When most people recall the story of their first kiss, laughter is probably not the first thing that comes to mind. That’s not to say that many of us don’t share the awkward discomfort of it all, but in my limited research of asking friends to tell their tale, I can see their faces scrunch into a similar smile as they paint a picturesque scene from our collective rom-com dreams. At best, the stories tell a tale of a sudden peck on the playground with a middle school crush or sneaking a sweet smooch with their brother’s best friend in the hallway. At worst — they recall a full blown make-out session where the most painful detail was the bumpiness of their mouth-mate’s tongue (yikes). Many of these stories evoke laughter from the adults recalling them — “Oh, I was so awkward back then!” as they pause to make fun of their angsty-er teenage selves. Their laughter is usually wholesome and exists solely in reflection. With my story, laughter holds a more pivotal role — played by my classmates, my entire graduating class and at the very end— myself.
I promise — I will get to the story of my first kiss, but first, it is important that you skim through the high level Cliffs Notes of my adolescence. My high school experience, like many First Generation Asian-Americans, was a slow burn of subtle traumatic incidents that gave me an impressive lineup of toxic behaviors that I would later sort through in therapy. This experience was further exacerbated by the fact that I was living in South Carolina where the lack of diversity left me as the only Indian student in school by the time I was a sophomore. The shock of entering high school and it bearing no resemblance to the coming-of-age films I spent so many years studying left me in an isolated fury. I was desperate to be seen by my classmates, even if it meant becoming a caricature and self deprecating myself to the point of annihilation. Racist comments were never met with tears or humiliation — but welcomed with a chuckle and a “I know, right? That’s me — smelly, hairy, brain eating brownie!”. This behavior was undeniably harmful — but it was a tool for survival. Laughter became more than just my armor. It was my pathway to visibility. I was okay with the treatment I endured during those years because in my mind, it was better to be othered and seen then to be othered and invisible.
Fast forward a few years and my method of madness in being the white person’s jester felt like it was working. By the time senior year rolled around, my romantic history boiled down to a few exchanges on facebook messenger and a luke warm crush on the crusty white boy in mock trial. I had still never been kissed — but if a Drew Barrymore character was the benchmark, I was doing great — namely in the fact that I wasn’t being pelted with dog food. By this profound logic, I was starting to feel like a normal high school student. But that is the tricky thing about racism. You can try to control it, and get ahead of it, and predict it — but there will always come a moment that yanks you back to reality and sharply reminds you that you are not like everyone else.
And now we have reached the part of this story that you all have been waiting for — and like many notable high school stories, this one starts with a party. It was a Friday night in October of senior year and a friend (let’s call her Stacy) was spending the night. My father was in India for the month and my mother had just left to work her nursing shift and wouldn’t be back until the next morning. It didn’t take long before Stacy recognized the opportunity before us and asked if she could invite a few people over. Thirty minutes later, a parade of Jeep Cherokees and Nissan Xterras began pulling into the driveway and parking along the street. This was more than a few people. My brain processed all the possible scenarios at a rapid rate and came to the realization that they would all end up with my ass on a metaphorical stick with my parents. But it also meant that I would finally experience my first high school party. And that was an accolade that seemed to make whatever trouble I would get in worth it. And so it began…
The Brads, Chads, Stacys and Lacys trickled in and made themselves at home. Can I mention that no one took their shoes off? It was the first giveaway when my mom walked in the next morning and saw the floor painted with muddy bootprints. Anyways — back to the party. I slowly went from a nervous wreck to slightly relaxed after taking a few sips of whatever beverage that Stacy shoved in my hand. Before I knew it, my parents liquor cabinet was open and I looked on as my classmates poured various spirits into glasses and threw them back. “Alicia! Come over here and take a shot with us!” And so I did. And after several shots and my nerves drowned with them, my drunken prince charming presented himself. J-O-H-N, we’ll call him John — was your average, southern, white schmuck and the president of the Ducks Unlimited Club. Which, if you don’t know what that is, it is, and I kid you not — a hunting club. (I told you I lived in SC, right?) I couldn’t tell you what we were talking about, but it wasn’t long before John asked if he could see my room. I had seen enough movies to know that he didn’t really want to see my room, but the thrill I felt at the possibility of finally being kissed took over as I led him upstairs. This is the point in the story where my brain inserts the Interstellar meme of Matthew McConaughey screaming “No!”
