They Called Us Exceptional: And Other Lies That Raised Us

by Prachi Gupta

Sometimes I let myself imagine what it might be like to know Papa as your nieces and nephews in India did, or as the aunties and uncles here did—the family friends and relatives from both sides of the family who got the best of Papa without having to deal with the painful parts. He was so generous with time and money and attention and care, and the intense admiration and loyalty and devotion he received from them fueled even more kindness and generosity on his behalf.

But I remained standoffish because everything you and I experienced at home ran counter to how Papa presented himself to the world, and around them, I had to either silence myself and play a role to sustain Papa’s performance or risk sounding like a conspiracy theorist to people who had seen nothing but his generosity and kindness.

Now I had learned that the secret of having a happy family was pretending to be perfect.

It had never occurred to me that the way Papa acted could be a reflection of his internal state. That thought made me deeply, profoundly sad.

all, white characters are never seen as representative of an entire race or culture.

I didn’t know what ailed Papa or how to parse what part of him came from what. No one story neatly resolved or fully explained the tension I felt. The biggest thing I learned from reading these books and from watching you go back to him was that Papa would never change for you or for me. He could only change for himself. And I did not know if he could ever do that, because I did not know if he could ever love himself enough to want better for himself. And that thought made me very sad.

making you feel inferior and small because he was insecure about his strained relationship with me.

To love myself was to accept myself as I am and to live in a way that honored my feelings, aligned with my values, and trusted my senses, even when the outside world wanted me to doubt or shrink myself.

It devastated me to hear this, but I held my tongue. I did not say that a man who forces you to prove your worth is a man incapable of seeing it.

It’s a strange thing to miss someone who is right there. When I talk to you is when I miss you the most, because I am confronted by what I cannot have.

The youngest person in the family took on the responsibility of keeping his family together. It only further instilled this pressure to always be perfect, to never mess up, because now three other people relied on him to get along and to function.

We had difficulty accepting the “both/and” of the situation: that you have both been victimized and you have agency; that Papa both loves you and hurts you in profound ways.

I learned that I am not defined by how others perceive me. I learned that the limits of their acceptance are not a symptom of my failings.