NEWS

Sujata, Shannon, and Kristi

I've been thinking a lot about the meaning of "home" lately. I've been facing a health challenge, and when that happens, you want to go home. But when you've lived in many places and have roots and relationships around the world, where is home? I’ve realized home is where my family is—my dad and brother—but also where I grew into the person I am, where life’s core moments are etched into my mind. And for me that place is Davidson.

But as I travel the streets I knew so well, I feel what Thomas Wolfe meant when he said you can't go home again - both Davidson and I have changed in the years since I left.

I never expected to be in Davidson for long - just a few months while I prepared for a kidney transplant. That was 18 months ago. Potential donors kept getting dinged for health or logistical reasons. The months stretched on. It's been heartbreaking and awe-inspiring having so many people step forward, willing to literally share a part of themselves to save my life. But the waiting has been torturous.

As I’ve tried to navigate the uncertainty, I've found myself back on the streets I knew as a child, wandering with memories resurfacing. Our family first moved to Davidson from India in the early 70s when my dad taught a course at the College for a semester, before heading north to the University of Michigan to get his doctorate. Upon completion of his degree, he was offered a professorship back at Davidson and so we returned.

The town was welcoming, and I led the stereotypical childhood that is shown on TV shows of the 50s. Our playground was basically the Davidson College campus. Saturdays were for football games. We'd help run the concession stand, sneaking hot dogs and candy when we could. On weekends we went to concerts or movies at Chambers - where everything happened before the Union and Baker were built. When hunger hit for fries or onion rings after school, we'd walk over to the college to get money from one of our parents before ending up at the Union - which was a small room in the science building. (I honestly don't remember how the college students reacted to us invading their space - the myopic vision of our pre-teen selves.)

My best friends all were within walking or biking distance. We were a pack of four - Kristi, Shannon, Maura, and me. We all were different - but somehow we hung together and stayed together through graduation. Most of our time was just killing time outside - drinking from the hose to keep from having to go inside, and only coming back when the street lights came on, or in the summer when the fireflies started to light up the shadows under the trees, and we'd run home to the soundtrack of cicadas chirping. It truly feels like another time, when childhood was free and a bit wild, or as they say in the cartoon Bluey, "It was the 80s."

As I drive around Davidson, I still see the bits of that childhood. The 'M&M' Soda Shop is still there, where we'd get milkshakes and BLTs when we tired of the Union's fries. The Village Store - where I worked all through high school and learned how to wrap gifts super fast. The Post Office where I would walk every day with our Post Office box key to get the mail (no home delivery back then!). The bank on Fridays - though we knew it as Piedmont Bank back then - to get cash for the weekend since there weren't ATMs. Some things are gone that I miss - mainly the two gas stations that used to be where CVS and Flatiron are now. One owned by Bub Cashion and the other by Wayne Stowe - they knew everyone in town. They were the ones who advised me when I bought my first car - a beat-up VW Rabbit - and made sure it was always safe to drive. It felt like the town's heart.

When we came to Davidson, we were the only Indian family in town. Davidson had a Black community, but it was largely separate from my daily experience. And to be blunt - as far as I knew, I was one of only two non-white kids east of the railroad tracks. (The other family was a French Moroccan professor and his family - who were white passing.) In my neighborhood, I was the only brown kid. And although I was welcomed by everyone we knew and my friends were my biggest allies, I was aware that I was fundamentally different and stood out.

A memory seared in my mind was one sunny day after school. The four of us were wandering over to the college for something or the other - maybe to see one of our parents, maybe to get something to eat at the Union, or perhaps to just find a place to sit and chat about whatever happened at school that day. As we entered the college campus, a big man in a college campus security outfit rounded on us. I remember him towering over us with a belly protruding over his straining belt. His eyes locked on me, the brown-skinned girl. He pointed his finger at me and demanded "What are YOU doing here?"

I froze. I was 10 and completely intimidated by his large presence and his aggressive tone. I remember being cowed and unsure what to say, and it was my friends that pushed back. I'm not sure where their courage came from, other than the protective nature of friends looking out for their own. They said "We were going to see her dad - he is a Professor at the college." Somehow knowing that was the one thing that would make him ease up - proving I did have a reason to be on campus. And then they pushed back with questions like, "Why are you asking HER?" and "Why does it matter?" Realizing he had somehow hit a bunch of girls who were not going to be cowed, he let me go. I am still in awe at how wonderful my friends were then and continued to be through our childhood and into adulthood. But in that moment it crystallized to me that I was always going to be a bit vulnerable in this Southern town.

So, what did young Sujata do? I assimilated hard. I know now it wasn't a conscious decision, but my world became split in two - my private Indian home life with Indian spices, speaking Tamil, and my mom's brightly colored saris, and my Southern American public life, with the requisite big hair, Jordaches, and southern drawl. The one crossover was Southern music. For some reason many Southern singers were popular in India, so Anne Murray and Jim Reeves were a common thread across both cultures. I lived that life of separation for so long that I didn't realize how ingrained it was until I came back to see Davidson now.

I was in the public library the other day and heard a little girl with an Indian accent talking and laughing with her mom as they were checking out books. They both had a freedom and ease existing in this world that I never had as a kid. Seeing it happen here - in the very place where I'd never had it - hit me hard.

In the decades since I left Davidson for college, the town has changed, and it is not the same place it was. The biggest shock for me was when I saw an Indian restaurant on Main Street. On Main Street! Things I once hid from my childhood are now celebrated - oiling hair, Indian food, chai and turmeric, Indian dance and fabrics. It's a bit weird, but I'm so happy to see it.

So, can you go home? Yes, but it will be changed - both the place and you. I've changed, Davidson has changed, but it's still a place of community. It has welcomed me home and supported me as I face this challenge, and people have stepped up to help - some dear friends from the 80s and some new friends who have brought me back into the community. I'm still waiting for that donor approval, but in the meantime, thank you Davidson for welcoming me home anew.