New York City is one of the most, if not the most, diverse cities in the world, but not in the way people may think. When immigrants move into the United States, they tend to move to areas where there are people who are similar to themselves, whether this is by ethnicity, race, religion, political party, etc. This creates pockets of neighborhoods within a city where just about everyone is the same through ethnicity, race, religion, political party, etc. But as immigrants ourselves, we did not follow this pattern.

When my family and I moved to New York, we did not move to a neighborhood with other Pakistanis, Muslims, or even other brown people. We moved to Flushing, Queens; a primarily east-Asian neighborhood. Even as a 7 year old kid, I did not notice. But that was until I enrolled in school. 

At school, I observed how I was surrounded by other kids who looked nothing like me. Their skin was paler, their hair had a different texture, even their accent was different. Sometimes, my friends would talk in their native tongue while I was around, usually either Mandarin or Korean, but to me it was the equivalent of kicking me out of the room. Were they talking about me? Why weren’t they talking in English? Is it something they didn’t want me to hear? What were they hiding from me? Why am I an outsider? Every time they changed languages, everything around me changed. That giddy feeling that I got when I was with my friends vanished. Like we weren’t friends anymore, but strangers once again. The voices started seeping through as I could hear the words, “you don’t belong here”, swirling around in my head constantly. But it only got worse during lunch. 

As a Pakistani kid, I loved food, especially food from home. My mother’s cooking is perfect in my eyes, but to others, it was an abomination. As I opened the lid to my dish, I could hear my friends sniffing the air around them while simultaneously swiping the air in front of them as if a fly had been buzzing around them, passionately displaying their dislike for the smell with their signature line, “Who’s food is that?” The concept was so bizarre. The smell of my food has always been exciting for me. After coming back home, I would smell the food my mother cooked in the kitchen. “Mom, is that Karahi? Mom, is that Butter Chicken? Mom, are you making Biryani?” That smell was my culture in the air, which was meant to spread to others, but not here. There were times where my friends would sit away from me until I finished, leaving me to be the outsider. Once again I can hear that voice in my head, “you don’t belong here.”

From then, I chose to stupidly conform to their liking. I would bring sandwiches or a thermos of macaroni and cheese, just to please these people. But why? I chose their happiness over mine just to fit in? I conformed for a couple of years, consistently bringing “safe foods” so I could sit with my friends at lunch. But after I moved elementary schools, I could not fit in anymore, I would let these people stop me from eating my food. So I started to bring my food to school. And at this point, I no longer felt weird or strange, but unique and interesting. I no longer thought about how others would perceive me or my life. I no longer succumbed to their desires. I was me. And my food may have had a strong smell to my friends, but my friends learned to accept that it is my culture and my own choice for food. I even made some of my friends more comfortable to bring in their own food to eat with us. 

Even though we were all from the same continent, many of us are different in many different aspects. But the reason we are different is because of our individuality. Without it, we are all the same. The differences among one another allows us to be unique and special. Letting conformity get the best of us gets rid of our unique traits as a person. And if being ourselves makes us the outsider, then I would rather be alone than be like everyone else.