When I look at myself in the mirror, I see a young brown woman with unruly dark curly hair and dull, almond-shaped black eyes. Nothing spectacular or special about me.
And yet I was only 6 when I was first called a “fake Indian”. People call me celup, Malay slang for “white-washed”. I even get “coconut”: brown on the outside but “white” on the inside. I have internalised racism, is the consensus; I am not a “proper Indian”. All this because I don’t speak Tamil, or celebrate Deepavali or—funnily enough—have a high tolerance for spicy food.
I see now that I should have been more appreciative of my diverse, loving family and its rich culture, but I resented it in my childhood and teen years. My family and I are mainly of Indian, Irish, Peranakan, and Portuguese ancestry. Though our South Asian identity comprises mainly Bengali, Malayalee and Tamil ethnic groups, none of us speak the respective languages. My maternal grandfather—who hailed from Pondicherry, a French colony in South India—spoke French, while the rest of my grandparents and other great-grandparents, who grew up in a typical Singaporean kampung, spoke Malay bilingually. We are devout Catholics, with Easter and Christmas being our biggest celebrations of the year. Today, my entire family, including extended members, speak English at home.
All of us studied Malay instead of Tamil in school. Tamil is one of the four official languages in Singapore, and most Indians in Singapore do take up Tamil as their second language in school. In fact, it is a norm for a Chinese student to study Chinese, a Malay student to study Malay, and an Indian student to study Tamil.
Because I never studied Tamil, though, I sometimes feel that I do not have a genuine mother tongue, unlike other friends who learned and spoke their native languages. I admired them for being connected with their culture through words and speech. I struggled at times with filling out forms, answering questions about my mother tongue, and overall trying to explain why I studied Malay to everyone who asked.
In response, some gossiped, some laughed, and some ridiculed. How could I be Indian if I did not speak the “Indian language”? I spiralled into an existential crisis about self-identification, asking myself, am I less of an Indian for not speaking Tamil or another Indian language?
Of course not. But I did not know that for a long time.
One problem is the fact that many locals view Tamil as representative of the Singaporean Indian community as a whole. Yet there are many non-Tamil Indian languages (NTIL), such as Marathi and Telugu. Though our Indian ancestors resided in the same region, they did not have just one language to communicate with each other. Likewise, not all Indians in Singapore speak Tamil. Many either take up a NTIL outside of the school curriculum, or they learn Malay instead. So marking non-Tamil Indian speakers out as “fake Indians” or “white-washed” is ignorant. After all, the 2011 Language Census of India reported that only 5.7% of the total population stated that Tamil was their mother tongue—a small percentage compared to the 43.63% who stated that theirs was Hindi [1]. Does that mean that those who do not speak Tamil in India are not “Indian”, too?
It wasn’t just language that set me apart, of course. I went to majority-Chinese schools. I was one of the two Catholic students. I was bullied for not fitting in—seen as a freak and called racial slurs, even the N-word. My schoolmates would deliberately bump into me, push me aside, and grab my hair. Nobody wanted to befriend me. For most of my childhood, I was a wallflower. I didn’t matter.
I tried everything to fit in and be seen as a person. Wanting a more ‘natural’ hairstyle, I had my kinky hair rebonded. This soon became an annual affair: the permanent damaging of my hair with chemicals just to follow Singaporean beauty standards.
I thought that the taunting and teasing would stop afterwards, but it continued. Kids still ridiculed me for being different. Now they would throw things, like eraser dust and staple bullets, into my hair. I was never going to be accepted because I was still a minority. Beauty was not going to help me. My friendlier classmates even told me that it was a “waste” that I was not as “white” as them, because I did have sharp features.
This blatant racism from my schoolmates, however, didn’t hurt me as much as the lack of support I received from some Indian peers. “Darcel, you’re just not like us lah. You just step angmoh,” one of my Indian schoolmates told me, explaining why I did not fit in well with her and her group of friends. In their eyes, I did not deserve any help from them. To them, it was nonsensical to think of me as someone of the same ethnic group. To them, I was not proud of my Indian identity. To them, I was just a poser, a wannabe, another foreign person in their lives. Why waste time standing up for me?
I was devastated. Truth be told, I felt like the Pecola Breedlove of Singapore: a small, dark skinned girl victimised by everyone, even those of the same gender and ethnic group. As Toni Morrison depicted so powerfully in The Bluest Eye, internalised racism can deeply damage the most vulnerable members of a community.
I am now 22, and although I am much more confident, my self-esteem still fluctuates. I still have emotional baggage and scars that are healing. Sometimes, I still feel like that little girl who could not make a friend, bombarded by derogatory remarks. I am afraid of so many things.
I am afraid of bearing the brunt of racism and microaggressions.
I am afraid of being called “sensitive”.
I am afraid of being treated differently.
I am afraid of being questioned about my background.
I am afraid of never being accepted in life, wherever I go.
However, one thing I am sure of is that I will always stand up for what I believe is right. Though I may feel like that little girl sometimes, I know that she would never tolerate being made fun of. I will never back down when it comes to equality and respect.
My family and I are proud of our identities, regardless of the languages we speak. It’s rare, but not unheard of, to come across an Indian in Singapore who does not speak any Indian languages nor follow any Indian customs. I am like a dish of rojak, mixed with several cuts of fruits and varying amounts of spices: an amalgamation of cultures and traditions.
Colourism, racism and being teased for differences of background are issues that many of us face. This needs to change. Everyone’s story is distinctively theirs, and everyone has their own unique cultural practices. Instead of turning a blind eye to bullying, be an ally. Let people know that such behaviour is vile.
When I look at myself again in the mirror, I see a young brown woman with beautiful dark curls and warm, almond-shaped black eyes. I see everything spectacular about the richness of melanin in my skin, and everything special about the smile on my face.
At the end of the day, I am strong and I am brown. I am a woman and I am Indian. I am glad for the myriad cultures within me. I am glad I am me.
Darcel is currently a third-year student at the National University of Singapore, majoring in English Literature and minoring in French as well as Communications and New Media. Besides taking every opportunity to talk about Harry Potter, she also enjoys listening to ABBA and The Beatles. Volunteering is her passion, and her day is complete as long as she sees her loved ones smile.
[1] Census of India, (2011). Language. Office of the Registrar General & Census Commissioner, New Delhi. Available at https://censusindia.gov.in/nada/index.php/catalog/42458/download/46089/C-16_25062018.pdf.
