The idea of representation is a delicate sentiment, embodying a diverse range of experiences that vary from person to person. Seeing tokenism and performative displays of allyship can lead to mixed emotions. Should we be grateful for what we can get? Are we daring enough to think critically and “bite the hand that feeds us?”

Put simply, the answer to the latter question is yes. It is past time that we write the scripts we’ve been long excluded from, that we shape the work cultures we’ve felt pressure to conform to, that we speak our truth and demand the acknowledgment we deserve.

Part of understanding what representation means to me is unpacking my lived experiences as an immigrant. As early as elementary school, I’ve felt the responsibility of representation because I grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood in Portland. I was one of two South Asian kids in my class and the only Muslim (that I knew of). Students and teachers frequently asked unfiltered and offensive questions, or would bluntly call out my differences, especially post-9/11. When I responded to them, I felt like I was speaking on behalf of a whole population. It was as if they viewed me as the spokesperson for all Pakistanis or Muslims. I wanted them to understand that my people were good people – despite what they (and their parents) were seeing on the news. 

I had supportive friends, but I also encountered bullies. When the name-calling started was when I think I threw in the towel. One day my teacher called me to her desk and asked “Is Osama bin Laden your uncle?” I still remember being in a state of shock, staring up at her with no words. I later found out that this was a rumor that other kids had started. Why Ms. Hason felt the need (or should I say, entitlement) to perpetuate Islamophobia by directly asking a child such a harmful question, coded in racism, is something I will never forget or understand.

From then on, I wanted to shrink myself and be less noticeable so I could minimize these experiences. The prideful Pakistani kid was now the quiet one in the back of the class. When we’re in predominantly white spaces, there’s often a spotlight placed on us. In my experience, this pressure made me lose pieces of myself. While my white friends and classmates did not have to speak on behalf of their community or try to address stereotypes, this kind of representation was a burden that I learned early on is carried by communities of color. I spent more time developing who I was in the context of a room full of white people, rather than just figuring out who I was. 

Immigrants and people of color are resilient as a result of adapting in the face of constant adversity. I wish we could capture these experiences on a resume, because it is probably my strongest trait. Attempting to dismantle Islamophobia in my elementary school classroom was simply training for the “real world.” It was through meeting other people who understood my lived experiences that I was finally able to find my voice again. My passionate advocacy for inclusive spaces stems from not growing up in one, and I can recognize the profound impact of being excluded. 

Representation can come in the form of a single friend, a group of coworkers, or anything that allows you to feel seen or heard. If we expect truly inclusive spaces to form organically, without help and cultivation, we can unintentionally perpetuate exclusion. Collectively creating inclusive spaces has to be an intentional effort taken on by each individual to prevent further marginalization and to center the experiences of people and communities of color.