Neela
Neela Devaki was an original.
She was reminded of this fact shortly after she stepped out of her cab and into the Fairmont Hotel, the main site for the North by Northeast Festival. Zipping through the masses of musicians, fans and industry reps, she felt sorry for the chandeliers, which loomed above like golden flying saucers, forced to light up the dull networking that buzzed beneath them. But a conversation between two art students, draped in curated thrift wear featuring strategically placed rips and holes, brought Neela to a reluctant halt.
“I was totally working on something like this for my final project. I guess originality really is dead,” one of the women sighed, taking photos of herself, duck-faced, with a pop-up art installation.
Neela skimmed the artist’s statement. The frosted toothpick statues of penises were “a comment on the current global epidemic of white demasculinization.” Why not just hang a red and white flag that said Make Art Great Again? Brevity was the true endangered species.
“You should still do it. All the good ideas are taken anyways. Isn’t that kind of freeing?” replied the other.
Neela snorted. She would never offer that sort of “comfort” to a stunted peer. No wonder she was bored with most of the art she encountered.
She considered sharing with these young women that she always knew she was on the verge of invention at the precise moment when originality felt impossible. That instead of surrendering to despair, she would needle in and out and through her brain until an idea surfaced — naked, stripped of predictability and familiarity. That this process often required her to sing a phrase over and over for hours until the syllables carved their own unique melody out of hollow air. She was certain that the reiteration planted the words in her vocal chords so that when she sang them, they carried the imprint of her body. By embedding herself into her song, she muted any risk of passing off mimicry as art. Why wasn’t fully committing to creation more desirable than observing what everyone else was doing and doing the same?
But defending the sanctity of originality to strangers at an art exhibit would make her seem like an egomaniac. And no one listens to a cocksure woman.
Instead, she resumed her course, shunning the other art displays jammed in between information tables, towards the elevators in the back. Once inside the ornate elevator, she furiously pushed the kissing triangles button to avoid being invaded by a friendly small-talker. When she arrived at the room for the panel, she glared at the Race and Music human-sized banner. Only someone who thought they didn’t have a race could have come up with that title. Unable to differentiate between “panel discussions” and “group therapy sessions,” she had almost declined this invitation until she beheld the glimmering word “honorarium.” She wasn’t in a financial position to refuse this rare offer of compensation.
A volunteer modelling last season’s lilac grey hair blocked the entrance, wagging the festival brochure at Neela. “I’m sorry, but this one is full. Would you like to see the list of the other events scheduled for this afternoon?”
Neela turned away and stared at the escalator ascending into the sunlight on the main floor. Before she could rush towards it, another volunteer tapped her on the shoulder.
“Nyla! We’re so glad to have you join us today.”
“It’s Neela. Good to be here,” she lied and turned to face a man who looked like an overgrown boy or a male comedian with white-tipped, near-erupting micro volcanoes under his moustache stubble.
“Right, of course, Neela. Like ‘Sheila,’” he said, playfully slapping his head. “My name is Mikey, by the way.”
“Mickey?” she responded, but he didn’t hear her as he placed his palm on her back and guided her into the room.
She was rarely nervous before an event and was puzzled by her uncharacteristic perspiration. She worried Mikey could feel her sweat through her ruby blouse until she realized that the wetness was coming from his hand. She shrugged casually, but his fingers clung to her, even when she stumbled over the sneakers of the men in graphic tees and chinos who had filled the standing room area at the back of the hotel ballroom.
When they reached the stage, Mikey quickly introduced her to the four panellists, three men and one woman, all of whom appeared to be in their twenties. They each greeted her with variations of “so honoured to meet you.” She would have gladly reciprocated, but her diligent moderator research had left her unimpressed.
“Thank you all for joining us for today’s exciting talk on race and music,” Mikey announced into the mic. The audience applauded enthusiastically, their festival lanyards flapping.
“As you know . . .” He paused until the applause trailed off. “As you know, this recent issue is one that we need to think more about. And to get things started, we have . . .”
He paused again, this time interrupted by the volunteer/bouncer Neela had encountered outside the room, who was racing towards him, waving a folded note.
“Oh, and um, of course, we acknowledge we are on Indigenous land,” he said. “Also, a big thank you to our sponsors. Without taking up too much more time, I want to introduce the moderator for today’s panel, Nyla Devaki.”
Mikey gestured at her with his sweaty hand and grinned. The audience applauded again. She smiled back at him with all of her teeth, because she was a consummate professional, even if she wasn’t getting paid enough for this bullshit.
“I have her bio here, but I think it goes without saying how amazing this human is and how lucky we are to have her here with us today.”
Then Mikey read the panellists’ bios, each one longer than the one before, and all of them featuring copious adjectives (visionary, distinct, powerful, influential), hyperbolic comparisons to music pioneers (Billie Holiday, Marvin Gaye, Joni Mitchell), and exhaustive lists of accolades acquired from organizations that Neela had never heard of. Sedated by the monotony of manufactured praise and the stench of carpet cleaner, she almost didn’t hear Mikey say, “Take it away, Nyla.”
After firming her posture and taking a sip of water (that she wished was vodka), Neela posed her first question: “What do you think is your most valuable skill or trait as a racialized musician?” She’d considered starting with a softer question, perhaps one about the panellists’ inspirations or current projects, but why waste time? All the male panellists reached out for her mic to respond but she handed it to the brown woman, despite her grandiose all-caps name.
“My most valuable skill as a POC singer is that I am here . . .” RUK-MINI declared, pointing to the stage. “I didn’t grow up seeing musicians like me on TV or in magazines. And I still don’t really see people like me out there. Representation matters, you know?”
Some people of colour in the audience poetry-snapped while the rest of the audience loudly applauded again. The slender white androgynous person who was crocheting in the first row nodded their head as vigorously as they hooked the strawberry yarn into what looked like the beginnings of a pussy hat.