Written by Rajiv Fernandez, Co-founder, Historicons

“Mom, papa, I want to be an actor.” “Son, it’s pronounced doctor.” Ah, the age-old tale of every Indian kid in America: being told you can be whatever you want to be in this country only for your parents to remind you security is better than risk. My parents immigrated to the U.S. to live the American dream and give their kids opportunities for upward mobility. To their chagrin, their theater-acting, fine arts–excelling, attention-grabbing boy never excelled in the sciences, so besides a doctor, what paths to success were prescribed for me? In the 1990s and 2000s, there was no one in whom I could see myself as a model of accomplishment, whether it be the head of a major company, a celebrated architect, or an actor. If there was, they were few and far between. South Asians played a supporting role in America, not the lead. I didn’t relate.

Growing up, the only person on TV that looked like me was a caricature of an Indian person, Apu from the Simpsons. The lack of representation was comical. Classmates imitating Apu’s accent would ask me to say “Thank you, come again,” or impersonate my parents talking like that. I was so confused. My parents had an erudite accent with British intonations. English was their mother tongue! They didn’t work at a convenience store, rather they were a doctor and a restaurateur. Research shows that from the time kids are babies they are taking in information about race and ethnicity from people, images, and interactions around them. These interactions inform how kids feel about, evaluate, and understand race and ethnicity for themselves and others. There were all these perceptions of what my culture was from a reductive, butt-of-a-joke persona. It thickened my skin to bullying, but it emboldened white America’s subjugation of minority voices. I didn’t relate.

Raised in the heartland of America, in Iowa and Nebraska, I was as Midwestern as they come. Soda is “pop;” “Ope!” my expression of surprise; and dipping pizza in ranch were just some of the traits that made me amusingly feel like a coconut: brown on the outside, white on the inside. In high school, on a fateful Tuesday in September, the coconut cracked as I was associated with a terrorist. Classmates leaned over and said to me, “Your people did this.” Whether they said it in jest, it felt like a knife pierced my skin, entered my back and twisted. I was confused as to what role Indian people had in the horrific attack on my fellow Americans. It hit me, at the age of 16, that I was not white.

In the immediate aftermath of 9/11, over 500 hate crimes were reported against South Asians. Skin color, religion, and cultural garb were seen as threats to American white idealism. The financial security I had growing up in an upper middle class household initially sheltered me from hardships where my skin color was a barrier to success. This privilege equated to my white identity. I felt like a shell of my former self, only being seen as brown on the outside. I had not yet developed a sense of pride around my race, a task that felt nearly impossible when I realized the enormity of racism against people who looked like me. Who was someone I could look to for help? Neither my parents nor their Indian contemporaries (all professionals) ever expressed if or how they persevered through racism. Rather, their vision of success was assimilating to white standards. It was a challenge they met. Would I be judged on the surface? Microaggressions, like being told I got job opportunities because of affirmative action, to being flat out called a terrorist at a bar, followed me from my small home city to New York City. This loss of white privilege was new territory for me to navigate on my own as an adult. I didn’t relate.

In 2003, a movie would reel me back in. I can’t tell you how many times my friends made me see Bend It Like Beckham with them in the theaters. At last, people who looked like me on screen! But the similarities ended there. The only familiar things in the film to me were the nosy aunties and high expectations of the parents. The portrayal of the Indian diaspora (the largest in the world, with 18 million persons in 2020) in the film was one of many experiences. My white friends were all in on Indian culture from the film, but it wasn’t mine. I didn’t grow up in an insular Indian community. I wasn’t going to have a 4-day festive Hindu wedding (I was raised Catholic). I wasn’t ready to say I was most like Jess’s gay cousin. I didn’t relate.

All my life I never felt like I had a relatable role model in school, politics, or media—one that would make me feel pride in my identity, inside and out. I am not a caricature with an accent. I am not an enemy. I am not the subplot of a movie. I yearned for a sense of belonging. Only in my 30s did I realize that I could help create the representation that I craved.

The work we’re doing at Historicons is providing much-needed representation to kids who look like me, highlighting lesser-told stories from U.S. history that center diverse role models in whom all kids can see themselves. I saw a commercial with a rising tennis star (whom many consider the legacy of the sport’s most famous sisters) that said, “When you see someone who looks like you succeed, you believe you can too.” I realized this the most when I saw the former CEO of a global pop brand give a talk about her journey from a hardworking family in India, with an emphasis on education, to ascending the highest ranks of global commerce. As I sat in awe of her, all I could think was, “She could be my Aunty.” She looked like me. She overcame adversity in that her identity (a woman of color) did not match the norm (a white male) in her path to success. She defied the expectations put upon people of color in America, a supporting role not the leading one, and she thrived. She made me proud to be brown.

My parents’ hope for upward mobility has been reflected in upward trends of South Asian success in America over the last 30 years. We have a long way to go before skin color will not present adversity in America, but small steps of progress in representation will lead to giant leaps of opportunity. As of 2022, South Asians’s share of screen in media was nearly 2.6% (in line with our share of the U.S. population), an increase from virtually 0% 10 years earlier.

Currently, five members of Congress identify their heritage as Indian, plus the Vice President. There are 26 Indian-origin CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. People who look like me are directing our portrayal in the media, enacting policy and laws, coding how we search the internet, innovating software to graphically design, operating shipments across the world, and inspiring kids with toys and games that reflect the population. Finally, some representation to which I can relate.