Why Do I Write?

I write mainly to organize the chaos of thoughts that bombard my mind like those fidgety pin balls that bounce uncontrollably from side to side within an arcade machine. My thoughts grow into this overflowing mass, pressuring my head worse than splitting migraines that beckon for Tylenol’s relief.

Finally, I would yelp in frustration and scramble for a pen—my momentary mouthpiece.

I write for myself, because my eyes alone should see the first impressions of my intimate reflection lingering in the pages. It is so that I can make sense of my opinion and feelings, giving voice to those thoughts that frequently remain silent out of fear.

Writing in my journal is most importantly my connection to God. I write mostly to Him because it feels more real than just saying my prayers out loud to an empty ceiling. Over time, He gently reminds me of just how many blessings and promises have filled these blank pages. He winks at me with every sigh of relief I release when I use my writing to shield me from dark thoughts that fill my mind at the most random times of day… when I leave myself unguarded and vulnerable.

Writing helps me remember the details of my intricate movements through life’s… performance. My memories become immortal, easily accessible with a turn of the page. Somehow, it also calms me before my thoughts struggle in the midst of waves of doubt and worry over the future. I sometimes think about Jesus during times like this— when He is able to sleep soundly in the middle of a scary storm.

The act of writing enables me and empowers me while elevating me to heights that so many out there can never reach because they weren’t taught to explore and find their voice. While others are forced to remain silent, I choose to write because I so freely can and should express myself.

My Name

My name is two seemingly simple syllables that have been the cause of most of my anxiety during the first days of school. Thanu. Two syllables that have never learned to flow easily out of the mouths of unfamiliar Americans, these unusual sounds have seldom crossed the boundaries of their lips. My father, however, loved those sounds and was very proud of the combination when he named me. He couldn’t have foreseen the trouble this decision would cause me, so I’ve stopped resenting him for not sensibly calling me a more Americanized name. Ironically, both my parents’ names are Abraham and Rachel—you can’t get any more American than that. So, maybe, he wanted his offspring to reflect the country he left behind. I could have been a symbol of home, a sign of familiarity whenever he needed it the most.

School. Now that’s one syllable that never agreed with my two. School made me realize I was different when no one could pronounce my name. During my middle school and high school days, I chose to leave the correct pronunciation behind like a forgotten childhood teddy bear in a box headed towards the Salvation Army. It was of no use to me, and I simply traded in my real name for a more fake interpretation of my name. The purity of my two sounds became tainted, distorted and worse… adapted into the culture of my environment. I became whatever people wanted me to become, whatever was easily understood by my American peers. As I became this version of myself, I chose to reject my Indian culture, refused to speak my language and detested anything that embarrassed me about my multicultural identity. But, in the end, I realized I still didn’t feel like I belonged. Even my Indian friends would eventually find out about my half-Indian-half-English pronunciation and make fun of me.

Based on this relationship with my name, anyone would have guessed that I would be the first one in line on my 18^th birthday to change my name to Elizabeth, my more American middle name. I guess by that time, with the start of my college career around the corner, I wanted to stop playing this game of make-believe. I wanted to embrace my name with a hug and reintroduce myself to those two amazing syllables filled with love, a history, a culture. I chose to shake hands with this identity, apologizing for the way I mistreated it for so long.

Sorry for not being accepting.

Sorry for leaving you behind and trading you in for a cheap imitation.

Tha like thunder, nu like nutella.

I am Thanu.