Issuu

CHOOSING

DESTIGMATIZING

LOSING TALKING

unspoken CHILDFREE

SEX WORK

FRIENDS ABOUT GRIEF

M AY 2 0 2 2

Difficult Conversations + NEW Experiences

Welcoming new ideas and sharing stories from the shadows of shame

Embracing the Taboo

CONTENTS

unspoken MAY 20 2 2

RIENDEMIC F Covid took its toll on many things, not the least of which were some friendships. by Mya Fraser

EEK & HIDE What S was supposed to be a summer fling quickly turned into an obsessive nightmare. John Smith shares the story of how he became the victim of a female stalker. by Clarissa Nguyen

VOLU M E 1 / IS SU E 1

ON THE FRINGE 6

THE ƯUNWANTED MARK Local artists are seen as Michelangelo by some, and vandals by others. by Conor Hammond ADDRESS UNKNOWN Ghost kitchens are creative culinary experiences. by Brookelyn Truong P, APP AND AWAY U Nightly deliveries can be challenging; hungry customers want what they want. by Sawyer Wan ASTE THE WASTE T Canadians throw out 13 million tonnes of food each year. Some folks are finding creative ways to make a difference. by Gabrielle Rossignol UNDER THE TABLE International students can find themselves forced to get creative to earn cash. The good, the bad and the ugly of undocumented work. by Jessica Chu

NEIGHBOURHOOD WATCH Can new solutions for homelessness and drug use shine a light on a better future? by Justin Boys

WITHOUT SHAME

DON’T OVARY REACT Does it hurt down there? Book an appointment. by Hao Duong PUT THE CARD DOWN Former shopaholic Keina Gutierrez found her way out of a shopping addiction. by Catalina Castillo

Are millennials too in love with botox? by Kaeley Avery

OUCH AND GO T Is it time to move past the taboo of sex work? by Andie Bjornsfelt

AMPERED H HEALTHCARE More than two years into the pandemic, healthcare workers are leaving the industry altogether. And replacing them has never been more challenging. by Gabriele Liessi OUL DATE How S stepping outside of your comfort zone could help you make more friends. by Gimena Machado

RIEF ENCOUNG TERS Grief counsellor Jan Bryant lays out the misconceptions of processing loss. by Robyn McCullough

40 A MAN’S WORLD

Women and people of colour still don’t have equal footing on set in Vancouver’s film and television productions. What will it take for the industry to change? by Lauryn Jamison

IN THE SPOTLIGHT

19 A LOT IN

QUESTION With queer spaces closed during the pandemic, many people found quieter ways to explore gender and sexuality. by Sinead Grewcock

TER If cosplay is about dressing up as fictional characters, why do social factors like race and body types matter? by Valerie Pham

24 FOREVER YOUNG?

16 BEHIND CLOTHED

DOORS Tattoo artist Matt Lin leaves a permanent mark. by Ada Sun

GOODWILL TALKING Breaking down the counselling taboo in post-secondary institutions. by Eduardo Gevenez

34 OUT OF CHARAC-

43 OPTING OUT More

women than ever are choosing to be childfree. But will society listen when all they want to hear is the sound of a baby crying? by Vy Nguyen

46 SMOOTH OPERATOR

COVER PHOTO ILLUSTRATION: GIMENA MACHADO (0RIGINAL PHOTOS: SHUTTERSTOCK); PHOTO (THIS PAGE): SARAH MCCUTCHEON/UNSPLASH

Men are waxing down there, and it’s not as painful as you might think... or is it? by Eduardo Gevenez

MAY 2022 unspoken

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EDITORS’

NOTE

From left: Eduardo Gevenez, Vy Nguyen, Lauryn Jamison and Gabrielle Rossignol

masthead EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Anicka Quin CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Catherine Mullaly EDITORS

Eduardo Gevenez, Lauryn Jamison, Vy Nguyen, Gabrielle Rossignol MANAGING EDITORS

Conor Hammond, Lauryn Jamison, Gabrielle Rossignol WRITERS

Beauty in the uncomfortable Welcome to the first issue of

Unspoken magazine: we’re thrilled you found your way here. As we write this in April, the global pandemic is becoming something of a new normal, and we are slowly beginning to move on with our lives. We thought it might be a good time for reflection. We know that everyone has felt alone in one way or another, especially over the last two years. You may have felt the weight of isolation, witnessed your loved ones struggling, or had trouble hanging on to a job. We know it can be difficult to talk about these types of issues, simply because no one else does. So we’re looking to change that. Unspoken is a platform for stories about taboo subjects ranging from dating and sex to politics and harassment. It’s about those “unmentionable” topics that many of us rarely hear, see, or read about. So we created this magazine: a collection of unvoiced stories that will no longer live in the shadows. We wanted to create a safe space for readers to be comfortable with feeling

PHOTO: GIMENA MACHADO

uncomfortable, to normalize topics that are generally hard to talk about, and to bring out the beauty in difficult subjects. Whether it’s exploring what it’s like to come out during a pandemic (page 19), destigmatizing counselling services (page 22), or helping a loved one through grief (page 37), we hope Unspoken will become a place where readers can relate to the stories of others and feel inspired to share their own experiences. Our world seems so focused on always saying the right thing at the right time, and leaving no room for error. But at Unspoken, we believe that if we leave no room for mistakes, we leave no room for growth. Our intention is to create a respectful, mindful and considerate community, but we cannot do so without being reflective, empathic and open-minded with ourselves and others. So, while you read Unspoken, be curious, be flexible, and do so without shame.

Kaeley Avery, Andie Bjornsfelt, Justin Boys, Catalina Castillo, Jessica Chu, Hao Duong, Mya Fraser, Eduardo Gevenez, Sinead Grewock, Conor Hammond, Lauryn Jamison, Gabriele Liessi, Gimena Machado, Robyn McCullough, Clarissa Nguyen, Vy Nguyen, Valerie Pham, Gabrielle Rossignol, Ada Sun, Brookelyn Truong, Sawyer Wan PHOTOGRAPHER

Gimena Machado ADVERTISING EDITORS

Eduardo Gevenez, Valerie Pham, Brookelyn Truong PUBLISHER

School of Communication Jane Ince, Co-Chair janeince@capilanou.ca Unspoken magazine is published once a year by the students in CMNS 490, Group Project in Publishing, a course in the Bachelor of Communication Studies degree at Capilano University, 2055 Purcell Way, North Vancouver, B.C., Canada, V7J 3H5. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part is prohibited.

— Eduardo Gevenez, Lauryn Jamison, Vy Nguyen, Gabrielle Rossignol

MAY 2022 unspoken

ON THE

FRINGE Graffiti artist Mehow stands in front of Leeside tunnel, surrounded by local tags.

The Unwanted Mark

Local artists are seen as Michelangelo by some and vandals by others. And that doesn’t stop them. b y C O N O R H A M M O N D

“T

here’s a specific kind of person, somebody who wants everyone to know who they are but to remain completely anonymous at the same time.” —Ryan McGinley, New York graffiti artist. “Some people think it’s chaos, but it is really organized chaos,” says graffiti artist Mehow as he leads me through the fog at Empire Field into a surprisingly brightly lit tunnel. Immediately, my eyes are transfixed on a vast array of colouring in the form of graffiti tags. Alongside the spray-painted

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bold lettering is an eerily detailed portrait of Chucky from the Child’s Play horror movies. The tunnel, Leeside Skatepark in East Vancouver, was named in tribute to skateboarder and graffiti artist Lee Matasi, who was murdered outside the Red Room bar in Gastown in 2005. For the first few years of its existence, the City of Vancouver fenced off the area to prevent artists from painting it. Only through the diligent work of the graffiti and skateboarding community cleaning up the area has it now become a haven for art-

ists who want to come down and paint without the fear of being caught and arrested. While graffiti and painting on walls has been a part of existence since humans lived in caves, the origin of the alternative art form that is modern-day graffiti can be traced back to the 1970s in New York City. Spray painting teamed up with other underground movements like the hip-hop and punk scenes. New York City was the ideal environment for this edgier type of art, as the streets at the time were overrun with crime and chaos, and artists

captured the mood of the city with aerosol spray-paint cans and the walls of buildings. Only recently have artists been able to go mainstream with their tags for major corporations. Notable L.A. artist David Chou was hired by Facebook in 2005 to paint their office, receiving his payment in company shares from the soon-to-be social media giant. A profitable decision like that one receives mixed feelings from the graffiti community, says Mehow. “I personally think that if somebody can change this into a positive, so be it,” he says. “However, a lot of people think when you are working for big corporations and making money off of it, then PHOTO: CONOR HAMMOND

you have turned your back on what the true thing is.” That true thing is what has municipalities at odds with graffiti artists. According to a Global BC report in October 2021, since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic Vancouver has seen a 70-percent rise in nuisance graffiti reports. The city has also doled out $500,000 in grants to help local businesses paint over graffiti. While many business owners are calling for stricter enforce-

Address Unknown Ghost kitchens provide an opportunity for creative culinary experiences while keeping up with the fast-paced delivery trend. B Y B R O O K E LY N TRUONG

PHOTO: RICH WON

ment, other companies provide space for graffiti artists to paint. One of these locations is on a West Pender Street lot in East Vancouver rented by the Overdose Prevention Society. In August 2021, they unveiled a 12-story mural featuring the work of over 37 graffiti artists. Mehow describes his style of tagging as “bold and legible,” which he says is easier to do nowadays: the paint has improved and doesn’t run out as quickly. However, he does

understand the risks each time he heads out: his hobby has resulted in a five-week jail sentence for tagging the side of a train. “You’re looking over your shoulder. It’s like you’re robbing a bank thinking, ‘Is it now? Is somebody going to pop their head up now?’” he says. “Then when you see it during the day, there is a sense of accomplishment and you think, ‘I did that.’” That adrenaline rush is what keeps the artists

painting. While the city has stopped cracking down on locations like Leeside Skatepark, Mehow doesn’t think lawmakers will make graffiti fully legal anytime soon. “There’s always going to be a kid that takes it too far and tries to set a new boundary.” That could lead to a business getting tagged, drawing the ire of the owners. So for now, it’s about keeping a head on a swivel for these artists in search of their next blank canvas. ■

businesses. None of the companies working out of Coho are caught in a long-term lease, and the shared space means that rent is considerably lower than it would be for a dedicated restaurant. Ashton Philips runs Salty’s Lobster Shack food truck in Metro Vancouver, A small corner of and notes that food trucks have also Coho Commissary seen an uptick in business during this kitchen, as chefs are time. “About five years ago, it began preparing food to trend that quick service to-go was for customers. moving up 18 percent,” says Ashton Philips, “while sit-down dining was trending down by 25 to 30 percent from previous years.” During the global pandemic, t’s been a difficult period for restaurants, but it’s meal-delivery apps like Uber Eats, DoorDash and also been a time of innovation: a new food service SkipTheDishes exploded in popularity in a short period industry has exploded in popularity. Ghost kitchof time. But the takeout and delivery trend is more than ens, food trucks and Instagram- and Facebook-based just a pandemic-era fad. Elman notes that online food independent caterers are all at the vanguard of a delivery had been on the rise long before the COVID-19 burgeoning new food service business. pandemic struck. And according to Euromonitor, the Ghost kitchens, sometimes known as virtual Internet meal delivery and ghost kitchen industry restaurants, are culinary facilities that don’t have a could be worth $1 trillion by 2030 worldwide if staydine-in experience and only offer takeout or delivery. at-home work and schooling become regarded as a Food is often prepared in a shared space known as a viable, ongoing alternative. commissary kitchen, lowering overhead costs. One While a common critique of ghost kitchens and kitchen can prepare a variety of menus and cuisines delivery-only food services is that they have the potenwith a small workforce and low rent. tial to empty a neighbourhood of valuable restaurant Evan Elman is the co-owner of the Vancouexperiences, Elman thinks differently “Kitchens like this ver-based ghost kitchen Urban Tadka. He prepares can actually provide a variety of different cultures in his northern Indian curries out of Coho Commissary, the neighbourhood,” he says. “Why not think of it as a a space utilized by numerous other food-preparation new way to diversify the area?” ■

MAY 2022 unspoken

ON THE

FRINGE

Stan Wang deliers for Fantuan, a leading Chinese food-delivery service, at all hours of the day.

