The first time I was ever asked to explain my identity was while I was in class in my Teacher Education program. Our professor asked the class to share our identity in whatever modality of expression that suited us. She gave us a few minutes to work on our in class activity, and said that we would have the opportunity to voluntarily share our work with the class when time was up. Surrounded predominantly by my white peers, hidden under my invisibility cloak of silence, I sat drawing away at a diagram of myself. It was a shabby little body portrait with arrows explaining the symbolism behind my illustration.

I was a wallflower for almost the entirety of my post-secondary education; often listening in awe at the brilliance and humility of my peers, agreeing with their remarks through discreet nods, doing my best to stay out of the spotlight; and swiftly leaving class at the end of the day to get to work on time. Though I had friends in my program, many of them didn’t hear me speak on a day-to-day basis, and I kept it that way. After all – surrounded by such greatness – what lived experiences could I contribute to the dynamic discussions regarding allyship and solidarity that my peers were so passionate about?

“Nelooka, I think YOU should share your work!”

I heard being called out by one of my classmates. I flinched and felt my stomach drop to the floor. For most of my teacher’s college experience, I did my best of just riding the waves, and letting others do the talking. I always felt like I didn’t have much of a meaningful opinion to contribute. I always felt two steps behind. Compared to my well read, Brene Brown and bell hooks quoting classmates, I was just never woke enough.

I could feel the silence creep over the room, as I apprehensively presented the purple construction paper scribbled with my identity towards my peers. I flipped the paper back around to face me, and gazed at it. 

Where do I start? (I thought to myself, italics will be internal dialogue)

This is me.

For those of you who don’t know, I’m Tamil. 

Oh, how unnerving that felt to say out loud.

I wrote my name in Tamil at the top but I don’t even know if it’s spelled correctly; I never learned how to write or read in Tamil. My parents wanted us to focus on learning English first, because they wanted my brothers and I to do well in school. Which was all right because I think I speak English pretty well now? I laughed nervously. 

Silence.

My classmates listened attentively. 

I continued.

I know I don’t always talk about it, but I grew up with a Tamil upbringing. I would say 50%, if not more, of my identity is Tamil. Up until the age of 12, I spent almost all of my childhood listening only to Tamil music – of which my favourite composer is A.R. Rahman. I even have a long playlist I could share if anyone’s interested. But from my teenage years onwards I also listened to a lot of rap and hip-hop. I don’t know – I like that stuff. I’m a huge fan of Jay-Z, which explains why I have on a Jay-Z t-shirt. (I actually own it). 

Silence. 

I also have drumsticks in my hand because music has been such a huge part of my life. I played the drums for a long time and I really enjoyed it until I felt too much pressure to be the best girl drummer. I loved playing for myself but as soon as I was expected to be the token brown girl doing it, it made me really nervous to play. I was my biggest critic, and I eventually stopped playing. I’d like to get back into it though. 

Silence. 

My drawing kind of looks like a Hindu goddess, which is funny because I was raised Hindu but I’m not really Hindu anymore - I’m more agnostic? 

I really didn’t want to explain this point further. I believe in karma – quite strongly – and I’m with the belief that doing good will bring good back to you. Other than that, my dysfunctional relationship with my spirituality was something I didn’t want to delve into. It remains a covert part of my identity that I’m not even sure that I understand, let alone explain to others. 

Silence. 

I breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of reactions.  

My hair is always in a bun because it’s hard to manage. I don’t find myself to be a put together person. I don’t wear heels, or dress well. It’s one of my insecurities. I think my whole life I’ve always dressed a certain way to avoid any sort of criticism; I never really dressed ‘girly’ but I think I would like to. That’s something I’m working on. Under my Jay-Z T-shirt I drew the pleats of a saree because although I’ve been wearing a saree since I was 16, I’ve only recently learned how to drape it on myself—out of frustration too, because my mom just wasn’t styling me in a flattering way. 

Silence paired with some muffled laughs in the back.

