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Missed Translations: Meeting the Immigrant Parents Who Raised Me
A bittersweet and humorous memoir of family—of the silence and ignorance that separate us, and the blood and stories that connect us—from an award-winning New York Times writer and comedian.
Approaching his 30th birthday, Sopan Deb had found comfort in his day job as a writer for the New York Times and a practicing comedian. But his stage material highlighting his South Asian culture only served to mask the insecurities borne from his family history. Sure, Deb knew the his parents, both Indian, separately immigrated to North America in the 1960s and 1970s. They were brought together in a volatile and ultimately doomed arranged marriage and raised a family in suburban New Jersey before his father returned to India alone. But Deb had never learned who his parents were as individuals—their ages, how many siblings they had, what they were like as children, what their favorite movies were. Theirs was an ostensibly nuclear family without any of the familial bonds. Coming of age in a mostly white suburban town, Deb’s alienation led him to seek separation from his family and his culture, longing for the tight-knit home environment of his white friends. His desire wasn’t rooted in racism or oppression; it was born of envy and desire—for white moms who made after-school snacks and asked his friends about the girls they liked and the teachers they didn’t. Deb yearned for the same. Deb’s experiences as one of the few minorities covering the Trump campaign, and subsequently as a stand up comedian, propelled him on a dramatic journey to India to see his father—the first step in a life altering journey to bridge the emotional distance separating him from those whose DNA he shared. Deb had to learn to connect with this man he recognized yet did not know—and eventually breach the silence separating him from his mother. As it beautifully and poignantly chronicles Deb’s odyssey, Missed Translations raises questions essential to us Is it ever too late to pick up the pieces and offer forgiveness? How do we build bridges where there was nothing before—and what happens to us, to our past and our future, if we don’t?
Approaching his 30th birthday, Sopan Deb had found comfort in his day job as a writer for the New York Times and a practicing comedian. But his stage material highlighting his South Asian culture only served to mask the insecurities borne from his family history. Sure, Deb knew the his parents, both Indian, separately immigrated to North America in the 1960s and 1970s. They were brought together in a volatile and ultimately doomed arranged marriage and raised a family in suburban New Jersey before his father returned to India alone. But Deb had never learned who his parents were as individuals—their ages, how many siblings they had, what they were like as children, what their favorite movies were. Theirs was an ostensibly nuclear family without any of the familial bonds. Coming of age in a mostly white suburban town, Deb’s alienation led him to seek separation from his family and his culture, longing for the tight-knit home environment of his white friends. His desire wasn’t rooted in racism or oppression; it was born of envy and desire—for white moms who made after-school snacks and asked his friends about the girls they liked and the teachers they didn’t. Deb yearned for the same. Deb’s experiences as one of the few minorities covering the Trump campaign, and subsequently as a stand up comedian, propelled him on a dramatic journey to India to see his father—the first step in a life altering journey to bridge the emotional distance separating him from those whose DNA he shared. Deb had to learn to connect with this man he recognized yet did not know—and eventually breach the silence separating him from his mother. As it beautifully and poignantly chronicles Deb’s odyssey, Missed Translations raises questions essential to us Is it ever too late to pick up the pieces and offer forgiveness? How do we build bridges where there was nothing before—and what happens to us, to our past and our future, if we don’t?
272 pages, Hardcover
First published April 21, 2020
150 people are currently reading
4525 people want to read
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Displaying 1 - 29 of 243 reviews
December 19, 2019
I am a bit biased on this, given that I wrote the book. But my hope is that there is something in this memoir for everyone. It’s a story about family, comedy, healing, forgiveness and so much more. It’s an immigrant story. A South Asian story. (Not THE South Asian story, mind you. Just one of many from the South Asian diaspora in America.) I also hope that readers find the story timely, as what we think of as the American Dream is constantly being debated today. My parents didn’t get to experience that dream in the way we typically think of it.
It was challenging - and yet therapeutic to write. It was enormously difficult to confront my parents about my upbringing, while incredibly humanizing to hear their stories. I found things out about my family that shocked me.
We keep calling Missed Translations a memoir because it’s an easy classification. But the book genuinely captures a year or so of my life. So the reactions you see in the book are real in the moment, similar to a journal.
Thank you for reading in advance. It genuinely means the world to me.
It was challenging - and yet therapeutic to write. It was enormously difficult to confront my parents about my upbringing, while incredibly humanizing to hear their stories. I found things out about my family that shocked me.
We keep calling Missed Translations a memoir because it’s an easy classification. But the book genuinely captures a year or so of my life. So the reactions you see in the book are real in the moment, similar to a journal.
Thank you for reading in advance. It genuinely means the world to me.
