When my husband and I threw a belated party to celebrate our elopement, we had a simple dress code.

The electronic invite said — it's just a party, we're dressing up but no-one else must. Charlie's wearing a suit, Sashi's wearing a sari, you wear whatever you're comfortable in.

Absolute chaos ensued.

I was suddenly fielding calls from friends who wanted to wear saris but were worried that it might be disrespectful because they weren't Sri Lankan. They asked in hushed tones, is that cultural appreciation or cultural appropriation?

I said, why are we whispering?

Comically, I was fielding calls from my Sri Lankan aunties and cousins saying, ughhhh but now we have to drag our saris around the world because you're wearing one!

I don't have a secret guide

All I wanted was for everyone to be comfortable enough to spend a long time on the dance floor. I had no idea what was appropriate or who would be offended. 

People of colour don't have a secret guide. There's no update from a global people of colour association that says, here's the new flowchart on how to arbitrate on what's appropriate this quarter.

Many of us are as confused as everyone else. We're a large group bound together by only one factor — we're not white. So different things matter in different degrees to all of us, it's near impossible to speak as one.

I don't even like the term people of colour. The first time I heard it I thought of the Smurfs because they're blue. 

But there was nowhere to lodge a complaint or make a follow-up query. 

Every couple of months, there's a new issue that I must have the correct, concrete stance on otherwise I betray my group. My first experience of this was when I moved to Melbourne in 2017. 

At a dinner party, debate raged over the depiction of Apu in The Simpsons. At one point, everyone looked to me, the one person of colour at the table for my guidance. 

I apologetically shrugged. I wasn't Indian and I didn't watch The Simpsons.

Doing what feels right for me

As I toured shows outside Australia, the polite way to refer to myself changed between countries. 

I discovered that there is a litany of terms to avoid saying "not white". 

I travelled with Charlie who was just a person wherever he went. Until we got to Sri Lanka where he's referred to as a suddha — which translates to white person.

When I started writing jokes about trying to navigate these experiences, the main piece of feedback from online trolls was, why do you care so much about colour? 

I don't — I'm so much more than my identity. 

At some point I firmly decided that all I can do is what feels right for me. 

I started to refer to myself as a brown woman because that's who I see in the mirror. To me, that doesn't feel reductive but reflective. 

It was a relief to have solved the issue of what to call myself regardless of what country I'm in and who it may offend or make uncomfortable.

I took the same approach for the party. 

I told my friends that I'd love them to wear saris if they wanted to because saris make me feel beautiful and I wanted them to experience that. 

I told my aunties and cousins that the whole reason we eloped was to sidestep any formalities, so they really could wear anything.

In the end, they couldn't resist the opportunity to dress up in their saris either. 

An hour before the party, my aunties were laughing and chattering while lovingly pinning saris of my friends. It was a beautiful moment of connection between my family, culture and friends. 

The dance floor was swinging all night.

Sashi Perera is a comedian, writer and former lawyer based in Naarm/Melbourne. Find her on Instagram and Substack.