Yet in both their work and their identities, both Singhs themselves trouble the simple idea of a coconut. Each mark rap videos among their most popular, and both are constantly skittering along the surface of a hybrid identity, code-switching at will. Superwoman’s popular rap anthem “IVIVI” — Toronto’s most-used area code is 416 — is a love letter to not simply the city, but the fact that it is made up of people from all over. It’s hard not to see a kind of celebration of Superwoman herself in the song; that if the whole world has come to this city, it has produced identities that, like Lilly’s, are similarly kaleidoscopic. Even in the most firm insistence upon an identity, there is always something in flux, an emerging sense of culture that is, paradoxically, most clearly marked out by its inability to be pinned down. What does it mean to be young and an immigrant in the early 21st-century Canada? It means to be a mix of everything — or at least, that is the ostensible message of both Superwoman’s song and most of her work. If JusReign claims immigrants should know about their culture, both his own work and Superwoman’s demands the response: “Okay, but which culture is actually mine?”

The trouble for immigrant entertainers is that this hybrid fusion of cultures is often illegible, or perhaps ineligible, to a mainstream audience. While most conversations about multiculturalism have focused on what we share in common, what we do not — and maybe cannot — share has proven far more difficult. After all, the contrast between those two ideals — of diversity as inclusion in a universal mainstream, or multiculturalism as everyone ensconced in their own cultures — is framed by a stark fact: Superwoman is vastly more popular and successful than JusReign. It’s of course due to more than just the ideological underpinnings of their work. Superwoman puts out significantly more videos, has worked hard to connect with both celebrities like Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson and Selena Gomez and other YouTube stars, and she has an endorsement deal with Smashbox cosmetics — where, fittingly, her line is called “Bawse” (that’s a phonetic spelling of boss, fellow olds). If she’s blowing up, it’s because she’s relentlessly hustled for it.

But fame is never simply a question of the inherent qualities of the famous. It’s also about what we as a public desire. Whether it’s Jennifer Lawrence’s carefully practiced, self-effacing charm, Kim Kardashian’s entirely unabashed celebration of her own body, or Channing Tatum’s cheeky, woke masculinity, celebrity is about what we want, magnified. Singh has built a career on broad relatability, but it is of that same hyper, celebrity kind. She is gregarious yet self-deprecating, funny yet often completely sincere. Her hustle, too, has itself become a key part of her appeal to a multiculti audience, a model of grit for a generation born to hard-working immigrants — and fittingly, is the topic of her upcoming book. Her popularity is in part due to her own appeal and determination, but also because, like all expressions of fame, hers is a canvas just blank enough where we can project our own desires for ourselves.