When I was a child, my parents and family elders were absolute symbols of perfection, patience, and love. They knew the difference between right and wrong. I splashed their images onto a clean canvas, colored with vibrant gold, silver, and deep shades of royal purple, all representing both the happiness and reverence I associated with them. I also remember the moments when the perception of my respected elders began to change.
I struggled with many of the usual problems of being a first-generation American—the desire to uphold tradition, to be accepted amongst my peers, and of course, the never-ending culture-clash with my parents. I wound up finding a balance in these clashes but for as long as I can remember, I mostly struggled with accepting the basic Indian belief that one’s elders are to be respected completely-- almost worshipped.
Growing up, I forced myself to believe this; I had listened to enough of my parents’ rants on unappreciative children that I entered into an almost submissive relationship with them. My actions were based off what my parents would think and say. I even tried to force myself to agree with them on every topic: ranging from politics to my friendships. Despite the strain in my relationships with my elders, I obliviously painted them with rich colors, convinced of their positive light.
My outlook began to change, however, with an incident that occurred when I was twelve years old. I was touring a temple in India with my family, when I witnessed a beggar, no more than sixteen years old asking for alms. Eventually, the beggar approached my mother. I watched in shock as my mother yelled and shooed the beggar away, scolding her to leave us alone. I looked down at the ice cream cone I was holding and felt a rush of guilt and shame wash over me. I wanted to run over to the beggar girl, apologize for my mother, and give the girl money, food, my ice cream—anything that would help her. Instead, I stared at my mother, and this time, I looked beyond the perfect colorful image. My mother, a woman whom I had always considered the epitome of kindness, warmth, security--was now a stranger. She was no longer illuminated in loving shades of pinks and royal purples. Was this cold person the same mother who taught me the importance of appreciating love and family? I felt the image of my mother shift sharply--once-warm, inviting colors transforming into dark greys and angry reds.
As an adult, I now understand why my mother reacted the way she did. Beggars are commonplace in India, basically a nuisance. However, this incident shattered the whole, complete image I had of my elders-- I began to notice when my parents and other relatives were at fault. I felt frustration at my grandparents, who criticized my every move; I felt anger toward my mother who seemed to be stuck in the 1950’s idea of gender roles; I felt a rush of rage whenever my father complained about my grades.
With this experience hanging over me, I entered my high school years with the canvas painting holding only minor traces of purple and gold—the majority was blacks, greys, and blood-reds. They were now an irritating force. Why had I ever thought they were so amazing? I lashed out at them whenever we had a disagreement, even over a minor matter such as going to a football game. I closed myself off to the people I once nearly worshipped, and avoided telling them about my inner struggles and desires for social acceptance and perfection. Of course, I did not fully obtain either of these goals, but my family did not even know that I wanted them. All they saw was my “attitude problem.”
However, my perspective was not stagnant—I matured during high school after making friends who showed me how to look at my family with a more open mind. While my frustration never completely dissipated, it did begin to shift as I took time to analyze the image I had created of the people I once admired.
The canvas was eerie. Blacks, greys, and browns dominated, while reds stood out, representing my anger, sadness and lack of understanding of my parents. Perhaps underneath the bleak muddle, the original colors still existed; however, fear still crept into my heart as I looked at the image of my family. This painting had to be redone.
As I pulled out my pallet and brush and prepared my canvas, I realized that my elders were not the tyrannical people that I had made them out to be. Nor were they the perfect representations I imagined as a child. They were simply human. This conclusion took time to arrive at, and now I understand why.
I reflect my elders. I share my father’s orange-red, quick temper, and my mother’s green-grey impulsiveness. I have my grandfather’s indigo-lavender quirkiness, and my grandmother’s iron-grey will. Not only do I have their harsher qualities, but I believe that I have the potential to embody their admirable qualities as well.
Even though I am on the path to understanding my parents, I still flinch whenever my mother tells my sister and me to “respect our elders.” Can respect be demanded? Over the course of my eighteen years, I do not believe that it can. Respect does not equal fearful obedience, just as someone’s age or experience does not equal moral conviction. The belief that elders must be treated with unequivocal deference took me years to rethink and reconstruct. It took me too long to learn how to even question my parents. It took me even longer to wrap my head around the imperfection of my grandparents, who, in Indian society, are to be held in the highest respect.

This issue, however, is not limited to my Indian roots. How often do we automatically respect celebrities and politicians based off their age? If, as a global society, we recognize an individual based off age or so-called “experience,” we limit our perceptions of people by only focusing on one facet. Elders-- are not always the most knowledgeable—for example, consider the numerous “elders” in American society. In the past, many members of the older generation were against the integration of public schools, interracial marriage, and even the election of an African American president. I have borne witness to my grandparents’ mistakes, their blatant judgment of me and even people they barely knew, proving that respect cannot be demanded by age.
Am I saying that elderly people, or people with more experience should not be granted a sense of deference? Of course not. Some might even argue age and the experience that comes with age demand respect. While this may be true, respect should not be doled out without a second thought. We must recognize that respect is the basis of all functional relationships—however, it is imperative that when making a judgment about someone, especially if it is a question of respect, we must keep an open mind to possible faults. By blindly respecting someone without a second thought, we lose a part of our own sense of dignity because we give up our ability to make a prudent decision.
Respect, between all members of global society, cannot be demanded or automatically given—it has to be earned. Dignity, deference, appreciation—these characteristics are of the utmost importance to a positive relationship with another person. However, it is important to be wary of a person’s faults before respecting them. It is simply naïve to believe that elders are fault-free, perfect. As humans, we are all imperfect, but we are also capable of looking past these imperfections to form relationships, entwined with both dignity and respect.