{"product_id":"not-quite-not-white-isbn-9780143131380","title":"Not Quite Not White","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the ALA Asian\/Pacific American Award for Nonfiction\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Captivating... [a] heartfelt account of how newcomers carve a space for themselves in the melting pot of America.\"\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e--Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA first-generation immigrant's \"intimate, passionate look at race in America\" (Viet Thanh Nguyen), an American's journey into the heart of not-whiteness.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the age of 12, Sharmila Sen emigrated from India to the U.S. The year was 1982, and everywhere she turned, she was asked to self-report her race - on INS forms, at the doctor's office, in middle school. Never identifying with a race in the India of her childhood, she rejects her new \"not quite\" designation - not quite white, not quite black, not quite Asian -- and spends much of her life attempting to blend into American whiteness. But after her teen years trying to assimilate--watching shows like \u003ci\u003eGeneral Hospital \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Jeffersons\u003c\/i\u003e, dancing to Duran Duran and Prince, and perfecting the art of Jell-O no-bake desserts--she is forced to reckon with the hard questions: What does it mean to be white, why does whiteness retain the magic cloak of invisibility while other colors are made hypervisible, and how much does whiteness figure into Americanness?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePart memoir, part manifesto, \u003ci\u003eNot Quite Not White\u003c\/i\u003e is a searing appraisal of race and a path forward for the next not quite not white generation --a witty and sharply honest story of discovering that not-whiteness can be the very thing that makes us American.“[A] captivating memoir ... [a] heartfelt account of how newcomers carve a space for themselves in the melting pot of America.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this intimate, passionate look at race in America, Sen considers the price paid by nonwhite immigrants who try to become white, while always wearing a smiling face. Her provocative solution is for people like us to defiantly embrace not being white. That feels just right to me.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eViet Thanh Nguyen, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of \u003ci\u003eThe Sympathizer \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Refugees\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“A stylish, sharp, witty, and honest analysis, from an engagingly personal perspective, of that inexorable American problem \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e race. By the time I reached the end \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e very quickly, I must add, for it was snappy in its pacing \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e I was moved enough to want to stand up and applaud for a long time.”\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eNeel Mukherjee, author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eA State of Freedom\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Sen breaks the silence about the costs of living as a ‘not white’ American in a society where whiteness is the unspoken norm. A generation from now, ‘not white’ Americans, like Sen's children and mine, will constitute the majority of all Americans. Yet the institutions that maintain white supremacy remain largely unreconstructed. This important book dares to call out the hypocrisies of the current racialized order and imagines another future for our children's generation.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eKushanava Choudhury, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Epic City\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Sharmila Sen’s wonderful memoir\u003ci\u003e Not Quite Not White\u003c\/i\u003e … is a delightfully timely intervention about the complexity of identity-formation and identity politics in America.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eHenry Louis Gates, Jr.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Timely and eloquent, Sen's book is a welcome addition to the growing body of literature that engages with the topic of race from outside the white\/black binary. Insightful, relevant reading for these times.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eKirkus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Sharmila Sen’s new book is not quite memoir and not quite manifesto. It’s rife with interests of the in-between, exploring race and assimilation in the United States and journeys into the many contradictions at the heart of non-whiteness. As a teenager who moves to America in the 1980s, Sen is eventually forced to reckon with the hard questions: What does it mean to be white, why does whiteness retain the magic cloak of invisibility while other colors are made hypervisible, and how much does whiteness figure into Americanness?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eAsian American Writers' Workshop\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“In an era when race is both hypervisible and hypertopical, Sen's honest and frank recounting of her emigration to America is welcome – and so is her humor. A section on the ‘customs of the country [America]’ will make you laugh. But overall, ‘Not Quite Not White’ will make you really think, and consider what it means to be \"not-white\" in America.” \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eShondaland.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“In \u003ci\u003eNot Quite Not White\u003c\/i\u003e, her vast though lightly worn erudition enables her to connect her own story of geographic and cultural dislocation with a fascinating, self-reflexive journey through the canons and archives of her several worlds: from Bengali children’s books to Bollywood movies, from the Reagan-era hits of US network TV to the obscure titles on grad school syllabi. She reflects on her adolescent experiences with racial passing through readings of James Weldon Johnson’s \u003ci\u003eAutobiography of an Ex-Colored Man\u003c\/i\u003e and references to the Borg from Star Trek. Later she traces her connections with Mary Rowlandson, whose captivity narrative was published in Cambridge, Massachusetts, precisely 300 years before Sen arrived there in 1982.