I love the quiet that the sea brings. The lulls of its steady rhythm, the coos of the winds breaking against it. It’s meditative — sacred.

I often think about the duality of it, about how the sea is constantly changing but remains the same sea my ancestors have sailed on, fished from and grown from for thousands of years.

Growing up, my mother always brought me to the beach when I was mucking up or feeling sad. She often remarked how a day at the beach seemed to wash away any worries I had.

My mother explained it as reconnecting with your source. As Indigenous people, we are spiritually tied to sea and country; if we are away from them long enough, parts of our spirit get tired and become lost.

See, I am a second-­generation Torres Strait Islander born in Sydney. I have never been to Erub (Darnley Island). I have never known my culture on my country. I have never heard the sounds of the warup being played under Meriam skies. I have never felt how the Erub sands shift under my feet as I dance a kab kar.

However, I have heard the warup being played under the roof of the Aboriginal Dance Theatre Redfern. I have felt the hard smoothness of church floors as I kab kar for my cousin’s first shave. I may not have known my culture on my country, but I have known it through my community and family.

Culture shock

I knew my upbringing was different from those who grew up in the islands or in Queensland, but I was never made to feel as if that were a bad thing. That was until I went to Bamaga (in Cape York) for the first time as a child.

I was a long way from Sydney. Where Sydney had cold cement paths, Bamaga had hot red dirt.

The air tasted different, thick with humidity and the promise of rain.

Kids walked together down the road as camp dogs followed them in hopes of adventure and food. The calls of their Akas as they growled at them to “hurry up one”.

The rhythm of Bamaga was foreign to me, and it was one that I both adored and was heartbroken by. It was the first time I discovered I was different.

I was playing with some other children, who were around my age — that small piknini age when our bellies were still chubby and our laughs still had that twinkle. We played in the yard of my grandfather’s property, climbing trees and being a nuisance. I relished the freedom in how we played.

I had never been called that before. It confused me to be told I was something I clearly wasn’t. My skin is brown, my hair is dark and I had that Reuben smile. I had always seen myself as Blak, my dad a proud Larrakia man from Darwin and my mother a proud Erub woman.

I grew up in Redfern with kids like me, where black came in many shades. So, you can probably understand my confusion. My family, who had just been giving me so much joy, were now the reason for my tears.

Their insistence on my “whiteness” drove me to the comfort of my mother’s arms. Frustrated and bewildered, she rubbed my back, trying to ease me of a pain I couldn’t articulate.

Bless, my mother gave them a good growling, but the damage was done. I was now the little girl that was not Torres Strait Islander enough.

‘Why do you look like that?’

You can imagine my surprise when, a few years later, I discovered I was too Torres Strait Islander for my Aboriginal family.

I had gone up to Darwin for the school holidays. I loved Darwin and still do. I love the wall of humidity that hits you as you leave the airport, laksas for breakfast and, best of all, being on country — my country. I love how my skin seems to glow, and my hair seems to thrive in the heat. I’m made for that country, but my Aboriginal family saw it a bit differently.

My family was celebrating Territory Day. We had come to­­gether to feast on fresh crab, adobo and barbecue. The men sat at the back, drinking their beers, while the women enjoyed the cold comfort of the air-conditioned lounge room.

My cousins and I did what every other Territory kid did and ran wild with sparklers in our hands. We thought we were wizards. It was a genuinely magical night for me.

My cousin Nene had invited her next-­door neighbours to play with us, a girl and a boy. The girl was taller than us, with long straight hair and bright-­pink sandals. She looked at me, confused.

“Why do you look like that?” she said.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“I thought you were Nene’s cousin?” she examined pointedly.

I looked at her and then at Nene, my eyes pleading for some backup. Nene sighed and rolled her eyes. “It’s cause her mum is Torres Strait Islander.”

The girl eased. “Oh, so that’s why you look like that. You’re not Aboriginal. You’re not a proper Cubillo.”

My stomach sank, and I felt myself shrink again. My cousin didn’t defend me, but she confirmed that I was tainted because of my Torres Strait Islander heritage — somehow not worthy of my Aboriginality. So, I found myself in that weird position again. To the people around me, I was neither.

Love, passion and the spirit of our ancestors

As I grew and matured, I began a complicated, almost paradoxical, relationship with my identity. A dance of contradictions.

I had learnt to be a chameleon, being who people expected me to be, all because I didn’t feel like I truly belonged. But identity is a lot like growing up. There are growing pains. The person you were is not always the person you become. It takes time.

Looking back at these moments as an adult, I understand them differently now. I look at them with kinder eyes.

I look back at my visit to Bamaga as a time not defined by my family calling me white, but by the warm vibrancy of a Torres Strait Islander household.

The type of household where the old people will growl at you and give you the biggest hugs. Where the smells of damper permeate the air and leave your belly hungry. The way the room goes quiet when we pray before eating. The way jokes are to be made at every opportunity just to make those old women do an “aunty” laugh — the gut-­sore kind. The way the night fills with the bright sounds of reggae. It was paradise. A Shangri-­La. I belonged there.

I reflect on my time in Darwin and remember how my uncle soothed my heart. He reminded me that I was both Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander, and even though he was an Aboriginal man he could speak Yumplatok. He had learned Torres Strait culture while learning Indigenous dance in Sydney. He made me feel like there was room for me in my family.

And even though I may not be connected in the ways that other Torres Strait Islanders are, I know that I am blessed.

It’s like the sea. My culture is continuously changing, but it remains the same culture my ancestors had for thousands of years. And just like the sea, my culture is my life force. It’s sacred.

Aaliyah-Jade Bradbury is a proud Indigenous woman from the Larrakia Nation of Garramilla (Darwin) and Erubam Le peoples of Meriam Mir. She is the first Indigenous woman to win an Emmy Award, for her work as a producer on the film Harley & Katya (2022).

This is an extract from Growing up Torres Strait Islander in Australia from Black Inc Books, out now. Light edits have been made.