July 4, 2020
I was conflicted as to what star rating I should give to Sopan Deb's very Indian-American memoir. One thing which certainly elevated this book for me was the fact that beyond an autobiography of Deb's life as a journalist and ABCD, it was fundamentally a book about Deb's relationship with his father, and the insights that the book gave about father-son intercultural conflict were quite fresh, and unique. There were parts of the book which I felt really explained the reasons why parents believe in what they do, and why children rebel against it. And so I did feel like there was something quite human and universal about Deb's tale. He takes the particularities of his experiences between worlds and uses it to talk about something most of us have to deal with.
At the same time, I just kept feeling off-put by Deb's voice. There's a certain type of disrespect that is meant to be passed off as humour, as well as a sort of veiled narcissism that penetrated the voice. I felt that as authors what we are fundamentally trying to do with our art is to connect our perception of the world into another person's mind, and while memoir writing is meant to be a tad more narcissistic, I think the best memoirs still prob their told lives in more humble terms. I didn't feel like Deb was trying to connect to his culture or his father inasmuch as try to write through an anguish he felt towards it, which is fair, but it took me a lot to finish reading it. It's also harder for me to read narratives of 'India-is-so-hard-to-get' from an NRI narrative, I suppose, as I expect a little bit more when someone has at least a foot of themselves in that culture. I would have liked to see a bit more warmth, and compassion, and empathy towards the culture he was writing towards. Such a small thing would have made the book four stars, easily, because there's a lot to be learnt about father-son dynamics here.
But it was hard for me not to take the comments about India and its culture, traditions, and mentality, a little less seriously.
At the same time, I just kept feeling off-put by Deb's voice. There's a certain type of disrespect that is meant to be passed off as humour, as well as a sort of veiled narcissism that penetrated the voice. I felt that as authors what we are fundamentally trying to do with our art is to connect our perception of the world into another person's mind, and while memoir writing is meant to be a tad more narcissistic, I think the best memoirs still prob their told lives in more humble terms. I didn't feel like Deb was trying to connect to his culture or his father inasmuch as try to write through an anguish he felt towards it, which is fair, but it took me a lot to finish reading it. It's also harder for me to read narratives of 'India-is-so-hard-to-get' from an NRI narrative, I suppose, as I expect a little bit more when someone has at least a foot of themselves in that culture. I would have liked to see a bit more warmth, and compassion, and empathy towards the culture he was writing towards. Such a small thing would have made the book four stars, easily, because there's a lot to be learnt about father-son dynamics here.
But it was hard for me not to take the comments about India and its culture, traditions, and mentality, a little less seriously.
October 28, 2019
Full disclosure, I have more than a vested interest in this book, but looking beyond that, it was a truly moving read. How often do we stop and look at our lives thinking, how did I get here? What am I doing? Why am I like this? So much of our lives are the result of the choices we make, and the situations in which we find ourselves. This is a story about an adult, seeing his parents as adults for possibly the first time. His parents had long, complicated lives before he entered the picture, and he reached a point where he needed to learn their stories in order to move on with his own.
There's hope here, but it is also heartbreaking. That the author has managed to be a success in his life having lived through his family situation is a testament to his hard work and dedication to do better.
Great job, Soap!
There's hope here, but it is also heartbreaking. That the author has managed to be a success in his life having lived through his family situation is a testament to his hard work and dedication to do better.
Great job, Soap!
September 10, 2021
I typically don’t write reviews but I was so moved by this book that I felt compelled to do so. The author is so brave in opening up and sharing his story which is clearly painful at times. He is a gifted storyteller with a great sense of humor. This story is a poignant reminder that human connection is the greatest gift of all and that it is always worth it to put yourself out there for that connection.
I dragged this book out as long as I could and am sad to put it away. It will stay with me for a long time. I look forward to reading more by Sopan Deb.
I dragged this book out as long as I could and am sad to put it away. It will stay with me for a long time. I look forward to reading more by Sopan Deb.
May 16, 2020
i can easily say that this is one of the best books i’ve read this year. i’m so happy that it came my way because i don’t think my relationship with my parents will be the same after this—i’m determined for it not to be! sopan’s writing is equally poignant as it is hopeful because he artfully takes on the role of a journalist while balancing his own vulnerability. getting your (brown) parents to open up to you is a talent and this level of emotional outpouring was so hard to read.
it’s not just a story for south asians, though. it touches on many universally-experienced themes such as familial trauma, the importance of mental health, perceptions of love & marriage, understanding your inner-child, figuring out the things that make a house a home, and most of all, forgiveness. i highly recommend this book. it’s damn good.
it’s not just a story for south asians, though. it touches on many universally-experienced themes such as familial trauma, the importance of mental health, perceptions of love & marriage, understanding your inner-child, figuring out the things that make a house a home, and most of all, forgiveness. i highly recommend this book. it’s damn good.
March 23, 2022
In Missed Translations: Meeting the Immigrant Parents Who Raised Me, Sopan Deb, a New York Times reporter, and stand-up comedian, narrates the journey of getting to know his parents. He undertakes a trip to India to gather details about them and their lives as he tries to reconnect with them and re-establish the broken family ties. In the author’s words, this has been a cathartic experience.
