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In talking about Michael Jordan’s role as a figure central to the involvement of South Asian Men in basketball, Thangaraj brings up the topic of cultural blackness. Jordan’s image as an icon and a representation of masculinity from whom aspects of Blackness can be borrowed establishes the existence of at least two forms of Blackness– a cultural and a political one. Cultural Blackness, as Dyson puts it, allows for Jordan’s blackness to ‘be consumed uncritically’ (Thangaraj, 377). This aspect of black identity allows Jordan to be seen as more profitable to basketball as a corporate sport. In contrast, players like Craig Hodges who emphasise on the political aspects of their blackness by advocating a social agenda are seen as ‘incompatible with the corporate nature of basketball’ (Thangaraj, 377) Thangaraj also points out that embracing aesthetic aspects of blackness has allowed South Asian American men to explore the very idea of masculinity as a concept outside the rigid boundaries of their ‘South Asianness’ and their ‘Americanness’ as conceptualised against the standard of whiteness.

The Bouchard-Taylor Commission was established in 2007 in response to growing discontentment among French- Canadian Quebecers regarding their fear of losing Quebec’s national history to immigrants and minorities following cases that highlighted clashes between the cultural and religious practices of immigrants and Quebecois way of life. After extensive research, the commission released their final report and 2008 and concluded that “the perception that Québec identity is under threat was mistaken and that ‘collective life in Québec is not in a critical situation’” (Mahrouse, 88)

While the commission took pride in its citizens’ forum as a means of reiterating their commitment to an open, unbiased and inclusive process, Mahrouse argues that in allowing a platform for various ideologies and perspectives, the commission failed to account for the invisible ways in which this forum reinforced the very social hierarchy it wished to address. The dialogues on the forum were set up in a way that immigrants ended up justifying their existence and defending themselves to the French-Canadian Quebecers who took on the role of self proclaimed flag bearers of Quebec nationalism in charge of judging who was worthy of being in Quebec. This resulted in the ostracisation of immigrants and racialised folks as a separate, distant entity. In essence, the citizens’ forum that the commission placed at the forefront of their claims of an inclusive process in turn reiterated the existence of a dominant group as the ones whose existence is rightful and a subordinate group as the ‘other’.

The comedy sketch ‘Herouxtyville’ as described in Das’ book reminded me of the linguistic hierarchy that exists in India. The sketch depicts the conversation between a couple speaking in International French, and a truck driver speaking in a less refined, non- standard Quebecois French.

Having grown up in South Delhi (wealthier region of Delhi), and attended an English medium school where most of my peers came from relatively well-off families, I am much too aware of the elitist rhetoric that exists among people my age when it comes to language. Keeping aside the ever pervasive Hindi superiority complex that North Indians hold, there also seems to exist a hierarchy among dialects of Hindi.

As in the Herouxtyville sketch where the truck owner is presumed to be culturally ignorant due to his rural Quebecois accent, I think regional dialects of Hindi and other similar languages tend to be deemed less than when compared to mainstream, ‘posh’ Hindi. [I would like to note that these are my observations, and not objective truths]. This has become all the more evident to me with the advent of Instagram reels.

With Instagram reels giving people in rural areas an opportunity and platform to post content on, I often find that the comments on these videos tend to make the way they talk the butt of the joke. Regional dialects and languages typically stemming from places like Uttar Pradesh, Haryana and Bihar seem to be deemed ‘funny’ and ‘less than’ by the elitist narrative of mainstream Hindi as the ‘right’ one.

This reading also reminded me of our assigned reading by Rajiv Mohabir where he felt the need to correct his grandmother’s pronunciation of the word Kekahi “to the more bookish Kaikeyi” (Mohabir, 17). I believe Mohabir’s embarrassment of his Grandmother’s usage of a Bhojpuri pronunciation as opposed to a more bookish and mainstream one highlights the existence of a linguistic hierarchy in India.

James Baldwin in ‘No Name in the Street’ describes the state of Algerians as he witnessed during his time in Paris. He recounts the filthy conditions they lived in, and the poor treatment they received, as he talks about the double standard in the French’s perception of the Algerians who spent their times at Arab cafes. While the Algerians who spent their time in cafes seeking warmth and in need of jobs were seen as lazy, French students who did the same were not.

