Chai and...Downton Abbey?
The intermittent struggle of identity for migrants of any generation – and why it’s not just a question for us, but for everyone.
Vaishnavi Ramu
“Has she forgotten she isn’t white?” My Father exclaimed to my Mother over the phone when expressing his distaste for my choice of degree two years ago. My Dad isn’t known for his subtlety, yet this particularly blunt question left a sour taste in my mouth. Why was doing a degree in English Literature associated with being ‘white,’ and moreover – was this how my family saw me? An Indian girl trying to be something she wasn’t?
It’s not that I wasn’t used to being called British, or Scottish for that matter. In fact, it was something I was always trying to prove. I constantly answered interrogating questions about my heritage with replies of “Yes but I was born here” and “I’m Scottish really, I promise!” Such responses make me feel regret now, but I know why I did what I did.
I spent most of my childhood growing up in the Scottish Borders, a region an hour south of Edinburgh. The Borders is known for its scenic landscape and rich history. It is however not known for being a cultural melting pot. There are probably more sheep than people. And of the humans themselves? I’ve seen sacks of flour less white.
However, until recently I didn’t really know any different. I was used to not only being the only brown person in the room, but often the only ethnic minority. It was all I’d ever known: ignorance about my country of origin, queries about why my hair smelled like coconut oil, and the piercing stares from the light eyes of upper-middle class white mothers in their four by fours screaming ‘what are you doing here?!’ For me, this was the norm until I came to University.
The following years I went through four stages; four stages that many people (not all, however) from different ethnic backgrounds go through growing up here. Rejection of one’s heritage, the epiphany, acceptance and subsequent embracement. For a time, I tried to downplay or whitewash my heritage, at least in front of my peers. I’d go home and happily eat Indian food and fling my dupatta to Indian songs, but wouldn’t dare to do the same at school. Then occurs the epiphany: what am I embarrassed about? Why am I embarrassed? Why should I hide my food? Am I Asian or British? Can I be both? Should I be both? (Or, in my case, the epiphany goes so far as wondering why Asia didn’t colonise Europe, and proceeding to buy a book called ‘Guns, Germs and Steel’ to try and explain the science behind of just that, a book far beyond my intellectual capacity at the time).
After this epiphany, or in my case, planning the vengeance of the commonwealth, comes acceptance. Acceptance of your identity, and how you choose to define it; some people call themselves British, Asian, Indian, Pakistani, British-Asian, British-Indian, sometimes Scottish Indian for me (particularly if I’m having my regular craving for a Haggis Beef Burger from The Library Bar. Seriously, that stuff makes me reconsider my whole stance on Scottish Independence). However, some don’t even think about labels– and should they really?
I often get asked, “do you struggle with your British identity?” The answer at present is no. The reason for this question is of course, to do with Britain’s colonial past with…well, a lot of countries. India was one of Britain’s biggest colonies, the jewel in the crown. Yet this occupation involved the looting of India’s wealth and the oppression of its people. It made me wonder; should I really call myself British at all? Should I feel guilty for watching and enjoying (enjoying does not even begin to describe how much I love this show) Downton Abbey, ironically drinking chai from the very tea leaves picked by people the British upper class exploited at the time of the show? The contradiction, coupled with my Dad’s stance on my choice of future higher education, stung me, and I felt I had gone back from acceptance to feeling like I had to lose my heritage in order to study the degree I wanted to. Embracing my culture was not going to come so easily.
Then, I recalled something I had heard on the news, a chorus sung often by migrants to the UK;.“We are here because you were there!”
We are here because you were there. The resonance of the statement was so strong I felt as if all the doubts, queries I ever had thrown at me, and thought of myself, were answered. I am here because your ancestors were there. We speak English because you don’t speak Tamil. We celebrate Christmas because consumerism has made it impossible for us not to (also, mince pies). I realised, my loving of tea, Downton Abbey and Haggis did not have to be at the cost of my love for chai, pakoras and Kal Ho Na Ho. Integration does not have to come at the expense of complete detachment of your culture; integration is about celebrating the new while appreciating the traditional.
I began to ask British White people the same question: “Don’t you ever struggle with your British identity? Knowing that you and your ancestors are benefitting from the stolen wealth caused by the oppression of millions of people?”
If a British White person can ask if I struggle with my identity (which I do not have a problem with them asking, it’s a perfectly intelligent question) then I believe I can respond, perfectly legitimately, with “do you?”
Being British, to me, is not defined by our colonial history. Britishness, to me, is having far too many cups of tea a day, going for a (in my opinion, questionable) ‘curry’ from the local takeaway, complaining about the rising price of Freddos, missing Woolworths’ pick n mix, borderline rude sarcasm, biting your lip and not saying anything no matter how much those American tourists annoy you and then going about your day as normal. It is not the national anthem, the Queen’s annual Christmas address or celebrating the empire. If this is Britain for you, I’d probably give you a bit of a glare and proceed to question passionately as to why your values are a century too old, but it is your prerogative to own and define your identity. Identity is fluid, and should not be reduced to the nationality printed on your passport.
It was with this passion I replied to my Father. I hadn’t forgotten I wasn’t white, I realised that, unlike their generation, I had the opportunity to fully integrate. There’s no getting away from the fact that English Literature is a degree predominantly study by white people, but this did not mean it had to be a ‘white degree’ or that I was ‘white.’ I won’t deny I occasionally posses the spirit of a middle-class white woman (I blame the borders) within me as I watch Downton Abbey and complain about the weather, however she is also a sister spirit who tricks herself into believing she’s Aishwarya Rai in Devdas and dances around in a dupatta thinking she’s the next Bollywood superstar. Sometimes I’m neither, an ambiguous in-between (I have sat in a saree in Potterrow and had a rum and coke).
My Father came around soon enough; he bought me a book-shelf that Christmas, and with a pejorative, yet more forgiving grumble, said: “If you’re going to study white man literature, you better do it properly.” It wasn’t the embrace I was hoping for, nor expecting; but he accepted that this was what I was going to study, just as I accepted the fluidity of my identity.