Born in America to Bishakha and Shyamal, immigrants from West Bengal, India, Deb has an unhappy childhood. Right from the very start, he feels emotionally disconnected from them. But it’s not just him who is unhappy. His parents are equally unhappy with each other. He calls them mismatched souls, a bad match from the start. When Deb is in his freshman year, his parents get divorced. His father walks out of their home and lives. It is only 11 years later when Deb visits him in India, there’s a fresh start to their non-existent relationship.
The memoir highlights many facets of the lives of South Asians (as he addresses the Indian-Americans), the cultural differences, Deb’s relationship with his family, his angst, anger, agony, and the discoveries he makes in this journey. The author reveals the childhood stories of Bishaka and Shyamal and how it has impacted their personalities. We get a glimpse into their lives, the truth behind their marriage, their relationship, and their disconnect.
I have read many memoirs. Educated, Unveiled, Desert Flower, to name a few. I have cried and had sleepless nights after reading them. But I felt no such emotions while reading this, even though the events have deeply impacted the author.
I just wish the tone had been appropriate to convey the emotions. It was disrespectful and slightly narcissistic. Probably he intended it to be funny, and his background as a stand-up comedian might have influenced it. It may seem humorous to some readers, but I found it bothersome. I couldn’t understand why he had to address his parents by their first names. Also, his political rantings added little or no value to the narration.
Deb doesn’t mask his disconnect with his culture and roots, and the same is clear from his writings.
I don’t deny that this is an honest attempt by the writer to share his life with the readers. But we must remember Missed Translations is Deb’s story, and should not be seen as the story of children of all immigrant parents.
Earlier, I had read Sopan Deb’s fictional debut, Keya Das’s Second Act, and absolutely loved it. I won’t say the same about Missed Translations: Meeting the Immigrant Parents Who Raised Me.
Wordsopedia Rating 2.5/5
BLOG
Born in America to Bishakha and Shyamal, immigrants from West Bengal, India, Deb has an unhappy childhood. Right from the very start, he feels emotionally disconnected from them. But it’s not just him who is unhappy. His parents are equally unhappy with each other. He calls them mismatched souls, a bad match from the start. When Deb is in his freshman year, his parents get divorced. His father walks out of their home and lives. It is only 11 years later when Deb visits him in India, there’s a fresh start to their non-existent relationship.
The memoir highlights many facets of the lives of South Asians (as he addresses the Indian-Americans), the cultural differences, Deb’s relationship with his family, his angst, anger, agony, and the discoveries he makes in this journey. The author reveals the childhood stories of Bishaka and Shyamal and how it has impacted their personalities. We get a glimpse into their lives, the truth behind their marriage, their relationship, and their disconnect.
I have read many memoirs. Educated, Unveiled, Desert Flower, to name a few. I have cried and had sleepless nights after reading them. But I felt no such emotions while reading this, even though the events have deeply impacted the author.
I just wish the tone had been appropriate to convey the emotions. It was disrespectful and slightly narcissistic. Probably he intended it to be funny, and his background as a stand-up comedian might have influenced it. It may seem humorous to some readers, but I found it bothersome. I couldn’t understand why he had to address his parents by their first names. Also, his political rantings added little or no value to the narration.
Deb doesn’t mask his disconnect with his culture and roots, and the same is clear from his writings.
I don’t deny that this is an honest attempt by the writer to share his life with the readers. But we must remember Missed Translations is Deb’s story, and should not be seen as the story of children of all immigrant parents.
Earlier, I had read Sopan Deb’s fictional debut, Keya Das’s Second Act, and absolutely loved it. I won’t say the same about Missed Translations: Meeting the Immigrant Parents Who Raised Me.
Wordsopedia Rating 2.5/5
BLOG
July 2, 2020
I was looking forward to reading this book because I, like Sopan's parents, grew up in Kolkata and am their age group and had a similar upbringing. But, that's where the similarity ends. The Deb family has been dysfunctional and as I see it not necessarily because of their Indianness. I would hate non-Brown readers to think this is the reality of all Indian immigrant and the experience of children of Indian immigrants growing up in America. Sopan Deb has chronicled his life well and with a certain degree of poignancy and so long as one does not take everything he says as gospel it's worth a read.
December 24, 2019
I read “Missed Translations” in the week leading up to Christmas—the first one I’ve spent without family, which has me thinking about my family relationships and how they affect the holidays.
It was a poignant time to read Sopan’s treatise on his own family, one fractured by trauma that left its four corners well out of touch with one another. His story of reestablishing family relationships is deeply moving, funny, and not in the least straightforward. It is complex and incomplete, but that is what makes it truly human. I have not lived the immigrant experience, but Sopan’s writing evokes empathy and creates a window into what immigrant families must surmount to survive in this country.
