When I was 12 years old, a distant cousin of mine called me a “gora pakora” at a wedding reception. I knew what the term “gora” meant in Punjabi (it means a white guy), and I knew what a “pakora” was (a delicious fritter). But what did they mean together?
“He’s calling you white-washed,” my mom replied to my perplexed look.
Growing up, my parents experienced immense backlash from the school system in response to the language they spoke at home — Punjabi. They spoke fluent English and were born in Northern Turtle Island (Canada), but were sent to English as a second language classes to learn how to speak it “properly” because of the colour of their skin. A mixture of their experiences and the racism that my great-grandparents and grandparents experienced as newcomers to Northern Turtle Island led them to raise my brothers and I in an English-speaking household.
It feels like our community is adding a purity test you must pass before being accepted as a “proper Punjabi.”
My family’s story exposes the struggles of growing up in a society where you have to conform to find success. My dad once told my uncle, “My children will speak English, French, and then Punjabi, in that particular order.” I don’t blame him. The culture of conformity and assimilation continues to be imposed on immigrants and their children. Both of my papa jis (grandpas) cut off their turbans when they first came here to try their best to become more “Canadian.” Now, I deal with that one auntie or cousin who calls you a gora pakora for not speaking Punjabi fluently. It feels like our community is adding a purity test you must pass before being accepted as a “proper Punjabi.”
I’m already dealing with the intergenerational impacts of racism in this country and what it has had on my connection with the Punjabi culture. Now, I have to deal with a purity test? Sure, my Punjabi may not be the best, but does someone who judges me know how much I care about cultivating my knowledge of our peoples’ history? I’ve met plenty of people in the Punjabi community who speak the language but don’t, for example, abide by our values.
Don’t get my frustration wrong — I’m not saying language isn’t an important part of my culture or that I’m not trying to become a better speaker. Language learning is a journey — and for many third generation immigrants, there are circumstances beyond their control that have led to a lack of fluency. This doesn’t make them any less connected to their culture or white-washed. It just means that they need support from their community should they choose to begin learning their mother tongue.
In 2023, I taught myself how to read and write the Gurmukhi script of Punjabi. I also started spending more time chatting with my bibi ji (grandma) over cha (Punjabi tea), bonding with her over our shared love for talent shows, refining my writing skills, and becoming a more fluent speaker in general.
Not once has my bibi ji made me feel uncomfortable or awkward about my broken Punjabi. She tells me how important maa boli (mother tongue) is, but encourages me to grow. She’s proud that I carry the stories she’s passed down to me. My bibi ji, the strongest woman I know, is an excellent example of how to approach issues surrounding language learning with compassion.
By referring to someone as a gora pakora, you’re crushing their soul. Third generation immigrants like myself feel like we’re walking a narrow tight-rope between two seemingly irreconcilable identities. If there’s one community that should understand this, it’s mine.