Up, App and Away

Nightly deliveries may pose problems for one local driver, but the meals still reach their hungry customers. B Y S AW Y E R WA N

t’s 10:30 a.m. on a warm Sunday morning, and Stan Wang has been up for hours. He’s about to buzz around the city as a food delivery driver. He might be delivering a single cup of milk tea from Richmond to Langley or a five-course feast to a penthouse in downtown Vancouver. During his daily 12-hour shifts, he’ll bring brunch to the hungover masses or a single Slurpee to a guy in slippers. But if there’s one question that he always gets, it’s this: Just how much do you make as a driver? “Actually, it depends on people’s mood,” Wang says with a smile. On average, he’ll make $15 to $20 an hour including tips, he says, but it’s higher if he’s having a good day for tips. Of course, that

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MAY 2022

doesn’t account for taxes, gas, parking fees, car insurance, car maintenance—or any tickets for parking violations, speeding or running red lights. Of the four major food delivery companies in Vancouver, Wang delivers for two: SkipTheDishes, the world’s largest English food delivery company, and Fantuan, a Chinese food delivery platform. He can deliver two to four orders in about an hour, and the delivery company calculates his pay based on the distance—but tips are up to the customer. Tipping for food delivery is generally between 10 and 15 percent, though on a bad-weather day, customers may give more. And other times, it isn’t always clear what brings the big tips. His largest tip ever—$30—came

from an order from iDen & Quan Ju De Beijing Duck House. But there are just as many instances where he came up empty-handed after driving long distances or delivering to a luxe penthouse in the Trump hotel. While Wang finds that delivering food is very straightforward, there can still be issues. He once delivered a meal to the wrong door, but as soon as he realized his error, he turned back immediately and apologized repeatedly. Nevertheless, the customer was furious. “The package was sealed, not opened, and the food inside was still warm,” Wang recalls. Yet the customer refused to accept his apology, shouting at him to put the food in the trash, and gave him a bad review. Wang paid

the customer for the meal, and ate the food himself to avoid waste. Of course, there are great customers, too. “I once received an order for a cup of coffee, and the drink had spilled all over when I arrived,” he says. “The customer told me gently that he understands it happens, but I was literally crying.” As a thank you, Wang returned to the store, bought another coffee and delivered it to the customer’s door. (Since then, Wang has been very, very careful with drink and soup orders.) While the pandemic has been hard on a lot of businesses, the food delivery industry is booming. And Wang enjoys his role in it. “I feel like a superman in the city, especially during the pandemic, you know?” he says. “There are always people who want a burger in the middle of the night. Even when the world stops, food delivery drivers are still on the way.” n PHOTO: COURTESY FANTUAN

Consumer-level food waste is a pressing issue. An average Canadian household can generate up to 79 kilograms of food waste per year.

ON THE

FRINGE

TASTE WASTE

the

Of the 13 million tonnes of food that Canada throws out each year, most is generated at the consumer level. Some folks are finding creative ways to make a difference. b y G A B R I E L L E R O S S I G N O L

PHOTO: ULIAB/ADOBE STOCK

Joel Derksen was in his third

year at the University of Waterloo the first time he hopped into a dumpster to shop for his weekly groceries. “For the stretch of a good year or two, over half of the food I ate was out of dumpsters,” says Derksen. “The amounts would vary from time to time. Some weeks we would have to buy our groceries, and others we would have more of a bounty.” Shocking? Derksen doesn’t think so. He’s since retired as a dumpster diver, but he looks back fondly on his university years, where he decided to source a large portion of his food from grocery store dumpsters. It saved him money on groceries—but just as importantly, he was concerned about the amount of waste he MAY 2022 unspoken

Dumpster diving is one way that individuals divert perfectly good food from landfills.

saw heading to landfills. “If we could just be a small part of cutting down on some of that food waste, diverting some from the landfill and minimizing the demand for production,” says Derksen, who originally hails from Winnipeg, “then it felt pretty good.” Food waste in Canada is a real problem. In 2017, Canadians produced an estimated 13 million metric tonnes of food waste, according to the Canadian Commission for Environmental Cooperation. Of this, six million tonnes were generated at the consumer level. Derksen is the first to admit that dumpster diving isn’t for everyone. Some may view it as a filthy or undesirable pastime, but Derksen suggests that all it takes is “a bit more boldness to actually hop into a dumpster like that.” And in fact, social stigma affected Derksen’s initial experiences. “I was mostly going late at night out of fear of people seeing or getting caught,” he says. He did have a few run-ins with the police who informed him that, apart from trespassing, he wasn’t breaking any laws. If the stores asked him to leave, legally, he would have to vacate their property.

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MAY 2022

“Over time I realized that it wasn’t really necessary because it didn’t change whether food was available or not.” Derksen’s social circles weren’t opposed to the unconventional activity, but he says that there are other divers who aren’t as fortunate. Not everyone is on board with accepting food out of a dumpster, regardless of the best-before date. “Occasionally I did try to share food with people who weren’t so keen on eating food from a dumpster, and they were definitely skeptical,” says Derksen. He understands the act of dumpster diving can be off-putting and offensive for some people, and that these feelings need to be respected.

SMALL STEPS, BIG GAINS Dumpster diving isn’t the only way to reduce our personal food waste. Small changes can get the rest of us on the right track. That’s what Vivian Davidson suggests. Davidson, a Vancouver-based actor, film maker and staff member at Nada Grocery, is an advocate for reducing food waste in B.C. and across Canada. As a self-

proclaimed environmentalist, her quest to eliminate her food waste started when she was young, after being exposed to different levels of food waste during her family’s numerous relocations. Davidson recalls, “As I got older and became more active in my community, I was realizing many aspects of life were connected to food and the broken food supply chain. I realized that food waste was a severe problem that we weren’t really addressing, so I took it upon myself to make a change at home.” The food supply chain that Davidson refers to covers the stages that food travels from farm to fork. It begins at the farm, then moves to transportation, distribution, manufacturing, retail, hospitality, and then the home. Now a staff member at Nada Grocery, Davidson is helping the company put her passion for zero-waste living into practice. The store, located on East Broadway in Vancouver, is a certified B-Corporation, which means the company values not only profits but also social and environmental good. The store is package-free andetr it also sources its products as locally as possible, to avoid unnecessary waste across the food supPHOTO: KIRK/ADOBE STOCK

to divert this food from the waste stream, even as a dumpster diver. “Most grocery stores have big compacting machines, or dumpsters that are locked up in various capacities,” says Derksen. Stores are trying to minimize the risk of people digging through their dumpsters, which Derksen understands, but suggests these efforts are in vain. “They don’t want people taking food for free rather than buying from the store,” he says, chuckling. “But the vast majority of dumpster divers avoid buying food from that store as a result.” Davidson believes that people tend to blame the big companies for institutionalized waste and loss across the food supply chain, but in reality, it trickles up from the consumer. “If we only buy perfect produce, then the retailers are only going to demand perfect produce from the farmers,” says Davidson. “Then the farmers aren’t going to care about the imperfect food that they waste because they don’t have any incentive to do something about it.” Every company needs financial incentives to make a change, so if we as consumers decide to change

ply chain. In store, there are consistent efforts to prevent food waste. “When something in store starts to become softer or riper,” says Davidson, “we discount it massively to encourage customers to buy it.” If this doesn’t get the product off the shelves, Nada employs an in-house chef who converts the food into something new, like a sauce, soup or smoothie. Davidson says, “transforming it into something else that is still nutritious and very affordable is just about becoming creative and doing something with food rather than letting it turn into food waste.” The store is also committed to encouraging, motivating, and educating people on how to live a low-waste life. “We have a motto at Nada,” says Davidson. “We meet you wherever you are in your sustainability spectrum.” Customers are encouraged to be curious and open to exploring ways to reduce food waste in their lives. So, what is Davidson’s advice on starting a low-waste journey? Inform yourself, be curious, and start small. “The problem can seem enormous,” says Davidson, “and that’s often a turn-off for a lot of people.” PHOTO: SYDNEY RAE/UNSPLASH

Stores are trying to minimize the risk of people digging through their dumpsters, which Derksen understands, but suggests these efforts are in vain. “They don’t want people taking food for free rather than buying from the store,” he says, chuckling. “But the vast majority of dumpster divers avoid buying food from that store as a result.” But she says the best way to be a part of the change is to push through this intimidation and try not to get overwhelmed.

THE GRAND SCHEME According to Davidson, 30 to 40 percent of the fruits and vegetables produced in Canada are wasted annually. Most grocery stores exemplify how food waste is occurring on a larger scale. However, food wastage at the retail level only accounts for one million tonnes of food waste. This number pales in comparison to consumer-level food waste, but it doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be addressed. It is becoming increasingly difficult

our demand by worrying less about the blemishes on our produce, for example, it may trigger a transformation in the other stages of the chain. We can turn our food scraps into soil, buy the imperfect produce, and shop at low-waste grocery stores—even dumpster dive. These are options we have for saving money and making a positive impact on the food supply chain. Derksen reminds us that the ultimate goal should be to reduce food waste, no matter the scheme. “I want to make sure people have the right to their own dignity and choice,” says Derkson. “But the other side of that reality is that there’s lots of good food that’s not making its way to people who need it most.” n MAY 2022 unspoken

ON THE

FRINGE

under the

table

International students often struggle to make ends meet. The good, the bad and the ugly of undocumented work. by JESSICA CHU

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MAY 2022

Kelly Nguyen* had been working long, 12-hour days at a nail salon

for nearly two weeks—only to have the owner refuse to pay her wages at the end of it. “I was really frustrated. The employer scammed my payment,” says the international student, who came to Canada in 2018 to study—but quickly found it to be financially challenging. “This life is completely different from what the [study abroad] agent told me.” The opportunity to study abroad is a dream for many students in developing nations like Vietnam, where Nguyen is from. The Canadian government offers several study-abroad programs for international students, such as Canada Express Study Program (CES) and World Education Service (WES), and many families listen to the attractive advertisements from study-abroad agents. They need to have a stable financial status to afford the studying and living costs, but after landing in Canada, many students are disillusioned to discover the fees are more expensive than they thought they’d be. They panic when they can’t cover all expenses, which have become particularly challenging during the pandemic. Nguyen is a Vietnamese international student, so she couldn’t legally work until she finished the English program she was here to study. But the cost of living in Vancouver has grown exponentially over the past few years: from 2016 to 2018, a single room was $450 to $600 a month. By 2021, that same room was up to $750. ILLUSTRATION: JESSICA CHU

For Nguyen, it meant she had to find work—even if it wasn’t legal. So she found a cash job at a local nail salon to pay for her rent and living fees. “The owner was abusive and abrasive,” she says. “She did not provide proper training, but had high skills expectations and requirements of me.” She also found out she had little to protect her. After two weeks of work, the owner refused to pay for Nguyen and fired her, telling her that since she didn’t have proof of a working contract, so she wasn’t their official employee. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it. And Nguyen knew she was right. Perhaps worst of all, the scam affected her mental health as she struggled for money, adding to her bills: medical treatment for her depression added another $50 to $200 a week to her costs for her medication and therapy. If she couldn’t afford all the fees, she might have to go back to Vietnam. A month after her experience at the nail salon, Nguyen found a server job in a restaurant where she still works today. “I was so scared of being scammed again. I cried when they gave me the first payment envelope,” she says. “They pay me $12 an hour, which is better than the nail salon.” (Minimum wage in B.C. is currently $15.65 an hour.) Being a full-time student and worker has had many negative impacts on Nguyen. While many of her co-workers applied for government subsidies during the pandemic, she wasn’t eligible. “I wish I could be legal to apply for those programs,” she says. “My working hours and income qualify to receive the benefits.” She currently works 60 to 80 hours a week, which has an impact on her ability to study—she often skips her classes to take more shifts. She has had to repeat her ESL course three times because she does not have enough time to study and complete the assignments, but she can’t afford not to work. She also needs to pay for the student permit extension fee to continue living in Canada, which costs her $150 each time—and she only receives an eight-month-long extension. Repeating the same course has destroyed her passion and patience for learning. Later, Nguyen was accepted into a Diploma in Business Management program. “Most of my friends have graduat-

ed, but I am still struggling with the first college year,” she says. She feels some of her friends look down on her, triggering further depression, and she’s found it tough to make friends or socialize. It’s a vicious cycle, and three years of having an unreported job has left her exhausted. “I regret studying abroad,” she says. “If I stayed in Vietnam, I would have already graduated.” Johnny Dang* is the owner of a noodle house, and he often works with unreported employees. The restaurant is fast-paced, he says, and not everyone is up for the challenge—so he finds it difficult to find employees who can

gram. The cash-payment employees in his restaurant don’t sign an employment contract—and he also doesn’t offer employee benefits. That can mean trouble for employees: they do not have any protection from the government or insurance, leaving them vulnerable to abuse and wage theft. Numerous factors have forced people to work these extra hours with a lower payment. In addition to other rising living costs like rent, groceries and personal needs, health insurance comes at a steep cost for international students. In 2020, health insurance for international students increased from $37.50 to

Johnny Dang is the owner of a noodle house, and he often works with unreported employees. The restaurant is fast-paced, he says, and not everyone is up for the challenge—so he finds it difficult to find employees that can stick with it. He confesses that three trainees quit after their second shift in a month because they couldn’t handle the pace. stick with it. He confesses that three trainees quit after their second shift in a month because they couldn’t handle the pace. Two of his student staff members wanted to take more shifts, but they’re limited to 20 hours a week by their student visas. To encourage current employees to take more shifts, he pays cash for staff who work overtime. “The staff are willing to work more hours with a lower payment,” he says. “It helps me reduce costs of hiring multiple employees and it’s more accessible for me to schedule their working shifts.” The current minimum wage without tips in his restaurant is $15.65 per hour by paystub, and the cash payment is $10 per hour. “They do not have to pay for the tax, but I have to deal with different taxes,” says Dang. “I will not pay them the minimum wage because it is not fair to other people.” Some employees are willing to work up to 60 hours a week, even though as international students, they are only legally allowed to work 20. Dang saves both money and new employee training time with his cash-only overtime pro-

$75 a month, and as a result, some international students have stopped paying for MSP to reduce living costs. Working and living without health insurance or Worksafe BC coverage places underground employees at risk. Understanding the challenges of being an international student, many organizations become trusted resources to reach out to for help. Centre of Canadian International Student Services (CCISS) and Canadian Information Centre for International Credentials (CICIC) are two popular organizations that help students solve their financial issues, especially right afterwards if they’ve found themselves scammed by an employer. They also provide student scholarships or loans for international students to continue their dreams in Canada. Studying abroad can be a brilliant choice if a student has a solid financial status, but international students need to think carefully and be well-prepared before deciding to study abroad. n *The names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved. MAY 2022 unspoken

ON THE

FRINGE

watch NEIGHBOURHOOD

Homelessness and drug use in Vancouver is at an all-time high. However, new solutions shine a light towards a better future. b y J U S T I N B O Y S

The sun shone onto Victory

Square, illuminating the park in a pale glow. On the monument’s concrete steps, a young woman no older than 25 is selling drugs to two disheveled men underneath the veteran’s statue. She seems to be shaken up but calm, as if this was a casual outing she regularly undertakes. “I see this kind of thing every day,” says Amanda Fry, a 24-year-old service worker at First United Society, as she takes a sip from her coffee. “I’m surprised there aren’t more people there actually.” This scene is indicative of the most prominent issues facing the city of Vancouver today: the rapid increase of both homelessness and opioid addiction. Although an official count was not performed in the past two years, in 2020 3,500 people were identified as homeless, another consecutive increase compared to past annual counts. Fry has been working out of First United for over two years, an organization that assists in community service and housing assistance, where she has been helping in the position of service worker secretary. Her work here is

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building experience for when she transitions to become a full-time counsellor for underprivileged children. “I noticed there was a major spike in at-risk individuals right around the public health emergency,” she states. On April 14, 2016, the City of Vancouver declared a state of emergency for an opioid crisis that was running rampant in the city. CTV News reported that since then, almost 2,500 people have passed away due to opioid abuse, with a 26 percent increase in annual deaths year after year. This state of emergency still stands and is the longest-running declaration of its kind in the province’s history. Fry pushes away her coffee and stares out into the street. “I tend to two to four overdoses every week,” she says. The sadness in her eyes is palpable. “I personally had three people die on me simply because they got to us too late.” I suggest we go for a walk, and she agrees. As we step outside the café and onto East Hastings, Fry is looking up at the buildings surrounding us. The air is chilly, but not unwelcomingly so. She gestures we go south, and I follow.

