I don’t know anyone in my family who married after falling in love. I had always assumed an arranged marriage meant your parents showed you a bunch of suitable men and you got to choose which one you wanted to end up with. And if you said no, the choice was respected. I think in some cultures and in some Pakistani families, that is the case. But it is not in mine.

Where are you from? people ask. I am American. I was born in New York City and sleep to the sounds of honking cars and fire trucks. And now I’m a college student in this big city. No, I meant where are you from from? they ask. I pause. Pakistan. My parents are from Pakistan.

I can speak fluent Urdu. My tongue can easily sway from English to the flows of the first language I ever learned. My mom cooks food made with spice. She makes rotis. She has taught me to properly knead the dough. I always laugh and think Pakistani girls must be very strong because kneading the dough requires using your knuckles. You make two fists and pound into the dough — we call it atta.