For most British south Asians, Christmas is celebrated in much the same way as it is in other homes across the country. There is a large meal with the whole family, a tree and presents, Christmas music and cards, games played together and maybe even matching jumpers or pyjamas.

But for some, this is not enough. “We change our names for the day,” says Vicky Dillon.* For Christmas Day, he and his family assign themselves an English name. “It could be anything. This year I was Ron. Last year I was David. We all pick our own names.”

Although not rampant, it is a common enough practice. For many, it was started by the third generation in a migrant family but is enthusiastically participated in by the second generation too. “It started when I was at school,” Vicky, who is 28, explains.

“At school there were fake letter boxes outside each classroom and we would all write Christmas cards to our friends. There were decorations everywhere and carols and of-course the annual nativity play. And in the run up to Christmas you’d always hear from everyone about sitting around a big turkey, bursting crackers and then wearing the silly hats and playing boards games and watching Christmas movies with their whole family.”

Most schools today, have changed of-course. There are no letter boxes and obligatory card writing. The nativity play has been largely replaced or changed beyond recognition and inclusivity of different faiths and cultures is emphasised.

But for millennials like Vicky, whilst there may have been a tree and a handful of presents that the extended family gathered around whilst he was growing up, it was enough to fill like he didn’t fit in and could share with his classmates at school.

“It started as something silly,” he recalls, “a dare out of a Christmas cracker that said, ‘if you could change your name, what would you change it to?’” But it was the spark that light the fire. “I suddenly felt a lot more like how my white friends must have felt on Christmas Day and it made it a happier experience for me.”

Although his grandparents found the practice odd and didn’t partake, he was surprised when his parents and aunts and uncles enthusiastically joined in. But, reflecting on it now, he recognises that growing up in 70’s Britain, they faced a lot of (outright) racism and this practice may have made them feel a little more like those around them. Less othered. More integrated.

For migrant families, integration is a generations long struggle. For the first generation, especially that which came in the migrant wave of the 70’s, integration meant lawful abidance but because of systemic racism in the police, the unspoken truth meant that just being a good law abiding citizen wasn’t enough. You had to keep your head down and be wary of even accidentally straying into trouble.

For the second generation, it meant acceptance in the workplace. That meant turning down the aspects of you that alluded to your being an other - your asian-ness and dialling up being nothing more than a good, hard worker. No outside food, clothes or talk.

For the third generation, it has been a more cultural integration. Whilst many in the previous generation were brought to the UK as young children or newborn babies, the third generation was born here. They fitted in more than the rest and could almost, blend right in. Except for the colour of their skin and their name. And today, it is when colour of skin or name are picked up on, that micro aggressions occur and people feel most ‘othered’.

So changing your name for one day - arguably one of the most important days in the British calendar, integrates you just that little bit more.

*Name changed to protect identity.