Fry decided to work at First United when she realized how intense the opioid crisis had become in the Downtown Eastside neighbourhood. “This situation is happening because of how intense the city’s drug use is and how poorly made the drugs are,” she says. According to a recent report from the B.C. government, the province has the highest drug toxicity levels in all of Canada. To combat this, many unofficially sanctioned overdose prevention sites were deployed throughout the city by concerned nurse Sarah Blyth. Here, users could not only get their drugs tested for any contaminants, but medical staff would be on hand if there was any concern or need for assistance. Many of these sites still stand today under Blyth’s initiative, the Overdose Prevention Society. The sites also provide naloxone, a drug utilized to reverse the effects of an opioid overdose, to great outcomes. The OPS was successful enough that in 2019, opioid deaths began to drop temporarily for the first

time since the crisis was declared. However, this was yet another situation the Covid-19 pandemic adversely affected, Fry explains. She stops at a park bench, half observing an animated gentlemen playing the saxophone for passersby. “When the borders closed,” she explains, “it was more difficult to get naloxone into the city. And on the other side of that, the illicit drug trade also seized up, which meant lots of people had to turn to dangerous alternatives.” Fentanyl quickly gained local notoriety. The drug is inexpensive and easily transportable, making it a highly accessible supplement. However, it is difficult to handle and lethal in tragically small doses. This, combined with the city’s pandemic restrictions, contributed to death numbers rising higher than ever. “You would often be alone due to Covid,” PHOTO: OLLY/ADOBE STOCK

says Fry, “but this meant many would do their drugs without anyone else there, or in fear of calling medical assistance because the medics might be needed elsewhere.” The upbeat music of the saxophone player continues as Fry pauses for a beat. Many people walk by, but only a few stop to drop money into the man’s open saxophone case. Fry has been dedicating her time through First United to be a part of this community, but inevitably the question comes up: what can others do to help solve this problem? Most importantly, there needs to be implementation of safe supply initiatives including regulated and safe opioid distribution, she says. Access to medical administration would reduce the likelihood that someone would need to access street drugs that are highly toxic and ad-

dictive. In combination with housing options such as Housing First—a program that rapidly moves people experiencing homelessness into stable and long-term housing—there could be a significant push forward in Vancouver to prevent overdoses and find homes for the people that need it most. Fry lists a multi-part approach that she and her peers know can work. “It’s increasing access to treatment, supervised sites and spreading more awareness,” Fry says, “along with the general prevention of opioid-related harms, data collection and research. It’s the best bet.” Fry stands to head back to work, but on the way, she stops to converse with the saxophone man, and the two have a jovial conversation. She thanks him for the music, and we continue. “Most people are just looking for simple human kindness, really,” she says with a smile. n MAY 2022 unspoken

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Matt Lin has been a tattoo artist for just over a year, and encourages his clients to go big and bold.

Behind Clothed Doors

Despite his parents’ objections, tattoo artist Matt Lin continues to leave a permanent mark on others. b y A DA S U N

attoo artist Matt Lin regularly gets asked the same question: How can I hide this tattoo from my parents? “First, you need to choose a suitable location for your tattoo to be hidden on your body,” says Lin. “And then when your parents finally find out you got a tattoo after a year or two, you can act like they did not even notice it for such a long time so it should not be a big deal at all.” He

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should know: he has nine hidden tattoos himself. Lin has been a tattoo artist for just over a year, but when it came to telling his parents his chosen field of work, Lin hid the news until this past Christmas. As the son of immigrant parents (Lin was born in China and raised in Canada), it wasn’t easy news to share. Though his parents have been sending him to art courses since he was four years old, “tattoo artist” isn’t

the same as “artist” to the older Chinese generation. “My mother called me a few weeks ago,” says Lin. “She was concerned for me about my career and thinks it’s not a secure job.” Lin started his career as a tattoo artist after graduating with a masters in business management from Queen’s University in August 2020. A friend had given him an old tattoo machine five years before that, but he hadn’t

done much with it—until he designed his first official tattoo on his own body. Soon friends began asking him to tattoo them, too. Because Lin doesn’t have any visible tattoos, he doesn’t look like any typical tattoo artist. But it isn’t because he doesn’t want his parents to know what he does for a living. “When I get tattoos for myself, I would like them to be unique,” he says. “For example, one of my first tattoos PHOTO: ADA SUN

was on the top of my foot. It’s not a placement that people often choose because the pain index for feet is relatively high.” With more people (particularly Asians) wanting tattoos, Lin has two pieces of advice for those on the fence. The first one is simple: Get the tattoo. He believes tattoo acceptance is only becoming stronger with time. And second? Go a little bigger than you think it should be. And while Lin is still a little sorrowful about his parents accepting his chosen career, he’s hopeful. “After the legalization of weed, I think one or two more generations later, tattoos and tattoo artists will unquestionably become more acceptable in North America and around the world,” he says. “My mother possibly will change her mind and support my career in less than a year, hopefully.” And he’s already witnessed a change in attitudes: when he worked at an accounting firm in Toronto, his boss was covered from head to toe in tattoos. n

PHOTO: VZ-ART/ADOBE STOCK

Don’t Ovary React

Does it hurt down there? Book an appointment. Late period? Same. Just curious? Do it. B Y H A O

t took three months (and a few bottles of wine) for Megan Lam to start connecting with her partner through sex. One time, they got a little carried away and forgot to use a condom. (Lam only realized that was the case when things felt a little different). While the couple quickly rectified the situation, Lam still opted to take Plan B as a fail-safe measure. It worked, but the cramps and the dull, frequent pain hit almost immediately after. Panicky as she was, Lam booked an appointment with her gynecologist for some assurance. Lam’s decision isn’t as common as it should be. Many women experience anxiety at the thought of having a pelvic exam, and for some, embarrassment and discomfort can deter them from visiting a gynecologist altogether. Very Well Health, a medically reviewed online publication, notes that some women might not communicate their feelings and concerns for fear of “uncaring and patronizing” doctors. Moreover, as a paper published by the Journal of Primary Care and Community Health explains, anxiety may also derive from lack of experience related to sex and pelvic exams. Lam doesn’t deny that she also experiences many of those feelings, but she has also come to appreciate that these appointments aren’t always scary. “Not every visit means you wear a gown, sit on a chair and spread your legs,” she says. “There were a lot of times that I went there just to have quick answers and suggestions [to my concerns.]” As someone who grew up in a sometimes

DUONG

awkward transition between a traditional Eastern culture and a more liberal Western counterpart, Lam never had conversations about the birds and the bees with her parents, and they can be strict even when she casually hangs out with another boy. Sex was once taboo for Lam, albeit only subconsciously. So, while she has grown to embrace it more now, she still cautiously exchanges reliable clinic locations with female friends, as if whispering a national secret. “I thought everyone would react the same way my parents would if they found out that I’ve been having pelvic exams,” she says. “Or worse, what if my parents directly found out that I’ve been doing it for years?” After all, the World Health Organization notes that there are more than one million STIs diagnosed every day, with most being asymptomatic. Lam was just as worried that someone might think she was STI-positive just because of these visits. But each visit would slowly be less scary than the previous, as she has learned more from her doctor. Through conversations and exams, Lam has become more comfortable sharing her feelings and concerns. She now knows a glossary of terms she never expected to remember, like HPV vaccinations or Depo shots. And it’s terms like this that teach Lam more about her health, both physically and mentally. “It’s not just about maintaining a healthy sex life,” she says. “For me, it can be an act of self-love. Which is why I have gynecological appointments in the first place.” n

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Getting yourself out of a spending habit is easier said than done.

Put the Card Down

As a former shopaholic, Kenia Gutierrez found her way out of her shopping addiction. b y C ATA L I N A C A S T I L L O

he last time Kenia Gutierrez hit rock bottom, she had purchased $4,000 worth of clothes in just four months. “My closet was so full of clothes, it looked like it was about to explode,” says Gutierrez. “Seeing my closet like that made me feel guilty. Most of the clothes still had a tag on.” Today, Gutierrez is a recovering shopaholic who once spent most of her paycheque on clothing from brands like Aritzia, Zara and

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Nike. “There was no more money for me to spend on clothes or to spend on a night out with my girlfriends,” says Gutierrez. “I was so mad at myself for letting this situation get out of control.” According to Statista, retail sales from the clothing industry in Canada amount to approximately $25.9 billion in 2020, and will likely grow to $35.8 billion by 2024. And Gutierrez was a big contributor to that bottom line. Making smart decisions with her money wasn’t easy, she says.

She spent almost half of her paycheque on Aritzia’s Fall 2021 collection. “I could not resist, seeing how gorgeous the new collection looked on Aritzia’s Instagram account,” she says. And dealing with Instagram, she realized, had to be her first step. It was her inspiration source for fashion tips, but she was easily tempted by her favourite brands’ fashion posts. “Unfollowing the brand on Instagram was something I had to do in order to cope with my shopping impulse.”

While she purchased most of her clothes online, she’d still face temptation when out with her girlfriends at the mall. So she learned a few new strategies there, too. “When I was at the store, I would constantly ask myself if I already had something similar in my closet,” she says. “99 percent of the time, the answer was yes.” Gutierrez also learned to shop only when absolutely necessary. “Once in a while I do need to buy underwear or shirts, because those are things that I use a lot,” she says. “I make a list on my phone of the things I need to buy, and I stick with my shopping plan.” She eventually learned to only purchase the clothing pieces she needed, and leave the store without buying additional clothes. Gutierrez has been practicing these strategies for over three months now, and she feels more in control of her money. “These past months have made me feel much happier with myself and my decisions,” she says. “Not only have I been responsible with my money, but now I have money to spend on experiences, and not things.” The money she’s saved has allowed her to enroll in kickboxing classes, and share a few dinner dates with friends. “I can’t believe not long ago I was spending my hard-earned money on material things, and not on these experiences that make me way happier,” she says. “I still love the idea of styling clothes and expressing myself through fashion, but now I am aware I can still do these things with all the clothes I already own.” n PHOTO: RONSTIK/SHUTTERSTOCK

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a lot in

Question With queer spaces closed during the pandemic, many people found quieter ways to explore gender and sexuality. by SINEAD GREWCOCK

PHOTO: BIROUH/ADOBE

Back in 2018, I sat in my most comfortable denim

pants, pressed to a sticky vinyl booth in the gay bar where my best friend was about to make their drag debut. I looked around at happy couples, excited groups of friends and solo onlookers. And I was surprised by how much joy I felt in this queer-friendly space, different from any other nightclub or bar I frequented with my straight girlfriends. Wearing a brightly coloured button-up shirt, no makeup and armed with a couple of $5 bills. I was excited about the drag performances that were to come, and the tips I’d be handing out, too. I hadn’t yet identified myself as queer. But I wasn’t sure I was straight and cis-gender either—that never totally felt right. And yet without any labels, MAY 2022 unspoken

I still felt comfortable, safe and curious in this drag bar on a Friday night: to learn by example and start a conversation with myself. That first drag show—the start of many to come—became for me a shining example of important spaces that queer folks like me would miss in the next few pandemic years. When the pandemic hit in March 2020, the absence of queer spaces or familiar communities meant that some folks found themselves questioning their gender and sexuality in solitude. With distance from work, family, friends, or expectations, many people have had

Ki Wight is a critical media studies scholar at Capilano University whose work looks at the relationship between media education practices, media cultures and social justice movements. Wight agrees that the isolation experienced during the pandemic could have supported some folks’ coming-out process during this time. “I think the chance for some solitude during the pandemic has likely been illuminating for folks who have had a chance to be distant from daily politics and social pressures,” she says. Jaz, a 27-year-old sociology student at UBC, found that confirming their

When identity is fluid, shame, guilt and fear can melt away because questioning yourself is less about making sense and more about feeling safe and at home within yourself. more time to reflect on and affirm their identity. As the New York Times noted in June 2021, the pandemic has offered time for isolated self-reflection, and also “for some queer people yet to come out, it has also been a time to embrace who they are and share it with others.” For some, this may mean the act of “coming out” in some declaration of divergence from heteronormativity. When the pandemic hit, Kate, a personal trainer and health and wellness coach in North Vancouver, was excited to find room outside her social circles and spaces where it was assumed she was straight. She began her first queer relationship at the start of Covid. “I think that having the time to explore that away from ‘conventional’ society in our queer bubble world helped me reflect and understand my own internalized biphobia,” says the 30-year-old, “and eventually take ownership of who I am.” Now Kate feels excited, empowered, and curious about herself and her new and healthy relationship. Personally speaking, this time has given me the space to start sharing with friends and family about being bisexual, motivated by my pandemic solitude and reflection. And many friends have shared with me that the day-to-day stagnation or status quo that was felt pre-pandemic disappeared for them and opened up a new dialogue with themselves.