The book left me feeling thankful for my own dysfunctional family, and hopeful for those with painful family relationships, particularly during this holiday season. It is, as he says, never too late.
Note: I received this book through a Goodreads giveaway.
It was a poignant time to read Sopan’s treatise on his own family, one fractured by trauma that left its four corners well out of touch with one another. His story of reestablishing family relationships is deeply moving, funny, and not in the least straightforward. It is complex and incomplete, but that is what makes it truly human. I have not lived the immigrant experience, but Sopan’s writing evokes empathy and creates a window into what immigrant families must surmount to survive in this country.
The book left me feeling thankful for my own dysfunctional family, and hopeful for those with painful family relationships, particularly during this holiday season. It is, as he says, never too late.
Note: I received this book through a Goodreads giveaway.
June 30, 2020
WOW. You know when you read a book and it really HITS you? This HIT me. This is one of the best memoirs I've ever read. It was emotionally powerful and hilarious and difficult and honest and inspiring. Deb really poured his heart onto the page. It just moved me. I'm a puddle. This concept of seeing your parents as human--with all of their flaws, allowing you to see and understand yourself and your flaws, really just so well done. The part where he was looking at his dad and saw the wrinkles on his face--etched like a map, beautiful. 'The turkey thing,' beautiful. I especially appreciated the structure--I am glad he didn't put his dad and mom's narratives inter-spliced at the same time. I felt so much empathy and compassion for Sopan and his parents, especially his mom. She is truly a 'survivor.' This is truly a testament how it is never too late to talk and examine and heal.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
December 28, 2022
it was ok. revelations kinda basic. how do men grow to be 40 years old before realizing that their parents have souls😭. also mad i had to read the phrase “i was like a fish out of curry”
January 10, 2020
While the writing style is brisk and witty, it doesn't take away from the serious topic. Plus Sopan Deb is so earnest and doesn't shy away from taking blame that it makes for a charmer of a memoir.
July 11, 2020
This is a very good story in a book that, unfortunately, needed more time to gestate. Deb's voice is very appealing — conversational, almost too much so (it might work better as an audio book, weirdly). But structurally and tonally it doesn't work, with too many questions answered in a fast aside, and too much minutiae overly examined. More distance from the material — and better editing — would have helped.
December 8, 2020
This was heartwarming and tragic.
I could/ would have related more if I was an Immigrant or someone who lived in the US.
I could/ would have related more if I was an Immigrant or someone who lived in the US.
April 27, 2020
The South Asian experience has been preserved in a stereotype in the books published and the shows launched in the past 5 years. And while I'm just grateful that our stories are finally being told in mainstream American culture, it's something that's unsettled me as more and more art is being published.
Two incredible works have shaken the model minority South Asian stereotype. The first was Hasan Minhaj's excellent one-man show, Homecoming King. The second is Missed Translations.
Sopan Deb's memoir on defining his own South Asian identity and discovering who his parents were - and are - is deeply moving, wickedly funny, and unlike any memoir I've ever read. Deb writes with incredible honesty and sensitivity to his parents, despite their wrought relationships. It's an emotional journey that had me crying, laughing, and tapping my Kindle furiously as I read it.
It's an extraordinary book, and an important one in the canon of both memoirs and the South Asian diaspora. And I guess I'm going to have to get into basketball, so I can continue to enjoy Deb's incredible writing.
Two incredible works have shaken the model minority South Asian stereotype. The first was Hasan Minhaj's excellent one-man show, Homecoming King. The second is Missed Translations.
Sopan Deb's memoir on defining his own South Asian identity and discovering who his parents were - and are - is deeply moving, wickedly funny, and unlike any memoir I've ever read. Deb writes with incredible honesty and sensitivity to his parents, despite their wrought relationships. It's an emotional journey that had me crying, laughing, and tapping my Kindle furiously as I read it.
It's an extraordinary book, and an important one in the canon of both memoirs and the South Asian diaspora. And I guess I'm going to have to get into basketball, so I can continue to enjoy Deb's incredible writing.
December 22, 2019
Although I devoured this book, it left me with a lot to chew on. (I will now cease food-related metaphors.) The author’s voice is endearing — reflective, funny, and above all earnest. Following along as the author learns so much about his family (one very dissimilar from my own!) and by extension himself is bittersweet and complicated. I highly recommend it.
December 23, 2019
I do not have enough words to describe this book except I could not put it down! It is very well written and really hones in on a range of emotions from making the reader cry to laughing out loud. It is a very personal story and I commend the author for sharing it in such great detail. A must read!
January 12, 2020
Absolutely brilliant. Review coming soon.
May 16, 2020
"Missed Translations" is one of the most powerful and intimate books I’ve read.
Reading it, I felt seen and represented in a way I don’t think I ever have before. I’m so grateful he took the time to tell his story with eloquence and humor.
