When I was young, I went through a phase of desperately wanting to be a mod. Yet even though I had a keen eye for the crisp sartorial nuances of this very British subculture, something ultimately wasn’t quite right. While my mod era was short-lived (I went to a club and someone threw a huge hulk of crumbling wall plaster at me, missing my head by a few inches), that phase stays with me for quite profoundly sad reasons. In pictures from that time, I see things now that I didn’t see back then. I was a brown-skinned, mixed-raced, wavy-haired mod. I’d never realised how far from the pale-skinned, straight-haired archetype I was. I looked like a confused mess. Someone trying to be something he wasn’t.
Though I’ve lived in London almost my entire life, I estimate about 50 per cent of people I’ve ever met would casually describe me as “Iranian” if asked. My mum is from Iran, my dad was from Essex. The longest I’ve been to Iran is a three-week holiday when I was 14. I’m the product of one white parent and one non-white parent. While everyone wants to know everything about Iran when they meet me, I’d say only 13 people have ever asked me about my Essex heritage, a fact that – weirdly – pisses me off more than the pernicious racist banter I’ve experienced in my life.