The narrative that a nation can help another be civilised is one that colonial powers often hold onto in order to justify their actions and fuel their saviour complex. The idea that indigenous folks are incapable of utilising their resources and must be ‘taught’ how to (more often than not by their white colonisers), allows for the colonisers to condone their actions. Challenging the coloniser, then, becomes a question of being ungrateful rather than of opposing an imperialist regime. This is why Baldwin points out that the French took particular offence in their colonies’ disdain towards the French.

It is perhaps this sentiment of offence that the French carried into their perception of the Arabs as ‘uncivilised’. Baldwin describes his amusement at being considered ‘civilised’ by the French, knowing that the French were way too proud to ever call a nation such as the United States ‘civilised’. What made the Arabs particularly uncivilised was their unwillingness to be civilised by the French. I find it interesting how Baldwin points out that “the French were not raciste, like the Americans, they did not believe in destroying cultures” (Baldwin, 4). This, almost self- reassuring, idea of ‘not being racist like the Americans’ sounds like it seeks to serve the superiority complex of the French in establishing that their treatment of the colonised, as opposed to that of the Americans, comes from a place of generosity and good will.

In the late 19th century, a lot of Syrian immigrants worked at World’s Fairs in cities like Chicago, Philadelphia and St. Louis, where they sold small items of religious significance from back home, as well as other household goods. At the Chicago fair in 1893, a lot of Syrians were employed by Ottoman entrepreneurs to participate in an exhibit reproducing aspects of “Turkish” daily life. This exhibit included depictions of Syrian women being abducted and being saved by their “dusky friends”, swordsmen, dancing girls and a man by the name of Mere Alli Harfush who supposedly came from a “spot which is one of the mysterious places on the globe, where the ruins of the great City of Baalbec still stand” (Gualtieri, 35)This exhibit was clearly catered to a western audience and served to fuel their oriental visions and fantasies of the middle east. These descriptions allude to Americans’ conceptualisation of Syrians as belonging to a mystical land where people rode around on horses and women required saving. It encapsulates Western Orientalism and its tendency to imagine eastern cultures as being 'otherworldly' and exotic.

It must be noted that these exhibits were not, however, just a means to satiate the American imperialist, but were also tactfully used by businessmen and migrant artists to “boost international trade and cross country exchanges” (Gualtieri, 36), as explained by Mae Ngai.

Hutnyck’s piece on “Dog Tribe” helps paint a vivid image of the ways in which censorship is used as a political tool by the state in suppressing voices that speak out against them. In the music video for “Dog Tribe”, Fun^da^mental show jarring visuals of racial violence, and emphasise on the idea of defending one’s self instead of being passive. It ends with images of signs that say “we are waiting” and “now is the time”, as a direct threat to the government and their racist policies. This video was banned, supposedly for promoting Islamic extremism.
Interestingly, while reading this piece, I could not help but draw parallels to censorship by the state in India. The removal of the chapter on Mughals from history textbooks, the erasure of mention of BJP’s role in the 2002 Gujarat riots from Sociology textbooks and unjust arrests under the UAPA act all allude to one thing- censorship has been, and continues to be one of the state’s most powerful tools in silencing people.
I also find it quite interesting how the British government identified raves as spaces that could allow room for unrest among the youth. The youth have historically been pivotal in creating change and pressurising the state and other governing institutions. This would then explain the state’s attempts to regulate the kind of media that is consumed by the youth via major music video distribution outlets like MTV and ITV. In doing so, the state took away what Nawaz from Fun^da^mental refers to as a “platform for a statement”. Nawaz believes that videos like “Dog Tribe” must be “played on daytime television to raise questions about race violence for young viewers” (Hutnyck, 58).

This week’s readings reminded me of the curry leaf plant that towers over my mother’s garden back in Delhi. This tree has been a part of my family longer than I have. It has seen harsher winters than I have, and a Delhi where the air was fit for humans. It was planted when my parents first moved to Delhi as a young married couple from Kerala- twenty something year olds finding their place in the scary, scary North. Curry leaves being essential to southern Indian cooking, this plant was a symbol of home for my parents amidst the hustle and bustle of an overpopulated colony in East Delhi. With the lack of South Indian stores back then, this little plant became an important part of their household and moved with them over the years.

