In this op-ed, Mythili Sampathkumar explores Usha Vance, Kamala Harris, and how the model minority myth plays into the Indian community's growing role in American politics.
Whatever happens on the first Tuesday in November, there will be an Indian American woman on the steps of the Capitol come Inauguration Day. It’s an idea I have been trying to wrap my head around after watching Usha Vance, wife of Donald Trump’s running mate J.D. Vance, give her speech at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee, and in the weeks since President Joe Biden and the Democratic party endorsed Kamala Harris for president.
With at least one Indian American woman poised to make history in the fall, Shasti Conrad, chair of the Washington State Democratic Party and the only South Asian in the country in such a position, summed up my feelings well in an email to me. The past couple of weeks have been “awe-inspiring,” she said, capturing the excitement of seeing representation in the highest echelons of our government. But, “I think it's overwhelming,” she added. “And I think it's ultimately good for our country in the long run.”
That dread of being overwhelmed is what sticks out in my mind, familiar for anyone who has written about American politics in the last 10 years, more so for the dwindling number of us still in journalism who are people of color and from immigrant families. Four years ago, I was deep in it when I wrote about the election in general and in particular, about how the Indian American community felt about Harris.
There is still a difference in the way those of us who grew up in the U.S., in places like the suburbs of Cleveland where I spent some of my childhood in Vance’s adopted state, view Harris’ ascension versus those in our community who immigrated here as adults. And, there is still a swell of emotion for us at the thought of her chittis seeing her in the White House as we think of our own mothers having to carve out a life in this completely foreign place before the internet or WhatsApp kept them so connected to home and each other.
What has changed in the last four years, though, is the feeling that our community was not actually ready to examine itself or accept the responsibilities that come with our growing place in American political life.
Now, with Harris at the top of the ticket, there seems to be a new hope and energy for young voters, for Black and South Asian voters. There are still unanswered questions about her stance on the genocide continuing in Gaza, what she will actually achieve for working mothers once in the White House, whether her record on combating climate change will remain steady or fall prey to politics, and much more. And, we still must contend with the anti-Blackness in some South Asian communities, the contingent who doesn’t consider Harris to be one of our own in the way those same aunties and uncles are proud of Vance.
But as we grapple with the excitement of having an Indian American woman in the White House in some capacity, we must too understand the role the model minority myth is playing — particularly when it comes to Usha Vance.
The model minority myth positions Asian Americans as the “good” minority, exploiting our successes to minimize racism and other race-based disparities and creating a harmful stereotype that isn’t in line with many of our lived experiences. It also sets up expectations within our communities that we must succeed at all costs, and act as that “model” to ease other people’s biases against us. Last month, an op-ed in the Wall Street Journal posited that Usha Vance “exemplifies the rise of an immigrant group that has prospered without quotas or affirmative action,” that she is proof that systemic racism and white privilege are just excuses, rather than real barriers to success for many people of color.
But positioning Indian Americans as a “model minority,” an “acceptable” immigrant group, is using white, Christian acceptance as the measure for success. It is, in a way, naive and dangerous for people like the author of that op-ed, for people like Nikki Haley, Vivek Ramaswamy, and now Usha Vance to assume their money and success somehow hide their skin color or the faiths in which they grew up.
For those of us who grew up in an Indian community that often solely measured success — and acceptance — by income alone, coupled with living in a majority white area when there was not the exposure to Indian culture there is now, people who think of Usha Vance and those like her as the only acceptable model are holding us back as a community.
With Vance specifically, the Indian American community’s conversation is different than it is with Harris — both of her parents are Telugu and she grew up in San Diego in an Indian community like the one I grew up in. While some say Harris hides her Tamil roots until it’s convenient for her, though I’ve seen no evidence of this.
At the RNC, though, Vance was trotted out not just in support of her husband and the Trump ticket, but as a sort of plea for approval by a party that has embraced hatred, all while there were xenophobic signs in the crowd and tweets (here) that called the VP nominee’s stances into question because of his wife’s race.
The Wall Street Journal op-ed made me worry that we hadn’t learned anything as a community, but there was pushback and discussion in a variety of circles from people I didn’t expect to hear from. The piece’s denial of some key facts were immediately pointed out: the Indian American community as it is would not exist today if it weren't for the strides made during the Civil Rights movement by Black people and there is indeed lobbying of all kinds done by the community on Capitol Hill, primarily related to affirmative action.
The truth is that our community can’t be lumped into one, neat box. We don’t all share the same wealthy background that people like Vance enjoy, and assuming so ignores that there are many living in poverty, who are undocumented and uncounted, and scores who experience racism, xenophobia, and Islamophobia. Ignoring these facts and stories is not only erasure, it is naive and lets the GOP off the hook for marginalizing people of color, even as those minorities continue to be involved in campaigns.
As Republicans in the House call Harris “the DEI candidate,” Vance, to me, represents the other side of that coin; separating Indian immigrants from other people of color is not just in service of anti-Blackness, but also for the benefit of white, Christian supremacists.
For many of us who grew up in majority white communities like the one Vance did — a relatively small, tight-knit, suburban pocket of South Asians that have grown over time from universities, hospitals, large companies employing engineers, and hospitality entrepreneurs in a mostly red state — that separation doesn’t make sense when all people of color were lumped together by the majority, and stuck to each other by experience.
Our success is actually intertwined with building a more inclusive South Asian American community of those who are not just Indian, or a particular socioeconomic class, religion, caste, sexual orientation, or gender — the kind many of us wish we had growing up. This kind of community re-shaping requires energy and a re-shaping of America, in many ways.
What Harris represents for many in the Indian American and greater South Asian American community is a shattering of the Usha Vance model minority myth despite her impressive credentials and professional success. Whether that is because she has not given birth to her own children and has step children, embraced her Black identity, or openly supports the LGBTQ+ community, she does embody at least part of what our community wants to look like.
This is not to say everyone in the community, even those politically aligned with each other, will vote for her, but she has inspired something akin to a practical hope, not just about the country but how we operate as a community.
As Deepa Iyer, South Asian American activist and author of We Too Sing America: South Asian, Muslim, Arab, and Sikh Immigrants Shape Our Multiracial Future, told me: “Now is the time to match that enthusiasm [for her candidacy] with policy asks and solidarity with Black communities.”
In other words, potentially being the first Black and Asian American woman in the Oval Office is monumental and yet we learned from Obama — it’s not enough. These are not the expectations of a ‘model minority,’ they go beyond that external perception and point towards an intra- and inter-community model for someone’s success.
The beauty of practical hope is that there seems to be an openness to hearing her out, to understanding what came before her doesn’t have to burden her or her campaign now, in the language of the coconut tree memes.
Practical hope means not portraying Harris as the only model for success or a savior who could fall off the glass cliff, but the leader of a team of light bearers in dark times nonetheless who can also be questioned and evolve over time.
Harris’ first ad, featuring Beyoncé’s song ‘Freedom,’ actually hits the right note. Coincidentally, the song is from 2016 when Hillary Clinton ran and lost. It’s a start to the messaging of the campaign I hope continues: Allow us to bask in the empowerment of this historic moment for women of color and children of immigrants, but also give us the space to question and make our own futures.