Some of you know that I drive back to Toronto pretty much every weekend (from Ottawa, roughly a four hour drive). The reason is so that I can spend time with my family, who are a huge part of my life. I also do it because I love eating my mom’s food. As much as I can make it myself, it always tastes better when my mom makes it. I drew a bowl in my hand with my favourite comfort food, which is puttu, sothi, and eggplant curry, or katharika kulambu. It reminds me of home, and is probably my most favourite meal ever. 

Silence. 

I have car keys drawn in my hands as well because I only really got the liberty of doing things; and going out with my friends after I got my car, after I got my undergraduate degree. My parents were really protective of me because I’m the eldest daughter in our family, but I still managed to do things that young adults do. I skipped class and hung out with my friends, went to parties, escaped from trouble, and did some wild stuff here and there, but I always made it home. After I got my car my parents were way more easygoing with me, but it took some time. My younger brothers got it a little easier than I did. 

Silence. 

Lastly, I drew a tiger-tooth (claw*) gold necklace on myself. I always wanted one but it’s meant to be worn during important events like weddings, and only my brothers got to wear it. I think that only men are allowed to wear it, which is why I thought that once I get the money, I should buy one. Just because. I don’t even know if I would wear it all the time, I just dislike the fact that it isn’t ‘normal’ for a woman to wear one.  

Silence. 

This time I left a long awkward pause, and looked back up at my classmates to signify the end of my wordy monologue. 

I was met with many colleagues high-fiving me, and expressing their gratitude to me for sharing my experience, saying that they thought it was so cool and how they had loved everything I had said. I felt a profound sense of pride for exposing this new vulnerable side of myself.  But I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed at the whole experience. I was given a platform, some time, an opportunity to share my identity, and I had totally butchered it with a diagram of myself that I compared to a “Hindu god.” What the fuck. 

After some self-reflection, and pondering of why I had made such a mockery of myself given that opportunity, I thought that it might have been due to the fact that I had never been given a chance to voice myself like that before. My experiences (to the average white person) are unique, but I’d always been privileged enough to have shared a similar sort of upbringing with my close-knit circle of friends. Thus, I had never thought anything was remotely special about me. I don’t have an ‘inspirational’ story to share with others.

The reality is I also really don’t know how to express myself, or my identity, or my Tamilness. I don’t know how to justly convey the intricate ethnic nuances of my childhood riddled with the trans-generational traumas associated with being Tamil, while still paying homage to the unseated nation state of Canada that has been my home since birth. I’m still learning about my own identity, and as I continue on my pursuit to become an educator I’m trying to inform myself of my own histories so that I can do a better job of explaining the identity that is unique to me. I’m still unpacking a lot of learning, and listening to the lived experiences of my family, friends, and even Internet strangers that facilitate workshops, group studies, and Twitter threads. However, I fear that no matter how I share my story, there will always be an audience that I disappoint, and that is the complicated position that I will have to cautiously navigate for the rest of my existence. If at any point, while reading my writing you cringed for any reason, please accept my sincerest apologies. I realize that I still have a long way to go, and there’s always going to be something new to learn. But for now, I think back to when I asked my classmate, after my long-winded ramble, why he had ‘volun-told’ me to share my work. He responded, 

“You deserve to be recognized for your beauty and excellence. You deserve the opportunity to have and hold space for yourself and have your story heard. We are not supposed to be here, but we continue to hold space, and make meaning.”

I still embrace those words, and let them remain with me as a reminder of my duty as an educator and a Tamil-Canadian woman, to continue to hold space. My words have meaning, and I deserve – just as much as any other person – to hold space, share and make meaning with my existence. Even if it is met with silence. 

About Nelooka Sivasheelan

Nelooka Sivasheelan is an aspiring educator. She (proudly) self addresses herself as the villain of her family, while still striving to succeed and please those closest to her heart. She enjoys the arts of film and music, and finds happiness in food and friends. She loves working with youth, and finds herself learning and unlearning with those that she surrounds herself with.