Much like the comfort this plant brought my migrant parents, I feel at home at the sight of the colourful boxes of Shaan masalas neatly lined on a shelf at Supermarche Mizan across my street. I feel at home when I order biriyani from Student Tasty Biriyani after forcing smiles on video calls where my friends and family show me their outfits for Diwali. Every now and then I fear I am losing myself in this big and scary place, but I come back home from a hard day and crave a bowl of hot dal chawal to realise that the food I grew up eating has not just nurtured my physical body, but has woven together my very being. It is this realisation, I think, that makes food such an important factor in the experiences of immigrants, or as Ketu Katrak mentions in her essay, a “physical and emotional anchor” (Mannur, 28).

Eager to recreate the lavish lifestyle they had gotten used to in India, the British started importing cheap Indian labour in the form of servants and ayahs in the 19th century. These servants proved to be especially helpful on strenuous sea travels and to get rid of the costs that came with employing English servants. While this allowed the British masters a life of luxury, for the servants this arrangement was a highly exploitative one. Not only were the servants mistreated greatly, they lacked any form of security or legal backing- their life and employment relied solely on the whims and fancies of their masters who could abandon them the second they wished. This lack of security often led to a situation of overcrowded lodgings where servants awaited re engagement and servants desperately begging on streets to be taken back home.

Any form of help these servants received from the English came, not from a place of humanity, but in hopes of upholding the image and honour of the British empire and protecting themselves. Colonel Hughes wished to respect the servants’ contracts not because it was the right thing to do, but because dishonouring it brought ‘discredit on the British name’ (Visram, 22). Attempts to revive the deposit system that would provide some security to the servants were quickly shut down for they would “cause great hardship to the British” (Visram, 23). Furthermore, the plight of Indian labourers became fuel to the white saviour complex of the British. The ‘petitioner class’ of small farmers that went to Britain to petition the Queen about their land claims were used to construct the narrative that the Queen was the ‘“‘fountain of justice’ for the simple villager from India” (Visram, 27). People like Mrs Warr who suggested bringing over women from India as servants, justified their actions as being for the greater good to shake off the accountability. Mrs Warr claimed that her suggestion would not just help her earn something but “create a good feeling as well” (Visram, 18) In essence, between the British’s lousy attempts at suggesting changes and the Indian Office’s refusal to take substantial steps towards helping them, the servants were stripped of their humanity and made into mere pawns in a selfish game of politics and the self interest of the English.

A common theme that Diouf brings up in her piece is the overlapping of faith and fortitude when it came to the practice of Islam in a hostile world. To be muslim was not just to practice Islam, but was also to be brave- to be able to hold onto one’s faith when everything pushed them to turn away from it.

This, then, is where she brings up the phenomenon of pseudo-conversion amongst muslim slaves. One could argue that even just pretending to convert to christianity was an act of cowardice, but I believe that on the contrary, this was an act of defiance. An outright rejection of christianity would hurt the oppressor’s pride less than a betrayal of their trust.

Abu Bakr’s request for a copy of the Quran (Diouf, 82), Omar Ibn Said’s ode to Mohammed in his autobiography (Diouf, 83), Angelo Solimann’s careful selection of his name (Diouf, 84) and Ibrahima abd al Rahman’s reconversion to Islam (Diouf, 84) all point to one thing– no matter the path they took, Islam remained the destination for these muslims. For someone who had lost everything, their faith remained the only grounding force in their life and the only thing to call their own.

The house of an immigrant is one that is embedded within the framework of tradition and orthodoxy. The air is laden with the guilt of being detached from the motherland and her culture, and the only form of repentance is forcefully imbibing her suffocating values into the children. Escaping from this house, then, means to escape into the world of the white, a world of freedom, liberation and fresh air.

