On a school bus ride in grade four, my friend Emily decided it would be fun if we all said our names in our native language. Hers was Spanish, my other friend spoke Punjabi, but when Emily looked at me, I froze. I only speak English, and I knew that Guyanese Creole would certainly not impress them. So I pretended I spoke Spanish too, and repeated exactly what Emily had said. Most people think I’m Indian or Pakistani. People tend to assume I can speak Hindi or other South Asian languages. I don’t know any Hindi, save for a few words I picked up from my grandfather or from watching the same films over and over. People are confused when I tell them I’m Guyanese, because most of them don’t know where Guyana is. Someone asked if I was from Ghana. It’s understandable—Guyana is a small space on a large continent called South America, nestled between Brazil, Suriname, and Venezuela.
Some members of my family have tried to make the distinction between being Indian and being Guyanese. However, I think there’s a difference between making a distinction and denying the root of your actual culture. We are Indo-Guyanese, which means our ancestry can be traced back to India. Some of our language is inspired by Hindi terminology, such as “Didi,” which we use to refer to an older sister. These traditions are mixed with other traditions from around the world to create a pastiche of identity.
The West had a big influence on the way Guyanese people view their culture. My parents grew up listening to country music because that’s what played on mainstream radio in Berbice, the region they grew up in. People I’ve grown up with always seem surprised that I know the words to Johnny Cash songs. Peers in my ninth grade drama class chuckled when I said that I loved listening to The Beatles. I think it’s confusing for people, even Guyanese people, to live in a society with traditional roles but still be somewhat attached to Western media.
In the tenth grade, I found out that one of my classmates, whom I’d known since sixth grade, was half Guyanese. I didn’t know that other Guyanese people existed. He and I engaged in a few discussions about Guyana, which mostly deprecated the country—and by extension, ourselves. I realized we were both coming from a place of deep disappointment about the terrible things happening in our home country. It wasn’t a disappointment in the people or the culture—it was anger for the oppressive systems that had been put into place.
“Colonialism ruined the entire world,” he said to me, and I said that there was no fact as obvious as that.
Meeting another Guyanese person allowed me to be more open about who I was when people asked, if they asked. I had a friend in high school who told me I sounded “white” on the phone, but acted “brown” in person. Yet, he said, I was his “favourite brown person.” Which translated to: I was the only brown person in our grade. I sound “white,” I suppose, simply because I don’t have a recognizable accent. Sometimes I hear the Guyanese cadence of my voice that non-Guyanese people will never hear. My acting “brown” meant my actions were small and I was “nice.” I radiated Asian warmth. I could find it in my heart to resent that if there were no truth in it. I get that warmth from my mother and my grandmother and I embrace it. My friend didn’t understand the nuances of growing up Canadian and having an Indo-Caribbean cultural background, and how could he?
At the University of Toronto, I find I am part of the pastiche of interculturalism: people from all over the world. No one I’ve met here really understands themselves deeply. I think we’re too young to feel that way, but today, it doesn’t pain me to explain what I’m made of. As a Guyanese woman, I have a rich cultural background. The embarrassment I felt speaking Guyanese Creole is long gone; I can speak it with my mom and my family whenever I like. I try to incorporate my culture into my writing by depicting people of colour instead of white characters, holding the understanding that this is only a telling of a story. I think that is important. What people read is viewed through the lens of their own story, not mine.
Only my family and I will share the innate sense of culture we’ve grown up with. The Bollywood films, food, Islamic practice, and Soca music have combined in a unique way that is all ours. That is what my culture is to me. I know that not everyone’s family feels that those are things of value, but that’s alright. When I look at the people around me today, on subway cars and in lecture halls, I know they all have their own unique combination of culture that they carry with them; some may view it as baggage, but even so, it is meant to be a shared load. It takes a special kind of strength to carry it together.
Comments are closed.