I am a child of overlapping worlds.
Born with tan skin and wiry hair that reflects the journeys of my ancestors.
Ones which stretched from the hazy dunes of Asia, to the snow-capped peaks which pierce the morning Scandinavian sunlight.
My circumstance is one born through a culmination of many traditions.
Though I do not align with any of them.
The granule deserts do not call for me, and neither does the snow.
Rich, radiant cultures of chickpea flour and turmeric.
Of sausage and furious winters.
I have no desire to return there.

My existence cannot be summarized by labels.
Rather, mine is one which shows how far my family has come.
I am not Swedish, nor Indian, nor Welsh, nor anything else.
I am the product of hope. I am the child of immigrants.
It is not one, but all of these worlds which define me.
I was not created from the dreams of one person, but thousands of them. My existence tells the story of many.
And, therefore, my identity is the intersection of these many stories.
Tales of people who I’ve never known and never will.
I haven’t lived in their lands, nor spoken their language.
They are but strangers to me.
While I carry on their lineage, I do not carry on their customs.
My identity lies in that of the place I live.

San Francisco; the heart of dreams and self expression.
Here, everyone is as diverse and beautiful as my own family.
An oasis of perpetual fog and potent sea water.
This is my home and it is in this place where my heart resides.