I am often thinking about the line between public and private, the way it wavers, blurs, disappears. In a world of social media it is a question for everyone, and not just for the stars, royalty, politicians. For me the question broadens into the realm of work. Where do I begin, and where do ‘I’ end. The ‘I’ must interrogate my place within power structures, within cultural narratives, within relatability.
My academic research was about a community I am part of, through my father. It was an ‘objective’ approach to examine storytelling, but because it was not a culture I participated in on a daily basis I was constantly negotiating my position in the work, my lens in the re-telling, my biases, my outside-ness and my inside-ness. The story of me became integral to the condition of the research. And, as my professional career has progressed, my approximation to this culture, one that is less known in the wider world, means I have become a tool to crack into these spheres - I have the connections to find the stories, the ethics to (re)tell these stories, and the background to approach the stories with questions that avoid the exotic. And yet, as a minority within a Western media landscape I am constantly proving my legitimacy to be in a space, I am selling my story - of Asian-ness, of indigenous-ness, of women-ness, of brown-ness - to participate in a capitalist system. My ‘ness’ allows for me to be the teller of tales. The ‘I’ is on show.
I am undoing and redoing myself in a public space so that you, the reader, can understand me, can put context to my words.
When travelling, flying over the globe, the world below looks like a flourishing petri dish – dots on a film. I have travelled so many miles, from one island country to another. Even my place of original birth is an island – the enormity of Australia belies its island-ness, but it is a floating landmass. I say ‘original’, as it is technically my place of birth but it has no reflection on the person I am today; it did not birth me. I have been birthed many times, in many places, made whole in different spaces. Been made undone, heart-broken, realities rocked, futures crushed, only to find new ways to anchor myself. To discard a skin of existence and find new home, new life.
This is an excerpt of an essay, for a collection out next year published by Anamot Press. I feel such a deep need to explain myself, to put words to the I, as a way to explain - defend? - the ‘I’.
I do write about things that aren’t related to myself, which is why I love my work in drinks, or reviewing restaurants like they are star signs. But, even then, even when asked to do a reported piece, a profile on someone, a deep dive into an ingredient, I am tainted by my interrogation of self - of why I exist. I am influenced by the colonial powers that shaped every land that has ‘birthed me’. I cannot look at space, at place, at location and not see the painful powers that shaped it, that has shaped me. Can we talk about American whiskey and not acknowledge the stolen land that now grows the only trees allowed to age the spirit? Can we see spirits and not see the forgotten spirits of people who grew the cardamom and coriander that infused flavour and legacy into gin? Can I interview women in hospitality and not see the intersections of race and gender, even if that question is not directly addressed; or the access to funding, to legitimacy, to clout that evades women and minority genders on so many occasions?
I am undoing and redoing myself in public space to see how powers intersect.
My father is Iban, an indigenous community in Sarawak, and my mother is a New Zealander of predominantly Scottish heritage. The continued crossing of borders and cultures has made me acutely aware of changing identities. My work consistently looks at identity, race and gender and looks to decolonise the cultural spaces we live in.
This is the second paragraph of my bio, on my website. I state to the world my otherness, so that it can be understood. So that the image of me matches the identity of me. So that my name has context. I must state that I am fluid in my cultural identity, so that I can show that I can connect with you, too, reader. That ‘I’ am not foreign in my other-ness, we can be connected, we can intersect.
I confess that I enjoy this interrogation, this dive into the personal to explore the public, the power and glory. It makes sense to me to acknowledge my lens, so as to never be the voice for, be the words for, be the lament for. But still, I would like to be sent to the Maldives to write a travel piece on what books to read whilst sunbathing and drinking cocktails with cocktail umbrellas. Of course I would return with a story of climate change. I am my own killjoy.
To be thought of as frivolous, have legitimacy in frivolousness, is what I crave between the interrogation. I miss Eater London and being able to update my Martini map and the Restaurant Star Sign maps - two of my most favourite pieces of writing. With the question of frivolity I also question the selling of my story - have I made myself frivolous in putting my story, again, and again, in the forefront of my work?
Can I leave myself undone? In public, bearing all.
I am holding multiple identities in my hands.
I have written this so many times, in so many different places I have no idea when I originally said it. I guess my phd thesis. It is my refusal to see myself as caught between worlds, it is to see myself whole, always. I am plagiarising myself, in my repetition of expressing ‘I’/ I. It is both a performance and a needed exercise, to find the way to anchor myself. This is I, 'I' say, over and over again.
In my essay in East Side Voices I write “I am a migrant who calls more than one place home. My story becomes interwoven with each location, and each location becomes a part of my identity.” I unpick my identity for others like me, and I forget the need to explain myself. Redoing me, like shifting in a yoga pose to ease out the tightness.
The chapter I am working on at the moment in my book: my editor said she was drawn to it, as a place to start in our detailed edit - as opposed to working from start to finish. We speak about the line in it “reading this has made me cry in the British Library.” She said, with kindness, compassion, awareness, and apologetically: “I don’t want you crying in the British Library, but…”
Undoing myself in the public spaces, and redoing myself on the pages of a book.
I sell my trauma. But I also don’t want to frame it like that. I want to show the working, show the navigating, show the power in the redoing. The kindness in the undoing.
The navigation of what is private and what is public is continued. At present it feels that I am up for grabs, the ‘I’ is blurred with the I. But my relationships with people get to be my private, the conversations are secluded. The words beyond the ‘but’ are the private negotiations, feeling a way through on the vulnerable in dialogues; the crying can be public.
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