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003ePublic Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Sophisticated and sometimes fierce”\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eThe Improper Bostonian\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eSharmila Sen grew up in Calcutta, India, and immigrated to the United States when she was twelve. She was educated in the public schools of Cambridge, Mass., received her A.B. from Harvard and her Ph.D. from Yale in English literature. As an assistant professor at Harvard she taught courses on literatures from Africa, Asia, and the Caribbean for seven years. Currently, she is the Editorial Director at Harvard University Press. Sharmila has lived and worked in India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh. She has lectured around the world on postcolonial literature and culture and published essays on racism and immigration. Sharmila resides in Cambridge, Mass., with her architect husband and their three children.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Enter the Dragon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I had never seen a black man in person until I was twelve years      old. If I search my memory hard enough, I can see a few faded      newspaper photographs of West Indian cricketers in the Statesman.      I can see dark-skinned Africans within the panels of my beloved      Phantom comics. There are faint recollections of black James Bond      villains in Live and Let Die. If I squint even more, I can      remember the evening when we crowded into our neighbor's drawing      room, watching PelŽ on a black-and-white television set, the first      procured in our middle-class neighborhood. The first      flesh-and-blood black man I saw was standing outside the entrance      to the U.S. consulate in Calcutta, which is located on a street      named after Ho Chi Minh. At the entrance to the consulate where      Ma, Baba, and I had gone for our visa interviews, I saw two men in      spotless uniforms. One was the whitest, blondest man I had ever      seen in real life; the other was the darkest black.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The consulate smelled like America in my childish imagination. The      air-conditioned halls, the modern plastic and metal furniture, a      water cooler from which I eagerly poured myself some water even      though I was not thirsty. I breathed in the scent of wealth in      there. It felt like newness on my skin. Everything was hushed,      ordered, brightly lit. Not like my own loud, bustling city. Even      the local Indian staff seemed to behave as if they were actually      living in America.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stood at the entrance of the U.S. consulate in Calcutta in 1982.      In 1965, American immigration laws had been rewritten to allow for      a greater number of non-Europeans to enter the country. Not only      were Indians and other Asians considered unwanted newcomers before      1965, even naturalization-the process by which a foreign-born      immigrant becomes a U.S. citizen-was disallowed for most who were      not white until the 1950s. I knew little of this history when I      entered the consulate with my parents. I did not even know I had      something called race. Race as a category had not been part of the      Indian census since 1951. I was about to move to a nation where      nearly every official form had a section in which I would be      offered an array of racial categories and expected to pick one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In 1982, as it happens, it was not clear which race should be      affixed to my person. Since the number of Indian immigrants was      fairly insignificant in the United States until the latter part of      the twentieth century, the census barely took notice of us. At      time of the first U.S. census in 1790, there were essentially      three races acknowledged by the government-white, black, and      Indian. My kind of Indians, the ones from the subcontinent,      however, fell into none of these categories. No matter how      mysterious our race, we were not considered white during most of      the nineteenth and twentieth centuries by the American courts. In      1970, the U.S. Census Bureau declared people from India to be      legally white. A decade later, in 1980, we were officially      reclassified as Asian by the government, at the insistence of      Indian immigrant groups who believed that the new classification      would afford us greater affirmative action benefits. Yet, what was      to be done with the decision to make Indians white only a decade      earlier? What would happen to those white Indians?      \"Self-reporting\" was the Solomonic solution to this problem. In      order to satisfy the demands of the diverse Indian community,      after nearly a century of shuffling people from the Indian      subcontinent from one racial category to another, the U.S. census      had finally thrown up its hands in despair and asked us to      \"self-report\" our race. In the 1990 U.S. census, of the      native-born population with origins in the Indian subcontinent,      nearly a quarter reported themselves to be white, a tiny minority      (5 percent) reported themselves to be black, and the vast majority      chose to report their race using terms that pertain to South Asia.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Such an astounding array of choices was not always available to      people from India who found themselves in the United States a      century ago. If Ma, Baba, and I could have embarked on a time      machine and arrived in the country eight decades earlier, we would      have found ourselves in a different situation. If I had immigrated      in 1909, I would have been labeled \"probably not white,\" but a      year later-when the U.S. courts decided to change their opinion on      the matter-I would have been \"white.\" If I was Sadar Bhagwab Singh      in 1917, or Akhay Kumar Mozumdar in 1919, or Bhagat Singh Thind in      1923, I would have been \"not white.