Like thousands of children born to immigrant parents who sought a better life for us in Britain, the battle for identity has been my lifelong struggle.

When that dreaded question is asked (and it always is), what am I supposed to say when someone asks ‘so, where are you from?’.

I’m the daughter of an African man and an Indian woman. I was born and raised in Britain, but I’ve never felt enough to identify as any of those.

Like others who may find themselves at the centre of a ‘second generation identity crisis’, I am torn between multiple worlds, none of which I seem to entirely belong to.

From the moment I was born in Maidstone Hospital over twenty years ago, I have been living in my own ‘no man’s land’.

I’ve always been asked ‘where are you from?’ and the truth is I just don’t know how to answer.

How do I explain to people that I’m British but not white? Or that I look Indian but don’t even know how to speak a native dialect?

As a result I find myself constantly explaining, both my place of birth and my parents’, but really I should be asking myself why I do this.

Through all the diversity growth, through societal progression, why are we still asking this question, and more importantly, why are we allowing ourselves to answer it?

What was once asked out of ignorance, may be perceived as a genuine interest of someone’s background, but there lies the exact issue.

There is an assumption that even if someone is born in this country, they are told that it is their ethnic origin that defines them, even if this really is not the case.

A UK based not-for-profit, Young Foundation, looked into the perceptions of second generation immigrants and their responses indicated that identity is more than in how we look.

Some said: “British culture is all they know. That created feelings of alienation – not from their country of residence, but from their country of origin.”

And I can relate. My parents always seemed to represent these never-ending culture clashes in own my life.

My father’s family are of Asian heritage but had settled in British colonies of East Africa for generations after our ancestors joined the workforce there.

As a young child, with his parents and siblings, he fled Kenya in the 1960s after Black nationalist leaders in East Africa threatened the freedoms of the Asian-Africans.

Growing up from the age of eight here, my father spent his years transitioning into adulthood navigating his British identity with the life he once had; and it did not take long for him to take on the culture.

I’ve been told countless stories of his disco days during the 70s and 80s, where he would groove on club dance floors, DJ the night away and get so drunk he would pass out on the train and wake up in Margate.

As a result, when I’d ask my dad if he felt more Indian, African or British, without hesitation he would say ‘British’, and if asked where he was from, he would say ‘Africa’.

Perhaps he felt like me, struggling to identify with what I hadn’t experienced as much first hand.

Of the very few occasions I have travelled to my mum’s home country, to the locals, I am a complete stranger, someone they consider just another tourist.

I spend weeks as a mute, shamefully communicating with my own family through a series of facial expressions and hand gestures and when I enter a temple full of dedicated Hindus, I stare blank-faced at my surroundings knowing that I can count less deities than I can fingers on a hand.

My mum on the other hand is in her element in India, more than I have ever seen her here – she’s constantly longing for the warmer climate and the street culture.

When I was younger I remember being frustrated with how different we were.

I grew up with the liberal ideals my dad had, she was a traditionalist. I question everything but she is deeply religious and follows the path God has laid out for her. She always did as her parents brought her up to do while I wanted to follow my peers.

As I’ve grown older I’ve realised that perception is everything - I thought I was right and so did she, but really, we were both just reacting to what we knew best.

Now, I am saddened to think how difficult it must be for a mother to feel so different from her child, and how those differences would be reflected in the ways we were both treated.

I would watch as my mother would be talked down to for her broken English and how people would treat her for not instantly learning concepts that were the opposite of everything she has known.

Like author Kenne Kapukar says: “Watching how the person at the post office talks down to your father because he has a slight accent. Seeing how your parents are spoken patronisingly to at parent’s evening.

“Watching them alongside you, you get to grips with the harsh reality that is a place that was never meant, and will never be, for any of you.”

My place in this country will never be fully treated the same as my white peers here, even if we both have the same birth rights - but I have never had to work half as hard as my mum to earn the respect of others in England.

For all the sacrifices she has made for me: uprooting from her beloved home to a country unknown, letting go of a way of life she once only knew, I am filled with immense guilt to feel so different to her.

The unfortunate truth is that this is a situation that cannot be helped between first and second generation immigrant families – after all this is the life that they worked to provide for us.

Somewhere down the line, I hope that I will be able to embrace more parts of my parents’ cultures, but for now, I won’t be justifying myself every time someone asks ‘where are you from?’

English is not what I’m trying to be, it’s what I am.

I think we all need to start being a little more self aware, a little more patient and a little more accepting.

British people are no longer just white people you cross in the street. They’re British citizens fleeing abandoned colonies. They’re the commonwealth children of the former empire. They’re the Windrush generation sailing across seas.

British is beyond what you see.