“What? You’re Punjabi too?” is a statement I have heard far too often in my life. I grew up in a household that was definitely in tune with Punjabi culture. Although we didn’t visit the Gurdwara — the Sikh place of worship — quite often, my father made sure that both my brother and I understood the foundation of our religion, the important figures of our culture, and what it meant to be Punjabi.
My proficiency in Punjabi, however, was never the best. I often stumbled in conversations with peers and family members from abroad, leading to a lot of embarrassment. Some of my friends in school would relentlessly tease me — “How can you call yourself Desi?” “You’re so white-washed!”
That last sentiment especially stung. I hated being called white-washed. No matter what I did, I could never shake that label.
I grew up in Brampton, a city with a large population of Punjabis, especially a lot of Sikhs. Most of my friends shared the same cultural background as me and faced a lot of the same issues — never getting our names pronounced correctly being the first to come to mind.
This is why it hurt to be called white-washed by others. Why are you excluding me? I know exactly what you’re going through!
I often felt as if other first-generation Punjabi-Canadians I grew up with would exclude me because I wasn’t as ‘brown’ as them. I never really listened to Punjabi music for example; mostly because I could hardly understand it.
I was chastised for listening to ‘white’ music, and when my friends would play Punjabi music, I would often get laughed at simply because I didn’t vibe enough. Sometimes, I would be told that I “dressed too white.” Over time, small comments like this led me to begin to resent my own culture.
When I was 17 and in high school, my closest friend did a spoken word on his experiences as a Black man who was told “he was too white” and how he learned to love himself and feel confident that he was a great representation of his culture — despite what his peers may say. It wasn’t until then that I realized that I too could feel comfortable as a Punjabi without needing external validation.
From then on, I began to disregard the comments my peers made about me being too white — if they kept putting up barriers between us, as Punjabis, I would tear them down. I began to be much more active within my community, and I was sure to correct people when they said my name wrong.
By the time I came to U of T, I was comfortable in my own skin, and proudly wore my culture on my sleeve. During orientation week, one of my group members noticed the Kara — a steel bracelet worn by Sikhs — on my wrist, and told me that this was his first time meeting a Sikh, and how he heard these wonderful things about my culture from abroad.
It was the first time I had been recognized as a Punjabi, and I had a long conversation with him about my culture. I felt proud, and for the first time, I got to extend a bridge instead of building a wall.
In the wake of the recent farmers protest in India, in which the state of Punjab has been especially impacted, I have seen a unique unity within my community, which is quite rare.
It seems that, for a brief moment, everyone I know has understood that we all share the same roots and must support the foundation that helped raise us despite our personal differences. Our culture, our ancestors, and our families’ livelihoods are under attack, and now more than ever, it’s important that we stand together, rather than place barriers between us.
