly, I, a little brown girl desperate to fit in, quickly accepted her version. Regrettably, I didn’t reclaim my real name, Sonal, until well into my adulthood. This urge to conform was further reinforced in high school when a coach decided to call me Sue. I lived most of my life accepting a name—names—that were not truly mine, all because of a moment from my childhood.
Unsurprisingly, Kamala Harris's inauguration as Vice President and her subsequent nomination as the Democratic candidate for President were profoundly meaningful to me. As I said, representation truly matters.
My mother, born a British citizen in Tanzania the day after India's independence, became an American citizen in the 1980s. She consistently votes Democratic, though she is not overtly political. Recently she asked me, in a hopeful voice, “Kamala avee-jus-eh?”… asking in Gujarati if Kamala Harris will win, will be our next president?
Her hopefulness hit home for me.
Representation matters:It matters for the girl, the woman who demands that her name be said correctly. It matters for all the girls striving to see possibilities beyond traditional roles. It matters for women seeking validation of their voices and worth. It matters for women and people of color who are too often marginalized in spaces of power. And it matters for an immigrant from India by way of Africa, whose journey embodies the rich tapestry of experience and resilience that shapes our world.
Sonal Shah-Modisette is a Washington resident.
