Decoding self-oppression

It’s important to speak about the ways in which the world marginalises you, especially when you come from a minority background, or don’t have access to the same opportunities as others. Representation pic

There is a particular way in which the feeling of inadequacy sits inside the body. I imagine that it first floats around the periphery of your consciousness in the hope of nesting inside you. It manifests in the form of other people's opinions of you, especially those who are convinced they know you better than you know yourself. It preys on your innately human propensity to be prone to suggestion. Soon enough you think maybe so-and-so is right, I'm not as smart, I'm not as intelligent. Before you know it, you have internalised the shame you are made to feel about a lack of familiarity with a subject. "What, you don't know XXX, have you been living under a rock?" "How can you not be aware of XXX?" Questions such as these formed the backdrop of my life. I have a clear memory of epistemic violence when I moved from high school to Junior college. I felt intimidated by those who had been privileged enough to study boards other than SSC. They appeared so much more confident, better read than me. Until then I had felt a sense of pride because I was such a regular visitor to the school library. In college I felt, often, like the country bumpkin. I had never taken to Enid Blyton or Roald Dahl, staple childhood fare for everyone around me. My mother had told me about an author named William Shakespeare. She told me to consider reading his work, and so I had. Then, for some reason I came upon the collected works of Tagore and fell in love with his kind of scholarship. By 15 I was immersed in the writings of the Bronte sisters. But in any average classroom I was made to feel, frequently, like a tube light.

I want to talk about this sense of feeling delayed by circumstances, how certain kinds of lack of privilege determine how we perceive ourselves, how we undermine our intelligence. In my first year of college, because I had visited my brother and sister-in-law in Abu Dhabi and had had the audacity to go along with the suggestion to have blond highlights, I was the butt of many jokes. Apparently it was not the right choice for my shade of skin. I have the memory of ‘Dumb Rosy' jokes, and later, the memory of my peers mocking me when I sought out the company of Indian English poets and talked about them. I was accused of name-dropping. At every turn my genuineness was imbued with an intentionality that was projected upon me. When I hear, today, from young people about academic bullying, I wonder if what I experienced was something along those lines. From being an extroverted person who was really great at organising things in school and bringing out the best in people and collaborating with communities to undertake initiatives, especially in the Youth Group and through the church, I started to hide my light. I found I needed immense encouragement in order to feel motivated enough to apply for something. During my under-grad I think there were just three professors who really encouraged me or saw something in me. I doubt I was ever able to replace the nurturing environment I had encountered in school. I have carried that feeling of alienation with me all my life.

I'm recounting some of these painful experiences because I think it's important to speak about the ways in which the world marginalises you, especially when you come from a minority background, or don't have access to the same opportunities as others. Even ten years ago, when I met people in Delhi who were doing their PhDs abroad, I felt so much awe and envy and shame, like they were somehow better than me. Until I realised they were simply better privileged. It has taken so much to undo my own complicity in my oppression. As a female writer, authorship is something I have had to fight for. I have had to decolonise my mind to understand I was never ‘late to the party' I was simply not invited, or had to gatecrash to protest my exclusion. Last week while I was looking for a piece I had written, I came upon an essay in a very important publication, about art in the public realm and was shocked to find that an important piece of activist work that I had been responsible for initiating was credited to another person, a friend, in fact. The writer of the essay had got their facts wrong and it really felt like something was taken away from me. I had been painted as the supporting cast when in fact I had been the protagonist. It brought up a lot of these insecurities about how much I have to fight against how I am perceived. How my scholarship is only ever acknowledged belatedly. I'm writing this to tell you that if you've known this feeling of inadequacy that eventually grows into Imposter Syndrome, you're not alone. I've been there. I see you. I feel you.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx

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