Between Accents and Skin

I learned early that borders are not only drawn on maps; they are inherited realities passed down through language, skin, and cultural expectations.

My earliest recollections of border-crossing were not exciting or cinematic. They happened at the dining table, where my grandma’s Urdu enveloped the room in familiar, warm tones,  like the syrupy sweetness of Ras Malai. Every morning, I would have to cross over the threshold, into school, where strict emphasis was placed on clear American English, and each falter in pronunciation was met with humiliation and shame. For instance, I once mispronounced the word “gorgeous,” lingering too long on one of the sounds. My teacher made me stand and repeat it over and over until she was satisfied, while my classmates murmured and chuckled. In Math class, I once misspelled “angle” as “angel.” The teacher singled me out, scolded me, and made me write the correct spelling fifty times as punishment. My classmates laughed, and I felt the heat of embarrassment rise to my face.

“Your English accent is super weird, try to speak like an American,” my uncle told me, who was visiting from Ireland a few years back. While I was working through Organic Chemistry equations, my teacher said sharply, “You need to adopt the British pronunciation. It enhances your dignity. Otherwise, people will look down on you wherever you go.”It wasn’t limited to those comments. Once, when one of my Canadian cousins struggled to spell the word “surreptitiously,” I offered to help. He looked at me with visible disdain and said, “You were born and raised in a third-world country where the standard of education is poor. How could you possibly help me spell a word?”

From the beginning, language functioned as both access and enclosure — a golden ticket that opened doors even as it confined me to a narrow cultural script. It may seem invisible, but for those of us from the Global South, it carries deep historical and political weight — along with layers of unspoken bias. Whether you speak English often determines how you are labeled: the “progressive woman” or “the conventional daughter”, the ambitious youth or the submissive housewife, a worldly professional or a local villager. 

I found myself caught between definitions. English was the imposed language–the language of science and learning, but I expressed my deepest sentiments in Urdu. Arabic connected me with my Holy book and prayers, whereas Punjabi was something my ancestors used to tell jokes in that I could hardly understand. Every language demanded something different from me.

Brown Skin, Beauty Standards, and Colonialism

British rule reshaped the subcontinent’s ideas of beauty, language, and authority. For nearly two centuries, whiteness and English fluency were associated with power, education, and social mobility. Lighter skin became shorthand for refinement and opportunity, while darker complexions were pushed toward manual labor and lower status. These hierarchies did not disappear after independence in 1947. Instead, they settled quietly into households and institutions, where English remained the language of prestige and fair skin continued to signal desirability and distinction. At the same time, colonial-era depictions in publications, commercials, and movies repeatedly portrayed pale-skinned women as perfect, setting the stage for the westernized beauty standards we see today.

In South Asian countries skin bleaching is a multi-million dollar business. Unilever launched its Fair and Lovely cream in 1971, growing to dominate 70% of market share in the region, now generating over $500 million in annual revenue in India alone.   Women travel to major cities for skin whitening injections known as glutathione drips, costing hundreds of dollars and claiming to be permanent. A cross-sectional study conducted in 2025 of 295 women in Lahore found that 66.8% reported using skin-lightening products. When asked the reason behind their usage of such products, many of the women cited pressures tied to beauty standards, perceptions of attractiveness, and social acceptance, including beliefs that lighter skin improves marriage prospects. 

It is a widely accepted fact in South Asian culture that the fairer you are, the more respect and opportunities you enjoy; brown skin is looked down upon, and can become a determining factor in your success in school and work.  Even within families where siblings have different skin shades, parents and extended relatives tend to discriminate based on skin color. This is something that I have experienced firsthand – having darker skin than my sister– I have always been widely criticized by my elders for not doing anything to lighten my complexion. 

A few years ago, my maternal aunt from Canada came to visit for my cousin’s wedding. When she walked through the door she hugged my sister tightly and kissed her hands. Her smile quickly dissolved into disgust as she turned to me, looking me up and down.  At every breakfast and lunch gathering, she reminded me that I should use lemon, brightening creams, and besan paste to improve my complexion, although she herself was several shades darker than me. When the time came to prepare for the wedding,  she and my mom asked me to get layers of foundation done on my face, hands, and neck if I wished to attend the wedding. In the end I refused, and they left me behind. 

Migration and Shifting Borders

For many young Pakistani women, migration dreams collide with gendered expectations and inherited beauty standards.  For me — as for many girls in Pakistan — migration represents the possibility of escaping restrictive beauty standards, rigid expectations around language and behavior, and the constant weight of gendered obligations. Yet the desire to leave is always at tension with the intense pressure placed on girls to remain loyal to family responsibilities and uphold traditional ties.

Migration has long shaped South Asian life — from indentured labor under British rule to today’s student visas and work permits. Over time, leaving became more than an economic decision; it became a symbol of advancement. Within many South Asian households, migration carries a distinct social status. Relatives who relocate are regarded as prosperous, sophisticated, and modern, while those who stay behind are viewed as backwards and traditional. For example, my cousins in Ireland, the United States, and the United Kingdom are often placed on a pedestal within our extended family, treated as living examples of success and progress. Their lives overseas are considered the standard to aspire to. I once heard one of my mother’s relatives tell me plainly: “You will only be successful after leaving Pakistan.”

As a Pakistani woman I am constantly navigating the identities imposed on me by outside forces. Between languages – of my ancestors, my religion and colonial inheritance– family expectations, brown skin and migration dreams. I know that who I am does not depend only on those things, but rather it is the inner work of reclamation that determines my true self. 

But one thing is for certain, in my journey of self realization, between accents and skin–  the border is not something I cross only once. It follows me.