\" Naturalization in the United      States was reserved mostly for whites between 1790 and the middle      of the twentieth century. Non-white immigrants could not become      naturalized and partake of the rights reserved for U.S. citizens.      Indians were not allowed to become naturalized citizens until the      1940s. They could, however, toil in American factories and fields,      offices and streets. So Indian men such as Mozumdar, Singh, and      Thind kept trying in vain to prove they were white in order to      become naturalized citizens. But what actually made a person      \"white\"? Could you be both \"Caucasian\" and \"non-white\"? As      Mozumdar, Singh, and Thind all found out, yes, you could be      Caucasian and also Not White. The courts ruled repeatedly in those      early decades of the twentieth century that naturalization was for      \"whites\" only, and some \"Caucasians\" were not truly \"white\" enough      to qualify.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That the two words-Caucasian and white-are used interchangeably      today would come as a bittersweet surprise to all who were caught      in the deep chasm between those labels a century ago. Yet, that is      exactly the chasm in which people from the Indian subcontinent, an      area that is second only to Africa in its genetic and linguistic      diversity, were placed by the U.S. courts. In those early years of      the twentieth century, miscegenation laws could have prevented me      from marrying a white American in states such as South Carolina,      Georgia, and Virginia. The former governor of South Carolina and      the current U.S. ambassador to the United Nations, Nikki Haley,      identifies herself as \"white\" on her voter registration card. Of      course, according to the laws of this country, Haley can legally      self-report her race any way she pleases. The former governor of      South Carolina was born Nimrata Nikki Randhawa, daughter of      Punjabi Sikh immigrants from India, and the racial category she      chooses for herself tells a complex story of the state where the      first shots of the Civil War were fired, and where even today West      African-inflected Gullah culture (brought by black slaves) does      not easily mix with white French Huguenot culture (brought by      white slave owners).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A hundred years ago Indians immigrated to the United States in      very small numbers. They were mostly agricultural workers who      traversed the networks of the British Empire, sailors who stayed      behind in American ports, or Hindu holy men who were invited to      lecture in cities such as New York and Chicago. The Immigration      Act of 1917 placed India squarely within the Asiatic Barred Zone,      an area from which immigrants were not allowed to legally enter      the United States. This zone would not be legally unbarred until      1946.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Contemporary racial labels used in everyday American parlance are      an odd amalgamation of the geographic (Asian), the linguistic      (Hispanic), and the pseudo-biological (black, white). The rise of      Islamophobia threatens to racialize Islam and conflates race with      religion. This, however, is not a new phenomenon in American      history. Early-twentieth-century America was still in the old      habit of seeing Jews as \"Hebrews\"-as much a racial label as a      religious one. It also happened that many Jews themselves      preferred this system-until the murderous actions of the Nazis in      Europe-because Judaism cannot be folded neatly into the box we      call \"religion\" today, a box whose dimensions are largely of      Protestant specifications. Similarly, \"Hindoo\" was as much a      racial label as a religion in early-twentieth-century America.      Today what is considered my religious background might have been      seen as my racial identity had I arrived in America at the      beginning of the last century.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965, signed by Lyndon B.      Johnson, changed the quota system that restricted non-European      immigrants from coming to the United States. People like me were      going to become a bit more common on American soil. Hindoo,      Asiatic, Caucasian, non-white, brown, Asian, South Asian. During      the era of self-reporting in the early 1980s, I was a young girl      faced with a plethora of racial categories based on a wild mash-up      of genetics, linguistics, theology, and geography, who landed in      Boston on August 11, 1982. The entry date is marked on my first      passport.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I carried an Indian passport back then. Navy blue with thick      cardboard covers. I received that passport in December 1979. On      page four, there is a line printed in minuscule letters:      \"Countries for which this Passport is valid.\" Below it a stamp, in      purplish blue ink, slightly tilted, partly smudged, is still      vividly legible after nearly forty years. It says (first in      Hindi): \"sabhi desh dakshin afrika aur rodeshiya ko chhorkar-ALL      COUNTRIES Except Republic of South Africa and Colony of Rhodesia.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before immigrating to the United States, I had never left India.      My 1979 passport was an aspirational possession. Yet, I was      already becoming aware of certain countries that were forbidden to      me. My parents explained that India did not allow me to travel to      South Africa or Rhodesia because of something called apartheid.      There existed places where people like us had gone as coolie      labor, as merchants and traders, and even as lawyers (the young      Mahatma Gandhi practiced law in Pretoria in the 1890s), during the      time of the British. But white people did not treat brown and      black people fairly and each group had to live apart. Unlike my      forebears who had borne the \"malodorousness of subjecthood\" for      two centuries-as the Indian political scientist Niraja Jayal once      wrote-I was fragrant with citizenship and protected by the laws of      my nation. And those laws prevented me from going to Rhodesia and      South Africa, places where complex designations such as black,      colored, Indian, and white would determine where I could live,      where I could go to school, and who I could marry. But in the late      1970s, when I received my passport, I barely grasped what      apartheid really meant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Caucasian but Not White. Not White and Not Black. Minority.      