The Sari Conundrum: Navigating Identity, Culture, and the Dance Floor
What happens when a simple party invitation becomes a lightning rod for debates on cultural appropriation, identity, and the absurdity of modern etiquette? Personally, I think it reveals something far deeper about how we navigate our differences—and how often we’re all just winging it. Let me explain.
A few years ago, my husband and I decided to throw a belated party to celebrate our elopement. The dress code was straightforward: he’d wear a suit, I’d wear a sari, and everyone else could wear whatever they wanted. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. The backlash was immediate and, frankly, hilarious.
The Sari Dilemma: Appreciation or Appropriation?
One thing that immediately stands out is how quickly a sari became a symbol of cultural tension. Friends called, whispering anxiously, Is it okay for me to wear a sari if I’m not Sri Lankan? What makes this particularly fascinating is the assumption that I, as a person of color, would have some definitive answer. Spoiler: I don’t.
From my perspective, the idea that there’s a secret rulebook for cultural appropriateness is a myth. People of color aren’t a monolith; we don’t get quarterly updates on what’s offensive. What many people don’t realize is that we’re often just as confused as everyone else. The term people of color itself feels reductive—like lumping together every non-white person into a single, amorphous category. If you take a step back and think about it, it’s almost comical.
The Linguistic Gymnastics of Identity
Here’s where it gets even more interesting: the constant pressure to label ourselves correctly. Every few months, there’s a new term, a new debate, a new way to potentially offend someone. When I moved to Melbourne in 2017, I was suddenly expected to have opinions on everything from The Simpsons to the latest identity politics. At a dinner party, I was once asked my thoughts on Apu’s depiction—as if, because I’m brown, I’m the spokesperson for all South Asians. I shrugged. I’m Sri Lankan, not Indian, and I don’t even watch The Simpsons.
What this really suggests is that identity is a moving target, and trying to keep up is exhausting. Personally, I’ve decided to call myself a brown woman because it feels honest and uncomplicated. It’s not about reducing myself; it’s about reclaiming my own narrative.
The Party as a Microcosm of Cultural Exchange
Now, let’s get back to the party. My Sri Lankan aunties were equally dramatic, complaining that they’d have to lug their saris across the globe just because I was wearing one. But here’s the twist: by the night of the party, they were laughing and helping my non-Sri Lankan friends drape their saris. It was a beautiful moment of connection—proof that culture isn’t something to be guarded but shared.
This raises a deeper question: when does cultural appreciation become appropriation? In my opinion, it’s not about who wears what but the intent behind it. If my friends wanted to wear saris because they thought they were beautiful, not because they wanted to claim the culture as their own, where’s the harm? The line is crossed when someone starts profiting from or erasing the origins of a cultural practice. Otherwise, it’s just people enjoying something together.
The Dance Floor as a Metaphor for Life
By the end of the night, the dance floor was packed. Saris swirled alongside suits, and no one cared about labels or appropriateness. What mattered was the joy of being together. This, to me, is the ultimate takeaway: life is too short to police every interaction.
If you ask me, the real cultural appropriation would’ve been if someone renamed the sari the “sick Aussie wrap” and tried to sell it on Etsy. But as long as we approach each other with respect and curiosity, we’re probably doing okay.
Final Thoughts
The sari conundrum isn’t just about clothing; it’s about how we navigate our differences in an increasingly interconnected world. Personally, I think we’d all be better off if we spent less time worrying about labels and more time dancing. After all, isn’t that what parties—and life—are for?
Sashi Perera is a comedian, writer, and former lawyer based in Naarm/Melbourne. Find her on Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/sashbomb/) and Substack (https://sashiperera.substack.com/).