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identity as queer was much easier during the pandemic. “I’m so much more comfortable confirming I’m queer now, more than two years ago, because the shame got released,” she says. There were fewer environments that require “coming out” from the heteronormative assumption of gender and sexuality. During the pandemic, for example, it was more likely to be only immediate family or colleagues on Zoom—spaces that only need explanation if people choose to give it. Wight also sees another potential positive in this more isolated process. “If people are coming out in ways that don’t involve bars and nightclubs and pride floats,” she says, “maybe they will experience less pressure about things like body image.” Jess grew up in a remote B.C. town, and found that it was the absence of queer spaces that made them recognize their queer gender and sexuality. The 25-year-old was working in a women’s shelter in the Downtown Eastside neighborhood in Vancouver, going to drag shows, and studying gender, sexuality and women’s studies at Simon Fraser University—all spaces that felt safe and exploratory pre-pandemic. But when they returned to their small town for a few months in early 2020, they discovered the internal space they needed to

create to feel comfortable. The absence of those physical spaces helped them discover their feelings that “I wasn’t straight, [and] that I wasn’t cis-gender,” Jess explains. “I realized that not having my queer community around me affected me and my mental health.” I grew up in the same town as Jess, and I had always dated cis-men and felt that I fit into my heteronormative role as a confident young woman. Maybe I never felt femme enough, but I knew that I was “straight enough” to be attractive to some men. However, with my vintage button-ups, loose-fitting denim and often-

short haircut, I received a lot of teasing and name-calling for “seeming gay.” My own internalized homophobia began around those times. When friends would ask about the attractiveness of anyone who was not a straight man, I felt uncomfortable—not wanting to provide any proof to the shame of being queer. When I graduated high school, moved to the city, worked in arts and culture industries, and began my communications degree, my environment helped me feel less and less tied to shame around questioning my sexuality and gender. The pandemic was the final ingredient PHOTO: KHAMKEO VILAYSING / UNSPLASH

I needed to finally feel at home in my own body and mind, and to reflect on joy around the absence of shame. Thinking turned to knowing, and knowing turned shame into pride as I began to finally share with others that I’m queer. Like Jess, another part of my journey was also studying gender and sexuality in university. Again, I needed to create space to explore, talk about and identify the binary heteronormative structures within society. I could later see myself more as fluid, and the growing person I am is never fixed and never has all the answers. At 26, I feel like I know more about

myself than ever, but I wasn’t equipped with the language, time to reflect, or spaces to accept myself 10 years ago. Aisling Walsh, a writer for the online publication Refinery 29, noted that coming out in early 2020 meant their first time dating as an out queer person was during the pandemic. And it wasn’t easy. “My lack of concrete experience with other women has made me wonder whether I am queer at all, or if I just like hanging out with strong, interesting women,” she writes in “‘Tis A Bit Queer, Isn’t It: The Joys & Frustrations of Coming Out During the Pandemic.” Feeling like one isn’t pushing against the same systemic and social barriers as other queer folks can disconnect people from their queer identities. “I feel the weight of generations of activists who opened a relatively safe space for exploring the world beyond heteronormative desire,” Aisling writes, “to which my own contribution feels minimal, or non-existent.” But finding your own truth during this time can be ultimately liberating, as Wight notes—and in broader ways than just the coming-out process itself. “I am curious if people who have come to recognize some truths about themselves during the pandemic,” she says, “are also finding that they can come out outside of strict categories or outside of expected social norms within queer communities themselves.” When identity is fluid, shame, guilt and fear can melt away because questioning yourself is less about making sense and more about feeling safe and at home within yourself. No one would ever wish for the grief and loss experienced over the last two years. Isolation has made it extremely difficult and dangerous for some queer folk: not only are they not supported mentally and emotionally, people lose the safety of their communities, and the support that lends for harm reduction. Perhaps one of the silver linings is that more people have had time for self-reflection during the last couple of years. “I think that the pandemic gave space for my sexuality to be fully expressed,” says Kate. If change, distance, and solitude can bring personal reflection and growth, perhaps more good can come from the pandemic years than might have been expected. n MAY 2022 unspoken

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Goodwill Talking

When Israel Lobo started universi-

Breaking down the counselling taboo in post-secondary institutions. b y E D UA R D O G EV E N E Z

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ty, he knew he wasn’t feeling good. There was the stress of being away from friends and family, but worst of all, he had that overwhelming feeling that he was an imposter who didn’t belong there in the first place. And yet when a peer suggested he seek counselling, the 23-year-old Capilano University student wasn’t ready. “There is still a social stigma around counselling, and I didn’t want other students to judge me,” says Lobo, who moved to Vancouver from Mexico City in 2018. “Back in my home country, counselling is often [only] seen as an option for someone unstable or mentally ill.” Despite national campaigns like Bell Let’s Talk, which encourage Canadians PHOTO: HALFPOINT/ADOBE STOCK

to make mental health a broader part of the conversation, Lobo’s case isn’t unusual. In 2021, a survey conducted by Inside Higher Ed and College Pulse indicated that a year into the pandemic, 65 percent of students reported having poor mental health. And yet, only 15 percent engaged in counselling services offered at their post-secondary institutions. Students often require guidance, whether it’s selecting the right courses, or a career that makes them happy— and when navigating difficult times in their lives. But there’s still much to be done to encourage reluctant students to take advantage of free and accessible counselling services on campus. The rollercoaster of emotions that many students (particularly first-year students) feel such as loneliness, stress and anxiety is normal: starting university is a huge milestone in a person’s life. Like with any major change, there is a period of adjustment involved, but these emotions may easily develop into something more difficult to control, such as overwhelming stress or mental illness, such as depression. Still, old taboos and stigmas can plague that first tentative step to the couch. “[There are] many reasons students refrain from seeking counselling: cultural and family values, religion, guilt, fear and skepticism are just some of them,” says Ana Bell, a clinical counsellor and psychotherapist in Vancouver. “There is a commonality to all these factors and that is the lack of knowledge about what a counselling process is and how it works.” Bell also notes that discussing mental health is still a recent phenomenon. “The practice of counselling is relatively new,” she says, “compared to other procedures such as medical care.” And, she notes, that first session can be particularly nerve-wracking. There’s an underlying fear of the unknown: Will the counsellor ask a lot of questions? Will they ask about my past? Do I need to talk about my traumas? But the truth is that professionals handle first sessions with a client a little differently. Some may even encourage their clients to ask questions about the counsellor’s own lives, training, or experiences in the first session. “As with any initial meeting, you both will get to

MYTHS AND MISCONCEPTIONS Here are the 5 most common misconceptions about counselling. COUNSELLING IS A SIGN OF WEAKNESS.

Quite the opposite! You can feel perfectly fine emotionally and attend therapy for personal development and to learn more about yourself. OTHERS WILL THINK I AM CRAZY!

“It is not ‘crazy’ to go for counselling. It is ‘crazy’ to deny the need for it and dismiss how poor mental health can negatively impact someone’s life,” says Ana Bell.

WHAT IF SOMEONE ELSE FINDS OUT?

Confidentiality is central to the counselling process. Under normal circumstances, no one outside is given any information without the client’s expressed written consent. IT’S TOO EXPENSIVE.

Most post-secondary institutions in Vancouver and Canada offer free counselling services. In B.C., the government also provides

know each other,” says Bell. “The first session is a conversation with more details about what is happening in your life, and the most important thing is that you feel free and safe to share your thoughts and emotions there. There is also a confidentiality contract and discussion about boundaries.” For Lobo, once he decided to give counselling a chance, he found that the experience was better than he expected. “I was initially intimidated, but I felt as if I was talking to a longtime friend,” he says. “I did not find it hard to open up to a stranger. My counsellor kept eye contact, and I could feel she deeply cared about me.” One of the biggest misconceptions about counselling is that it’s only intended to treat severe clinical mental illness, or to help alleviate the most severe traumas. However, the beauty of therapy is that it’s quite the opposite — it’s designed to help with nearly every aspect of both the academic and personal lives of students, from the seemingly benign to the most devastating. For instance, school counsellors can help students with career or vocational concerns, including career exploration and planning, and offer a wide range of educational and occupational information. Counsellors can also help students

Here2Talk, a mental-health counselling and referral service for post-secondary students. I CAN ALWAYS TALK TO MY FRIENDS.

Friends can provide outstanding support and empathy, and that’s also very important. But a counselling relationship is different in an important way: therapists must remain non-judgmental and place the well-being of the client above all else.

be more productive, teach them how to optimize their time, stimulate creativity, promote problem-solving and teamwork—but in a way that doesn’t lead to burnout. Through counselling, students can also strengthen their sense of self, and gain more clarity around their values and professional goals. Ultimately, however, a counsellor isn’t there to solve every problem. Instead, they’ll focus on helping students understand what can and cannot be changed. “I am very sorry to break your heart here, but a therapist will not provide you with the perfect solution and the right answers,” says Bell. A counsellor is there, she says, to help you find the answers while you navigate difficult life decisions. “Let me reinforce this: you are the only master of your life. Counselling is a collaborative effort between the counsellor and client.” Ultimately, for students to support mental health on campus, the most important thing everyone can do is to eliminate the stigma of reaching out for help. And Bell notes, it really begins with one simple step. “Once you’ve found a counsellor to meet with, part of the work is already done,” says Bell. “You’ve started your journey to self-improvement, and this shows how much strength you truly have.” n MAY 2022 unspoken

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forever

Does Botox make you an Aphrodite or an emotionless sillicon doll? How the injectable is (possibly, without a wrinkle in sight) gaining popularity with Millennials. b y K A E L E Y AV E RY

YOUNG?

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PHOTO: PROSTOCK-STUDIO/ADOBE STOCK

BOTOX BY THE NUMBERS In a world that’s ruled by images, selfies and high beauty standards, Millennials are breaking down the stigma of “having work done” and replacing it with the term “preventative aging.” There has been a 41 percent increase in people aged 19 to 34 receiving Botox treatments. Does it stop at one injection? Or is it a gateway for more plastic surgery?

*ANNUAL BOTOX UNITS IN PATIENTS AGED 16 TO 34

When Vancouver-based blogger

and influencer Kim Kerdsumran got her first set of injectables, she claimed it was “the best decision ever.” After all, Kerdsumran was raised in an environment where Botox wasn’t taboo: her parents own an injectables clinic, though they never pressured her into getting any treatments herself. She had witnessed the culture of Botox ever since she was a young girl, and her parents were very open about both the treatments they received, and performed on others. When Kerdsumran made the decision to get Botox herself at just 20 years old, she too wanted to be very open about her process. She documented her visit to the clinic on Instagram, showcasing the process of receiving lip injections as well as forehead and nose filler on her Instagram stories, and through in-feed posts. The comments were filled with people enquiring about her treatments—and debating if it was the right choice for a young woman. But Kerdsumran’s decision isn’t unusual. More young people are receiving Botox treatments than ever before: In 2016, the American Society of Aesthetic Plastic Surgery found that between the years 2011 to 2015, there was a 41 percent increase in Botox treatments in the 19 to 34 age group. Many first-time Botox patients don’t have visible wrinkles, and instead seek out these treatments as part of what’s called “preventative aging”—a term now used to replace the shunned phrase “having work done.” Of course, starting such procedures early isn’t consequence free, and critics have raised concerns about the longterm health and side effects of Botox. In an interview with Vogue, Dr. Patricia SOURCE: *ALLABOUTVISION.COM/COSMETICS/BOTOX