But sadly, Matthew McConaughey was not there to stop us and so we continued on into my room and plopped down onto my bed. As tipsy as we were, I will never forget John’s words before he leaned in to kiss me. He looked at me, I mean really looked at me, as if he were studying my features, before telling me how beautiful I was. And then he kissed me. And that was it. As my eyes opened, my enchantment faded as I saw the faces of my classmates in the doorway — laughing. I couldn’t process this invasion of privacy at the time, but it was enough for me to sober up and kick everyone out.
I went to school the following Monday exhausted and grounded indefinitely. It took no time at all for people to start talking about the events from the weekend, and I was slightly thrilled that I was able to confirm details of the party that resulted in my life-long grounding. But as the day wore on, people asked less about the party and more about what happened between John and I. There was something peculiar about my classmates’ interest in my escapades that stood in contrast to the typical hook up gossip I was familiar with. It wasn’t until a quip about John and I’s romantic evening sparking a classroom of laughter that I realized my kiss was so amusing. But why? I didn’t understand what was so funny to my classmates until it dawned on me — the concept of one of their white peers being attracted to the only Indian girl in school was…unfathomable…and hilarious. As the day drew on, the comments became more insidious. Stacys and Lacys approached me from left and right, “John is telling everyone that he never touched you.” — “Chad said that he saw you and John do way more than kiss…is that true?”
It is an interesting feat to be slut shamed and at the same time be regarded as so undesirable that the very circumstance in which you are being slut shamed is being questioned in its validity. My approach was to say nothing. Besides, what can you really say when your prince charming is so loudly denying your true love?! Thankfully, the John-Alicia buzz wore off and life returned to some version of normalcy. As graduation approached, senior year traditions commenced, and with it, senior skits: a series of written plays performed for the entire senior class depicting the most note worthy happenings of our classmates over the years. And believe it or not — John and I’s everlasting romance made the cut!
Before you gasp in horror at the imagery of my first kiss being recreated and mocked on a stage in front of my entire senior class — I will go ahead and tell you that didn’t happen. If any type of visceral depiction of an actual kiss was in the skit, this story would not be ending with laughter but with me channeling my inner Carrie before burning the auditorium to the ground (kidding). No — the skit was far more flippant…and uncreative. The stage was set up like a classroom as some Brads and Chads played out a conversation about the weekend prior. “I heard John and Alicia hung out…and had a greeeeeaaaat time.” As these Oscar winners congratulated their own performance with snickers joined in by the audience, I turned in my seat to see my prince charming abruptly stand up and storm out of the auditorium in anger. As the attention of my classmates shifted from his departure to where I was sitting — I froze.
It was only for a moment, but it was a moment like so many others that came before it. The moment of being transported through a trapdoor and falling into what feels like my own version of the Sunken Place. A moment where I am inside my own body and can feel all my organs clench as I grapple my attention on climbing back out and forcing myself to react. It was there in the auditorium, with my classmates eyes upon me, that I reckoned with this moment before tossing my head back and laughing as hard as I could.
So here I am, almost fifteen years later and I still find myself falling through that trapdoor. As I reclaim these experiences and unlearn so many of the toxic behaviors that got me through those times, I often think about the concept of laughter and whiteness. I think about all the groups of friends that laugh together, not knowing that their one friend is climbing back from the Sunken Place to laugh alongside them. I think about how laughter can be weaponized by some people in the same instance that it acts as a shield for others. And I think about how exhausting it’s been to brace for these moments after so many years. The more I read and learn and shed the layers of self-hatred and white appeal, I can feel myself transition and get ready for these moments — where instead of climbing out with laughter, I climb out and ask — “what the fuck is so funny?”.
The Sunken Place is a cultural expression and term created by Jordan Peele that first appeared in the movie Get Out and is described as a fugue like state as a commentary on the black experience. My reference to the Sunken Place in this essay does not equate my experience as an Indian American to the experience of Black Americans. The visceral themes in the Sunken Place resonates deeply with feeling paralyzed in a white dominated space and is why I nod to it in this essay. To read more about The Sunken Place, check out the article below:
The term “Trap Door” was coined by Wesley Jones and featured in the following articles and podcasts:
https://www.callyourgirlfriend.com/episodes/2020/07/31/trapdoor-interracial-friendship-wesley-morris
https://grantland.com/features/dumber-than-your-average-bear/
