Unbecoming Jane

I had been trying to become invisible since I moved to Queens Village, NY in 1974.  Since no one else looked like me, it was confirmed that my look must be wrong.  Even in my three years of schooling, on that tiny island of Trinidad, the literature, based on the colonial British school system, was replete with images of Dick and Jane who had the gift of light colored hair that flounced around as they chased their bright colored ball with their dog Spot.  “See Spot run, run Spot run” was the enigma of my childhood.  No one I knew had anything but black hair and had never had a dog named Spot.  But, if this was in the literature taught in school it must be correct. How could this basal reader that gave me the magical gift of reading be flawed?  Ironically, If I wanted to have an authentic life I believed I had to hide and embrace the majority thinking.  This was drummed into my nascent brain who did not yet have the power of challenging popular paradigms. Moving to the states only confirmed that, with my Jane clouded vision, real Americans all have long, blonde hair.  I entered the 4^th grade feeling like the only crow in a lake of swans. Therefore, I decided not to speak in public places such as classrooms in an attempt to hide my different-ness.  I did not feel as if I had anything material to offer.  This self-imposed silence was easily accepted by my peers and teachers as they assumed that English was not my first language and I grew comfortable in the stillness.  I deduced the secret of my academic success, don’t say a word but pass all the exams and you can continue to be the “silent observer” as my Communications professor at Queens College labeled me in 1983.  My black hair became the inky cloak, as Hamlet eloquently put it, that rendered my invisibility and comfortably closeted me.  In my 20’s and 30’s I started coloring my hair, not to cover the sprouting greys but to lighten my hair.  I thought that changing my stark black to a dark brown would be more fashionable and lessen the severity of my Indian hair.  Indian hair was not fashionable and, by extrapolating this, neither was being Indian.  This was my first foray into the mainstream to become Jane.  I began dating a Richard, who was to become my husband, and at age 28, the night before our wedding, I colored my hair to a dark brown to look acceptably beautiful for the requisite pictures.  Some might consider this the epitome of becoming Jane, albeit without the required canine.  However, I was at an age where my I was starting to question my beliefs.  Although I was a brown haired, college graduate, homeowner, who worked at an international bank, Dick’s parents refused to attend our wedding ostensibly because I wasn’t Jane enough for their standards.  And, in a well thought out gesture I decided not to take my husband’s name.  I was slowly starting to realize my own worth.  Singh is an ancient, proud name and I was reluctant to leave it behind and assume an Irish one that would mask my ethnicity, as least on paper.  This step was the beginning of a long journey, as are all, into my being comfortable not being Jane.