We do not have to leave behind the things that make us who we are…

You do not have to name English books to sound well-read. Embrace what moves you. Speak what matters to you. You do not need to hide yourself. Authenticity is its own kind of fluency. Our literature, our roots, our memories, our stories, they are the fabric of our being and are ours to carry, wherever we go.

By Beena Vijayalakshmy in Toronto

You carry the roots, the dreams, the stories of where you come from, and they carry you, even as you walk new paths. 

— Toni Morrison

I was recently invited to speak at an MBA Essentials leadership event in Toronto, primarily designed for newcomer women navigating their way in Canadian professional life. The session wasn’t just about business. It was about curiosity, growth, and the quiet work of expanding one’s mind. One key piece of advice shared was simple but powerful: stay curious, read widely, and explore ideas beyond your comfort zone.

A curated reading list was also shared, featuring diverse voices across genres and designed to spark reflection and encourage ongoing learning.

Then a hand went up. “African literature is what moves me,” the woman said. “But if someone asks what I read, should I pretend it’s the English classics?”

The room fell silent. In the stillness, I felt a recognition as familiar as it was unsettling. Her question carried the tension I have known all my life, the pull between who we are and who we are expected to be, between the stories that shape us and the stories we are told we should admire.

I found my mind drifting to the African writers who had always made me feel seen, even from thousands of miles away. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, whose stories of family, migration, and identity feel intimate and vast, like a conversation whispered across oceans. 

Abdulrazak Gurnah, whose quiet prose captures exile, memory, the ache of remembering where you are not. Ayaan Hirsi Ali, whose writing confronts courage and freedom in the face of difficult truths. Warsan Shire, whose poetry bleeds longing and resilience. Leila Chatti, whose words pulse with rhythm and honesty, like footsteps on uneven streets.

I may not remember them all, but I carry the honesty of their writing. They wrote their bold truths and expected the world to meet them there.

Her question also reminded me of another memory, from my years in a global consulting firm. I was visiting an offshore office, circa 2003. During the short stay, I shared a temporary desktop with a colleague who worked nights, supporting US hours. On his computer were unabridged scripts of ‘Seinfeld’ and ‘Friends.’

This was the era before YouTube — before streaming made them instantly available. When I asked why, he said, “I’m preparing for when I go onsite. I don’t want to feel clueless when everyone talks about these shows.”

It reminded me how much invisible yet conscious effort we put in just to belong. How we translate ourselves, anticipate expectations, and try to fit into spaces that were never built for us. How survival sometimes means knowing the punchlines before the jokes are even told.

When we visit, I remind them of customs that once required no thought: never receive something with your left hand, never address an elder by name, always be intentional and polite, and so on. And yet, I am often reminded, gently or not, that I haven’t taught them enough, that parts of their roots remain foreign. To them, these customs feel alien, like another language, like a song without words.

Even after fifteen years in Canada, I live in the in-between.

My accent softens, but it never vanishes. My habits change, but some parts of me, my love of literature, my bond to my hometown, its secular and vibrant culture, remain untouched.

I connect most easily with those who understand the unspoken.

Some parts of me have never fully adapted, and perhaps that is alright. I carry with me, always, that small-town girl who was lucky enough to journey far from where she was born, holding her stories, her language, her rhythm close, letting them guide her wherever she goes.

To the woman who asked the question, I say “Absolutely not”. 

“You do not have to name English books to sound well-read. Embrace what moves you. Speak what matters to you. You do not need to hide yourself. Authenticity is its own kind of fluency.”

The word “Immigrant” is spelled C-O-U-R-A-G-E. When we leave a familiar world of comfort for an unknown new world, we adapt, we translate, and we make efforts to belong. But we do not have to leave behind the things that make us who we are. Our literature, our roots, our memories, our stories, they are the fabric of our being and are ours to carry, wherever we go.

Perhaps that is the essence of living between worlds, holding home in one hand, reaching out with the other, learning that belonging need not require surrender. That we can be all these things at once, yet remain whole.

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Beena Vijayalakshmy is a writer and translator with roots in Kerala, now based in Toronto. An avid reader and lover of literature, she has edited two poetry anthologies — Bards of a Feather, Volumes 1 and 2, and curates a literary page on her social-media handle that showcases the work of poets, writers, and artists from around the world for a growing global audience. By profession a management consultant, she balances her corporate career with a lifelong commitment to literature and the arts. In keeping with her philosophy of lifelong learning, she is currently pursuing a degree in management at the Rotman School of Management, University of Toronto. By her own admission, she prefers to remain on the sidelines in the quiet spaces between prints.

Article and picture: Courtesy American Kahani

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