Admit it...are you jealous of Gen Z?

It’s not cute, but I’m going to own up to envying the visibility and freedoms young South Asians now have...

My first Deepavali (Diwali) in India

It’s Diwali (aka Deepavali) this week, and I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationship to being Indian.

Growing up as a brown kid in Wales in the 90s had it’s fun times, sure, but there were plenty of times it wasn’t joyful or easy. And not being able to get beauty products that matched my skin tone (a sad reality back then) was just the tip of a shit iceberg (shitberg?)

The structures of identity were so rigid when I was growing up and to me it seemed like you had two distinct choices. You were either a proper (pukka!) Indian kid which entailed dressing the part, behaving well (ie not staying out late or doing whatever the ‘local’ kids did), focusing on getting good grades (rather than clothes or boys), and engaging with Indian culture by dancing to Bhangra and obsessing over Bollywood films. If you didn’t follow that mandate or deviated from it in some way, you were automatically seen as a ‘coconut’ - that’s white on the inside and brown on the outside for the uninitiated. Being distinctly average at school, loving alternative culture, favouring Slayer over Bollywood tunes, and not wanting to be a doctor, engineer or an accountant meant I was automatically an outcast. (And that was way before I dyed my hair pink and started getting piercings.)

Aged 15 waiting for a gig to start…this was my ‘pre-goth’ era

 It’s no exaggeration to say that there was zero South Asian (or any kind of Asian at all, actually) representation growing up. We weren’t ever in women’s magazines or fashion adverts; I learnt how to do my make-up from the one black model that was in my Mary Quant Beauty Book. We weren't generally considered aspirational by mainstream culture and even within our own communities to qualify as being attractive, having light skin (yay, colourism), blue eyes (so many South Asian girls I know had blue contact lenses as a teens), and the perfect slim-but-curvy figure flanked by a waterfall of long dark hair was the Bollywood ideal.

You needed to look and behave like the perfect Indian princess - and this was everything I wasn’t. As such I felt the impenetrable stares walking into Indian functions as a teen and being sneered at by tiny perfect-looking Indian girls and their equally judgemental mums, likely wondering why I’d teamed DM boots with a lehenga. It’s funny how some memories can be so woven into our personal fabric; I had that same sense of unease walking into a Diwali party just recently, it was as if I was silently waiting to be judged and found lacking for not doing ‘Indian’ in the right way.

Sure, I kinda look the part - but keep reading for the real truth… #nugglife

It seems like things are starting to finally change. There are so many diverse representations of the South Asian community now, from writer and performance artist Alok Vaid-Menon who speaks so eloquently about gender and culture, to actor Sarita Choudhury who plays the much-loved Seema - a single, childfree South Asian woman in her 50s dating in New York - on Sex And The City spin-off, And Just Like That. But just recently, I saw this advert below from beauty brand e.l.f and it stopped me in my tracks…

Anita Rani’s post - and the e.l.f advert

Looking at this young dark skinned South Asian person with a septum piercing was like staring at myself 20 years ago. I felt the same sentiments that TV presenter and author Anita Rani expressed on Instagram when she said: “[I] found myself staring at this poster and feeling emotional. A young South Asian person, a bit alternative, like so many I know; short hair, piercing, tons of eyeliner, leather jacket, sassy, gorgeous.” 

To have seen somebody like this growing up, representing their culture in their own way on a national beauty campaign would have been a game changer for me and I’m so glad it’s finally here. But I do need to be honest and admit that seeing this advert made me feel something else too - and that’s grief. Because I wish wholeheartedly that I'd grown up in a time when difference had been celebrated, especially during those impactful formative years that never quite leave you. 

Now, there are South Asian people in Hollywood films, starring in Netflix shows, and being welcomed into the previously elitist (and very white) worlds of mainstream fashion and beauty. There are younger generations of South Asians doing all kinds of wonderful things whilst still being able to express their Indian heritage as they like. A bindi and tattoos? Sure. A buzz cut and Jhumka? Amazing. Whilst I fully support and back them, I am deeply envious too; of the way they gloriously take up space, how they don’t feel the need to assimilate and that they didn’t have to choose between being Indian, or being themselves. I can’t help thinking that maybe - given that chance - I would have picked that option too.

