These days, whether it’s through some passing remark or a very intentional conversation, I find people are surprised to find out my parents are immigrants. “You mean, they’re both Indian?” or, “They actually immigrated here?”… “Do you speak the language?”

I mean, I get it. My current lifestyle doesn’t exactly scream, “Daughter of immigrants!!”

In college, I chose to be a part of a mostly Caucasian Christian student group. I married a Caucasian man. We now attend a mostly Caucasian church in one of the most Caucasian cities in the country. I did choose to study abroad in India during college, but even that was basically the most Caucasian experience ever. Although it was incredibly personal for me, it didn’t escape me that while most Indian friends I had growing up visited this country to see old relatives, my first time was with a group of 19 other American college students, as tourists.

I made those decisions, and I wouldn’t change a single one of them. I feel comfortable in this world. I honestly can’t imagine any other one. I am after all, an American. But I’m also deeply, wholly, incredibly Indian. In ways that are hard to explain to other Americans.

I know the difference between a sari and a kurti. The smell of Indian spices don’t remind me of Indian take out, but home. I have an acquired taste for Indian sweets that even those with the most varied palette would find gross. Because that’s what my American upbringing consisted of.

It’s why books like this are so good for me to read. Growing up bi-cultural is an interesting thing. I feel like some either ignore it completely and live life exactly how they are living it, while others spend their entire life trying to figure out just what that means for them. I’d say for the most part I belong to that former group. This is my life, I chose it, and I really am truly happy with it. It’s where I belong. But when I read books like this, they give me pause. They help me to see how vibrantly unique my upbringing was, but at the same time, how it binds me to millions of other Americans I’ve never even met. They help me to understand my mother, who is still such a mystery to me. They help me to understand who I am, and that it’s a beautiful thing.

If you are a child of immigrants, or just want to broaden your horizon, I wholeheartedly recommend this book. I know I didn’t give any of the plot away at all, but like I said in my first “book review,” I don’t exactly know how to give book reviews :)

In Cold Tangerines, Shauna Niequist, shares a collection of short stories, centered around finding joy in the everyday. I enjoyed her candid approach to writing that made me feel like we were old friends curled up on her couch, as I listened to her catch me up on life. I also appreciated her vulnerability, where she shared thoughts I was honestly surprised to read about, but even more surprised to see how much I related to them.

But somehow, I still only felt “meh” about this book.

Maybe that’s because there was so much hype surrounding it, and by hype, I mean that every Christian girl I know on instagram was reading it this summer, even though it was published in 2007. I think that part is due to the fact that her new book, Bread and Wine was released last year, so everyone is backtracking and reading everything she’s written.

My friend Nina, who is a wonderful writer, and far more well read than I’ll ever be, shared some insight as to why Niequist is so popular now, which proved valuable in dissecting my feelings about her book. She informed me that Niequist’s style is called “creative non-fiction,” and in this case, it’s even more specific, because it’s “Christian creative non-fiction.” This gives her a distinct advantage as she is currently filling a popular niche where there is very little competition. So maybe it’s not her fault I was dissatisfied with the book. Maybe it’s mine because I should know by now that whenever there is a certain amount of hype surrounding anything, I let my expectations skyrocket, and I am inevitably let down. I mean, Frozen… come on, really? What was the deal with that movie????

So to Niequist’s credit, she accomplished what she initially set out to do, which was to write a collection of stories about joy. She made me feel something from her stories. Maybe I expected to feel a little too much, but what are you gonna do. It was her first book, and I think it left me intrigued enough to read what else she has out there and to see how her work has progressed.

Anyone else read Cold Tangerines and have similar feelings? Or did you absolutely love it? I’d be curious to hear both sides!