Curiosity is the seed of knowledge!

By Sanman Thapa | August 27, 2024| 12:10 pm

We sat on the rooftop cafe in Kathmandu Durbar Square, the sun dipping low in the sky as we waited for our afternoon snack—steaming plates of MoMos. Below us, hundreds, if not thousands, of pigeons swarmed around the Kaal Bhairav Temple—Aiden’s favorite spot—where people scattered seeds across the ancient stones. Children laughed and dashed through the clusters of birds, sending them into brief, fluttering flights. It was as if the children and pigeons were playing a game, each provoking the other in a lively dance.

Aiden, his gaze still fixed on the square, broke the comfortable silence with a question that seemed to come out of nowhere. “Which place do you miss the most, the United States or Nepal?”

His question caught me off-guard. What seemed like an innocent inquiry was anything but simple. On one hand, I have my son and wife—my life, my family that I’ve built in the U.S. On the other, I have my parents and siblings, my childhood home, in Nepal.

Maybe Aiden was missing home; after all, we’d been away for a month. The U.S. is home to him—he was born and raised there. But for me, who has lived in the U.S. since 1997, Nepal still holds the memories and experiences of my formative years. His question sparked something deep within me, something I’ve wrestled with often.

Who am I, really? Where do I belong? Am I more American or Nepali? And do I miss Nepal or the U.S. more when I’m away from either?

I wear many hats in my life: man, husband, father, son, brother, uncle, friend, neighbor, Nepali-American, Hindu, teacher, mentor, counselor. Each role is a part of me, and together, they form the whole of my identity.

Yet, I often feel torn between my Eastern and Western families. On one side, I’ve grown comfortable in my Westernized lifestyle, but on the other, I hold fast to my Nepali customs, culture, and family values. Navigating the internal conflict between self-identity and social identity, while managing the expectations of both, can be exhausting.

I’ve adapted to many aspects of life in America, striving to give my child the best life possible—the very reason I came to this country. But I also want to pass on the values and morals I grew up with. In this process, I sometimes find Aiden too Americanized, and I push him to embrace my Nepali side. I want him to savor the food I love, learn the language, and treat his family and elders with the respect and kindness that were ingrained in me. When our perspectives clash, it turns into a tug-of-war—sometimes escalating into shouting matches.

I occasionally turn to my wife for support, hoping she’ll back me up. But she struggles to understand why our teenager’s talking back affects me so deeply, or why I make a big deal out of it. I know that she grew up in a secular, individualistic culture, with little awareness of the nuances of Eastern traditions—where children do not talk back to their elders.

Similarly, they don’t fully grasp the concept of the collective family and the unspoken rules and norms of life in a small village.

Aiden has expressed his frustration multiple times, saying he feels forced to visit all these people: “I never know who is who. I rarely see them, and it seems like they’ve known me my whole life, which maybe they have, but the awkwardness of just nodding and smiling at them without being able to have a conversation is tiring.”

He is right. Growing up in a small village, every greeting is relational. Neighbors are uncles and aunts, grandpas and grandmas, brothers and sisters—regardless of blood ties. For Aiden, the entire village feels like my immediate and extended family, which it is in a sense.

Caught in a tug-of-war, I often feel like I’m living two lives. I switch my identity seamlessly—from ‘I’ to ‘we,’ ‘me’ to ‘us,’ ‘mine’ to ‘ours.’ Sometimes, it’s hard for my son and wife to understand why we need to do things collectively, and why we can’t just enjoy activities like hiking, sightseeing, or visiting other cities as just the three of us.

As I sat there, still pondering Aiden’s question, I realized there’s no simple answer. I miss both places because both are home to me in different ways. Nepal is where my roots are, where I learned the values that shaped me. The U.S. is where I’ve built my life and family. Both places hold a piece of my heart. Maybe that’s why I feel like I have two legs on two boats, navigating between them, trying not to fall in the water.

Just then, the waiter brought our steaming MoMos, breaking the spell of my thoughts. Aiden glanced at me, still curious, and asked again, “Which place do you miss the most?”

I smiled, picking up my chopsticks, and said, “Both, Aiden. I miss both.”

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Question: How do you navigate the balance between your cultural heritage and the culture of the place you live? What challenges or conflicts arise from this duality?

How do generational differences influence views on cultural values and identity? In what ways do children of immigrants navigate these differences?

Please drop your thoughts in the comments section.