Aged 20…would this look have gone with a sari? Maybe not…

That isn’t to say everything is easier now; of course each generation has its own unique challenges, but if you grow up seeing people who look like you represented in a wide variety of ways I think that can have a huge impact. It shows your brain that these things are possible for you too, without any psychological roadblocks in the way. In the 90s it felt like our culture was everywhere - our food was adored, our bindis worn by Gwen Stefani and our clothes adopted by gap year students galore - and yet we, as people, were invisible.

If there were South Asians on TV it always took the form of a stereotypically strict family who often ran the corner shop, or was a form of parody like Goodness Gracious Me, or even Apu, from The Simpsons. When Bend It Like Beckham came out in 2002 it was such a seminal film to so many young South Asian women, myself included, because it showed that push and pull between two different cultures. It’s South Asian protagonist Jess (Parminder Nagra) diverts from familial expectations in every sense; she wants to become a footballer, and to date outside of her culture. Whilst the film wasn’t perfect, the sentiment of making your own rules and forging your own path as a second generation South Asian person really rang true for me.

Maybe you can cook Aloo Gobi and kick a ball? Not in 2002 sadly.

What also rang true was how the film’s aftermath played out. Despite being distinctly average in the film and not having a lead role, Keira Knightley (who plays Jess’s friend Jules) was the one who walked away from Bend It Like Beckham to become famous. Nagra has had a successful career in TV, but she’s not the household name like Knightley has become, perhaps a reflection of Hollywood’s ensuring racism. But Parminder’s trajectory feels familiar; no matter what you do, it always felt that we were never quite allowed to have that starring role. That would just upset the order of things far too much.  

Culturally South Asians often prioritise academics and family over everything. We’re imbued with a sense of needing to do better than the generations before us and as immigrants, to really thrive in a new country. I was told implicitly that I'd have to work twice as hard to get what I wanted because of my skin colour; but sadly even that hasn’t always been enough. I remember being interviewed for one particular ‘dream role’ where I exceeded the job description, but it was given to somebody with a quarter of what I had achieved but who fit ‘the brand’ more by being thin, white and affluent. It was a part of the job description I hadn’t seen, because it was written with an ever-present invisible ink. I still remember the rejection email and searing disappointment to this day: “The editor loved you, has followed your work for ages and adores your ideas; but we’ve chosen to go in another direction.” The saddest part was that I knew it was coming - this was just how these things went. 

There are downsides to ‘working twice as hard as everyone else’ - potentially being trapped in careers that pay well but you don’t love, ending up in marriages that are endured for the sake of the community, and striving for perfectionism leading to burnout and worse. The other negative is that there will always be somebody willing to exploit a strong ‘minority work ethic’. In one company I worked for, the MD told another colleague: “I always hire Asians, they work really hard and never complain.” Awful, yes. True? Maybe in part. Unknowingly, I’ve so often played into that stereotype by not having enough work/life boundaries or raising behaviours that were inappropriate, racist or just plain abhorrent. But how do you do that when so much is stacked against you and you feel like you can’t? For me, it felt like the women’s magazine world was a members club I’d been let into through the back entrance; there was no way I could complain.

In the UK, South Asian people make up the biggest minority ethnic group, but it does still feel like we are largely invisible, particularly in the beauty and wellness spaces. In my industry we’re frequently missing from panels and events, even those aimed at women of colour. I’m often invited to branded events with Ayurvedic practitioners and yoga teachers who are always invariably white. In the last few years beauty brands have taken to sending South Asian press and influencers Diwali gifts, which is a a little welcome progress.

But all it takes is one moment for you to feel utterly invisible again. In the last month alone I was mistaken for another Indian speaker at an event who had appeared earlier that day. I've been sent beauty packages with the name of another South Asian beauty journalist on them and have had my surname spelled wrong on my work mail and on place settings at beauty events three times. A beauty brand I’ve featured multiple times, who has had a South Asian person in their advertising, has consistently failed to invite me to their press trips, or send me products without me having to ask (the embodiment of tokenistic inclusion). After so long in this industry, no matter the prestigious titles I’ve worked on, the number of awards I’ve won or how many times my features have gone viral, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll always be an interchangeable brown face or worse still, an invisible one that doesn’t quite fit anywhere.

So it’s ok - I think - to mourn our own past experiences as we celebrate progress and better representation. And I’m hopeful that younger South Asian generations will find the behaviour above shocking and one day, hopefully, utterly unimaginable.

Much love and happy Deepavali…

PS: I might not be the perfect Indian girl…but I do have McNuggets ;)