When I was born in West Bengal, India in 2002, the first thing my great-uncle said, in Bengali, when he saw me was “Rong taa ektu kaalo hoyche.” In English, that directly translates to “Her skin is a little dark.” Everyone knew it was a joke, and I know that it was not meant to be serious. So then why am I writing about it almost 20 years later?
This comment, among other things, started years of internalized racism and a period of ‘trying to fit in’ for me. Growing up, it was so easy to want to be white. Having Barbies with shiny, thick blonde hair or seeing Snow White with her fair skin and red lips made up my entire childhood. From a child’s perspective, it’s pretty simple; princesses and Barbies are good. They’re beautiful and cool. Of course, I wanted to look just like that. Here’s the kicker though—I didn’t.
What did I do when I didn’t look like my favourite princess at the age of five? Naturally, I did everything I could to look like Barbie. This included (but was by no means limited to) wearing blond wigs, sequined pink tank tops and plastic high heels. I’d spend hours a day, dressing up in my room, clobbering around in my house in my fake shoes and bright costume dresses.
At the age of 11 though, things changed. Barbie and princesses were no longer a concern. They took a real form as the kids at school. If you don’t recall the sixth grade, I can’t blame you. Kids are mean and absolutely nasty when they’re 11. I definitely was too. It’s funny to look back and laugh sometimes, but all the remarks I received majorly contributed to who I am now.
I had a predominantly white class, and to my own surprise, I was popular in the sixth grade. Don’t get me wrong though, there’s a downside to this. Bringing chicken curry or any type of ethnic food would invite stares and nose scrunching, followed by the “Ew, what’s that smell?” remarks. This translated to me asking my grandma not to pack me curry anymore since people were complaining about the smell, but it didn’t stop there. When summer came and I started wearing tank tops and shorts, my arm and leg hair got pointed out constantly. So, I did what I thought was best and started shaving. I still remember stealing my dad’s unused razors and taking hours in the shower to make sure there wasn’t a strand of hair visible on my limbs.
Soon enough, around the time I started high school, I realized that I didn’t want to be brown. Every time I would hear the words “Oh, I didn’t think you were Indian,” I would mentally pat myself on the back. It was little things like trying not to speak in Bengali while on the phone in front of my friends or purposely not watching Bollywood movies in an effort to not be perceived as ‘too Indian’. I even envied my half-white cousin for fitting into the beauty standard while being just the right amount of ‘ethnic’. I was trying so desperately to fit into a standard to the point where I was willing to let go of my cultural identity just to be validated by people who would find something to judge anyways.
It was about my last year of high school when I realized that this isn’t how I wanted to feel. Why should I spend so much time trying to appeal to people who simply couldn’t care less? I didn’t need to earn anyone’s acceptance. I deserved to be proud of my culture and I didn’t need to pretend to be someone else. The thing about reconnecting with your culture is that it can be lonely sometimes. I felt ashamed that I’d wanted to be white for so long and I couldn’t imagine thinking of telling anyone that. However, after having this conversation with friends, I realize now that it’s common to feel this way—more common than you might think. It’s natural to feel like this in an evolving society. And though we shouldn’t feel like this, in a way, I feel like going through my journey helped me appreciate my culture so much more. I’m so proud that my family taught me three languages and I’m grateful that my mom and grandma put so much love and care into food that’s packed with flavour and history. For a while, I hid my cultural identity, but it’s not something that needs to be hidden. Now, it’s something I’m proud of and value about myself. All I can do is hope that everyone reaches that point.