Digestible Jewellery
Jewellery is more than ornamental. There’s no denying that a Cartier love bracelet’s value does largely stem from an expression of one’s socio-economic ability to decorate oneself. However, these pieces certainly didn’t originate as symbolic markers of disposable income and decorative wealth. At the last formal I attended, this thought washed over me and the jewellery I was wearing, over the intricate silver necklace and dangly earrings, or Jhumkas, I had on, as I began to untangle what these items meant to me, and importantly, to those around me, beyond its decorative nature.
I bought the necklace and earrings in Pakistan, inspired by jewellery my mum had given to me. I fell in love with adorning these pieces because of their sentimental value, as items passed down to me by my mother, but also as a subtle way I could inject Pakistani heritage into how I present myself. I rarely wear traditional clothing, or anything resembling a typically Pakistani style, so these small pieces felt like an easy way to incorporate Pakistani culture into my wardrobe.
It felt much heavier than my other necklaces, almost as if it physically carried the weight of representing my identity. I remember asking my friends, ‘’is it too much?’’, but I didn’t mean to ask whether I was wearing too much jewellery, but rather whether I was wearing too much Pakistani jewellery. I was confronted with the need to recontextualise the object, seeing it on myself rather than on the screen of my laptop. It had been easy to save an attractive image of a beautiful necklace to my Pinterest board, but wearing it openly was a completely different story.
The different way I felt wearing the jewellery frustrated me. I knew in the moment why I felt this way – modern British perceptions and societal constructs of what ‘brownness’ is founded these feelings. I recalled the viral ‘Scandi Summer’ scarf trend, involving white women wearing scarfs typical to South Asian women’s style. As the name implies, the culturally appropriative trend neglected its South Asian history, as the style trended in a western-centric fashion market. It hurt me seeing how easily others could wear this scarf, while I struggled over whether I would be perceived negatively, or as ‘too’ Muslim or Asian, while wearing the same item. This moment of confusion, I realised, represented something larger than fashion, but all elements of my identity and how I wish to be perceived.
As an example, I wouldn’t wear my hair in a singular plait until I was well into my teenage years, fearing that I would look like an ‘aunty’. I have enforced these views upon myself, nevertheless, they grow from the context I have grown up in - a British nation navigating, race and identity with the impacts of a broken empire remaining in plain sight. The meaning of being British-Pakistani, as opposed to Pakistani and British, is still developing. Looking at myself in the mirror before I headed out, I questioned whether this jewellery was digestible enough, or if it was too much for their palate. How can I present myself in a way that’s digestible to those around me, yet expresses the culture people associate me with?
Upon reflection, I wonder whose palate I was attempting to cater to. It’s not that my own friends wouldn’t tolerate or respect my Pakistani jewellery, and my decision to express my culture through style, but still, I struggled with caution as I looked out for negative perceptions of Pakistani and desi culture in the UK. The jewellery I bought in Pakistan was politically loaded upon returning to the United Kingdom, politicised by my body and my context. This was the underlying anxiety with which I had worn my necklace. And, while positive compliments and assurance alleviated such feelings, I felt burdened by the thought process I navigated, and the feeling of having met my own body in such a politicised way.
Sanna Ali