A Name Like Mine

Reading is probably my favourite thing to do. I connect so deeply with characters in whom I find glimpses of myself. I grew up with Nancy Drew, Enid Blyton, JK Rowling. Fell in love with Shelley and Eliot. Discovered myself in Bronte, and Browning, and Blake.

Except, as I touched the spine of each book, not a single one called out a name like mine. Elizabeth Bennet, Leopold Bloom, and Catherine Earnshaw never struggled with belonging in two places. No one ever struggled to pronounce those names. Or those of the authors who penned them into existence. They were outsiders but their skin never told their entire story and their accents never hindered them. Thus, their lives simply could not encompass so many of my lived realities.

My father marvels at my excitement any time I see people like me on a screen or in a book. I think the answer lies partially in perspective. He came here as an adult. After being nurtured in a land where he never had to prove he belonged. After feeling the warmth of a language that never challenged him. I came here as a child. Before I learned my brown skin could burden me. Before I grasped that my heart could belong in Canada and still beat for Pakistan. That is why it matters. We should be actively encouraging young immigrants to connect with their roots as they plant new ones here.

I didn't grow up reading Manto. Or bask in Faiz till I rediscovered him years later. Not because I didn't know South Asian literature and poetry existed. I simply didn't think it mattered as much. Particularly, to those around me. Their names sounded much more like the ones I regularly read. So why would they care about a name that sounded like mine? A name most of them couldn’t actually pronounce. A name I had been content to alter for their convenience. It took my parents resolutely affirming that my name was worth learning for me to insist that people make the effort to pronounce it properly.

On the bookshelves of my bookstores there were no places of prominence for those who sounded different. Their texts didn’t call out from the shelves, beckoning. Showing me that one day I too could be there. That I should confidently share my views. That others would read my stories. That my words could matter in equal measure. That my perspective was beautiful.

Amartya Sen penned it beautifully:

“Kautilya, the ancient Indian writer on political strategy and political economy, has sometimes been described in modern literature, when he has been noticed at all, as the ‘Indian Machiavelli’. It is amusing that an Indian political analyst from the 4th century BC has to be introduced as a local version of a European writer born in the 15th century."

My favourite authors encompass the globe. Jose Saramago wrote with a brutal vividness unmatched. Sahir Ludhianvi entwined politics and poetry in the most powerful ways. Pablo Neruda longed for home in a way I understand. Similarly, I’m lucky to have a mother who shared her love of Russian literature with me. It’s why I couldn’t put down Tolstoy. Why Lolita standing four foot ten in one sock enraptures me to this day.

Over 5 million Canadians belong to a visible minority. Over half the population of Toronto was born outside of Canada. Our curriculum and selection of books needs to reflect as much. Choosing texts that are more representative of our classrooms, will broaden everyone’s scope of exposure. We’ve finally started to see television shows with diverse lead roles, ad campaigns featuring people of all backgrounds and sizes. Literature is unique. The material doesn’t need to be created or re-branded. The richness of words from around the world has existed for centuries! It simply requires access and awareness.

We deserve to be heard. To be read. The spines of our books bear stories worth devouring.

P.S - I wanted to share my favourite poem by Sahir Ludhianvi. The poet of the poor and the oppressed forever changed how I saw the Taj Mahal. This version is an English translation:

Taj Mahal

The Taj, mayhap, to you may seem, a mark of love supreme
You may hold this beauteous vale in great esteem;
Yet, my love, meet me hence at some other place!

How odd for the poor folk to frequent royal resorts;
‘Tis strange that the amorous souls should tread the regal paths
Trodden once by mighty kings and their proud consorts.
Behind the facade of love my dear, you had better seen,
The marks of imperial might that herein lie screen
You who take delight in tombs of kings deceased,
Should have seen the hutments dark where you and I did wean.
Countless men in this world must have loved and gone,
Who would say their loves weren’t truthful or strong?
But in the name of their loves, no memorial is raised
For they too, like you and me, belonged to the common throng.

These structures and sepulchres, these ramparts and forts,
These relics of the mighty dead are, in fact, no more
Than the cancerous tumours on the face of earth,
Fattened on our ancestor’s very blood and bones.
They too must have loved, my love, whose hands had made,
This marble monument, nicely chiselled and shaped
But their dear ones lived and died, unhonoured, unknown,
None burnt even a taper on their lowly graves.

This bank of Jamuna, this edifice, these groves and lawns,
These carved walls and doors, arches and alcoves,
An emperor on the strength of wealth, Has played with us a cruel joke.
Meet me hence, my love, at some other place.

- Translation by K.C. Kanda, appeared in Masterpieces of Urdu Nazm published by Sterling Publishers Pvt. Ltd.

Recess Sucks

Have you ever seen Charlie Brown? Every time Lucy convinces him to kick the football, he tries but she pulls it away. Once upon my childhood, I was Charlie Brown. Recess started with me staring out the window, steeling myself – “I’m ready today. No matter what, I will not be bothered. Words are just words.”

