Before I Understood Representation
Those Expectations Rarely Appear from Nowhere
We often talk about prejudice as something directed outwards. Less often do we examine the assumptions we absorb about ourselves, where we belong, and who we expect to see in positions of authority.
Those expectations rarely appear from nowhere. They are shaped by family, school, television, community, religion, and the wider culture. By the time we begin to develop a sense of identity, many of those ideas feel so natural that we mistake them for truth.
The passage below revisits my first days at secondary school in the early 1980s. What might appear to be a routine school memory touches on broader questions of identity, representation, belonging, and the expectations we place on ourselves, as well as those placed upon us by others. It also explores the experience of arriving somewhere new while carrying a family reputation that has already arrived ahead of you.
My form tutor was Mr Dosanjh. He was the first South Asian teacher I’d ever seen. Until then, all my teachers had been white — men in shirtsleeves or women with perms and sensible shoes. He was Sikh, a bearded man who wore his turban and his kara with pride. He had an Indian accent too, which I hadn’t expected from a teacher at all. It threw me for a moment. I didn’t know what I’d imagined a South Asian teacher would sound like, but it wasn’t that. Seeing him standing there, confident and sure of himself, made me uncomfortable. Part of me didn’t want to be taught or led by an Asian man; it clashed with the role I was trying to hold on to — the proper British boy I thought I needed to be.
Photo by Harjinder Singh on Unsplash
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The school was divided into four Houses — Olivier, Constantine, Hilary and Britten. I was put into Constantine, the same House that my siblings were already in. Constantine had a reputation for being the more academic House, which only added to the sense of expectation that seemed to follow me from room to room. So in every classroom, when the teachers called out my name, there was always a pause. Then the question: “Are you related to…?” and they’d insert whichever name they recognised. I’d say yes, and before I’d even settled into a seat, I was already being placed through the names of the others. I was never just myself; I was always someone’s younger brother, introduced through them before I’d had a chance to say anything.
The teachers’ reactions varied. Some were pleasantly surprised and welcomed me with a kind of ready‑made approval, expecting I’d be a “good boy” like the rest of my older relatives. Others seemed taken aback, as if they hadn’t realised there was another one of us coming through. Whatever the tone, it carried the quiet mix of pride, pressure, and irritation that sits in the background of being the youngest in a well‑known family.
All of that sat with me as the first day unfolded. It was, of course, daunting. I felt clean and fresh, almost too put‑together, as if the neatness itself might slip if I wasn’t careful. I didn’t want to scuff my new shoes or get any marks on my clothes. The uniform sat properly, the bag felt organised, and I was trying to hold on to that sense of order for as long as I could.
Moving from classroom to classroom for each subject was completely unfamiliar. At primary school everything had been close together; here, every lesson meant a different room, a different teacher, a different set of faces. I kept checking and re‑checking my timetable to make sure I had the right place, the right time, the right floor. The teachers’ names blurred, and the corridors seemed to stretch in every direction.
I felt like I’d been dropped into a pinball machine — or one of those 15‑Puzzle games — constantly being shifted up, down and across stairwells and corridors. Pupils streamed past with the confidence of people who already knew the layout. I was just trying not to get lost.