________________
“ I had spent much of my life running away from my skin color and culture, and yet the thing I felt most comfortable discussing onstage was my South Asian ethnicity. Talking about any version of the brown experience felt cathartic, whether it was the mangled one of my childhood or the way I imagined a happy brown kid growing up.”
“There was a coldness that cast a permanent cloud over the house for all of us. This often manifested itself in the mundane. When I came home from school, I felt anxiety, a sense of foreboding, about walking in the door. Not because I was worried about walking into the shouts of fighting parents, but because of the silence. When there wasn’t fighting, there was just uncomfortable stillness. We rarely talked about our days. My parents never talked about their past. The future was a nonstarter”
“The rare feelings of warmth gave way to resentment as I observed my friends with their fathers, especially as I became a teenager. For example, I always loved basketball and desperately wanted my dad to help coach me. He didn’t really know anything about it, which could explain why I’ve never been very good. Meanwhile, I would see a lot of my white classmates being taught by their fathers. I’d go over to their houses and hear about their plans to go to a Knicks game. I was jealous. That’s how bad it was: I was jealous of people going to see the Knicks play.”
“There were times the three of us would eat together (or the four of us, before Sattik left for college), but it was rare. And those dinners were quick and silent. I didn’t think much about why we ate separately. I processed it very simply as, I would rather eat while watching television than sit here in silence with my family. It didn’t strike me as strange until I became friends with kids like Shaun.”
“She may have thought she was motivating me, but my response to the resulting social alienation was an attempt to suppress my brownness in the hope of finding friends.
I wanted to fit in, and I viewed my parents’ insistence on academic perfection as a by-product of our brown culture. It’s a stereotype of Asian parents, but it was an accurate one in our household. Their relentless focus on report cards seemed designed to torture me. I never thought much about what their childhoods had been like, what lessons their lives had taught them, or how those lessons shaped them as parents.”
“ I blamed arranged marriage, Hinduism, and India for the ills of the household, even though I didn’t know enough about any of those things. I just knew I wanted distance from whatever culture had forced my parents together and produced this misery. I stopped playing the harmonium and performing at Indian festivals. When my parents hosted Bengali family gatherings, I started avoiding the party because I was embarrassed by the number of saris and dhotis being worn around my home. I became a self-loathing Bengali child.
I grew to idealize whiteness, which I conflated with safety and easy communication. This desire to be white didn’t come from feeling socially or politically marginalized because of my skin color. It was about white suburban moms who made after-school snacks and asked my friends about the girls they liked and the teachers they hated. ”
“We said our goodbyes and hung up the phone. I sighed deeply. Have you ever walked into an ocean that’s just a little too cold? It’s a deeply uncomfortable shock to the senses at first, but you hope your body gets used to it as you submerge yourself farther into the water. And then you take another step. And then another.”
“I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the contact that said DAD. That’s a weird way of describing a father, right? “A contact that said DAD?” But it was indicative of our relationship at that moment. I knew that he existed, but he was just a phone contact, in the same way that DAN FROM THE NETWORKING EVENT YOU HATED lingered in your contact list: something between a stranger and a forgotten childhood acquaintance.”
“What fatherhood meant in his mind and my desire for what I believed to be the quintessential American experience my white friends had were two vastly different things. To Shyamal, being a father was a black-and-white equation about putting forth the hard work through whatever means necessary so that the family could survive. In America, in theory, it should have been easier to do that. That’s why he immigrated here.
I never saw it that way. As a kid in a New Jersey suburb, life wasn’t just about survival. It was a kind of privilege I never realized I had. I wanted our relationship to be about playing catch or riding bikes together. I wanted Shyamal to know my friends and teach me how to shave. I wanted someone to talk to about girls and tell me where babies came from. That was America, I thought, especially considering the experience my white childhood friends were having. Where I wanted less from my mother in many ways—less pressure, less interference—I badly wanted more from Shyamal.”
“The cultural gap was widened further by my father’s pride in being an immigrant. I saw his pride as a burden, especially in middle school and high school, where feeling like an outsider was a constant. Hardly anyone in class looked like me. If they did, I bet I would have spent time with other parents similar to Shyamal, and my assumptions about race and parenting would have been different. These feelings, specifically the ones I had equating whiteness with being American, weren’t justified or rational. With the benefit of time, I can say they were wrong.”
“She struggled with depression as I grew up. It manifested itself in various ways, but whatever form it took, the result was anger and tears. My best reasoning is that she was a deeply isolated and lonely individual, trapped in a failing marriage and getting through her days without feeling unconditionally loved. In Howell, there wasn’t a sizable Indian community for Bishakha to be a part of. There was no escape from the unhappy home for her. Whereas Shyamal had an engineering career he had built over many years, and Sattik and I had college and our careers to look forward to, she had nothing of the sort.”