2011

2012

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2015

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Wexler, owner of Wexler Dermatology in Manhattan, noted that injecting too much Botox into the face for many years will weaken the muscles, make the skin thinner and increase aging in alternate areas due to overcompensating facial expressions. She cautions that one might “need even more Botox” in the future to correct these changes. Despite concerns about potential side effects, some individuals start receiving these treatments as young as 15. In Canada, it is illegal to give Botox to an individual under 18 without their parents’ consent, and so to keep things simple, Angela Dawn, an advanced aesthetic nurse injector at Vancouver Botox, limits her practice to those who are aged 18 and up. However, Dawn says she does get a lot of young teenage girls enquiring about getting lip fillers, lip flips (a Botox procedure that only focuses on the top lip) and anti-aging procedures. Emily Miller is the owner of Emily Miller Aesthetic Medicine, a board-certified boutique that specializes in non-surgical cosmetic procedures. She’s open to offering Botox treatments to young teenagers with parental consent if it means getting more patients through the doors. These treatments have included filling the glabella (the area between the eyebrows), forehead lines and crow’s feet to prevent or soften the formation of wrinkles. The procedures aren’t cheap. According to a 2016 report on CBC News, “Why More 20-Somethings Are Getting Botox,” an average patient spends anywhere from $200 to $1,000 on a single treatment depending on how many units of Botox they need. And while commonly

used for fine lines, wrinkles and preventative aging, Botox isn’t limited to keeping the face looking young. Amy Yau, a certified nurse injector located in Burnaby, says she “injects people to give them a softer skin complexion, or to slim their face.” The treatment is called Masseter Botox, or jawline Botox, and it consists of injecting the substance in the forehead, cheekbones and jaw to change a person’s facial appearance. After Kerdsumran shared her Botox experience, others wanted to try it too. Eight friends, ranging in age from 21 to 24, were among the group who decided to give it a shot. That included Bailey Marshall, another Vancouver-based influencer. She collaborated with a clinic and was paid to receive Botox treatments in return for social media exposure, and a positive review. Marshall had just turned 26 when she received one syringe of Botox in her forehead and along her jawline, intended to help with both anti-aging and her chronic teeth clenching. Since this was a recent procedure, she hasn’t gone back to get any further work done, but she said she is “overall very happy with how it turned out and would absolutely get it again.” One of the things that drew Marshall to this collaboration was the fact that these procedures aren’t completely permanent—treatments typically last about six months. For Kerdsumran, she’s still “very happy” with her results. She hasn’t returned to get any additional filler, but despite potential side effects and the high price tag she will “absolutely keep up with her treatments for the foreseeable future.” n MAY 2022 unspoken

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TOUCH

AND GO

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Three queer folks share their positive experiences with sex workers, dismantling long-overdue stereotypes. Is it time to move past the taboo of sex work? by ANDIE B J O R N S F E LT

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PHOTO: SARAH MCCUTCHEON/UNSPLASH

Noah’s first experience visiting a

sex worker for an erotic massage bordered on ethereal. “As we were moving through it, they started interacting more with my body using his body,” he says. “There was this quality that showed up of just feeling profoundly ecstatic, like every cell in my body felt completely ecstatic with the experience. So that feels really treasured, just this euphoric joy.” Although Noah speaks of his sexual experiences with freedom and wonder, that isn’t the case for many other folks: paying for sex is still highly taboo. In B.C., the legality of sex work is fuzzy at best. In 2014, Prime Minister Stephen Harper passed an “end demand” legislation, called Bill C-36, “Protection of Communities and Exploited Persons Act.” The act makes it a crime to advertise sexual services and pay for sex work, but not to be a sex worker. Many people believe that sex work is decriminalized in Canada, and only the client is punished for it, but that isn’t entirely accurate. There are flaws in the Criminal Code that mean while sex workers are technically free from prosecution, they can be arrested for advertising and taking part in paid sexual services. Although the act was intended to decrease demand, these laws have done little to actually protect sex workers from harm. WISH is a drop-in centre for self-identified women who are involved in street-based sex trade in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, and on its website, it notes that “Sex workers in British Columbia experience substantially higher rates of violence than the general population, and this vulnerability is often higher for Indigenous, homeless, immigrant and trans sex workers.” Sex work is still looked down on in society, and it’s portrayed as immoral, dirty, and degrading. For the website Understanding Sex Work, the University of Victoria’s Cecilia Benoit and Leah Shumka’s research paper, “Sex Work in Canada,” highlights many of the misunderstand-

ings out there. “Many of the assumptions about sex workers originate in media portrayals of sex workers, street-level sex workers in particular,” they write. “Some of the more common myths are that all sex workers are victims, all sex workers are drug addicts, all sex workers are survivors of sexual abuse, and sex work is inherently violent.” But for three queer folks in B.C.—West, Mia, and Noah—their positive experiences with sex work dismantles many long long-held stigmas and stereotypes.

the equation when seeing sex workers, which leads to a more timed encounter. “There’s that professional barrier and there’s more comfort of being able to explore things easier and without judgment,” she says, “because you’re not holding the stakes of, like, this is a future potential partner, so you’re worrying about impressing them. The anxiety can drop away a little.” Along with the swiftness of seeing a sex worker, West described what’s known as a “container”: it’s a term used

The term “self-care” seemed cheap for the state he was describing. “It does feel like a quality of self-love and self-nourishment, but it feels more spiritual than that. It feels deeper and more robust, versus self-care being like, having a bath with a bath bomb.” Thirty-three-year-old Noah sounds lighthearted when he says that he didn’t feel nervous before seeing a sex worker. “I might feel a little off centre, but all in all before going into a sexual encounter, I usually have a feeling or philosophy that is like, well, I’m just gonna go in and throw spaghetti at the wall and we’ll see what happens,” he says with a laugh. Another client, 31-year-old West, says that they found the whole process of reaching out to a sex worker, versus going on a dating app for a sexual encounter, to be an entirely different experience. “For one, they’re a professional so they’re really good at what they do,” says West. “Their communication skills are at a higher level, and their touch is often at a high level as are their intimacy skills, and their experience level of having sex and relationships.” There is an added simplicity to the process as well, they note: you know what to expect out of it, versus meeting a stranger off a dating app that could very well go wrong. “I know I can go pay for a sexual experience that is just for me, and the trade is that that person gets the money, and I get the sex,” they laugh. “I think it’s a way to have a clear and consented to and ethical way to have hookups or one-night-stands, or really self-centered experiences.” Mia, also in her thirties, says with a gentle voice how she likes that the emotional weight of dating is taken out of

in psychotherapy, meaning a “holding environment.” To be a container for someone is to hold a safe space for someone’s feelings to be let out in a safe way, often through another figure. Seeing a sex worker can be a place to find a container. “There’s a strong container around the relationship,” they explain. “It really exists for the amount of time that’s agreed upon, and the relationship, through the container and boundaries, provides a sense of safety for me.” Noah also found he was able to voice his desires during sex in a way that felt easy and comfortable. “In the container of sex work, I asked for this thing I wanted, and he was able to do it for me right away,” he says. “The angle plus the agreement created this situation where right away I had a really long, joyful orgasm from that. I really treasure that memory as well.” He speaks of the memory gently, as if sacred. He credits visiting sex work to his now being able to understand and embody an awareness of the self-work he needed to do around communication and self-advocacy. With a dark veil cast over the image of the supposed reality of sex work, there was a sharp contrast as clients spoke of the freedom of expression that buying sex entails. The best experience Mia had, she says, was “just like goopy, nice. Just over the moon.” She had experienced a three-way massage with two MAY 2022 unspoken

others. “It was accompanied with food, all my favorite things,” she says. “It was super dreamy and lovely and sensual. All of us had an opportunity to give and all of us had an opportunity to receive, which felt lovely.” For this past Valentine’s Day, West got themselves a four-handed massage. “I was absolutely sandwiched between two hot oily babes and it’s just such a unique experience to not only receive one person’s skilled and attentive touch, just for me, but from two people’s skilled and attentive touch just for me.” Noah describes the soft, grounded feeling he experiences after a session. “I usually have this quality of feeling really cared for,” he says. “Sort of akin to a spa day for myself, the feeling of my arousal being pampered and my desire being attended to. I leave very chemically high from the experience.” He says that the term “self-care” seemed cheap for the state he was describing. “It does feel like a quality of self-love and self-nourishment, but it feels more spiritual than that. It feels deeper and more robust, versus self-care being like having a bath with a bath bomb.” For the future of sex work in B.C., full freedom, not only through laws and policies, but the disintegration of deeply held stigmas may seem unrealistic now, but with more education, things can change. The current laws may possibly do more harm than good, as the stigma towards sex work, its criminalization and further legal barriers lead to a majority of cases of violence against sex workers going un-

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reported to authorities. West wants the public to know that there are so many reasons why somebody would go to see and hire a sex professional. “I would like to complicate and broaden the idea around how sex work is inherently coercive. Because there is a huge difference of experiences within sex work.” When hiring a sex worker, there can be concerns around knowing whether or not the person is there of their own free will—that they’re not being trafficked. According to StatsCan, there were 511 police-reported human trafficking incidents in 2019, and of course, many go unreported. The most common form of human trafficking is for the purpose of sexual exploitation. “Sex trafficking is of course a very serious and important issue,” says Mia. “It’s also often overemphasized as a problem when talking about sex workers, who are just people doing their job. The majority of people in the sex industry are in it in their own volition.” Mia mentioned ways that a client can scout out a legitimate sex worker and avoid anything sketchy. “A good starting point is to work with people who are independent. Sites like Tryst are known for being less scammy and host independent sex workers. The process of getting your profile validated on it can take a while, and they check your ID for your age and other personal details so they can verify that you are real. People advertising their own services set their own prices and boundaries. You general-

ly chat with the sex worker on the phone or through email before you meet, and you can get the feel of them.” When addressing the stereotypes and vague antagonisms surrounding perceptions of sex work, Noah pushes back on them. “Sex work is work, and it’s hard work,” he says. “Sex workers often have a profound amount of integrity because of the nature of the work, and from the way culture vilifies sex work.” He wants people to use their minds to research and form their own views and forgo following the stigmas. “At the end of the day,” he says, “I say that if you come to a conclusion about sex workers based off of your own explorations and your own embodied experiences, then I 100-percent respect whatever opinion you have that is based on your own reality. However, if you’re arriving to an idea of a person without having actually done your own journey through research and your own embodied experience, then I would really question the legitimacy of your opinion.” Overcoming these stigmas can lead to lovely experiences that were once only available to male customers. Mia shares how she wishes queer and non-binary folks would consider seeing a sex worker rather than just cis-gendered men. “It’s so funny because even in my own head, that was so ingrained— that clients were always men. When I first saw a sex worker and they offered me a massage, I just assumed that it wasn’t going to be sensual, although of course I wanted that,” she said. “It’s not just for men; like we deserve those sensual, lovely experiences and opportunities to explore ourselves in those spaces. I wish I had known about that as an option when I was younger, because I was nervous around my sexuality. It would’ve been really cool, had I known that that was something that was okay and reasonable to do.” Noah finds refuge and excitement in the whole experience, which is a form of sexual expression. He goes for it in a safe and consensual way. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen, but neither does the other person, and this is a pretty unique human meeting with human kind of moment,” he says. “Maybe it’s a bit of naivete on my part, but I just jump in.” n PHOTO: COURESY OF SIERRA PITKIN

IN THE

SPOTLIGHT

Hampered Healthcare

More than two years into the pandemic, healthcare workers face exhaustion and burnout—and they’re leaving the industry altogether. It’s never been more challenging to replace them. b y G A B R I E L E L I E S S I

am lasted a good 16 months into the pandemic before she couldn’t take it any longer. “I don’t know how, in this kind of crisis, with this kind of pressure on the healthcare system, anybody’s getting the support they need,” she says. And so in late 2021, the community health worker changed jobs, to a gig that took her further from the frontlines. And she’s certainly not the only one. In B.C., Fraser Health workers phoned in with short-term illnesses more than 7,000 times between January 3 and 9 of 2022, and B.C.

ILLUSTRATION: ALEUTIE/SHUTTERSTOCK

Emergency Health Services have recently reported double the absences since the same time period in 2021. According to the Ontario Medical Association survey done in March 2021, as many as three in four healthcare workers in that province have reported symptoms of burnout. Sam had been feeling the effects of low staffing numbers since March 2020. There was less time to spend with each patient, and more for everyone to take on. But the job switch has made a difference: her mental health has improved since

she left the frontline. While there was some guilt for leaving, Sam feels she made the right decision for her mental health. But replacing those burned-out healthcare workers is proving to be a challenge. Canadian Medical Association president Dr. Katharine Smart told CMAJ News, “There are hundreds of job postings for nursing staff ‘with not a single applicant.’” While it’s natural for there to be confusion during a public health crisis, the shifting and complicated messaging was one of the

other factors that played into Sam switching jobs. “At the beginning, we were feeling really anxious. Why aren’t we getting direction?” she recounts of her previous position. The message changed with each new variant, and the lack of support from the top made it more difficult. Even today, months after she’s left the field, Sam feels the message now is still not adjusting fast enough. And yet, despite it all, she doesn’t envy those in leadership positions. “Who’s going to do it, right? It’s easy to criticize.” n

MAY 2022 unspoken

IN THE

SPOTLIGHT

Sometimes you have to be intentional to find and make friends.

