When Zayn Malik left One Direction in 2015, I cried the entire day at school.
Dramatic? No. Even teachers who knew of my fan status stopped to ask me if I was alright. For 16-year-old me, it was the end of an era. Nothing would ever be the same.
Thankfully, my life moved on and I did manage to recover emotionally from the band taking an extended hiatus (though Zayn didn’t return to the group). As a longtime stan, I’ve watched each member dive into individual projects. Earlier this week, Zayn posted snippets on his Instagram of his new soon-to-be-released song, Fuchsia Sea. Some of the lyrics detailed his experience of being the only Asian in an all-white boy band. In the song he raps: “Cause I worked hard in a White band, and they still laughed at the Asian”.
While I don’t think Zayn and I share a lot of similarities, his lyrics transported me to an experience I know very well. The feeling of being the ‘other’.
While Malik was performing in sold out stadiums around the world, I was navigating through the trenches of high school in Australia. Malik – who has Pakistani heritage – was the one South Asian (and only person of colour) in a band of all white guys. And similarly within my core friendship circle, I was the one Asian within an all-white friendship group.
I was born in Malaysia before moving to Australia at a young age. Attending a moderately multicultural high school in Australia as a student of Chinese and Indian descent was a blessing. And my friends were, and still are, the most supportive friends in the world. But to others looking in, I was the token Asian.
It’s like being the odd one out without anyone ever explicitly saying you’re the odd one out. Instead, I’d hear comments like “Oh you’re really pretty for an Asian” or “You’re not really Asian” or “You don’t even have an accent” which ultimately felt like they were telling me, ‘You’re different from everyone else’.
Other times, the othering would involve name-calling that’s meant to be a joke but didn’t quite live up to its comedic goals. Speaking with my partner, he attended a mainly white high school and remembers when other students watched The Big Bang Theory and called him Raj. His name is Jonathan. “I knew they didn’t mean it in an aggressive way. Not that it makes it right,” he tells me.
Speaking with one of my friends, she unfortunately confirms this feeling is a relatable one. But it’s also multi-faceted. Neelam who is South African and Indian, admits that now she’s in her late twenties, she “really curated the people I want to be around” in order to feel comfortable and safe within her friendship groups.
However, even on a small scale, there are times when she’s reminded how she’s different. “More recently when planning my wedding, if I was having a rant to people about the wedding being too big, or my parents wanting to invite a lot of people that I didn’t know, I would get the answer of ‘just put boundaries in place. Just tell your parents that they can’t. Just tell your mother-in-law that you disagree with her’. But I can’t simply do those things,” says Neelam.
Part of the reason why Zayn’s unreleased song already hits home, is because these lyrics connect us with a feeling we’ve all felt prior: the quiet reminder of how we’re different. Whether it’s calling us by a name, a backhanded compliment or just the unspoken expectation to go along with things, these moments build up inside of us.
But here’s the problem: when others fixate solely on one part of a person’s identity, they overlook everything else. I’m Asian, yes. But that’s not all that I am. I’m also an avid fan fiction reader and coffee snob to name a few. Reducing someone down to being the token Asian strips the nuance of who they really are.
And if that’s all you see, you’re not really seeing us at all.
Top photo – Pictured: Emma Ruben, Source: Supplied
