The Migrant Story
I always wore and celebrated culture proudly. But it was mostly shared amongst my community. Amongst others who looked like me. It was as though I was two different people. And still, sometimes I feel that way. Like there are two, or more, worlds I co-exist in.
My upbringing was full of festivals, rituals, Gurudwara visits, going to random aunty and uncle homes (without a choice of course), eating lots of different Indian foods, song, dance, drama, Bollywood and Indian music. But growing up in Australia, there was confusion with the things I was allowed to and not allowed to do compared to the lives of others. There was a huge discrepancy of spectrums on this depending on who I spoke to and which culture their family came from.
From being told to not speak to my male family members about my periods to hearing of my white class-mates being given a cake to celebrate their birthdays was confusing. There are many moments like this that have happened which have made me wonder why things are so different. Why can’t my parents just understand, why can’t I just be honest about things. But that’s the beauty and the beast of being part of a migrant family. As a first generation migrant, we are learning to walk all over again. In the shoes of our parents, but also the shoes of our future children in this new world.
When we think about diversity, migration, culture, community and heritage. We all have our own unique story. My story is also the story of millions or billions of others who have needed to figure their identity. Where they fit in this crazy world and how to tell their story to themselves before they can tell it to anyone else. If you’re reading this and you can relate, I hear you.
We are blessed with an embedded ancestral knowledge of our unique cultures' wisdom, stories, tales, science, methodologies and sacred rituals. It’s there, even if you can’t feel it or see it. It exists innately within us. The energy of our family will continue to exist deeply within us.
It’s been said that our cells rebuild themselves every 7 years. So you could say that things like primary school, high school, university, working life etc are all different stages of our lives and we also are different people in those stages. For me I clearly remember these stages and how I was. In primary school I didn’t notice a difference until I was told I was different, that I looked different, that my food was different. That the oil my mum lovingly put in my hair was different. That my skin colour was different. That I was different. I was categorized as an aboriginal, which I was completely fine with. Because at least, that let me fit in. I shared the same skin colour. I didn’t understand racism, I didn’t understand that children spoke the words they heard from their parents, I didn’t understand differences in gender profiles. I was young and just thought the world was a place full of people and we were all trying to go places. If you study hard and help your family, life would give you what you deserved.
How wrong I was.
