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Article snippet: The writer is a culture reporter at the Times. I never told my Bengali parents about my first kiss. I was 14 and we were in the basement of my house in Howell, N.J. Her name was Sharon and she had braces. It didn’t go well. Sorry, Sharon. They never knew about my high school crushes, my dates at Applebee’s, or my first couple of girlfriends. I hid all this because I knew my parents wouldn’t approve. They had an arranged marriage. In India, where they grew up, choosing your life partner was uncommon. Right after graduating college, I finally mustered the courage to introduce my mother to my longtime girlfriend, Michelle, hoping that after four decades in the United States, my mother might be ready for the idea that (a) I had chosen my own girlfriend and (b) my girlfriend might be white. This is America, after all: You are exposed to choices. You can say what you want, read what you want and eat what you want. (The actor and comedian Aasif Mandvi writes in his book “No Land’s Man” that his father brought his family to the United States because of brunch.) I was optimistic about how the dinner at my mother’s apartment would go, and it started off well. Michelle brought flowers. But my hope was misplaced. The dinner was mostly me being a nervous chatterbox, trying in vain to spark conversation between two people with little in common. My mother didn’t talk much, if at all. She grew up in a different culture and a different generation. She was too polite to say it, bu... Link to the full article to read more