Modern Indian American mythology consists of recurring epics. The daring quests for the coveted M.D. The heroines who got admitted to Harvard. Tales of valiant engineers and fearsome physicians (Just like my Amma, this article has already brought up being a doctor too much). Growing up, I was regaled with these tales of Indian excellence. However, there are many lost scripts — stories that remained untold, scratched from the official tablet.
Why aren’t they shared? My hypothesis: they don’t feed into the reverence of unfaltering perfection, safe decisions, money and status. Because they don’t support parents being munnari deivam, your “first god.” Because they don’t involve a “risqué” change from engineer to doctor — they are about switching from Zoloft to Lexapro. They’re embodiments of subjects that are more comfortable left unsaid.
That’s where my cousin’s tale comes in — to fill in these gaps.
Suja Akka has a tall, commanding presence. Her hugs make it feel like the world can’t touch you.
At 16, Suja Akka was diagnosed with depression. She says if her older self had been present, she would have recognized the signs years prior. But it was the quintessential motif: ignorant parents who are unable to understand how to deal with mental illness. Mental health falls under many labels in our family: a sickness, an excuse, a weakness. Therefore, her battles were shrouded in silence — a shameful secret.
At the same time, her parents were divorcing. Divorce during the ’90s was unheard of in our Indian community (and, to a point, still is). Her parents’ divorce was the first in our extended U.S. family — another challenge met with silence in our community. Another taboo topic that Akka had to cope with alone. As the divorce unfolded, her parents grew neglectful. Parents who used to ban her from dates and homecoming suddenly didn’t care what she did. They didn’t know which colleges she had applied to or how she was doing in life.
To make matters worse, her amma channeled her own anger towards Akka, tormenting her at home, castigating and demeaning her. She would find any little reason to unleash her anger on Akka, especially when she had the gall to show an ounce of personality. When Suja Akka finally started standing up for herself against these unwarranted attacks and yelling back, her Amma gave her uncles and grandparents an ultimatum: stop talking to Suja or stop talking to me. Did they defend the girl going through unimaginable battles? No. Suja Akka was unceremoniously thrown out of her grandparents’ house where she had lived. A friend had to pick her up from the curb. She was no longer invited to family gatherings. There would be no Thanksgivings, no Christmases, no phone calls or check-ins for many years to come.
With these weights pressing down on her, she was still going through college, trying to find out what she wanted to do with her life. She was lost and alone with no one to support or protect her, fighting a war with depression that she couldn’t even mention to friends or family.
It would have been easy for her to pass on the pain inflicted on her by the previous generation to the next. I have seen it too often in my community. Unresolved trauma breeding new trauma. Scarred children who grow up to act just like their parents.
They say “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” but Suja Akka is the mango that broke the cycle of generational trauma.
Now as a parent herself, Suja Akka takes meticulous care not to let her pain color her children’s experiences. She endeavors daily not to follow in her absent parents’ lead, nor revert to the typical authoritative role. I’ve received many tearful calls when she feels that she’s failed to do so. She is supportive and empathetic. Despite all she’s been through, she treats her kids with unrelenting patience and love. Even through all this, she strives to be better. She is constantly evaluating and reevaluating her parenting techniques, beating herself up over every mistake made, no matter how little.
She’s broken the customary mold of Indian parents I’ve seen. As I mentioned before, Desi parents are considered almost god-like. The origins of this phenomenon can be traced all the way back to 3 BCE. Avvaiyar, a Tamil poet and philosopher that significantly influenced Tamil culture, wrote, “Annaiyum pithavum munnari deivam” — Amma and Appa are the first gods.
Throughout my childhood, my own amma would use munnari deivam as the justification for her actions. God-like parents are reflected in the current omnipresent Indian parent. A figure that creates your goals, defines your values and makes decisions for you — from the degree you choose, to where you live, to the hobbies you pursue. However, Akka plays the role of the supporter, not a leader. She doesn’t restrict the bounds of her children’s lives; she helps them explore them.
If one of her sons starts to talk about space, the next week he has books about meteors and the solar system and a project plan to build a solar system model. Akka helps fuel and nurture whatever new interest or hobby they have, and her zeal doesn’t diminish with each new one. Her house is filled with projects she does with her kids: a paper airplane target, a house made out of cardboard and a velcro tree for her youngest to decorate.