This is the image Sara Ahmad creates in her interpretation of Bend it Like Beckham. She criticises the depiction of a ‘culture clash’ as simply an interaction between two differing cultures, for this understanding of the phenomenon fails to capture the inherently unequal planes on which the two cultures exist. She points out that while the migrant’s culture is one that is “given or possessed” (Ahmad, 134) western culture is seen as the pinnacle of freedom- one where you can be whoever you want to be.

I think this depiction of the strict brown parents also fails to capture the nuances of an immigrant household and the complex intergenerational experiences within it, something I think the interview with Nitin Sawhney’s parents does perfectly. The inner monologue of an immigrant parent is a battle between wanting their personal experiences to be recognised and understood by their children, and knowing that their children are happy. Orthodoxy and conservatism can be acknowledged, but does it have to be at the cost of erasing the lived experiences and internal battles of the previous generation? Can the experiences of both generations not co-exist without demonising one over the other?

The Buffalax’s transcription of the lyrics to the Tamil song very clearly seeks to make a mockery of a ‘funny sounding’ language. Ha Ha- funny sounding people said ‘I’d love to see you pee on us tonight’ (Benny Lava by Buffalax, 1:25) [on an unrelated note, it is quite interesting to note how pervasive this kind of xenophobia is within the Indian subcontinent itself]. Taking this mockery, reclaiming it, and making art out of it, has been a recurring theme with the Swet Shop Boys’ music. From naming the song ‘Benny Lava’ and sampling the Tamil song, to the various complex nuances of race and racism they capture in their lyrics, their art impresses me time and time again.

I wonder if Heems’ self characterisation as a Hindu, superimposed with the stereotype of being ‘Stinky sticky icky’ and having ‘Thick black chest hair’ and ‘fat gold chains’ could be related to the racialisation of Islam as a social group (Husain, 1) as talked about by Rana and Husain. Why Hindu and why not just identify as a brown man? Does he point out the cultural and phenotypic identifiers that make him stand out as a Hindu hoping to highlight the same for his Muslim counterpart Riz Ahmed? Maybe this relates to his saying ‘She like “Ain’t that you with the Muslims?”... Yeah Momma said they was the Taliban hang around in alleys’ later?

In describing the young boy’s pointing as the “schematic foreshadowing of an accusation” (Yancy, 2-3), Yancy highlights the power the white body holds. The white body is born pure- a clean slate. The black body, on the other hand, has sinned the day it came into being, by virtue of being black, for “this is what it means to be a Negro- to have done something wrong” (Yancy, 2) This inevitable nature of the ‘dread’ that comes with being black reminded me of the concept of ‘the veil’ in DuBois’ ‘The Souls of Black Folk.

In his book, DuBois talks about a metaphorical veil, a force that separates him from the white world. The veil tints the way he sees the world in that he is consumed by the idea that things would be different if he were white. The veil could also be seen as having a biblical meaning where it is seen as a line between life and death– implying that the existence of this veil prevents black people from being fully alive.

The lack of this veil tainting the way they see the world, I think, is a bigger privilege than a white person could ever understand. The little boy in Fanon’s story is allowed to point his finger because he is afforded the privilege of being an ‘innocent child’ constructing his vision of the world around him at his own pace. But for a black person, the weight of their identity is placed on their shoulder the day they are born- a weight that will dictate their being for the rest of their life.

Bald’s piece on the Bengali peddlers highlights an interesting phenomenon wherein stereotypes serve to construct race in a way that is digestible to the White. The peddlers’ ability to shuttle between the ‘Indianness they performed for their customers’ (Bald, 53) and the ‘Blackness they shared with New Orleans’ populations of African descent’ (Bald, 53) draws attention to an overarching theme of race as a performance– if one is able to ‘perform’ race as need be, what is the fabric on which race as a social phenomenon is constructed? If the reinforcement of stereotypes can facilitate social mobility for minorities, should they prioritise said social mobility at the risk of giving up their identity?. As illustrated by Riz Ahmed's line in the Swet Shop Boys’ ‘Batalvi’,“Tryna stretch culture, stuck in a silhouette”, the experiences of a person of colour always exist within the larger context of their perception by the majority. This then ties into the question on what it takes to make home in a whitened space. Must people of colour compromise to call a space home?