Bi-Fecta Zine

Page 1

A glimpse behind the curtain of my identities and how they intersect within my art.

By Ashley T.


AS A YOUNG, BLACK BIRACIAL, BISEXUAL WOMAN WITH TYPE II BIPOLAR DISORDER FROM TORONTO, I HAVE COINED MYSELF AS THE “BI-FECTA”



PINK is for every femme She, her, and them That I have awkwardly admired Sweating through my courage Trying to compliment more than her shoes. But my train of thought Got derailed deep inside her boobs. LAVENDER is for every other Who fits in no box, label, or cover That may be the exception on the form But has not been excepted, only accepted Into my crush swarm. BLUE is for a select number of guys The straights, pans, especially the bis That with whom I seemingly have no trouble To the point I'm no longer awkward or humble. Watching them try to compliment my shoes As their train of thought Gets derailed deep inside my boobs.


III WILL WILL STAND UP WILL STAND STAND UP UP

2008 2008 2008

My skin shines in the sun Like yours does I sweat the same salt As you do My skin breaks and bleeds Just like yours does A slave in my soul The homage I pay to my priors No longer a slave in shackles But still a slave in censorship The coal from the gems in your ears Masks itself along my knuckles The red river used to save your gems Runs strong with your demands My degree matches yours And I become your janitor Being covered in your dirty words As I clean your dirty rooms My human form is our human form We share the same anatomy And yet you measure to label Not exercise quality You painted your face To mock mine Now you want me to paint my face To praise yours I try to stand with my hands behind my back My choice not to fight You knock me down, choosing Dirty words, rope, and fire My soul passes on To live again To stand against you once more Soon I will stay standing My skin shines in the sun Like yours does I sweat the same salt As you do My skin breaks and bleeds Just like yours does


I CREATE MY ART UNDER THE NAME



Tonight—tonight you’re feeling rowdy and you want to be noticed. Tonight—tonight you want to be LOUD, obnoxious, and abusive. You don’t want to occupy space because you have the right; You want to excavate and erode space because you have the strength. It’s time to show your strength… You see me alone in the room, on the shelf where you left me. Where you’ve kept me. You only ever use me to make yourself feel better. When I’m spent, you sparkle and shine. You shake me, You spread me, You use me. I only go where you tell me, I only stay how you prop me, I say nothing. You drag me across your body, And rub me on your lips, Wearing me like a second skin. You trade and pass me around to your friends. You toss me around in frustration. You toss me around in celebration. When you’re done, When you’re spent, You feel tired and bored of me. You cast me aside as if you can no longer be bothered. You scrub me from your body, Letting our memories circle the drain. Letting the rowdy sticky sweat circle the drain. Forgetting the sparkle and shine, Letting it all wash away until the next time you feel rowdy. You put me back in the room and back on that shelf; You’ll use me until I’m drained and empty and need to be replaced.


I’m sorry for the pathetic rhetoric that seeps deep into your brain like an earworm eating away at any semblance of humanity. I’m sorry for the convictions that will drive a wedge between us. I’m sorry that you seem so late to the cosmic joke that is “normal”. I’m sorry that you can’t hear my laughter as I continue to live, breathe, shine, and thrive amongst the rainbows and glitter leaving all of my apologies behind.

1202

YRROS M'I

I’m sorry for being such a burden on your shoulders. Weighing down your reputation as glaring as a scar running deep and purple across your face. I’m sorry that my existence has caused you so much harm that it has depleted your intersocial stocks and caused the floor of your altar to sink deep into brimstone because of our association. I’m sorry that your sense of self has become a tarnished rust against my rainbow.


I AM A

MULTIDISCIPLINARY

ARTIST



Yes, I may be darker than some Lighter than most But that doesn’t change my danger When threatened by hood wearing ghosts You might call me Red-skinned You might call me Mixie It doesn’t stop Karen from calling the cops Or the appropriation by Becky Shadeism, Colourism It doesn’t matter the name I know when shit goes missing I’m the first one they blame Shadeism, Colourism They’re both internal hate A tool of distraction used by racists To help seal our fate Shadeism, Colourism They need to end So we can rise the fuck up And bring the Black Community to a mend


I USE ART TO GROUND AND REMIND MYSELF OF THE POWER I POSSESS TO BE A POSITIVE CHANGE IN THIS WORLD.


Have you heard the news? That’s right, there is no news. No articles filling your timelines about the injustice. No tweets about the newfound victories for the cause. No more vigils held side by side or across the space of the internet. The bathroom stalls no longer creak from unwanted double occupancy. Children no longer told their truth is invalid because of a lack of Earthly rotations. The mannequins no longer segregated by their “significant”, yet missing genitalia. Self-advocacy healthcare is a long-retired practice as tests are immediate and without question. The elitism of the Red Carpet has been trampled by the range of colours, genders, bodies, and neuro-types that fill the Silver Screen. Education systems are institutions of support and no longer platforms for elitist, ableist, racist, and sexist traditions and competition. The lumps and curves of anybody are no longer stigmatized or patronized, they simply exist without unsolicited “concern for health”. People have mental health conditions, not issues, as assistance is abundant and given without charge, shame, or guilt. Binders are sold in all department stores mixed in with the lace negligée and the cotton boxers, no assumptions. Trans rights, Black rights, and women’s rights are no longer terms as they are realized facets of Human Rights. Melanin is no longer demeaned as a blemish on one’s skin but celebrated regardless of its concentration. The name Karen has been removed from baby books and now pays rent on Merriam Webster’s pages.

COLOURFUL


The smooth slopes of accessible rails outnumber the stairs without the barrier or ignorance. Closets only hold stylish outfits instead of the beautiful genuineness of terrified people. Rape culture is dead, and the burden no longer rests on the shoulders of victims. 1% only describes the richness of fat in milk and not of a select population. “Coming Out” no longer means anything more than to exit one’s house. There is no such thing as “gay” marriage, marriage is for everyone. ScarJo no longer wears the skins of all her unlived experiences. The land has been returned to its Indigenous caregivers. The “Good Old Days” is just a collection of memes. Wage gap is only the name of the latest band. Red Pills only exist in The Matrix. Blue Lives have been defunded. Tokens only exist at arcades. No abandonment. No rejection. No fear. Just love. Just harmony. Just acceptance. No posts about the newfound victories because we’ve won them all. No TikToks exposing dangers because we’ve taken back the night. Have you seen the news? That’s right, there is no news. There is only our colourful existence.

2021

EXISTENCE


@BiFusionArts

Each piece I create is a small chapter of my visual memoire.