“Bishakha never asked me about my day when I was young, nor did I ask her. Shyamal never asked me, and I never asked him. Bishakha and Shyamal never asked each other. Same goes for Sattik with each of us. The Deb family household would have been so much different if we asked each other to run down our respective days, just like my friend Shaun’s family did. Instead, the four of us lived in four corners of the house, finding our own outlets for our sadness and clawing at the outside world begging for release.”
“Dealing with the fallout from my parents’ lack of choice gave me the strength to carve my own path, whether choosing a college or a profession. I never even asked my parents before making critical life decisions. I just made them.”
“When I didn’t hear from you for a couple of weeks, I was very worried,” I said quietly, inwardly ashamed. It was like we were at the Chinese restaurant all over again after I punched my classmate. How could I, as a son, ever let our relationship get to that point? As an adult? As a human? My own father didn’t think anyone loved him enough to care if he died or not. The bare minimum that a father (and a mother) should expect from a son is to feel cared for; to live the back half of your life knowing that you aren’t alone. As I thought about this, I didn’t look away from Shyamal’s face. For the first time, I noticed his wrinkles. They seemed to etch out a map. When I first arrived in India, my father’s unexpected youthfulness stuck out. In this moment, I was reminded that he was older, that he was mortal. But even still, I remained defensive. This wasn’t just my fault. It couldn’t be. Could it?”
“At the hotel the night before, Wesley had made an observation that I kept thinking about now, sitting across from my father: “He wants to know you but he doesn’t know how to know another person,” she had said. Maybe the opposite had been true as well. Maybe it was me who had not learned how to know him. That’s not to assign blame. It may have just been that our respective places in the universe had been incompatible, and there is nothing we could have done about it until now. This particular intersection of time and place, both of us in a new stage of our lives, may have been the cipher we needed to find each other.”
“It was a terrible thing to hear. She was living in her own house, surrounded by family, but feeling loved by none of them. During that period, she took my confusion as a lack of caring for her. This is what I mean by saying she deserved better from me.”
“ The holidays are supposed to remind us of what we have and to be thankful for it. But for me, they’ve always been a reminder of what I lacked”
“Where many of my white friends saw therapists growing up, it wasn’t the kind of treatment my family was ever open to considering—because they didn’t know to consider it. In the same way that Indian parents, or at least my Indian parents, had their children solely focused on academics as opposed to social development, they didn’t know how to turn the gaze inward, or even that they are supposed to. Depression, abuse, and trauma can fly into a family like meteors, leaving massive craters in their wake.”
“No, it isn’t. A significant portion of the South Asian experience, at least from what I have seen among brown friends and my own family members, is about seeming a certain way to give off the impression of stability and status, at the expense of emotional needs”
Reading it, I felt seen and represented in a way I don’t think I ever have before. I’m so grateful he took the time to tell his story with eloquence and humor.
________________
“ I had spent much of my life running away from my skin color and culture, and yet the thing I felt most comfortable discussing onstage was my South Asian ethnicity. Talking about any version of the brown experience felt cathartic, whether it was the mangled one of my childhood or the way I imagined a happy brown kid growing up.”
“There was a coldness that cast a permanent cloud over the house for all of us. This often manifested itself in the mundane. When I came home from school, I felt anxiety, a sense of foreboding, about walking in the door. Not because I was worried about walking into the shouts of fighting parents, but because of the silence. When there wasn’t fighting, there was just uncomfortable stillness. We rarely talked about our days. My parents never talked about their past. The future was a nonstarter”
“The rare feelings of warmth gave way to resentment as I observed my friends with their fathers, especially as I became a teenager. For example, I always loved basketball and desperately wanted my dad to help coach me. He didn’t really know anything about it, which could explain why I’ve never been very good. Meanwhile, I would see a lot of my white classmates being taught by their fathers. I’d go over to their houses and hear about their plans to go to a Knicks game. I was jealous. That’s how bad it was: I was jealous of people going to see the Knicks play.”
“There were times the three of us would eat together (or the four of us, before Sattik left for college), but it was rare. And those dinners were quick and silent. I didn’t think much about why we ate separately. I processed it very simply as, I would rather eat while watching television than sit here in silence with my family. It didn’t strike me as strange until I became friends with kids like Shaun.”
“She may have thought she was motivating me, but my response to the resulting social alienation was an attempt to suppress my brownness in the hope of finding friends.
I wanted to fit in, and I viewed my parents’ insistence on academic perfection as a by-product of our brown culture. It’s a stereotype of Asian parents, but it was an accurate one in our household. Their relentless focus on report cards seemed designed to torture me. I never thought much about what their childhoods had been like, what lessons their lives had taught them, or how those lessons shaped them as parents.”
