On October 23, 2001, a baby girl was born to a family of Indian immigrants. She had brown-skin, dark hair, bushy eyebrows, a sharp nose, and a smile that could light up an urn. It was no wonder her family decided to name her everlasting light in Sanskrit. Until she was three, all she knew was her loving family who instilled good morals and curiosity in her. But, when she turned four, everything changed. The little girl stood outside of Mrs. Wilkerson’s preschool class, her hand on the door ready for anything life would throw her way. When she opened the door, she was shocked to find no one like her. No one who had slicked-back braided hair, no one who wore bangles that jingled down the halls, no one who loved naan and samosas, and no one who loved twirling around in their colorful langas*. She was different and that made her weird. Nonetheless, the little girl made a few friends and grew up as happy as she could be. But each day, the light in her smile dulled more and more. That little girl was me. As each year went by, I started to spend more time staring at myself in the mirror and analyzing all the things that made me “weird.” The playful curiosity I once had, had morphed into curiosity about my oddities and how I could change them. I wanted to look more like my classmates, more like what I saw on television. ‘Why can't I have lighter skin like that actress?’ ‘Why can't my hair be lighter and straighter like that model?’ ‘Why can't I bring Pb & J’s to school every day like the other kids?’

While I was pining over these questions, my parents noticed that I had a knack for singing, and they wanted me to pursue this in local talent shows and community theatre. I was ecstatic! My mom and I would go to audition after audition, and they would always say, "Wow. We did not expect that!" However, no matter how impressed they were, I almost always got turned down because I “didn't look the part." As a giddy six year old, I would be heartbroken for a couple of hours and then forget overnight. It wasn’t until one day as I was sitting next to a pretty little girl with bleach-blonde hair and eyes of ocean blue that I realized what this meant. I noticed her intensely staring at me, so I went over to introduce myself.

“Hi, I’m Anu. What's your name?" I asked.

"My name is Madison, and I’m getting in this show." She responded with her eyes fixated on my long, braided hair. I chuckled until I looked at her unmoving, stern face that told me she wasn't joking.

“I hope I get to play Lucy Van Pelt." I grinned ear to ear.

Madison replied, "You can’t be Lucy, you're like, Indian.”

I sat there feeling embarrassed, stunned and confused. As I looked around the room, I saw that everyone sitting in the studio room looked like exact replicas of each other; blonde hair, blue eyes, slender, and tall. After talking to these kids, I found that each of them had parents who had paid thousands of dollars in vocal coaching and talent agents to see their kid’s name in flashing lights one day, something my parents could never do. I was beyond intimidated thought that these kids had an advantage because they all “looked the part” and didn't have to deal with the struggles of being a second generation American.

On February 17th 2016, I had an audition for a singing performance in Carnegie Hall. Going into this audition was the most nerve-racking moment of my life. I felt like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. In the same way, I wasn't in the small playhouses in Duluth anymore. I was in the headquarters of ASPA in an auditorium with over six hundred people practicing their songs out loud with their resumes in hand. After several hours of waiting, it was my turn to audition. A man with a headset walked out, and screamed “Number 206. Number 206.” I walked into the huge studio, introduced myself to the judges, and gave my sheet music to the accompanist. In that room, wracked with nerves, I managed to sing with every fiber of my body. When I finished, the director looked up from her paper and said, "Wow! That voice came out of you? I was not expecting that.” After that, I got six callbacks in two weeks. At the end of the final callback, there were twenty kids huddled in a small comer of the huge auditorium. The director of the program walked in the room and told us that we were the final twenty that would be in the Carnegie Hall showcase, along with twenty others from Europe and Asia who had sent in videos online.
After countless rehearsals, new friendships, and sleepless nights of practice, ASPA flew us out to the Big Apple. It was time. With my makeup, heels, and dress on, I left the backstage dressing room, and glanced at of my fellow performers. I was taken back to the moment I walked into my first day of preschool. Yet again, none of them were like me. I walked on stage and tried to control my bewilderment at the two thousand occupied seats all around me. It was then that I finally realized why people were always so shocked after my auditions. I finally realized what it meant to be raised by immigrant parents who sacrificed everything for me to be on that stage. I finally realized what it meant to be gifted with a talent that very few like me had. Above all, I finally realized what it meant to be a girl with brown skin, dark hair, bushy eyebrows, and a sharp nose. Being the only Indian girl to be on the Carnegie Hall Perelman Stage that day made me special.

It has not been an easy road, but since that day, l am slowly becoming more like the little girl I see in old photos and videos. I am more forgiving of my mistakes and more content with what I see in the mirror. I will never have lighter skin, I will never have easily manageable hair, I will never eat Pb & J’s for lunch and dinner, I will never be able to "look the part" in most plays, and I will never have parents who can throw money at my musical career. But, I will always be happy with what I see in the mirror, I will always laugh when I am asked, “So are your parents taxi drivers or something?” I will always be aware that there will be times when I will be the only Indian woman in a room, and I will always look at my differences as a blessing not a curse. I am more than just “Number 206.” I am more than just “Some Indian girl.” I am more than my flaws, and I am more than what meets the eye. Above all, I am that little girl who knew that "In order to be irreplaceable, one must always be different.”- Coco Channel

*langas- Indian outfit worn by many young girls on special occasions