The Hidden Cost of Code-Switching: Reclaiming Authenticity in a Divided World

Every day, millions of people perform an invisible dance of self-modification. A Latina woman softens her accent in client meetings. A Black professional tempers his enthusiasm to avoid seeming "aggressive." A gay man deepens his voice and adjusts his gestures around colleagues. A woman in a male-dominated workplace laughs at jokes that make her uncomfortable, careful not to be labeled "difficult." This phenomenon —code-switching— happens so reflexively that many don't even recognize they're doing it.

Before we go deeper into this, allow me to be clear about one thing:  code-switching is how societies operate.  Code-switching is how relationships operate.  It is a societal construct. However, I am asking the reader to consider that role based code-switching (mother-son, teacher-student, employer-employee, choreographer-dancers) enables positive relationships while identity based code-switching (gender, ethnicity, skin color, faith, sexuality based) has negative impacts.

Code-switching is the act of adjusting one's behavior, speech, appearance, or mannerisms to navigate different social environments. For marginalized communities, it's often a survival mechanism learned early and practiced daily. The immigrant who anglicizes their name, the Muslim woman who removes her hijab for job interviews, the transgender person who modulates their authentic self-presentation—all are responding to an unspoken but deeply felt pressure to make others comfortable at the expense of their own authenticity.

I know it well. I've been code-switching since my pre-teen years. I became a teenager in 1972, growing up in Brooklyn in a Roman Catholic Italian immigrant neighborhood where people spoke Molise, Barese, Calabrese, Pugliese, and Sicilian—but very little "standard" Italian—along with English and lots of broken English. And I'm gay. You can see where I didn't exactly fit in.

Where did I code-switch? Grade school, high school, hanging out with friends, college, at every job I've worked, in public places, in bars, with strangers, on trial juries, at weddings, in church, on vacation. Now you might be thinking, "Wait—you just told us you're gay. You don't hide anything." But here's what you need to understand: people who are out still code-switch automatically, for safety or to make others comfortable. It happens in mixed crowds where some people know and others don't. And unless someone is tuned in, people don't assume you're gay—men just assume I have sexual relations with women because physically, in appearance and identity, I'm male. I can be "out" and code-switch as easily as switching from nose breathing to mouth breathing.

I can hide who I am rather successfully because I know when to deepen my voice and speak from the chest instead of my throat, mouth, or nose. I have a Brooklyn NYC-NJ accent. I grew up with that "TV mafia" pronunciation of certain words, and I can turn it on and off—unless I'm tired. When I'm tired, you're getting Brooklyn out of me: "nevuh," "sistuh," "wawdeh," "chawklit," "cawfee." But honestly, you're getting that during the day too. It all depends. Being gay is what I am inside. I don't wear it on my skin, because that isn't where it is.

But what if I did wear it on my skin? What if I'd been born Black, brown, or Asian? What if I'd been born in the US but grew up speaking Sicilian at home so much that I had an accent that wouldn't go away? Here's the thing: I'm absolutely white-passing, but my ancestry tells a different story. While my recent generations are effectively "white," my deeper ancestry includes European, Anglo, Arabic (Mediterranean, Persian), African (North and east-central), Asian (India, from those who migrated from the Middle East), and Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jewish heritage. Some Jews think I'm Jewish. Some Arabic people think I'm Arabic. Italians see my last name and know I'm Italian-American. I inherited the lighter complexion from my father's Naples region ancestors rather than my mother's darker Sicilian ancestors. I'm a mutt, but I still pass as white.

So I ask: how would my story be different if my skin was a different color? How would that have changed when or how I code-switch? I don't have the answer—that isn't my experience. But my heart beats and feels for everyone who does have that experience, especially today.

In our current political climate, where division, xenophobia, and bigotry are increasingly voiced without shame, the pressure to code-switch has intensified. When leaders normalize prejudice, it signals to those who harbor biases that their discomfort with difference is justified. This creates environments where code-switching feels less like a choice and more like a necessity for safety, employment, or basic respect.

The harm of constant code-switching runs deep. It's exhausting to maintain multiple versions of yourself, always calculating which parts to reveal and which to hide. Studies show it contributes to anxiety, depression, and a fractured sense of identity. When people spend years suppressing their authentic selves, they may eventually lose touch with who they truly are. Moreover, code-switching perpetuates the very systems that demand it—when we shrink ourselves, we tacitly accept that our full humanity is unacceptable.

Breaking this cycle requires courage at both individual and collective levels. It means choosing authenticity even when it's uncomfortable, speaking in your natural voice, sharing your real perspectives, and refusing to diminish yourself for others' comfort. It means creating spaces where others can do the same—actively challenging bias when we witness it and examining our own reactions to difference.

This isn't about ignoring context or professional norms that apply equally to everyone. It's about refusing to accept that who you fundamentally are—your accent, your mannerisms, your cultural expression, your identity—is something that needs to be hidden.

Progress happens when people stop performing and start existing fully. Every person who shows up authentically makes it easier for the next person to do the same. We build a more equitable society not by asking people to assimilate into comfort, but by expanding our collective comfort to embrace authentic humanity in all its diverse forms.

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Watch this video before taking time with the questions that follow.   The creator takes a more light-hearted view of code-switch as a necessity.  In the process, he shows his audience (you) examples of how they code-switch in everyday life.  It illustrates how pervasive it is and how society pushes all of us to take on multiple personalities in the course of the day.  One thing you should take away from this is that some code-switching is done by choice, while some code switching is done for various forms of survival (community, education, career, achievement, literal survival, etc.).

Questions for Reflection

1. When have you code-switched in your own life? Consider moments when you've adjusted your speech, behavior, or appearance in different settings. What prompted those changes? Were you conscious of doing it at the time, or did you only recognize it in hindsight?

   
   

2. How do you react when others show up authentically in ways that differ from your expectations or comfort zone? Think about a time when someone's accent, mannerisms, cultural expression, or identity challenged your assumptions. What was your initial reaction, and what might that reveal about the pressures you inadvertently place on others to conform?

   
   

3. What would it take for you to show up more authentically in spaces where you currently code-switch? If you've identified areas where you modify yourself, what specific fears or consequences keep you from being fully authentic? And if you don't code-switch, what privilege allows you that freedom—and how can you use it to create safer spaces for others?

By Democracy Is Us Council Member, Joe Castagliola