8/3/2019 Finding My Muse

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When I think about how best to express whatdrives me, I am often reminded of a story myAmmamah (grandmother) told me as a child

- the story of Peter Pan, by novelist J. M. Barrie:

Come with me, where dreams are born,

and time is never planned. Just think of

happy things, and your heart will fly onwings, forever, in Never Never Land.

So why begin with a fairytale? One of myearliest memories is lying in bed with myAmmamah, as she told me stories of distantplaces amazing characters. In making melong for Never Never Land, the story of PeterPan taught me about the importance of having

dreams and being vulnerable to the world.

While growing up, trying to preserve thesehopes was difficult; particularly when it came

to sustaining the imagination and creativitythat they had inspired. Unlike the freedom offairytales and nursery rhymes that animatedme as a child, the maturing expectations tobe dutiful, successful, and hardworkingbegan to shape a much more normalvision of the future.

Negotiating my bourgeoning sexuality as anadolescent with these expectations began witha little curious questioning. Why did I like topretend I was Xena, Warrior Princess?

Why was I attracted to boys? Was it normal?

What did this mean for my future?Did it even matter?

Rather than run from or repress suchquestions, I started asking more. I sooncame to realise how little I knew about beingattracted to persons of the same-sex.But I chose not to obsess about it: whether itwas what I thought I knew, or ought to know,I allowed myself the personal space to beopen to something different.

In a society that continues to naturalise

heterosexuality, or at the very least

assume it as the norm, disclosing

that you are gay is both a personal

and political struggle.

Despite accepting my sexual and intimateorientation, the public demand to comeout and label my sexual identity becameincreasingly burdensome. Like an anxiousobject to be claimed. My family had no openlyout gay or lesbian people. In fact, the issue

was never even mentioned.

I began to wonder if the term

gay even existed in Tamil.

With this in mind, I felt I had a duty to behonest, and to express my sexuality with pride.

Coming out, though, was anticlimactic.I distinctly remember the mix of relief andtrepidation embedding into my skin numbingme to the consequences of disclosure.Any preconceptions I had about how myparents would react were dissipated in themoment of saying, Yes, I am gay. By utteringa small, but infinitely complex phrase, I wasno longer in control of my desires. They hadbecome dispossessed, something for othersto gaze upon and judge.

When I reflect on this moment, I am reminded

how as a young Sri Lankan Tamil-Australian

teenager growing up in Sydney, I could never

isolate my sexuality from the other parts of

my identity. I was not simply different becauseof who I was attracted to, but the colour ofmy skin also marked me as Other in manyconversations about Australian nationhoodand citizenship.

Could I be Tamil, Australian and gay?

Did I have to choose? Where could I belong?

While the feeling of invisibility graduallybegan to grate on me, like the shallow cutsof a razor, I slowly began to question whyit was so important to be to fit in and be

like everybody else?

Challenging the illusion of normalcy wasdifficult, but oddly relieving.

Once I left school, I confronted some of theseunanswered personal and political frictions.In a fated last minute subject change atuniversity, I found myself immersed in a worldof gender studies, politics and law. I sooncame to realise that you do not need magicto change the world.

Reading the words of Audre Lorde and Michel

Foucault, I became entranced by theories ofemotion, power and politics. Queer wordsbecame queer worlds and my mind began toinhabit new spaces of thought I had never beencompelled to reach.

One quote by Audre Lorde from her bookSister Outsider, in particular, continues to

resonate with me:

How do you deal with things you believe,

live them not as theory, not even as

emotion, but right on the line of action

and effect and change?

Captivated by the power and poetry of suchwords, I began to realise the importance ofspeaking up and following your passions.I joined Amnesty International, and beganto nurture the passion I had for the futureI had imagined. From voluntary activism,to professional lobbying, discovering newcapacities to engage in social justice and

communicate to diverse communitieswas a most welcome gift.

However, no matter how much

visibility I was able to claim, I was

never really finished coming out.

Despite working in an area where myprofessional and personal life is indexedaround my intimacies and politics, the constantdemand for sexual visibility means I place bothmy sexual and cultural orientations on theproverbial table. In doing so, I have becomeconsistently preoccupied with finding ways toenable them to coexist.

Undeniably, such emotional labour is taxing.However, I continue to persevere: optimisticabout the possibilities for both personal andpolitical transformation.

I want to close my reflections by returningto where I began, using words of one of myfavourite fairies, the sassy Tinkerbell:

!You know that place between sleep and awake,

the place where you can still remember

dreaming? Thats where Ill always love you...

Thats where Ill be waiting.

From the spaces of dreaming to social action,realising my passions, both political andpersonal, began by embracing curiosity.

Like the inimitable Tinkerbell, I tooam committed to pursuing my

passions for future where difference is

celebrated, not homogenised or hated.

We just need to find our muses to do it.

!"#$"#%&&'(&')*+ by Senthorun Sunil Raj