me, myself and I

Amma's old wooden spoon sat on my kitchen shelf, gathering dust between minimalist décor. I'd left Tamil Nadu twenty years ago, shedding traditions like old skin. My colleagues praised my "American authenticity," my independence, my polished self-sufficiency. Then my daughter asked why she couldn't speak grandmother's language. That spoon taught me something unexpected: identity wasn't rebellion or erasure. It was both and neither. I began teaching her Tamil songs, cooking old recipes, sharing stories. My social media followers called me "clever" for finding balance. But honestly, I'd simply rediscovered myself through her curious eyes, through the warmth of our shared heritage, through the invisible threads connecting us to generations before and after.