Three times a day, five days a week; a sickly familiar feeling probably only understood by those who have also been bullied. I’d venture out valiantly, yet a few minutes and a cruel comment later, I would crumble. The barbed words didn't just sting, they seared me and I still have scars. Recently I was reminded that I am not healed. One minute I was buying concealer and the next I was face to face with a girl who bullied me in elementary school. A part of me wanted to forget, to meet her recognition with a hello, while the rest of me fumed. The angry little girl with her smouldering stare won. I said nothing, I walked away. That thirty second encounter was an emotional flood, and my scars suddenly felt very fresh.

Fascinated by astronomy, history, and genetics, I possessed none of the magical elusive qualities that bestowed grade school popularity. I only found safety in books and music. Words whisked away my worries and the coat tails of each music note enveloped me unfalteringly. The washroom was my most frequented spot; I often sought refuge there to read. Until some well-meaning teacher would arrive to firmly insist that I had to go and get some air. School was a toxic and tainted environment for me rather than a safe place. That air suffocated me with the unrelenting reminder that I didn't fit in, and it deeply affected my sense of mental and emotional well-being at the time. There is not a single teacher or supervisor who ever stopped to ask me "Why do you spend your recess in the bathroom”? I loathed their authority and glowered at their inability to appreciate my pain.

The reality is that bullying amounts to children breaking children. Particularly so with girls, who often engage in psychological abuse. That isn't to say I grew up in an era of unawareness. I sat through countless campaigns, handouts, and school events. But those efforts of a workshop or a slogan on a sticker left me deeply mistrustful. The perspective of hearing that it gets better is needed, but it isn't enough. Those words say hold on even though you have no more strength, endure and your reward will be that the pain eventually ends. It is demoralizing, not enticing.

Allies is what bullied children so desperately need. What they don’t need is to endure another hour long workshop declaring that “Bullying is bad”. I sat through those, infuriated. I felt alone and unheard. I was told “Just be you” and “It gets better”. But I was not told how that would materialize or even when I could expect acceptance. Many times I imagined standing up and screaming at some hapless presenter:

“Do you really think my peers are unaware that bullying me is unacceptable? No, they know that. What they don’t know is how or why to act differently. What they don’t know is just how deep my wounds go.”

Hearing those realities makes people uncomfortable, so instead we have children listen to workshops and adults talk about national strategies.

Speaking of adults, I can never forget how it stunned me to witness parents who defended their child’s inexcusable behaviour instead of owning it. It not only emboldened the bullies, it gave them security to know they were seemingly safe from reprisal. Do I buy the argument that many of these children don’t know what they do is wrong? Absolutely not. They may well not realize the extent of damage they can inflict, but it is ignorant to accept that they simply don’t understand any element of their behaviour as problematic.

If I sound angry, it’s because I still am. I needed help. The ad nauseum notion that the strength I needed was within me, or that children just need to be encouraged differently was not helpful. It was a slap in the face. I needed the school to understand. I needed my erudite educators to facilitate an environment where it was safe for me to share my pain. At 27, I’m an award-winning debater pursuing a career in law. Yet being bullied muted my bubbly extroversion for years; it crushed me. Am I stronger now? Definitely. In fact, I will soon be entrusted to be the advocate for others that I couldn't be for myself. None of that means those years were not hell personified or that I have no hard feelings about my experiences.

Much of this post is an exercise in catharsis, but it is also a plea to anyone involved in education. An anti-bullying campaign cannot consist of just one workshop, a movie, or a slogan on a sticker. It has to be a sustained and integrated module within the curriculum from kindergarten through high school. It is a conversation we need to keep having over and over, but differently than it happens right now. Bullied children need allies. They need tangible outlets, actionable strategies, safe spaces to reflect on their experiences and how they can cope. This is not about a singular event; it is about providing long term tools.

To the kid like me, stuck somewhere between their own mind and their lack of social graces, I know those years are brutal and hellish. I was there. I hope I can help you believe for yourself that some of the clichés are indeed true. That you are most likely among the people who will hold positions of power in your generation, people who will affect actual change. That you can grow to be celebrated for your differences which will indeed become your strength. I can say that because as I look back it leaves me dazed. I’m thinking about that girl who hid in washrooms and seriously, I almost can’t believe it was me. The waiting wasn’t easy, but I’ve grown up to have incredible friends and relationships. In these exceptional people I've found support, acceptance, and an ever ready endorsement for all of my quirks. I’m not quite “fixed", but my friends don’t expect me to be.

