How the day I first heard 70s rock shaped my identity.

Like many people, music for me is often tied to memories. There are a number of songs that remind me of specific incidents in my life. I very clearly remember the day I first heard rock and roll. We had been living in Canada for a few months and I was about 4 years old. We had moved into an apartment on Pendrell Street in the west end of Vancouver. My aunt and I were walking down Davie Street rounding the corner from Jervis Street to the Super Valu to buy some groceries for dinner that night.

It was a hot day so I had taken my shirt off. This is something I did often in Dar es Salaam when I went for walks with my babysitter Joyce. On this day, we ran into a family friend from back home in Tanzania. His family had arrived in Canada a few months before us. He is a nice guy and remains a family friend to this day. My family looked to him for advice and guidance on living in Canada in our first few months since, at the time, he had about twice as much experience as we did with Canadian culture.

He and my aunt had a pleasant conversation and then he looked down at me. He tisked and scolded me for not having a shirt on. “This is not Africa! Boys in Canada do not walk around without their shirt!” I remember this clearly in English, however he spoke to me in Swahili (the only language I spoke at the time). I was embarrassed and looked to my aunt for protection. Instead she nodded at me, as if to say I should listen to the man. So I put my shirt back on.

We parted ways and continued to walk down the street. I remember feeling a little shaken and flushed for a few minutes, as I always did when reprimanded by an elder. After another few minutes, I was shaken from my thoughts and feelings by the sound of really loud music. I didn’t know it at the time but would learn later that day that it was a popular rock song. As we walked, it got louder and soon enough I saw a tall man with long hair and cut-off shorts holding a large loud stereo on his shoulder that was playing “Taking Care of Business” by Bachman Turner Overdrive. It was a fantastic song.

But here’s the important part of this story. This man was not wearing a shirt! He was strutting down the street with confidence, with loud music, with no shirt on! I was bewildered. I looked at my aunt, who was seriously frightened and gripped my hand more tightly. But then she looked down at me and we both smiled at the same time. Then the man looked over at me and winked as he walked by.

It was in that moment that it hit me. This tall, lanky, white man from Canada and this little brown boy from a coastal town in Africa had a lot in common. We both liked rock and roll and we both liked to walk down the street without a shirt on. How different could Canadians and Tanzanians be really? Over the course of my childhood, as I met people from Canada and other immigrants of different ethnicities, I did not see them as dissimilar from me.

Of course, there were some differences and, in fact, as I look back, there was a lot of racism. My brother experienced it, as did my mom and dad. I did, too, but I was oblivious to it and I believe it was because of that man and that song. As I grew into adulthood and into my career, as I travelled to parts of Africa, Europe, Russia, the Middle East, I looked for the similarities and I found them easily. It gave me confidence to build relationships easily.

When I originally wrote this post, I ended here. But more recent explorations led to some new memories and insights.

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A few weeks after I originally wrote this post, this past September, I was attending a coaching class at Ivey Business School. We were in a session on diversity and inclusion. At one point, the professor looked at me and asked if I would be comfortable talking about my experiences with this topic. I looked around the room and recognized that I was one of only two people in the class from a visible minority and realized why she was asking me. In that moment I recalled that for most of my childhood, after seeing that rocker on Davie Street, I did not feel at all that I was ethnic. In fact, I am embarrassed to admit that during my childhood I very much disassociated myself from my heritage. In fact, I remember telling my Mom when I was five or six years old that I wanted to change my name to Sam. I wondered if it was because I witnessed the racism that my mom and brother experienced and went into a self protection mode. Whatever the reason, that question from the Professor prompted some deep reflections.

I shared with my classmates a personal memory of a moment in grade 9 Science class, when a friend said to me when she realized I was Indian. “No way you are Indian! You don’t talk like an Indian or dress like and Indian”.

For a brief moment, I received that statement from my friend as a compliment, but I don’t think she meant it as one. I recall that almost immediately feeling shame wash over me for experiencing it as a compliment. You see, I had recently made friends with a girl from my community who connected me to a few others and for a few months I had been hanging out with them on the weekends. I was really enjoying my new friendships and the connection to other East African Indian youth from the Ismaili Muslim community. We had so much in common as our origin stories and family circumstances were so similar. But I did feel like I was living two seperate lives. From Monday to Friday afternoon, I spent time with my “white” friends and from Friday evening to Sunday afternoon, I had this “secret” life with friends from my community.

From the day I received that “compliment”, I made a conscious effort to embrace my culture openly and integrate my “secret” identity with my public identity. It did not happen overnight, but eventually I was proud to announce to anyone that was interested that I was a Tanzanian born Indian Canadian of Ismaili Muslim faith.

I recently read some research based on the work of psychologist Dr. John W. Berry, a specialist with CIFAR’s Social Interaction, Identity & Well Being Program. The article cited statistical research that confirmed that immigrants in Canada that felt a sense of belonging to Canada while continuing to embrace their own culture (integration) experienced a much greater sense of life satisfaction and mental health than those that assimilate or those that cling to their own culture to the exclusion of mainstream society (seperation). I have certainly found this to be true in my life.

So, while I am still crazy about 70s rock to this day, I am also a fan of Indian film love ballads.

Do you remember an instance where you tried to assimilate instead of integrate? What did you learn from that experience? I would love to hear from you. Comment below or reach me at shakeelbharmal@icloud.com.

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