Soul Date

How stepping outside of your comfort zone could lead to making more friends. b y G I M E N A M A C H A D O

hen 26-year-old marketing student Ivana Shafran moved to Vancouver in 2020, she figured making friends wouldn’t be a problem. But unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. “After five months in Vancouver, I had no intimate circle,” she says. “I felt lonely and embarrassed.” But she knew she had

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to do something about it. “I started investigating and came across Bumble BFF,” she says. “It’s the same app as the dating one, but you choose the friends mode.” That’s when she saw hundreds of people in the same situation—and that day she stopped feeling embarrassed. “I met so many cool girls on that app. Yes, it is more chal-

lenging than making friends in person, but if you put effort into getting to know them and then meet with them, you can make some great friends as I did.” Shafran’s experience in Vancouver isn’t unique, despite what you might read about the city online. If you Google “Vancouver friendly city,” the top hits will show

that the the city was named the “friendliest city on earth” in 2019. But as soon as the Daily Hive picked up the story, its social media was bombarded with readers disagreeing with the sentiment. Of the 81 replies, 75 made fun of the city’s new title. “I describe Vancouver in all sorts of wonderful ways,” tweeted @jennifer_brick. “Friendly is not one of them.” “Maybe they mean Vancouver, Washington,” responded @gmdvancouver. So how do locals overcome the city’s unfriendliness? Jessica Smith, a 21-year-old Vancouverite, has always struggled to maintain friendships in the city. “Even in high school, I found I was more likely to be hanging with my parents on a Friday night,” says the communications student. But it wasn’t because of strict parenting, or even her own choice. “I have always struggled to make connections that felt good to me,” she says. Things shifted for Smith once she started signing up for activities outside the university. “I met a lot of girls that are in the same situation,” she says. “I feel like people are just too afraid to go up to you and tell you that they would like to hang out soon.” In fact, she’s been putting in an extra effort to be the one to make the first move, which has helped her make a lot of new connections. Luisa Hernandez took a different approach altogether. The 23-year-old Mexican student found that housing groups on Facebook were a great source for people looking to connect. “I saw a guy looking for a roommate, and PHOTO: GIMENA MACHADO

he mentioned playing tennis which I also love, so I asked him to play,” she says. “That day we also met a couple waiting to play tennis on our court, so we invited them to play doubles.” Once the game wrapped, the crew went for drinks— and stayed in touch thanks to a WhatsApp group they created. “The four of us still hang out all of the time,” she says. She’d been feeling low about her social life, but this turnaround boosted her self-esteem. “I felt like I looked desperate by reaching out to people,” she says. “But then I told myself, if you don’t do anything about this situation, you will never make friends.” Sometimes it takes an extra push, but Smith assures that it’s worth it in the end. “Feeling lonely and lacking friends is normal,” she says. “What is important is that if it is affecting you, you go do something about it. I promise that good things will come out of it.” n

The pandemic put a strain on both our lifestyles, and on our social circles.

PHOTO: BEARPHOTOS/SHUTTERSTOCK

Friendemic

Covid took a toll on many things, not the least of which were some friendships. B Y M YA F R A S E R

essica Ambrosio didn’t expect a global pandemic, but she also didn’t expect to lose her best friend while navigating the ways of the times. “During one of the most confusing and unforeseen times, it made me feel so lonely,” she says. “My person wasn’t my person anymore, and it happened so fast.” Twenty-one-year old Ambrosio, a university student at UBC-Okanagan, had a conflict with one of her childhood best friends last year. And the reason? Covid. While romantic breakups are heart-wrenching, watching your best friend turn into a stranger is a different kind of pain and loss. Platonic relationships play a significant role in our lives too, yet no one talks about the hardships they can have on us. Due to their differences in the way they each handled Covid, they didn’t see each other for a long time, which resulted in a strain within their relationship. After an awkward rendezvous months later, they no longer speak. “Covid was still spreading lots, especially amongst young people going out,” says Ambrosio. “She didn’t care that we were advised to not go out much and to keep our circles small.” And her friend was public about it too, posting on social media, and being careless about the number of contacts she had. “I needed to keep my circle small for the safety of those around me, and to contribute to stopping the spread of the virus,” says Ambrosio. “She didn’t care about having a bubble, so

she was very social.” When they met up, the conversation stemmed naturally toward Covid restrictions, and who was and wasn’t following the rules. “Once we did the small talk, it was pretty apparent we were about to address the elephant in the room.” Ambrosio told her friend that she felt they’d grown apart, and she agreed. Unable to understand one another’s side of things, it was apparent they would agree to disagree to leave things on a better note. “There were tears. It was awkward. We cared for one another, but our natural spark was gone, and you could sense that.” Dr. Lori Walker, an instructor at Capilano University who specializes in interpersonal communications and conflict, shares just how important these platonic relationships are in our lives. “Friendships are essential!” she says. “We know this because the mechanisms for building and maintaining close relationships are baked into our bodies and brains.” She also points to evidence that connection to others is actually essential for our survival. “From the Harlow Monkey studies to studies on isolation, we know good relationships give us better health, both physical and mental.” Ambrosio wasn’t the only one to lose friends throughout Covid. Findings from the May 2021 American Perspectives Survey state that almost 59 percent of young women, for one reason or another, have lost touch with at least a few friends, and 16 percent say they are no longer in regular contact with most of their friends. “It’s important to resolve conflicts,” Walker emphasizes. “There is evidence that those who can’t resolve conflict have fewer opportunities in life, receive below-average service (including health care), and have less support when they need it the most.” While maintaining healthy relationships is important, how you deal with conflict when it arises matters too. The ability to resolve conflicts is part of development and having healthy relationships. In Ambrosio’s case, she mentions she still feels sad about the outcome. “Do I miss our friendship? Sure,” she says. “Do I know we don’t get on the same way anymore though? Even more so.” She addressed how the overall experience felt fitting despite any feelings that are still arising. “Overall, it showed me what my values are and how strongly I feel about them. I also got the chance to connect with other friends more, which was pleasant and very necessary.” n MAY 2022 unspoken

SEEK& HIDE IN THE

SPOTLIGHT

What was supposed to be a summer fling quickly turned into an obsessive nightmare. John Smith shares his story of how he became the victim of a female stalker. by CLARISSA NGUYEN

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PHOTO: GEORGE PETERS/ISTOCK

John Smith was 16 when his family took a summer cruise to Asia. And that’s when he met her. They flirted. They’d hang out during the day on the ship. She’d leave him notes in the mail slot of his cabin. It was fun, but it was never going to be more than a summer fling. When the summer came to an end, he thought they’d be online

friends—he lived in Canada, and she lived in the States. They ended up agreeing to try long-distance dating, but he quickly found that she wasn’t his type. After they broke up, the two kept in touch, but Smith was concerned that she still had strong feelings. While he didn’t know it at the time, Smith’s summer fling would

turn into a stalker.

Genevieve St-Louis is an RCMP officer in the criminal harassment department, which handles harassing behaviour, including repeated following, communication with or watching of one’s home. Stalking, she says, is defined as when “someone is followed by another individual without their knowledge, and this can also be present online (social media),” she explains. “Following someone is being aware of their routine, what they like, the routes they take to go home/work/gym, etc.” It’s not always easy to see the signs at first. When Smith looks back on the relationship, he see the red flags now. During the brief time they were dating, Smith found his stalker to be possessive and overly attached. “She was concerned where to go for university, and this was before I broke up with her. She said, ‘Oh, I’m going to move up to B.C., just to be with you.’” It seemed like a lot of commitment from someone he’d only been dating for few months. Smith felt suffocated, and the relationship felt very one-sided. She would constantly text him, even if he didn’t respond. He started to feel more like an emotional support animal than an actual boyfriend. Even though they only knew each other for a couple of months, “I was the only one who could really talk to her about everything, so I guess at a vulnerable point I was the only pillar to talk to.” Once they broke up, her behaviour became more intense. She began doing things to get his attention. Since they stopped talking daily, “She put unsavoury comments on my social media, probably to get my attention,” he says.

In her six-and-a-half years of policing, St-Louis has never dealt with a case of a male being stalked. “I believe that men do not report these incidents, mainly due to their pride and not to be seen as weak or labelled as a victim,” she says. When Smith posted that his pet rabbit had died, she wrote that it would be better served as her dinner rather than Smith just burying her—hurtful at a time when he was feeling the loss. Smith also found that he had to be cautious about what he posted on social media, since he knew she’d be taking notes on what he was doing. “I announced on my Instagram I was going to UBC but never specified which [campus], because I was concerned about what she would do,” he says. “And then the year I got into UBC, she got into UBC Vancouver, and I went to UBC Okanagan. And I was like, damn, I dodged a bullet there.” She asked for his address to send him letters while dating, and after the breakup she moved from the U.S. to B.C., and to Smith’s surprise he found out that she held on to his address. “She sent letters to me; I’ve seen that on her [Instagram] story that when she moved to B.C., she

has been near my house.” A year after their break-up, Smith has engaged in a new relationship. And while his stalker had been blocked from his social media accounts, he recently unblocked her to know if he still had to be cautious when coming home from the Okanagan to visit his parents and new girlfriend. While he’s chosen not to go to the police and no longer feels threatened, he’s also learned to not be as open to letting strangers into his personal life. Hindsight is one thing, of course, but how can someone avoid getting involved with a stalker in the first place? St-Louis often works with cases that involve men stalking women. (In her six-and-a-half years of policing, St-Louis has never dealt with a case of a male being stalked. “I believe that men do not report these incidents, mainly due to their pride and not to be seen as weak or labeled as a victim,” she says.) In her experience, people are often more trusting than they should be, and have already given out details that are hard to take back (just as Smith did, when he gave out his home address). “When talking to someone, some of the red flags to look for would be, in my opinion, someone who is copying how you talk, dress, eat, etc.” she says. “These are signs that they are infatuated with you.” And if you have a gut feeling, she says, you should trust it. “I feel like having some sort of a wall up and asking questions like ‘Why do you need to know this?’— I don’t think it’s a bad thing,” she says. If someone finds themselves the victim of a stalker, St-Louis offers a few steps to protect themselves. First, call the police serving your community and report the incident. “You can choose to have the matter documented only,” she says. “If you know the identity of your stalker, police can talk to this person on your behalf asking them to stop the behaviour, or charges could be laid for some type of criminal harassment.” St-Louis finds it very helpful to make a case file to keep records of all the offences that someone has done to you, rather than wait for a severe action that makes you act. “I believe it is important for anyone, no matter their gender, to report these incidents.” n MAY 2022 unspoken

Jess (@zeldasaurusjess) dreams of a day she can dress up as Rose Quartz without labels attached to her appearance.

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IN THE

SPOTLIGHT

Out of

Character

If cosplay is about dressing up as fictional characters, why do social factors like race and body types matter? VA L E R I E P H A M

PHOTO: PIGEONPEN

Jess remembers the first time

she entered the magical world of cosplay dressing as Ezio Auditore da Firenze, wearing his iconic layered robe and arm guards of the Assassin’s Order. What started as one convention in 2010 led to a 12-year pursuit—and an Instagram account known as Zeldasaurusjess—even after Jess graduated and moved from Toronto to Vancouver in 2020 for work. But while the passion burns strong, there’s always a little voice of doubt in her head. “[It’s that] you might be too chubby to do this,” she says. “You don’t look like you have the same skin tone. You shouldn’t do it.” The art of cosplay, where fans dress up as their favourite fictional characters, is a creative pop culture pursuit. And it’s mostly a happy one. But when it comes to social factors like race and body types, things get more complicated. Cosplay, short for “costume play,” is nothing like dressing up as a sexy chicken sandwich for Halloween. It is a form of performance art in which a cosplayer dresses up as a character from a novel, comic, TV program, film or other pop-culture media. Some immerse themselves in their character and adopt their demeanour, but others remain true to themselves while dressing as their favourite character.

According to Globe Newswire, the global cosplay costumes market is expanding rapidly with a projected value to reach $23 million by 2030. The surge in popularity of geek/nerd culture has also put the community in the limelight. A quick search on any social platform can reveal hundreds of blogs devoted to cosplay advice and costume pieces. There are even documentaries on the community. Well-known geek conventions, such as San Diego Comic-Con, attract thousands of participants and are noted for their vibrant cosplay scene. And the artists attending these events are just as intriguing as celebrity guests and vendors on site. The commitment and dedication of people within the community is often over the top. Cosplayers commonly spend ample time, labour and money designing costumes and props to embody the character they choose to perform at conventions, with preparation happening weeks in advance. The average cost of creating a costume can range from $101 to $600 or more, depending on the design’s complexity. If a cosplayer wants to flex their versatility, they must continually make or buy new costumes. It’s an exciting world, and for Jess, a personally fulfilling one that’s about craftsmanship and fandom. “Cosplaying is giving me a lot of confidence in terms MAY 2022 unspoken

of meeting new people and socializing, especially when I see the people in the same character like me,” she says. “A lot of the skills in cosplay also help me get into costume design. It was an exciting experience learning how to make a ballgown and all the different techniques for it.” But as she witnessed the community grow over the years, Jess quickly realized cosplay isn’t all fun and games, and as a person of colour, she faces tougher barriers. Instead of focusing on the craft itself, it has increasingly become a popularity contest. “People tend to focus more on the numbers of things like how

“To wear something that affects some people’s lives in such a negative way as a costume you can just take off, I question where people find the respect in that? It’s still dehumanizing to this day when the race of people you are dressing up as aren’t treated as your equal in everyday life .” many likes this gets, how many shares that has and whether the stuff is going viral,” she says. For a cosplayer whose income comes from selling prints, posters and postcards at conventions or running a Patreon account, it’s their popularity that supports their sales. Since the industry is similar to modelling, exposing skin is one of the fastest ways to draw attention. While Jess sees sexy cosplay as a way for her to be “proud and be confident in [her] body,” she also thinks it changes the dynamics within the community. “As cosplayers do more sexy cosplays, people are always expecting to see sexier stuff,” says Jess. “Usually, that kind of stuff gets more likes and more shares, so I find that people, especially the younger community like teenagers, are pressured in doing sexier cosplays to get their cosplay noticed, when they don’t really want to, or don’t have the body for it.” This unnecessary and dangerous tension also gets more intense when

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the sexualization is combined with the obsession with what’s known as screen accuracy. The term refers to how closely your outfit and accoutrements resemble the character shown on the screen (or pages). Some people use it to express when all of the elements of an outfit are the correct colour, size and so on. A more severe expectation is when others consider a cosplayer’s physical characteristics such as height, weight or skin tone. Being female-bodied, plus size and/or POC makes being “accurate” more challenging. While Jess finds that her friends within the community have always been supportive, she finds herself still succumbing to mental pressure. “In some degree, it kind of impacts the insecurities you have,” she says. “My weight tends to change a lot, so when I see a character I like, the back of my mind would say, ‘Oh, I don’t have the body for this.” All this pressure on replication and body standards in cosplay evolved into a whole new level of toxicity when “Blackfacing” and “Brownfacing” became a heated issue within the community. “There are some cosplayers out there that darken their skin for cosplay,” says Jess. “And sometimes they don’t understand why it’s always a huge deal on the Internet when people do that.” Jess isn’t the only person frustrated by the issue. Rio Small, a writer with the U.K.’s top cosplay magazine, The Cosplay Journal, wrote about the issue in a recent edition. “The “art” of switching your race for a character to be “accurate” and “respectful” is an incredibly numbing subject for me,” wrote Small. “To wear something that affects some people’s lives in such a negative way as a costume you can just take off, I question where people find the respect in that? It’s still dehumanizing to this day when the race of people you are dressing up as aren’t treated as your equal in everyday life.” The appeal of superheroes is fused into the ambiguity of identity in the form of a cape and a mask. When people see Superman flying across the clear skies, they can’t help but wonder, “Could they be someone like me?” For BIPOC cosplayers like Jess, there’s an extra layer of judgment and pressure for being in their own skin. Yes, they can play the role, but not without a label attached to them.

