That was a colleague’s reaction when he heard about my family background (that my maternal grandfather was Indian). And yes, I guess I am… should you be one of those people who use the word wog.
I’ve always been proud of my heritage – one quarter Indian, one English, one Scots, one Irish. I make no attempt to hide that I was Indian until the age of 10, being the third generation of my family born in India (on the paternal side down which nationality is granted by the UK).
Having travelled since birth on my mother’s British passport (obtained following her marriage to my father), it surprised my parents to discover I needed to become a nationalised British citizen in order to get a British passport of my own – so I became one.
And I’ve remained proud of my heritage, if with a growing awareness that other people don’t see me for who I am, or who I feel I am. So it was with no small amount of surprise to find myself placed on what I considered the other side – the British side – of a discussion about British colonialism… because of how I looked.
I tried to put my case across, but only succeeded in being given a lesson on privilege – my privilege, based upon how I look – for my past, my cultural heritage, my sense of who I am, truly has no bearing on how I will be treated. It was the first time when I felt – viscerally – a tiny sense of how it feels to be judged for how you look.
Ranged on the opposing side of that discussion was every hue of skin colour, most of whom had never been to the country of origin of their parents, grandparents or great grandparents – whereas I had. But it taught me that the eyes through which I saw my time in India (and in West Africa) were always the eyes of a white person, with their white privilege.
In my twenties I dated a few young British Asian men. Some were fascinated by my having spent years in India, while making it clear I’d never be a serious girlfriend, for I was white.
But I still have privilege, and it would be naive of me to pretend otherwise. I will never feel the fear my mother felt knowing she was mixed race, regardless of how she looked. A fear that she would be found out, outed, judged and rejected.
When my father announced his engagement to my mother (with her Indian surname), work colleagues and superiors took him aside and asked “are you sure?” The implication being that it would hinder his career. Did it? He never said, because what truly mattered was he didn’t care whether it did or not.
This is why belonging matters. Being accepted for who you really are makes you feel safe, it provides you with a solid base from which to stretch and grow, and become your best self.
I’m finally happy not blending in with the flock… I think I’d rather be a llama.
© Debs Carey, 2024
DEBS CAREY 