“You can call me Sofa”

My high school friends used to call me Sofa, after a few struggled to pronounce Safia (Suff-yah). “Sofa” was embroidered in white thread on the left chest of my track captain’s jacket. My 16th birthday cake had a picture of a couch on it. After a while, it was like my boss in China whose name was Thunder. I was only reminded his name referred to something in the sky when I would email friends abroad.

We lived in an upper-middle-class New Jersey suburb, 30 minutes by train to New York City. Great school district, safe neighbourhood, a feeder into the Ivies. Many high-flying professionals lived there - choosing the burb life without needing to trade off skyscraper salaries. My family had moved from a majority Muslim, otherwise diverse South Asian city when I was 9.

I recently reconnected with a close friend from said high school, let’s call her Julie. She’s a first generation Asian American whose parents moved to the East Coast from Hong Kong in the 80s. We both left ‘paths that looked pretty good’ (her biotech, me big tech), and have now found ourselves circling ways to better understand ourselves, and the world. Her from the outside in: sociology, anthropology. Me from the inside out: writing, psychology. She’s been called a banana, me a coconut.

When I think back to 25 years ago - back when we used to call our parents to pick us up by popping a quarter into the payphone outside the local library - in many ways it was a simpler time.

Our ‘crew’ was a mix of people - now that I look back, we were definitely immigrant-heavy in this predominantly Jewish suburb - but not many other brown kids around. We had track or cross country practice every day (depending on the season), chatted to each other on AOL while pulling all-nighters, and went out for movies most weekends. One summer a friend’s sister was visiting from college and pointed out that our laughs all sounded like each other.

For our first few years in the US, I remember my parents manning vending machines on the weekends. I remember scooping ice cream at Häagen Dazs during summer break. Paying for a pair of $25 Mavi denim shorts with my tip money. Wearing extra layers of sweatshirts and sweatpants before needing to touch the thermostat.

On Sundays, we’d drive to nearby towns for dim sum or dosas and chaat.

We moved to the US because we had family there, more out of circumstance than any grand pursuit of the ‘American dream.’ But if this was ‘immigrant life,’ I didn’t clock it, and it didn’t bother me either way. Just like classic American high school films didn’t really match my lived experience - high school was awesome. I ‘fit in’ even though I wasn’t necessarily ‘popular’ and am still close with many friends decades later.

When I went to university in 2006, there was greater diversity around me - international students, people from all over the US, other types of Asian Americans. All of a sudden I also had tons of Indian American friends. I was Vice President of the South Asian Students Association. I could tell you that Bohri was a sect of Shia Islam. I could contextualise my dad’s experience working in NYC as a Muslim man on 9/11, something I couldn’t really do as a 12 year old, especially when his own telling of it was so light I almost missed it at the time.

Compared to my teen years, seeds of re-connection with South Asia were growing. I followed my curiosity and took an intensive year-long course on South Asian politics, conflict, and culture. Tried hard but did not make the Bhangra team. Got my nose pierced at age 17, on a whim. Started introducing myself as Safia - but the rhymes with Mafia version, since it felt easier than correcting people.

The Indian-Americans I met in college were, in some ways, more ‘brown’ than me - many had studied Bharatnatyam for years, were fluent in Gujarati, or were pursuing medicine.

When I shared this with Julie, her sociological lens made sense of it instantly.

She pointed out that many South Asians who end up in the US are a product of ‘hyper-selection’: both individually - those who try to go to America are often unusually well-educated and resourced - and systematically, because US immigration policy selects for certain types of people.

***

Later in 2017, after some years as a working adult, I decided to move to London. I presumed it would just be another cool city to live in. I didn’t consider how my background - growing up in South Asia and then the US - might shape how I experienced it.

When Julie told me last week about how Asian Americans on the West Coast had a much more solidified identity than those on the East Coast because of their history - something about it resonated.

When I lived in the US, ABCD (American Born Confused Desis) was a term thrown around as easily as coconut. Slightly self-deprecating, but more often just acknowledging the reality of living across cultures. In the UK, British-Born desis may look similar to their American counterparts - but BBCD is apparently not a thing. I got told off whenever I’d try using the term.

Knowing about colonialism is one thing, but seeing how it plays out 60-70 years later is another. If you read both the UK and US versions of The Good Immigrant - you’ll see what I mean, all South Asian immigrants are not created equal.

It wasn’t even until a year into living in London that I realised the term ‘Asian’ in the UK includes South Asians too. And it was part of a larger grouping (since cancelled for being problematic) - BAME (Black, Asian, and Minority Ethnic). Whereas the US has a specific carve out for South Asians.

While well-versed in South Asian culture, music, and food, many British-born desis I met in London, even affluent ones, hadn’t been back to their parents’ countries of origin for 10-15 years; compared to the 2-3 year cadence of ABCDs. If dating within the diaspora, most Gujaratis I met dated Gujaratis, Punjabis dated Punjabis.

***

I live in Bombay now.

It wasn’t an easy choice to leave London after nine years. Not least because the world tells you that you take all of your problems with you no matter where you go. So how do you know another place will be any better? It felt like a big gamble. London made a lot more sense on paper.

But in search of the ‘deep’ belonging I’ve been trying to find within myself, Julie helped me see that our environments do in fact play quite a big role in our sense of identity. It’s taken me years to realise this isn’t just an inside job.

I think I chose to move to Bombay (in spite of logic pushing me toward a Singapore or Dubai) because I was subconsciously craving an environment that felt like me - wild, free, alive, and very messy. One that could hold the squiggly, figuring-it-out version of me that often feels caught between ‘east’ and ‘west.’

I’m technically an NRI (Non-Resident Indian, not just a tax label) in Bombay. I go to cafes in Bandra and write during the week, while studying Urdu and taking Kathak classes on the weekends. I wear shalwar kameez some days, and crop tops on others. I correct people who mispronounce my name, while taking pride in sharing its meaning - pure, wise, and best friend - and that it’s also the name of both my maternal great-grandmothers.