by Simran Tamang, 12th grade
First Place Winner of The ILC 2024 Teen Perspectives Contest
Nose rings are cultural in Nepal. Girls get the left side of their nose pierced as a sign of femininity–a nod to their elegance. Grandma got her nose pierced just five days after her birth, and Mom at age three. Amongst my family, I was a late bloomer at age nine.
Months prior to my piercing, I rambled endlessly about the perfect color, the perfect gem, my friends and classmates victims to my excitement. When the needle finally pricked my skin, the promise of a Kinder Joy chocolate alleviated any pain. At that moment, I was eager to participate in my culture–to be patriotic, a characteristic I longed to protect.
One month, two plane rides, and countless painstaking goodbyes later, the high from the glory diminished. Before I knew it I was standing in front of unknown juvenile faces, introducing myself. In this crowd of 4th graders, I saw no one who looked like me. No red tikka on their foreheads, no necklaces with Ganesh the God. And no shiny nose rings.
“My name is Simran, and I am from Nepal,” I choked out with a shaken voice. Did their features contort into nasty visages as a reaction to my strange accent, or to the shiny gem placed on my nose?
While only 6mm long, the ring had clawed its way to my lips, piercing it shut. I couldn’t release another word in class for the rest of middle school. I wanted to rip my nose ring off.
At home however, I was free to be outspoken. I was an accountant, honored with the task of translating tax papers. Adjusted Gross Income. Capital Gains. Cost Basis. I fought to translate each word precisely as does a tenured employee.
“Ohhh, I get it,” My father said. The next day, he and I met a tax advisor over Skype, and my translation services were on full display
While dreaded by most people, I anticipate tax season. It’s a time when I embrace my identity as a Nepali, and I cherish the duty to advocate for my family. I let my tongue flow back to its native intonation, easily switching to a well rehearsed accent when necessary.
Numerous chats with advisors and experts later, my voice isn’t confined merely to Skype calls, but ascends in increments, steadily flowing out of my larynx past the doors of our home to the councilors of City Hall and to members of my school community. Rather than retaining the pitch of my mother tongue or the cadence of this acquired dialect, my every articulation
commands attention: be it towards justice and representation for youth in my city or helping immigrant families build foundations for their future.
At the annual Nepali function held every June, a middle-aged woman recognized me from her frequent visits to community and school events.
“You kids are amazing,” she exclaimed.
I had helped translate Nepali to her at Parent-Teacher Conference nights. Being able to converse with her daughter’s teacher allowed her to finally understand the best ways to help her daughter succeed in school.
I came to understand then that I am helping immigrant families navigate the dangerous cycle of naivety that constrains them from thriving in their strange surroundings. These appreciative smiles directed to me, and thank you messages sent over social media motivate me to sustain my efforts.
The flow of my vocal resonance slowly maneuvers my nose ring out of my lips and back to its former residence. No longer are my lips sealed by the ornament decorating my face. More so, I am delighted to uphold a piece of my culture in educational settings and beyond it. I am a presence who transcends beyond the nose ring that once governed my life. I am an advocate for my community, a skilled accountant, and just a girl with a nose ring.
And proud of it