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Word Count: 1,254
As an answer to my constant complaints of not having the perfect melody of greens or the rich azure of the night sky after a sunset my parents gifted me with a Crayola Crayon Maker on my eighth birthday The process of creating a new crayon was extremely simple take old crayons smash them together allow them to melt on the hot plate pour the concoction into a mold and let it harden This simple process opened the possibilities of creating a new color Although I have out grown the crayon maker it has become a metaphor of my life My identity takes the shape of a crayon in that as more colors are poured the more unique the color become making them beautiful no matter the type of paper I believe that I am a person who has gone through the journey of life in the short seventeen years that I have been alive Though many may not agree my identity like the crayons have been molded broken stolen and altered by my parents expectations my experiences growing up and my outlook on life thus creating an identity that I am proud of today As a first generation American daughter of Indian parents the expectations of my upbringing were laced with conservative rules and rebellion Remarkably my mother had been able to install basic Indian traditions and religion in me from an early age As the oldest of four children she grew up with same expectations as me She had taken the time to educate my brother and I in the history and language behind many of the Indian cultures and placed us in temple activities to help meet other Indian kids My father on the other hand had grown up in a conservative household where the traditional gender roles were very much alive As I grew my mother upon request of my father began to introduce me to
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