She’s always mindful of each of her kids’ individual personalities and emotions. She has already identified and helped one of her sons deal with his own anxiety. She’s thinking of different ways she can support him. She put him in therapy in elementary school, while other parents in my family still question the validity of therapy when their kids are having panic attacks in college.
During a late-night tea session, we reflected on the bittersweet experience of watching her kids grow up. Seeing them flourish unencumbered is a reminder of positive parenting that we didn’t have. A portal into an alternate reality where we grew up being supported.
Intertwined with her progressive parenting style is Akka’s mental health journey, which, like most others, is never truly over. But Suja Akka has been dedicated and determined to properly learn how to cope with her mental illness. She was one of the first in the family to go to therapy and receive medicine. When I was in crisis, Suja Akka was the one who stepped up for me, even though she has three kids and lives halfway across the country. She called me every day at my worst. Holding my hand through the process, she slowly convinced me to see a therapist and a psychiatrist. If it wasn’t for her bravery and compassion, I very well might not be here today. And I know she’s played this role for so many others. In a community where it seems like there’s nowhere to turn, she steps up for people and illuminates a new path.
Not only has Akka challenged our family pedagogy on mental health, but she’s also challenged our definition of fulfillment. Akka bounced around after college, trying to find her place. For four years she wandered, working odd jobs. Eventually, she started working in a mental health unit in the hospital. As she describes it, she was overcome by a need to help the patients. She empathized with the unwarranted isolation of her patients that were ostracized from society. She understood the dark and arduous path of battling mental illness. And she dove headfirst into helping others. She found social workers to shadow, and realized their work filled her with passion. The girl who once had been kicked out of college went to grad school — at the University of Michigan no less — earned her Master’s and eventually ended up in Baltimore as a social worker herself.
Social work isn’t even on the list in the hierarchy of Acceptable Indian Jobs. Why? Social workers, infamously and unfairly, are underpaid. An Indian uncle may ask you, “Why in the world would you be a social worker?”
That didn’t sway Suja Akka. As she describes it, she had finally found her place. Helping people in Baltimore, her passion drove her — the low pay didn’t matter. Her work filled her with energy, and when she talks about it now her face still lights up. You can hear the palpable fervor in her voice. The fulfillment.
To be clear, the Indian community did not maliciously create these traditional ideals to cage us; they were born of necessity and reinforced by racialized U.S. policy. Our community was constructed through immigration legislation in the image of the “Model Minority Myth” — to be highly skilled and educated. The only avenue for life in America for my community was pursuing high-skilled careers, making safe decisions and putting work above their own mental and physical health. During the ’80s and ’90s, America offered opportunities and a quality of life not achievable in Tamil Nadu, in great part due to British colonization. Consequently, perfection was critical to securing their and future generations’ place in this new country. There was no safety net for older generations. Few, if any, people were willing to give them second chances if they slipped up. Our parents had to be virtually perfect to be accepted and succeed within the white American system. They didn’t have room to take risks. Barriers and pitfalls already littered the safest paths. Taking extra risks on top of that was unconscionable. Most of all, money and status measured whether they had made it.
However, these values have become a lifestyle instead of a means of survival. They have been cemented as laws of success, even though the realities of our community are changing. Suja Akka’s story shows that the traditions are antiquated.
Success and fulfillment don’t have to be measured by money and status. They can be found elsewhere — through a passion, being a great parent or where ever you want to find them. And “perfection” doesn’t yield them either. Having depression or anxiety isn’t a deficiency or indicator of potential failure. You can be mentally ill and successful. Falling down doesn’t mean that you can’t stand back up. You can make mistakes and still make them. Risks aren’t bad. They, instead, could be essential to finding one’s way through life.
Suja Akka constantly allowed me to feel comfortable standing outside my family’s norms, assuring me that my life can be full of taboos and “wrongs,” but that has nothing to do with how my future will turn out. In a culture that espouses a uniform path, she’s made sure I know that unconventional isn’t equivalent to misguided.
The inclusion of Akka’s stories redefines South Asian success and fulfillment; it strikes at the core of outdated ideas on mental health, parenting and success. This article does not mean those who follow the traditional paths are villains of the black sheep’s stories. It means the oddballs can be the heroes too. I, personally, don’t know when my own success will come. But I can confidently stride down my unorthodox path because I see a pair of footsteps ahead. If you can relate, follow along with me.
MiC Columnist Kuvin Satyadev can be reached at kuvins@umich.edu.