“When there’s Sailor Moon, some people would say it’s the Black Sailor Moon,” she explains. But it hasn’t stopped Jess from cosplaying the characters she likes. “Sometimes I feel like I can be limited,” she says, “but I also let my love of the character kind of overshadow that.” The cosplayer urges people to be comfortable in their own bodies and enjoy the fun. “If a POC wants to cosplay a white character, that’s fine. If someone is 300 pounds and wants to be Superman, be Superman. More power to you. When you break it down at the end of the day, it’s just a bunch of nerdy people dressing up in costumes. It’s really not that serious; it’s supposed to be for fun.” And there are meaningful movements within the cosplay community to combat its dark side. Discourses are going on online regarding race in geek culture, focusing on the obvious absence of characters of colour, particularly Black women, in science fiction, comics, and fantasy. During Black History Month, cosplayer Chaka Cumberbatch initiated #29DaysOfBlackCosplay on Instagram to honour Black cosplayers. Other resources for inspiration, according to Jess, include social media for BIPOC and more diverse cosplayers finding communities for themselves. The cosplay community’s acceptance of BIPOC cosplayers is a work in progress. The necessary changes to bring about diversity may have started, but the community still has a long way to go to achieve healthy and balanced inclusivity. “Right now, sexier stuff is more popular and everything else kind of falls to the sideline,” says Jess. “I hope, in the future, I get to see an armour maker also have three million followers like a model cosplayer.” Cosplay is, in some ways, more than just dressing up in a costume; it is permission to occupy space by rematerializing a systemic indicator of priorities in popular culture. Jess first entered the magical world of cosplay with a love for costume crafting and Assassin’s Creed. So if she wants to dress as Ezio Auditore da Firenze but doesn’t look like him? She can still become Ezio Auditore da Firenze—but without all the tags and labels attached. n

IN THE

SPOTLIGHT

grief encounters

Loss can take many forms, and there’s no right or wrong way to work through it. Grief counsellor Jan Bryant lays out the misconceptions of the process. by ROBYN McCULLOUGH

When Mary lost her husband

of 37 years, her grief was physical. “In the days after Bob’s death, I had trouble focusing on things, engaging with my friends, and experienced a complete loss of appetite,” Mary said in an email, five years after the death of her best friend and soulmate. “I felt that the life had gone out of our house, and that I was treading water but not able to swim in any particular direction.” At some point in life, everyone experiences grief. When the pandemic struck in 2020, many were faced with the reality that they could lose those close to them. But a pandemic wasn’t the only thing separating people from their loved ones, nor was it the only thing that made them hesitate to reach out to those who were grieving.

The topic of grief is often discussed with reluctance, an unpleasant reality that isolates and confuses those who experience it. Grief is typically associated with the loss of a loved one, but it can take many forms. “I think it’s important to recognize that when you lose something that’s important to you, it’s grief,” says Jan Bryant, a grief counsellor in North Vancouver for over 20 years. “Grief is about loss. It could be loss of health or other losses of relationship or moving to a different country or a different city or having a best friend move away.” Bryant stresses that grief can also include the loss of a lifestyle or the loss of a job, something that has been prevalent during the pandemic, along with the loss of loved ones. There has also been an

MAY 2022 unspoken

Unusual Responses to Grief Just as the feeling of grief can apply to different circumstances, our responses to grief vary from person to person. The most common bodily responses include guilt, loss of concentration, crying, depression and a general feeling of fatigue. These responses are not limited to just the emotional side of grief.

increase in anxiety and depression over the loss of lifestyle and health during the pandemic as the world shuddered to a halt. For high schoolers and university students who were robbed of in-person classes and grad celebrations, the loss of social life had a heavy impact on mental health. “There’s a lot of grief around that too,” Bryant says. “We’ve lost a lot.” Bryant’s own journey to becoming a grief counsellor came from personal experience. She lost her daughter nearly 30 years ago and quickly discovered

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how difficult it was to find support, particularly for her children and teenagers experiencing grief. She joined The Compassionate Friends, an international non-profit organization that provides peer support for grieving parents, and started a chapter on the North Shore to provide resources for people who needed help grieving. She took what she’d learned from these groups to local high schools to give educational talks about grief. This latter part was the bulk of her work. “Nobody was talking to high school

On her website, Jan Bryant outlines a long, but not exhaustive list of physical, emotional, psychological, social and spiritual responses to grief. Here is a list of some of the more unusual responses: • P HYSICAL RESPONSES may include dizziness or fainting, hair loss, aches, pains and muscle stiffness • EMOTIONAL RESPONSES may include irritability, nightmares, rambling or lack of communication with those around you • P SYCHOLOGICAL AND SOCIAL RESPONSES may include loss of confidence and security, confusion, indecisiveness, a need for rituals, inability to allow self to experience negative emotions • S PIRITUAL RESPONSES may include a strengthened faith in a higher power or questioning the meaning of life and what happens after death It is crucial to remember that while we may experience grief differently, these responses are a natural part of the grieving process. For a more comprehensive list of grief responses, visit https://www. janbryant.ca/GriefResponses.html.

PHOTO: PRISCILLA DU PREEZ / UNSPLASH

students and there were no support groups for teens.” Three years later, she earned her counselling degree at UBC so that she could provide professional help to those who had none. She now works with independent schools and has a private practice on the North Shore where she works with, among others, children and parents grieving the loss of their children. There are many misconceptions about grief, notes Bryant. The biggest is that there are “five stages”: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. People assume that these stages are linear, she says, but grief isn’t so easily categorized—and those grieving are surprised to find themselves regressing in stages. Instead, she describes grief as circular. “It’s very disorderly,” she explains. “You’ll deal with it and then… it’ll circle back around.” But with each time around, the grieving process provides a new perspective. And grieving also takes a long time. It’s not something that can be done in two weeks, two months or even two years— nor should anyone feel embarrassed that they’re still “not over” their loss. For Mary, five years after the death of her husband, her grief still comes and goes, triggered by a sentimental song, looking through family photos, or reminiscing with others. While that flood of emotion has ebbed, the loss of her best friend and soulmate lingers. “The big challenge with grief is that there really is no endpoint,” she says over email. “I will forever grieve the loss of my husband.” As personal as the grieving process is, the age at which someone experiences a loss will also affect their process. The ability to comprehend the finality of death develops around 10 years of age, says Bryant. Children who experience a loss at a young age grow up with questions that follow them through life. “We know that adolescent girls who have experienced a death of a mother don’t deal with it until they’re in their 20s,” she says. Teenagers, while able to comprehend death, tend to turn to their friends for support rather than their parents, oftentimes processing their grief as young adults. Bryant finds that teen girls are more attuned to their emotions, whereas teen boys tend to act rather than

process their feelings and, when grieving, are more prone to doing death-defying actions. A 2016 survey on AskMen.com revealed that men are also less likely to seek help: of those surveyed, one man for every three women sought help when grieving. While it might be assumed that grieving is defined by biological sex, it’s more realistically rooted in societal and generational expectations of gender roles. It can be difficult to approach some-

time to keep in touch with loved ones and attend support groups. Counsellors have also offered their services online to make them more accessible. Bryant is also considering keeping a hybrid form of online and in-person counselling after the pandemic ends, so that she can reach people who are more comfortable talking within their homes. Rituals are also an important part of helping the grieving process. “A lot of

Asking about specific ways that you can help is an important way of showing support. Bryant suggests tasks such as offering to do their laundry, get groceries, or walk the dog. She stresses that by being specific, it is easier for a grieving person to accept help, because it is one less thing they have to ask for. one who is grieving. Despite best intentions, supporters might feel like they’re overstepping, that anything said will come off as insensitive. As anyone whose lost someone knows too well, sometimes it won’t be alright, and just because a loved one is in a better place doesn’t mean that the pain of losing them vanishes. That pain lingers like smoke clinging to clothes. “The most important thing is [to] listen,” Bryant says. “Listen without judging. Listen without trying to fix them. And however much pain they are feeling, just be willing to sit beside them and sit in that sadness and sorrow with them.” By sitting and listening, it allows those grieving to feel validated. During her walk with grief, Mary was lucky to have family and friends who did just that. “They never tried to change the subject as they knew how important it was for me to share my feelings.” Asking about specific ways that you can help is an important way of showing support. Bryant suggests tasks such as offering to do their laundry, get groceries, or walk the dog. She stresses that by being specific, it is easier for a grieving person to accept help, because it is one less thing they have to ask for. While the pandemic has dramatically affected the grieving process and made it more difficult for people to reach out, people have adapted to Zoom and Face-

people have held off [holding funerals during the pandemic],” Bryant says. “Just had the little 10-person funeral and a memorial at a later date. I think there’s a lot of value in that.” Memorials have played a crucial role in remembering those we have lost and are a way to let the family know that “Hey, we’re still here for you. I’m still grieving with you” instead of support waning over the months when it hits them. And smaller, everyday rituals like long walks, spending time with friends and family, or in Mary’s case, gardening, can create stability at a time when things may seem uncertain. Grief is a natural part of life, and it’s not something that has to be faced alone. Mary felt fortunate that her support group has never wavered: whether it was cycling with her sister, spending time with her sons, or just having someone to talk to, her walk with grief was never on her own. “I could not have established a new life without Bob had I not had the incredible love and support of my family and friends,” she says. “They helped to propel me forward by listening, offering suggestions, and being there for me on both the good and the more challenging days as I forged a new path in life.” And while not every day has been great, while she misses her soulmate, Mary has made a conscious decision to live her life in his honour. ■ MAY 2022 unspoken

IN THE

SPOTLIGHT

A man’s World Women and people of colour still don’t have equal footing on set in Vancouver’s film and television productions. What will it take for the industry to change? L A U RY N J A M I S O N

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Karina Jesson was sitting cross-

legged on her roommate’s brown-leather couch when she decided it was time to make the call. There was no way the production company would ask her to perform her role as director of photography at half the normal rate. Or worse, that she would need to work under a mentor, which hadn’t been the case for the last nine months. But they did. “‘We just think you’re not ready to take your training wheels off yet.’ They said those words to me,” Jesson angrily recalls, as she retells the story four months later from the same brownleather couch. Beside her, a collection of vintage DVDs and VHS movies is aesthetically colour-coded and features some of her all-time favourites: When Harry Met Sally and Stand by Me. “I came to the conclusion that they were trying to take advantage of me because I was young and wanting to DOP,” Jesson says. The director of that specific project is two years younger than Jesson, and had attended the same film school. They’re also best friends, and he had been pitching for her—and her alone—for this project since the beginning. And yet there were no training wheels suggested for his role. “I know it’s because I’m a girl that they didn’t want my training wheels

off,” Jesson says. “I have male equivalents who have said this would never happen to them.” Canada’s film and television industry is 100-plus years old, and yet women still struggle for equality on set. In 2021, the Centre for the Study of Women in Television & Film found that women accounted for 25 percent of all key behind-the-scenes roles, including directors, writers, executive producers, producers, editors and cinematographers. While these roles are important to any production, they also make up only one-third of the industry. The remaining two-thirds are comprised of what’s called below-the-line workers, including makeup and production artists, technicians, craftspeople, designers and drivers. In those roles, 34 percent are women, and only 15 percent are visible minorities. This unequal footing makes the industry an ideal working environment for predatory behaviour. Several studies on sexual harassment in the workplace— including a 2015 study from the World of Labor journal—found that women are more likely to be harassed when they perform male-dominated roles. And as women in the film industry start to fill those male-dominated positions, they’re also more likely to experience harassment.

From left, Prabhjot (PJ) Nijjar and Karina Jesson working together on set of a Capilano University student production in 2020.

