I’ve been suffering from an identity crisis for most of my life – I keep forgetting that I’m Indian.
I’ll be wandering around, doing something completely ordinary like shopping for groceries, or going to see a movie, and then I’ll catch a glimpse of myself in a window reflection or elevator mirror and suffer a jolt of realisation when I see my skin and remember that I’m not a white Australian like the hordes around me.
You may be wondering how vague I must be to not remember such a basic aspect of my make-up, but if you met me, you’d understand. My whole life has been defined by a constant dissonance between who I am, and who I look like I should be. Being Fijian-Indian by birth, I have all the physical trademarks of my race – brown eyes, black hair, skin the colour of a caramel latte (what, self-flattery isn’t allowed?), and the kind of face that reeks of those postcards of Indian women carrying pots of water on their heads.
Inside though, I’m as anglo as they come – I watch trashy American TV Shows, dress in nothing resembling a sari, and speak almost exclusively English. I am the opposite of a ‘good Indian girl’ (though by Western standards, I’m an über goody two shoes, and am in no way rebellious – try telling my parents that). I’m Indian on the outside, but so un-Indian on the inside that I often don’t realise the disparity until confronted by it at some unlikely moment.
I recently started blogging about my experiences of being a migrant living in Australia. My blog is called The Coconut Chronicles, because I feel a strong affinity to that bizarre fruit – brown on the outside, white on the inside. Its true nature often obscured by the first impression caused by its skin.
I am a coconut, in many ways, and there are bushels of others like me – first, second, third generation migrants from any number of different countries, leading double lives where their two cultures, so often in opposition, come to reside inside the one person, battling for first place when it comes to choices and experiences.
It can be a difficult road to travel at times. I have found, personally, that there is a lot about my family and my lifestyle that don’t entirely match up, and certainly through adolescence it was difficult to combine my parents’ notions of traditional behaviour and what I saw, felt and did while at school.
I have made the choice to step away from my culture in many ways. Unlike my siblings, I never had the arranged marriage, I let go of the religious beliefs with which I was raised, and I moved out of home so that I could have more control over my life and how I lead it.
However, in doing so, I’ve realised how much my Indian upbringing has affected me as a person and the way in which I interact with the world, without me ever truly being aware of it.
This column is a chance for me to explore some of the issues that come up when you’re a migrant navigating the thin path between two cultures, neither of which is particularly willing to embrace you. It’s also a chance for me to (hopefully) amuse you with tales of my trials and woes as I wander through life being spoken to SLOWLY and CLEARLY in case I don’t speak English, and suffer the constant nagging from my parents for me to get married. In doing so, I hope to illustrate some of the main difficulties or differences faced by migrants in Australia that are often overlooked, or not entirely understood.
I think it’s important, though, to state from the outset that these experiences are personal, and very specific to me. Other Indians will have had different experiences, and other migrants may have completely different views. I don’t pretend to speak for anyone other than myself, and I’ll try to keep generalisations to a minimum.
I hope that people gain something from my musings, whether it be a giggle, a new view on cultural differences, or just the feeling that maybe other people go through the same things you do.
And if it doesn’t make sense, don’t judge too harshly – I’m not from here, you know.
