"There is no word for nostalgia in Gujarati. The closest concept I can find is that of vatan, or homeland," mulls author Neema Avashia. "As in: many of the Gujarati immigrants of my parents' generation operated under a narrative that someday, they would return to their vatan."
But for Avashia, as well as myself and many brown children of immigrants in the West, what is our vatan?
The Boston educator and author is astutely aware that her identity, one that is queer and Indian, is not typical of her vatan, West Virginia — a state whose total non-white population has never exceeded 5 percent, the lowest in the nation, and whose Indian population has made up less than 0.5 percent of the population.
When I first picked up this book, I wasn't sure how much Avashia and I would have in common. But in every essay, you, the reader, are not a distanced observer of those people and places involved in Avashia's "Indolachian'' upbringing. Rather, it's the first night of Navratri in 1982, and you are wearing your finest silk sari, dancing in a garba ring alongside Avashia and the eight desi women who have raised her in someone's basement. You are flying down the winding roads of Goff Mountain in your neighbor-turned-stand-in-grandparent Mr. Bradford's red Jeep Cherokee after basketball practice. But, you are also scrolling through Mr. B's Facebook page years later, after the 2016 election, confused and queasy by his erratic 3 a.m. anti-woman, anti-immigrant, and anti-Black Lives Matter posts.
This is the power and incredible feat of Avashia's writing. Sharp, intimate, and provocative, “Another Appalachia” is written as if you're simultaneously having a conversation with a close friend and learning a lesson from a gentle but firm educator, painting a nuanced picture of the West Virginia that raised her.
“Another Appalachia” is the diaspora story that I have craved for years. Avashia’s, and my, relationship to our home is complicated, confusing, sometimes fraught. But, like our parents, we too dream of returning.