When I was seventeen, I read Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake and finally felt understood. Like many children of immigrant parents, I was never sure what to make of my identity. Indians my age called me out when I tried to ignore it, claiming that I didn’t care about the country that nurtured my parents. When I gave it my full attention, I felt close-minded and not myself. After reading The Namesake, I thought through and wrote about these issues in ways I hadn’t before. I kept a response to the book tucked inside the pages.
At this age, a life without Jhumpa Lahiri would be a completely different life. Two days ago, I drove up from Bloomington to Indianapolis to see her talk, feeling reluctant the entire drive. Her writing has affected me in such intimate ways and I consider her my favorite author, yet, I didn’t want to see her. Over the past year, I’ve began to take writing more seriously and as a developing writer trying to find stories to tell, I’ve distanced myself from her. Whenever I reference a story of hers and try to write my own, I know that she snatches my pen from me and writes with her own voice. Read more…