Non-Christian. Person of Color. South Asian. I never thought of      myself as any of these things before the autumn of 1982. I had      grown up back in Calcutta with an entirely different set of      extended labels for putting people into boxes. What language do      you speak? Which gods do you worship? Which caste do you belong      to? Are you part of the bhadralok (the Bengali word for the      bourgeoisie)? Do you eat with relish the flesh of animals, fowl,      fish, and crustaceans? Do you eat beef? Or do you eat only plants      and grains? \"Veg\" and \"Non-veg\" in India are almost as evocative      and important as \"black\" and \"white\" in America. We can detect a      person's religion, caste, ethnic group from the foods they eat and      the foods they shun. Every society invents ways of partitioning      themselves and methods of reading the hidden signs displayed by      those who wish to cheat the rules. A person of a lower caste might      want to pass as a Brahmin; a Muslim might want to pretend to be a      Hindu when caught in the middle of a riot; a Hindu might pose as a      Muslim to gain entry to a restricted space. We were taught to be      vigilant about such trespassers. An Indian's surname holds a      multitude of information about her. In India, if you know my      surname is Sen, you already know which language I speak as my      mother tongue, my caste, the religious holidays I celebrate, my      likely economic class, my literacy status, whether I am      vegetarian, the birth, wedding, and funeral rites I might have.      Conversely, a last name that holds very little information is      suspect. What is this person trying to hide? The way one      pronounces a certain word, the way a woman drapes her dupatta over      her head, how her nose is pierced, whether a man's foreskin is      intact or circumcised, whether a little boy has a red thread      around his wrist or a tabeez, an amulet, around his neck signifies      so many things in India. In some cases, it can mean the difference      between being killed by a mob during a communal riot and being      pulled into safety. We had all these distinguishing labels. But      race we did not have.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ¥ ¥ ¥\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I grew up in India for the first twelve years of my life without      race. After ruling us for two centuries, the British had departed      in 1947. The India of my childhood was a place marked by what      economists call \"capital flight.\" These were years preceding the      arrival of economic liberalization. Before the Internet and cheap      cell phones, our knowledge of the United States was channeled      largely by a few Hollywood movies, occasional headlines in the      newspapers, magazines such as Life and Reader's Digest, and      hand-me-down clothing brought back by relatives who had emigrated      to the West. Television had not fully arrived in India during the      first half of the 1970s. We tried halfheartedly to imitate      American fashion, eat American fast food, or listen to American      popular music. Still, we were always a few years behind on the      trends. Of course, we were also happy with our own popular      culture. We watched Hindi films made in Bombay, hummed along to      the songs aired on All India Radio, and ate delicious street foods      such as phuchka and jhalmuri without missing global chains such as      KFC or McDonald's. Our drinking water was procured daily from the      neighborhood tube well. Ma, Baba, and I each had our own official      ration cards. These rations cards were used for purchasing      government-subsidized basic commodities-rice, flour, sugar-which      we used to complement our groceries from the local bazaars. I had      never seen a mall or a supermarket before I came to the United      States. Ma and Baba did not own a telephone, a washing machine, a      television, a cassette player, a car, or a credit card until we      emigrated. Our sole mode of personal transportation was a blue      Lambretta scooter purchased by Baba in the mid-1970s. When Baba      was not around to take us around on the scooter, hand-pulled      rickshaws, red double-decker buses, trams, and the occasional taxi      were the usual ways we navigated the sprawling metropolis that was      Calcutta.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We vaguely understood ourselves to be Not White because our      grandparents and parents still remembered a time when white      Europeans ruled us. The Indian notion of Not Whiteness was shaped      more by nationalism than by race talk. The subcontinental      obsession with skin color cannot be explained solely through the      American grammar of racism. In a subcontinent where melanin can      appear in wildly differing quantities among family members, the      lightness or darkness of one's skin cannot easily be used to mark      rigid racial boundaries. Yet, the preference for paler skin was      clear to all in Calcutta. Girls with \"fair\" skin were supposed to      fare better than those with \"wheatish\" or \"dark\" skin when      marriages were to be arranged. I grew up reading numerous      sentimental tearjerkers about sisters whose fates were determined      by their complexions-the fair one always married well and the dark      one was forever shunned by all prospective bridegrooms.      Rabindranath Tagore's famous lyric about the beauty of the      black-skinned woman's dark doe eyes was quoted often in literary      families, marked by the same self-righteousness with which      well-off Americans buy fair trade coffee beans. Still, I never      came across a matrimonial advertisement in any newspaper that      boasted of a dark-skinned girl's beautiful doe eyes.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301042901221,"sku":"NP9780143131380","price":25.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143131380.jpg?v=1767733903","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/not-quite-not-white-isbn-9780143131380","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}