“ I blamed arranged marriage, Hinduism, and India for the ills of the household, even though I didn’t know enough about any of those things. I just knew I wanted distance from whatever culture had forced my parents together and produced this misery. I stopped playing the harmonium and performing at Indian festivals. When my parents hosted Bengali family gatherings, I started avoiding the party because I was embarrassed by the number of saris and dhotis being worn around my home. I became a self-loathing Bengali child.
I grew to idealize whiteness, which I conflated with safety and easy communication. This desire to be white didn’t come from feeling socially or politically marginalized because of my skin color. It was about white suburban moms who made after-school snacks and asked my friends about the girls they liked and the teachers they hated. ”
“We said our goodbyes and hung up the phone. I sighed deeply. Have you ever walked into an ocean that’s just a little too cold? It’s a deeply uncomfortable shock to the senses at first, but you hope your body gets used to it as you submerge yourself farther into the water. And then you take another step. And then another.”
“I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the contact that said DAD. That’s a weird way of describing a father, right? “A contact that said DAD?” But it was indicative of our relationship at that moment. I knew that he existed, but he was just a phone contact, in the same way that DAN FROM THE NETWORKING EVENT YOU HATED lingered in your contact list: something between a stranger and a forgotten childhood acquaintance.”
“What fatherhood meant in his mind and my desire for what I believed to be the quintessential American experience my white friends had were two vastly different things. To Shyamal, being a father was a black-and-white equation about putting forth the hard work through whatever means necessary so that the family could survive. In America, in theory, it should have been easier to do that. That’s why he immigrated here.
I never saw it that way. As a kid in a New Jersey suburb, life wasn’t just about survival. It was a kind of privilege I never realized I had. I wanted our relationship to be about playing catch or riding bikes together. I wanted Shyamal to know my friends and teach me how to shave. I wanted someone to talk to about girls and tell me where babies came from. That was America, I thought, especially considering the experience my white childhood friends were having. Where I wanted less from my mother in many ways—less pressure, less interference—I badly wanted more from Shyamal.”
“The cultural gap was widened further by my father’s pride in being an immigrant. I saw his pride as a burden, especially in middle school and high school, where feeling like an outsider was a constant. Hardly anyone in class looked like me. If they did, I bet I would have spent time with other parents similar to Shyamal, and my assumptions about race and parenting would have been different. These feelings, specifically the ones I had equating whiteness with being American, weren’t justified or rational. With the benefit of time, I can say they were wrong.”
“She struggled with depression as I grew up. It manifested itself in various ways, but whatever form it took, the result was anger and tears. My best reasoning is that she was a deeply isolated and lonely individual, trapped in a failing marriage and getting through her days without feeling unconditionally loved. In Howell, there wasn’t a sizable Indian community for Bishakha to be a part of. There was no escape from the unhappy home for her. Whereas Shyamal had an engineering career he had built over many years, and Sattik and I had college and our careers to look forward to, she had nothing of the sort.”
“Bishakha never asked me about my day when I was young, nor did I ask her. Shyamal never asked me, and I never asked him. Bishakha and Shyamal never asked each other. Same goes for Sattik with each of us. The Deb family household would have been so much different if we asked each other to run down our respective days, just like my friend Shaun’s family did. Instead, the four of us lived in four corners of the house, finding our own outlets for our sadness and clawing at the outside world begging for release.”
“Dealing with the fallout from my parents’ lack of choice gave me the strength to carve my own path, whether choosing a college or a profession. I never even asked my parents before making critical life decisions. I just made them.”
“When I didn’t hear from you for a couple of weeks, I was very worried,” I said quietly, inwardly ashamed. It was like we were at the Chinese restaurant all over again after I punched my classmate. How could I, as a son, ever let our relationship get to that point? As an adult? As a human? My own father didn’t think anyone loved him enough to care if he died or not. The bare minimum that a father (and a mother) should expect from a son is to feel cared for; to live the back half of your life knowing that you aren’t alone. As I thought about this, I didn’t look away from Shyamal’s face. For the first time, I noticed his wrinkles. They seemed to etch out a map. When I first arrived in India, my father’s unexpected youthfulness stuck out. In this moment, I was reminded that he was older, that he was mortal. But even still, I remained defensive. This wasn’t just my fault. It couldn’t be. Could it?”
“At the hotel the night before, Wesley had made an observation that I kept thinking about now, sitting across from my father: “He wants to know you but he doesn’t know how to know another person,” she had said. Maybe the opposite had been true as well. Maybe it was me who had not learned how to know him. That’s not to assign blame. It may have just been that our respective places in the universe had been incompatible, and there is nothing we could have done about it until now. This particular intersection of time and place, both of us in a new stage of our lives, may have been the cipher we needed to find each other.”
“It was a terrible thing to hear. She was living in her own house, surrounded by family, but feeling loved by none of them. During that period, she took my confusion as a lack of caring for her. This is what I mean by saying she deserved better from me.”
