I used to work in a mostly white, affluent neighbourhood in Melbourne, where women would spend $40 on premium blueberries as treats for their dogs. There were often ignorant questions about my nationality that would cue an eye roll. But there was always an air of caution and censorship around those interactions.
In that workplace, I often masked – either by overexplaining or by completely silencing parts of my cultural identity, scared of being misunderstood and judged.
Later, I got a job in a more multicultural suburb, surrounded by people who looked more like me. I quickly felt seen, understood and validated with little effort. I bonded with my co-workers over our similar stories of growing up bilingual. We enthusiastically exchanged stories about the politics, foods and traditions that kept our cultures alive.
So it was confusing when, after about three weeks of running on a high, I started to notice an unusual tension creep in.
While some of us were keenly embracing our roots, I realised that wasn’t the case for everyone. Some of my co-workers openly and shamelessly shared ‘jokes’ and ‘opinions’ that exposed a deep-rooted disdain for others from their own race or community.
Some of the generalised accusations sounded almost comedically exaggerated and all too familiar.
‘Hopeless drivers.’
‘A total bludger.’
‘Not fit for Australia.’
Followed by: ‘Trust me, I can say it. I would know.’
