Over Time

I spent two summers as a camp counsellor. Every week, I’d make my group play the same game: they’d line up one by one, grab the old, knotted rope hanging above them, and swing over to a plank of wood a few feet away. If every member of the group made it to the other side, they’d win, but if anyone touched the ground, the whole group had to start over.

It always took a few failed attempts, but eventually the kids would realize that there’s really no comfortable way to fit eight humans on a plank of wood the size of two loaves of bread, even if they’re small children. So they’d get uncomfortable. They’d press together and grab each other to keep from toppling over, hanging from tree branches or standing on their tiptoes. They’d each take up as little space as possible, and reach their hands out to catch the person waiting for a turn to swing over.

“I took up so little space that for years I became voluntarily invisible, because it seemed like I’d be safer that way.”

Non-physical space isn’t too different from the physical kind. There’s only ever so much, and when we take too much, there often isn’t enough for somebody else.

As a kid, I was obsessed with finding belonging. I was aware that most of the kids I was growing up with didn’t look like me, that most of them were born here, and that most of their parents didn’t have accents like mine did. I was constantly afraid of exposing myself as too brown or too immigrant, as though my friends would one day discover the ways I was different and decide they wanted nothing to do with me after all. So I learned how to make myself small. I took up so little space that for years I became voluntarily invisible, because it seemed like I’d be safer that way.

Things changed as my world got bigger. I sat in classrooms where people who looked like me were unapologetic about sharing their opinions on global geopolitics or the influence of graphic novels on the literary canon. I saw people who looked like me on TV and in movies without thick, exaggerated accents, not blowing up buildings or driving cabs. I saw people who looked like me taking up space, and, slowly, I began to understand that the things that made me want to be small could help me be so big.

At the same time, I sat in university classrooms built on stolen land, watching settlers speak about reconciliation like it was something they could understand from taking one introductory course in Canadian politics. I fought for my right to speak over the din of Canadian-born voices talking about immigration law and the value of multiculturalism like it was something intangible, a theory rather than so many people’s reality. I noticed that those who seemed to feel most comfortable talking about the things that affected me did not look like me at all. They claimed their space, and at times, they claimed mine.

For those of us who exist in the “margins” of society, whose stories don’t belong in the narrative arc of what Canada is or is supposed to be, taking up space is layered with complexity. I made myself small so I could feel like I fit in, but others disappear as a means of survival. To be a minority is to be under near-constant scrutiny, because we are asked to prove that we are “Canadian enough” at every turn. As we see more and more bodies bruised and beaten by the police who are meant to protect us, as we see asylumseekers being turned away at borders or placed in lengthy detentions, as we see the fear of terrorism manifest itself as Islamophobia, we cannot forget that some of us train ourselves not to take up space because we believe it will keep us alive.

I like to think we each have a responsibility to claim our space. We each carry with us stories and values and thoughts and opinions that, when shared, enrich the lives of those around us. We should be responsible both for allowing ourselves to be heard, and for insisting upon it. But it’s not always that simple.

So maybe the best we can do is be aware of how much space we take from others. Only when we look critically at ourselves can we centre the voices of those who are most affected by the conversations we have and the beliefs we hold, and those who perhaps have the most to lose.

It’s by sharing the space that we ensure no one gets left behind.

I don’t always know when I’m taking up too much space, or too little, and I haven’t yet found a perfect formula for knowing when to shut up and when to keep going.

Still, I like to think it can be as simple as looking down at your feet on a tiny plank of wood, and making sure you’ve left enough room for the people who still need to cross.

words by tanvi bhatia illustration by sandeep johal