Brown, AFAB and Neurodivergent.

ID: Sharon, a brown-skinned individual of Southern Indian descent with short black curly hair, stands in medical scrubs in front of a vibrant, blue-tiled wall. She wears a smile on her face, exuding warmth and positivity.

Growing up in a predominantly white “Australian” neighbourhood in the early 90’s meant

assimilation was key. I was given an “English” first name at birth so I would be spared the

indignity of having people not know how to spell or say my name. My last name is still very

Sri Lankan which gives away the whole charade, and figuring out my chosen pronunciation is a complication in and of itself. Instead, I was stuck between two cultures, with Sri Lankan peers who didn’t respect the anglicisation of my name making me “better than”, whilst the “true-blue” Aussies didn’t believe me that Sharon was my “real name”. I distinctly recall a primary school teacher admonishing my – and my parents by extension – lack of an “exotically beautiful name” as a sign of lost culture, of not being “different” enough because of my “special chocolatey-spicy-ness” (yes, her words!). My intersecting identities and visible characteristics mean that there are layers to discrimination that I face daily. I can (and successfully did so for almost 30 years) hide (or mask) my neurodivergent and queer identities. I cannot hide my skin colour. My skin doesn’t tell the story of my culture or lived experience, but it is the first thing that informs people about me.

With over a decade in public healthcare as a radiographer, many patients and other healthcare workers I interact with often feel justified in asking for my “real name” or “where do you come from”. As a neurodivergent person, this question brings up so many questions and my answers vary based on my expected response and the intent behind the question. My neurodivergence tells me to be honest and open, but it also tells me to be oppositional as it is – quite frankly – none of their business. It also tells me to ask more questions or be super literal.

One of my favourite but also confusing memories is meeting Guy Sebastian(famously Indo-Malaysian-Sri Lankan) at the peak of Australian Idol as a pre-teen and him asking me where I was from. I responded with the South-East Melbourne suburb that I lived in.

As a healthcare worker however, it is my responsibility that every patient seeking healthcare, has access to safe healthcare but I have never felt safe to be my authentic self at work. I love my job and consider it a ‘special interest’, but that doesn’t mean there haven’t been challenges. I always feel like I’m missing something, always having to keep up with all the unsaid implied non-verbal communication. There is a pressure to blend in, put on the kind and caring mask and “help people” in a bright light, noisy (sooo much beeping) environment that is constantly exhausting and re-energising my nervous system. It’s frankly exhausting but it is also completely, wholly rewarding. So I push harder to match my expectations of what makes a great radiographer, constantly adapting, determined to role model that behaviour for my students, at the cost of my functional battery. When I’m positive and passionate, this is a good thing, but when I’m overworked or tired and burnout sinks in, I’m aggressive, difficult or inflexible. The dialectic experience is confusing for my colleagues and rather than having compassion, it is seen as a flaw. Authenticity is encouraged, but only if it resembles neurotypical norms.

Sharing my last name and pronouns on an email signature invites questions, both said and

unsaid, from people who have their own ideas of my identity. Sometimes it is completely

validating, but it also means that I am expected to explain myself and justify who I am to

avoid the inherent assumptions. The same goes for disclosing my neurotype. Assumptions are made based on the medical model, where difference is seen as a negative. “You don’t look autistic”. We are familiar with the phrase, ‘if you know one autistic person, you know ONE autistic person’, but somehow, this doesn’t translate once you add the other intersecting identities. There is just so much overlap that assumptions and bias creep in, complicating the experience even more.

As a neurodivergent person of colour, spicy is multiply alienating. It highlights my

neurological differences by using language used to diminish and stereotype my cultural

background.

Spicy has negative racial connotations, it isn’t just “fun”. There are harms in the origin of the term in relation to neurodivergence, AND in the co-opting of the term by those who have never had it used against them. This is different to the use of queer which has been reclaimed by the same community that it was a slur to. The word “spicy” was deliberately used to belittle and bully me and those with similar experiences into submission, a forced behaviour that has had a direct consequence on my life, and my connection to race and culture. Historically, “spicy” has been used to stereotype Latin American, African and Asian cultures as exotic or fiery. Applying spicy to neurodivergence, exaggerates the stereotype for neurodivergent people of colour who already face compounded marginalisation. My skin, name, identity and voice are “spicy” because I buck the expected socialised norms of being quiet, demure, and submissive. It’s never said as a compliment.

Spicy tells me that I don’t belong. Spicy is also used to describe smell. As a child, people refused to visit my house because it smelled too “spicy”. At lunch and in the classroom, it meant I couldn’t sit with anyone because I smelled too “spicy” – whether this is due to food or body odour I’ll never know. I have learnt to be ashamed of that smell and now, I barely know how to enjoy eating, or make the food of my grandparents. I hope to one day be able to reclaim spicy as my own, but as long as (mostly) white neurodivergent people celebrate its use without acknowledging its harms, I cannot.

During childhood, my social, emotional and communication issues were hard to decipher if it

was due to a migrant experience or a neurodivergent experience. I still struggle to identify if

my behaviours are because they were culturally ingrained in me as a child, or socialised due

to my female presentation, or if it’s truly my identity. I’m still working a lot of it out and I

don’t know if I ever truly will. There is a lot of unlearning and relearning that I need to do to.

All I know is that I’m proud of my identity, and I’m grateful to be here to share it. About the Author: Sharon Ponniah (she/they) is a neurodivergent (AuDHD amongst others), queer non-binary AFAB 2nd generation Sri Lankan Australian who is short and fat with brown skin, living and working on Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung land. LinkedIn: Sharon Ponniah | LinkedIn