ADHD & Me

I walked into my final university exam armed with some knowledge, some dread, and a lot of Timbits. Those chocolate glazed wonders were more than just the salve for any particularly wounding questions; they were my strategy for slowing down. Most people want to do everything faster. Me? I need to dial it back about 50 miles. Processing at whirlwind speed is both a blessing and a curse. Fantastic in a debate, but it is a nemesis for almost every test you will ever take. Instead of writing “SLOW DOWN” as I had many times before, here I tried the Timbit approach. Read a question, take a breath, nibble, scribble, repeat. All in a quest to encourage my brain to walk, not sprint. When I sprint I trip, and that feeling is overwhelming – I shut down.

I’m neither unmotivated nor apathetic, yet this is how I have felt for much of my academic career. The reason? I have ADHD. Or more commonly known as why I have been called everything from a motormouth to a smartass. While having exhibited those characteristics, the way it affects my brain is different than a child who has just had too much excitement or too much sugar. For them, the lack of focus is temporary. It’s a phase that will wane. For me, it is a permanent state of being. No two instances of ADHD are identical. So what I share may apply only to me or you may well see a glimmer of resemblance to your daughter, your brother, or even to yourself.

Sometimes I wish it was labeled “having the energy to do lots and lots of things excluding the one thing you really need to focus on, except the times you can only focus on that one thing” disorder. Perhaps then people would have a better grasp of what it is like to constantly negotiate with your own brain. I say that because there are many prevailing attitudes which do not recognized ADHD to be an actual learning impairment. “You just need more sleep, a better diet, you’re just not trying, big pharma has duped you, drugs are evil!” Respectfully, none of that is helpful. As someone living with unbridled chaos in my mind, what I seek is understanding, and perhaps a little patience. So I’m hoping I can break down the bedlam.

Growing up, I was oblivious of why I blurted out answers in the middle of class, awkwardly inserted myself into conversations, or why my mouth would betray me – speaking even when my brain would admonish, just be quiet! My deepest hope was that being like everyone else would help me feel less alone. So I worked hard on being less myself - I learned to put up my hand, bite my tongue, and measure my words. Slowly, I mastered the betrayal of my inner spirit.

I want to learn, but I can’t hurt my brain in the process. It is counterproductive. The idea that all children learn the same way is about as ridiculous as assuming every person is capable of drawing or sprinting with equal ease and success. It’s been said that if a child isn’t learning the way we are teaching then we need to teach the way that child learns. I have rarely heard a more resonant nugget of pedagogical wisdom!

Learning with ADHD basically boils down to stimulation. I cannot sit there and just listen. You need to engage with me, not talk at me. When there is no participation required, it removes a major incentive to stay tuned in. I recognize that stimulation can be a double edged sword, necessary yet distracting. The key is a focused approach, one that keeps me present rather than pursuing a tangent in my head – I don’t need Facebook to tune you out!

Paper is actually the best way to organize my mind. I admit, I am an intransigent tree killer! In fact, I could probably drown in the Luddite Sea I regularly scribble all over. Paper works because it is tactile and therefore real, writing rather than typing forces me to slow down, and the page affords me the ability to draw arrows connecting disarrayed thoughts and even doodle in the corner when the need arises.

Throughout the majority of my schooling I got incredibly lucky. I was blessed with small classrooms and motivated teachers who let me explore the world through books, and challenged me to ask even stranger questions. I will be forever grateful for their long-suffering dedication to instilling in me the essential value of structure, all without stifling my creativity or my curiosity. Similarly, I went to an alternative high school. Our teachers sometimes jumped on tables to make a point, we rolled bowling balls down hallways in the name of science, and no subject seemed to be off limits. I couldn’t wait for university. That gleaming ivory expanse where I could focus on the subjects I loved. It actually turned out to be a brick wall, and I hurtled through it at full speed. Throughout my years there, I hated lectures. Even when I loved the material, being spoken at was unflinchingly tedious. I felt like a tiny invisible ant, desperately trying not to be crushed by the very rock I was working to push up the hill of learning.

The stunning fact is that I had no idea as to why till I was 20. I was identified as “gifted” at the age of 9 and despite the high comorbidity of ADHD, no one ever quite figured it out. All I knew for most of my life is that my brain is a maddening binary between hyper focused and a lack of any focus.

Remember the seesaw at your childhood playground? Up and down, over and over. A flash of infinitude happens, and you’re suspended equal to your partner. That instant is my mental sweet spot. It’s the horizon where everything is clear and I am fully present. Before I knew how to use coping mechanisms, I experienced that clarity about as frequently as Halley’s Comet (Hint: Rare). The point is, I have difficulty directing my attention in a sustained way at a consistent level. But my diagnosis is not a crutch, nor do I ever want it to be. I have control over medication, finding alternatives like paper and Timbits, and vocalizing my struggles so those around me become pillars of support. It’s a potent combination which has empowered me both interpersonally and academically.

For many others, they have neither the benefit of alternative schooling, nor the support of understanding family, friends, and teachers. They desperately need a seismic shift away from traditional and inflexible models of education. Until that happens, a sizeable contingent of smart and otherwise capable children will continue to quietly declare, “Drone on, oh mighty ship of learning, drone on."