“ The holidays are supposed to remind us of what we have and to be thankful for it. But for me, they’ve always been a reminder of what I lacked”
“Where many of my white friends saw therapists growing up, it wasn’t the kind of treatment my family was ever open to considering—because they didn’t know to consider it. In the same way that Indian parents, or at least my Indian parents, had their children solely focused on academics as opposed to social development, they didn’t know how to turn the gaze inward, or even that they are supposed to. Depression, abuse, and trauma can fly into a family like meteors, leaving massive craters in their wake.”
“No, it isn’t. A significant portion of the South Asian experience, at least from what I have seen among brown friends and my own family members, is about seeming a certain way to give off the impression of stability and status, at the expense of emotional needs”
December 16, 2019
Won this arc on goodreads. I loved it..The story of how his family came to the United States from India is amazing. From his mom's struggles to support her mom and brother, to his dad coming to find "the American dream", I loved reading about Sopan's parents stories. Meeting the extended family in India was so interesting. I would love to go visit myself now and meet these people and see all the touristy places described in this book..Great story!
April 27, 2020
I wasn't sure whether I needed another brown immigrant narrative, but I really enjoyed and appreciated this one. He talks about secrets and mental health and bad parenting, all the stuff our families didn't want to talk about.
December 6, 2019
A touching story about self discovery and how it is never too late to try to build a relationship with your family that also manages to be very funny!
May 13, 2020
I was immediately drawn to this book because I truly love reading about anything Kolkata related - I'm biased! From the get-go, I just felt that familiar feeling in the way Sopan wrote. It's relatable, it's painful, it's angry, it's full of heartache. Who hasn't experienced this at some point in our lives? He knew how to articulate and put it into words. As the story continued, I felt like I was right there with him, meeting his Dad and his Mom. I felt like I was experiencing all the pent-up awkwardness and emotions front and center. It weighed heavy on my heart and it really made me feel, called up my own shadows and made me look at them. Thank you Sopan, for shedding light on matters that South-Asian families often bury deep and don't love to talk about. For bringing up matters of resentment, missed words, forgiveness, love, despair, and the need for connection. No matter what background anyone is from or no matter what type of family anyone comes from, anyone can relate to the emotions that are relayed in this book.
May 22, 2020
I simply loved this book. As a South Asian American, this story speaks to a larger theme of growing up in a country where you are forced to balance two cultures. Navigating this cultural dynamic can be extremely hard, and as in Sopan’s case, is exponentially harder when you’re dealing with family dynamics beyond your control. That’s where I think this story truly shines. Yes, this story is about growing up in an immigrant household but it’s also a story of maturity by finding a way to establish deeper connection with family when there was hardly any connection to begin with.
Do your self a favor during quarantine and pick up this book!
Do your self a favor during quarantine and pick up this book!
July 3, 2020
Sopan Deb gave a funny engaging interview on one of the NPR programs, so I ordered the audio version of his memoir. Unfortunately, I had heard the best anecdotes from the book during the interview. All in all, Missed Translations... is worth reading/listening to as it gives some insight to arranged marriages and the lives of immigrants to the United States. Without spoiling any of the story, all immigrants do not find the American Dream. I do recommend the audio version. Sopan Deb is a comedian and his sense of humor comes through.
December 26, 2019
I won a proof copy of this book through a Goodreads giveaway.
As per usual, I started reading this book knowing nothing. I had no ideas what I was getting into. Deb is great writer and funny too but this book just wasn’t for me.
My heart broke for Deb as he interviewed his parent and described his childhood growing up. I however found my myself bored. I think I was hoping for more interviews with his parents and family members and less memoir.
As per usual, I started reading this book knowing nothing. I had no ideas what I was getting into. Deb is great writer and funny too but this book just wasn’t for me.
My heart broke for Deb as he interviewed his parent and described his childhood growing up. I however found my myself bored. I think I was hoping for more interviews with his parents and family members and less memoir.
May 27, 2020
3 1/2 stars. A very touching and personal book, showing the humanity of his parents; something we all need to find, even in the midst of childhood trauma. I bought this book as a pre-order after following Sopan Deb on Twitter and gaining a deep appreciation of his talent as a NYT writer and campaign reporter for Trump’s campaign, but most especially his love for Star Trek DS9 and TNG.
June 10, 2020
I had high hopes for finding an inspiring read, but somehow it didn't happen for me. While the idea of re-connecting with parents and gaining insight and understanding of them seems like a great basis, I felt a sense of self-absorption in the narrator here. I did feel for Wesley, who patiently tags along through Sopan's search for himself.
June 20, 2020
A heartfelt, emotional, memoir that doesn't shy away from some of the most difficult aspects of growing up in a South Asian family. And one that champions an emotion we don't hear enough about in the world today: forgiveness.
July 18, 2020
A well-educated NYT journalist. Indian. With extremely complicated humans for family members. And a stand-up comedian. So you think this would be an interesting, funny read? It’s not. It’s pretty boring.
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