tales of Suchita

I was born a man but I knew, even before I turned seven, that my body was wrong. I did not have the vocabulary to explain what was happening to me so I became an artist.

I would use reds, browns and blacks to create silhouettes. There were grooves and curves but only I knew I was trying to piece together a body that I could see in my dreams…always out of reach.

The art gave me language and though no one understood, I realized I didn’t need them to. It made sense to me and I was what mattered.

Then the art gave way to words and poetry. People started telling me that I needed to give context. So the very first painting I had done: a rust backdrop with what to me was a sinuous waist but to others looked like a river flowing through earth, I gave it the following words:

Through the valleys I flow, looking for a place I do not know, feeling like a stranger in my own home, merging with the ocean as I die. Maybe then my questions can finally lie.

The response was almost instantaneous. People not only understood what I was saying and feeling, they started to participate.

That’s when I realized while I had sought solace and expression in art, people found that same solace in my art. And I realized my mistake. By isolating myself, I had also been rejecting support, love and understanding.

The purpose of art, my mentor told me, was an invitation to participate. As a creative I was participating with life and navigating my confusion. As a consumer, people were finding their experience inside mine.

I was not alone in this feeling of otherness. Maybe there were only a few who understood my specificity but there were several who felt like strangers in their own homes.

It feels wrong to say I was glad but I was. What was unexpected was the courage that one moment of participation gave me: to make more art and write more poetry.

What I really wanted to do was draw myself as I saw myself. I needed more courage for that so I started drawing portraits for people instead. They would describe themselves to me and I would bring to life that vision.

Some requests were simple. A bald man wanted to see what he would look like with hair. A woman who didn’t think she was beautiful wanted to see herself as a graceful swan.

Then I met a young girl who wanted to see herself as a boy. She got spooked and ran away before I could complete the portrait. So, I removed any recognisable features from it and added it to my collection with a poem:

Can something you’re born with feel wrong? Can there be something done to change it? If grass has no wish to be a tree and yet we see plants grow as tall as trees; if nature and people can metamorphose into beings they aren’t supposed to be who then decides the truth?

It was only when I was old enough having lived inside a body I was grateful for and yet couldn’t fully appreciate or accept, did I gather enough courage to say:

Fear is strong but I love my fear for it has kept me safe. Safe until it became a cage. A cage that became unbearable until I remembered it was I who had given the reins of my life to fear. And it was I who was in-charge.

It made me laugh. I who was celebrated for my triumph and courage, was in fact a coward. So what did I do? I created something new.

I cannot be brave without being a coward. I cannot be a coward until I have something to lose. And until that most important thing is threatened, I cannot be brave.

I decided to be brave and instead of looking for myself in others and in the portraits I had made, I finally made a portrait of myself.

That was the day I understood: what I see is simply flesh and bones. What I feel is what makes me who I am.

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For Letter V, written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z