It’s impossible for me to talk about my identity without bringing up my family’s role in shaping me. In fact, it was my Indian parents who shaped me into the American I am today.

I suppose my “American story” begins with a romance akin to Romeo and Juliet (although this one doesn’t end in tragedy): two lovers from Kolkata, one a Hindu boy and the other a Sikh girl, seeking to start a family in the West. My mom’s reason was that I’d have the benefits that come with being a citizen of “the land of the free.” My dad wanted to leave because he wanted to be free of the restrictions that were placed on him by his parents and the rest of Hindu society—especially because he was marrying not just outside of his caste, but also outside of his religion.

In India, it’s an expectation for a Hindu boy to follow through with an arranged marriage to a Hindu girl of the same caste or higher. Although Indian society is now gradually moving past this divisive expectation, marrying out-of-caste or out-of-religion was very much frowned upon even in 2004, the year my parents married. Because she was from a different religion, my dad’s wife was considered quite low in caste. Because of this conservative mindset, my parents’ small court wedding noticeably lacked everyone from my dad’s side of the family. This was also due in part to an argument between him and his mother the week prior, during which my dad defended his marriage to a Sikh who had darker skin and ate non-vegetarian food. In the eyes of my dadi, or my paternal grandmother, this girl’s lifestyle and values seemingly contrasted with those of my dad.

This was a moment where my dad took a stand against societal expectations. He didn’t have to, but he supported his decision of a love marriage despite facing opposition from his family and community. He carried this sense of self-advocacy with him to America, where he taught—and continues to teach—me to voice my opinions and put myself out into the world; he’s the biggest supporter of my personal blog, and he has always encouraged me to use that platform to find my voice, instilling in me one of the defining traits of an American: individuality. My dad’s actions embody the individualistic ideas of freedom embedded in American governing principles: the rights of freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and freedom of religion.

Similarly, my mom has also played a role in shaping my “American-ness.” She attended college and worked two jobs so that she could support her family financially, all while battling negative stereotypes against her Punjabi heritage, her appearance, and her identity as a Sikh woman in a predominantly Hindu country. Her family’s religious affiliation made them—especially her father, who wore a turban, a visible religious garment—a prime target during the rampant anti-Sikh violence in 1984. These experiences taught her the importance of stepping up and taking on responsibilities that she wasn’t necessarily told to do, especially when it was to the benefit of her family. Along with the importance of responsibility and also based on her past experiences, my mom ingrained another fundamental value of an American, based on Puritan ideals, in me: hard work. After all, hard work should be an equalizer, a flat plate to pour your homemade curry on.

However, nothing goes according to plan, even more so when it’s an immigrant’s plan. My dad’s job required him to move to Finland, delaying the move to America by two years. When his job provided him with an opportunity to relocate his family to America, it was to Los Angeles. The girl and the boy, united by their love and enticed by the allure of the New World, settled in California and began a new chapter in their American history. With the setting as the City of Angels, the narrator of this American tale and the youngest member of the Shrimali family was born there—some may even venture to call her an angel.

Eventually, our family of three moved to New Jersey and settled in Jersey City, a place notable for its large Indian community. Alongside other Indian families in our apartment building, we visited Jersey City’s Gurudwara, a Sikh temple, and India Square, a cultural pocket filled with Desi grocery stores and restaurants. While sharing a plate of daal chawal or passing firecrackers during Diwali celebrations, we bonded with other Indians in our community, cementing my identity as an Indian-American.

Even after we moved from Jersey City to Edgewater, a different town in New Jersey with a much smaller Indian community, my parents found ways to maintain our culture. We continued to visit the Gurudwara on holidays, shop for bhujia and Tetley tea at whichever Patel Brothers store we could find, and stream Arjit Singh’s music during road trips. The Garden State may be a long way from Kolkata, but my parents immigrated with the taste of India, and they are making sure I can handle the spice (while being American)!

As the first and only US citizen in my family, I am the start of a new legacy on a different continent. I may not have a “great American history” similar to the ones described in classic novels, but each day I contribute to this melting pot’s savory meal by tossing in my own spice and basmati rice while sampling other people’s ingredients. What I do in my lifetime—notably, the path of education I pursue—adds a new flavor in this collective pot.

Education has always been important in my family. In fact, it was through education that my dad was able to travel out of his predominantly Hindu neighborhood in India and gain exposure to other perspectives. When my dad traveled out-of-state for college, he had to sit next to people that weren’t Hindu Brahmins like him. In the dining halls, he had to learn to accept those with different lifestyles; eventually, he not only endured, but came to appreciate non-vegetarian food. Even though he doesn’t eat meat, he still fed me chicken when I was a young child, not minding the meat contacting his skin. After all, an American must eat their proteins, while progressively blending Indian ideas with American acceptance!

When I board the train each morning before the sun has even blinked, I look around me and see people of many different backgrounds and professions; students, nurses, investment bankers, and construction workers surround me as I go about my day in one of the most flavorful cultural melting pots of the world. Despite our differences, we are united by one fact: we are all writing our American katha.