At 24 years old, Jesson is still very early on in her film career. But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t already had her fair share of sexist and unpleasant experiences, but like her “training wheels” experience, it isn’t always blatant. Prabhjot (PJ) Nijjar, a 24-year-old Punjabi camera trainee, agrees. “It’s never really something that’s so outrageous and big,” she says. “It’s always little microaggressions, which I get being a brown person too. The people who are making comments know that if they act in a more grandiose way, they’ll be gone. But if they’re sneaky with it, they’ll probably stay on the show.” Jesson and Nijjar weren’t always as disenchanted with the business. In their early days, they just saw opportunity: to be creative, to collaborate with creative people. Jesson walked onto her first set was she was 14 years old, and “thought it was the most magical place [she] had ever been.” Nijjar says she felt similarly, PHOTO: COURTESY OF PRABHJOT NIJJAR

but she wishes she “knew more about the industry before trying to get into it.” As a young Punjabi woman in the industry, Nijjar is all too familiar with the dynamics of being a minority in the workplace. As a camera trainee, Nijjar says that on set, people can be racist but “not in a mean way racist, but in a weird way racist, maybe like a fetish way racist—like touching my hair or making comments about my skin looking golden. Questions like, ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Where are your parents from?’ ‘What do you speak?’ ‘How do you pronounce your name?’ ‘Oh, that’s so exotic.’” Nijjar’s first name, Prabhjot, is a common unisex Punjabi name. “I go by Prabhjot anywhere else. When I started in the industry, I was like ‘I’m gonna go by PJ’ because it’s a lot more recognizable and it stays in your mind more than my name Prabhjot.” She started to go by PJ so she could hopefully get more work and so that her name could be easily rec-

ognized by white producers and executives who make up a significant portion of the industry. (University of Southern California’s 2020 Hollywood Diversity Report found 93 percent of senior executive film positions are held by white people and 80 percent are held by men.) Nijjar says she is fine with going by PJ, “but if I were to go back, I would go by Prabhjot because that’s my name and fuck you, you just have to learn it.” Jesson primarily works as a DP, but she also has years of experience in the LX (electrics) department and as a grip, which is the position that sets up and supports the necessary camera equipment. “It’s extremely physical,” Jesson explains, “and on top of extremely physical, it’s extremely long, so most days I work I need a full day after to recover.” According to Work BC’s 2019 BC Motion Picture Industry Below-the-Line Labour Market Study, five percent of grip and LX workers are female. In any techniMAY 2022 unspoken

cal role, Jesson is usually the only woman on set. “I’ve never had a day where I don’t get comments like, ‘It’s really nice to see women in the LX department,’” she says. “And that’s nice to hear but, at the same time, it’s kind of just this exhausting reminder of the inequity.” Jesson often finds she has to navigate the egos and opinions of the men under whom she works, as well as the ones of whom she is in charge. “I could write a book about the ego dynamics that I’ve had with men I work with,” she says. “Men get very intimidated when you know more than them and they get visibly itchy when you try to teach them something new.” Jesson explains that to work in the industry, especially in a technical role like hers, you have to be tough, energetic and resilient, “and I think it’s a totally different set of requirements if you’re a female technician. Every female technician has to be so smart, so tough, so resilient, so good at their job, or they won’t make it. They’ll just get too beat down and quit.” Nijjar agrees, “I do feel like I have to step it up—one as a trainee, two as a woman and three because I’m brown.” Applying the majority of her energy into proving that she’s worthy of her position is exhausting in more ways than one. “I won’t drink water on purpose so I don’t have to go to the bathroom,” Jesson says. “There is no time for bathroom breaks, especially in key roles, and also, you don’t want to be seen as the girl who has to pee all the time and needs a lot of breaks that other people don’t get.” Another challenge in the film and television industry is the difficulty of finding work in the first place. Jesson and Nijjar agree, “It’s all about who you know.” Someone who is friends with another crew member is more likely to get a job than someone who is more qualified. Making connections and proving your worth is imperative to your career. This nepotism is an aspect of the industry that Creative BC is looking to change. In Fall 2021, B.C.’s motion picture industry and the B.C. government invested $500,000 in a new website with Creative BC to “create pathways that welcome all British Columbians into the industry and offer special streams for people from equity-seeking groups.” The

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Lights, Camera, Women in Action! There are dozens of different types of jobs in the film industry. Karina Jesson and Prabhjot (PJ) Nijjar highlight three roles necessary to any production: START FROM THE BOTTOM

When you first enter the industry, you’re most likely to start off as a production assistant (PA). On a set, PAs are considered to be the lowest in seniority, but they’re invaluable to any production. Their job is to run errands, relay messages, sweep, “and basically do the things everyone else is too busy to do,” says Jesson. SHINE A LIGHT

Second to Director of Pho-

tography, Jesson’s primary role on set has been lamp operator. Lamp operators are responsible for installing and operating any and all lights and electrical equipment required for production. “You have to be able to lift heavy lights above your head,” says Jesson, and mount them on stands that are as high as 30 feet. Lights often weigh at least 50 pounds, so two women may be required to lift the equipment based on gender alone. Jesson says, “[The movie business is] a money industry and at the end of the day it’s cheaper, cheaper, cheaper, so if we can have a strong guy who can lift then we don’t need two women to get a light on

website—Creative Pathways—highlights career opportunities for both above- and below-the-line workers, particularly for women and visible minorities. And in an effort to try to stem instances of assault and harassment, in 2018, the Canadian Women’s Foundation reported that members of Canada’s creative industries agreed to enforce a “zero tolerance policy for sexual assault and harassment, as well as a framework for reporting and resolving complaints.” But there are still incidents. Nijjar recalls when working on one of her first television shows, “one of the producers was known for being a creep.” She was warned not to stand too close to him, and if asked to meet him in his office, not to go alone. Nijjar says another woman told her he had threatened her job if she didn’t meet him alone in his office. That producer is still working on that show, and new crew members are still warned about him when they start working. “Even though we think that the industry and the world have come a long

the stand. So that’s innately so hard.” SHE SHOOTS, SHE SCORES

Nijjar aspires to be a camera operator because “they don’t do any other preparatory or extra work— they show up, they shoot and they leave,” she says. Especially considering the long and gruelling hours associated with the industry, a role that allows for a personal life is extremely rare. “Trying to think ahead,” Nijjar says, “It’s like, can I even have kids? Can I even have a proper relationship? I’m 24 and I’m already reconsidering my career because I don’t know if I can live like this long-term. It’s so scary.”

way, which it has,” Nijjar says, “there are still things like this where the guy still has the power and even though he might get a slap on the wrist, he’s not going anywhere.” Jesson admits that being a woman in the industry certainly has its challenges, but she is still optimistic about the future. “I always knew that my aspirations were traditionally male,” she says, “but that motivates me more to be successful and it gives me an even greater purpose to prove everybody wrong and be great at what I do.” Nijjar agrees, “I want to show people I’m a good worker and I have a good attitude.” More work needs to be done in order for Vancouver’s film, television and commercial industry to be a liveable and realistic career option for women, minorities and anyone who wants to pursue such a creative and illustrious lifestyle. And Jesson is determined she won’t be leaving the industry any time soon. “It’s a different sort of creative lifestyle that [I’ve] always wanted,” she says, “and always will want. n

IN THE

SPOTLIGHT

Out opting

For Steely Cao,

motherhood was never part of her life goal. “I can’t imagine having a kid and the pressures that come along with it,” says the 30-year-old content creator. “I couldn’t bear the idea of having them as the centre of my universe.” Cao is one of a growing number of women in North America who don’t plan to have children: as of 2021, one in 10 women in Canada have decided to opt out of parenthood. In Canada, there were 13,000 fewer births in 2020 than in 2019, giving 2020 the lowest birth count in the last 16 years. These statistics are similar in the U.S., which has a historic 35-year low birth rate and a replacement rate of 1.7 children in 2020, compared to the optimal birth rate for the stability of 2.1 babies per couple. It’s evident that more women are choosing to forgo children. So why is being proudly childfree still a taboo? Rhetoric about the importance of motherhood in women’s lives can be found across mass media, politics and certainly in daily life. It’s almost impossible to find a movie about a woman’s life that doesn’t end up with a family and

More women than ever are choosing to be childfree. But when will society listen when all they want to hear is the sound of a baby crying? BY VY NGUYEN

children where she lives “happily ever after.” From the conservative political standpoint, motherhood in our culture is upheld as among the biggest achievements in a woman’s life. As Ivanka Trump noted in a 2016 campaign video, “the most important job any woman can have is being a mother.” Cao has certainly lived that experience. “When I was 25 or 26, my parents would constantly insist [on me] dating someone. They wanted the result; the result is the grandkids,” says Cao. “When you are about 30-ish, especially if you are married and don’t have a kid, they will always, always talk about this topic.” The decision to be childfree is often challenged, questioned and stigmatized both socially and politically. A recent article in The Atlantic noted that women who decide to be childfree are often chastised for being selfish, with even Pope Francis himself piling on. “The choice to not have children is selfish,” says the Pope, himself childless. “Life rejuvenates and acquires energy when it multiplies: it is enriched, not impoverished.” Cao doesn’t see it that way, “In our MAY 2022 unspoken

Steely Cao and her partner are absolutely content with the decision to be childfree, regardless of society’s expectation for married couples to have kids.

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[Asian] culture, a kid is like a product of the parents,” she says. “I think because my parents had their children so early, they didn’t have the chance to fulfill their dreams; they put all the burden on the kids,” she said. “The kids have to be good enough for the parents to show off. I don’t want to think of my kid that way, as my product.” The experience is global, too. In China, women who are 25 years old or older without children are usually called “sheng nu” which translates to left-over women. The same idea is referred to as “bi hon” in South Korea. In India, these women are called barren. In the Middle Ages, infertile women were called witches and compared to Satan. Motherhood was a moral obligation, not a choice. Women were, according to Napoleon Bonaparte, “mere machines to make children.” Not only is motherhood pressured, it is glamorized. There’s an assumption that women will experience fear of missing out (FOMO) if their desires don’t include motherhood. “Probably because they feel like having a baby in a family is a blessing,” Cao says with a laugh. “At least for my parents, the baby gives them a better status in society [as grandparents] and in front of their friends.” The root of this prejudice against childfree women “historically stems from the patriarchal and religious ideologies that upholds gender roles,” says Zoë Noble, an artist who captures the lives of women who chose to be childfree. The New York Times argues that the stigma around women who chose to be childfree is associated with the “unacceptability that never having children comes with an underlying acknowledgement that women have sex for pleasure.” Oftentimes, women are encouraged to sacrifice and provide love for others rather than themselves. This ideology is emphasized in Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, with Jo’s infamous phrase: “Women, they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they’ve got ambition, and they’ve got talent, as well as just beauty. I’m so sick of people saying that love is just all a woman is fit for.” Cao’s approach to the topic regarding to love is slightly different, yet resonates with a similar message: “I feel like I don’t have enough love to share with a mini PHOTO: TINA ZORZI

version of me at the moment. I need to figure myself out first.” Even in present-day cultures, many women have been conditioned to put others’ needs above theirs and because of that, become a homemaker, as a caregiver is considered more rewarding than personal achievements. “This is painful-

problem, but rather it’s the discouraging policies and lack of support from the system. The stigma surrounding childfree women has to be lifted, starting with acknowledging that becoming a parent is a choice, not a task or a moral obligation. “I don’t know about the future, but I’m absolutely sure I don’t want any kids now,”

As of 2021, one in 10 women in Canada have decided to opt out of parenthood. In Canada, there were 13,000 fewer births in 2020 than in 2019, giving 2020 the lowest birth count in the last 16 years. It’s evident that more women are choosing to forgo children. So why is being proudly childfree still taboo? ly common in China,” says Cao. “If you’re a good wife then you’re a good woman.” Despite the fact that in modern society, men aren’t the sole provider of the home anymore, the pressure at home is often even bigger for women. Gender inequality in child-rearing has grown during the pandemic. According to the Pew Research Center, approximately 74 percent of mothers say they do more to manage their children’s schedules and activities than their spouse or partner, and only three percent say their husband does more. Coming out of the pandemic, a report from the Guttmacher Institute found that 32 percent of women reported that they were financially worse off at the end of April 2020 compared to the year before, and faced difficulties accessing contraception and sexual and reproductive health services. Women also experience a much higher risk and penalty to their careers after childbirth compared to men who become fathers, according to Invisible Women, an award-winning book by Caroline Criado Pérez. With so little compensation and an overbearing amount of pressure, it is only reasonable that more women are opting out of motherhood. As for Canada, there are few incentives or specific support for women to have children, especially in major cities such as Vancouver and Toronto where the cost of living is insufferable. So maybe it’s time to recognize that childfree women have never been the

says Cao. “If I have more love to share, maybe I will but I don’t want to have a kid because of society’s pressure. I want to figure myself out first, and I’d rather do whatever I want to do than to make a decision based on someone’s judgement.” n

Fertility Rates A RO U N D T H E W O R L D The data below shows the replacement rates of the world’s most advanced countries in 2021

2 INDIA

For the fist time ever, women are not having more than 2 childen

1.7 U.S.A.

A historic 35-year low in fertility rate

1.5 CANADA

13,000 fewer births in 2020 than in 2019

1 SOUTH KOREA

An average South Korean woman has only 1 child. Many don’t have children at all

MAY 2022 unspoken

IN THE

SPOTLIGHT

Smooth Operator

More men are waxing down there, and it’s not nearly as painful or embarrasing as you might think. b y E D U A R D O G E V E N E Z

ix years ago, Eric Dias walked into a small establishment in Yaletown, Vancouver, and was instructed to remove his pants and lie down with his knees bent and legs apart. “This woman I had never met before was staring at my private parts with such disinterest,” he says. “Just a regular day in the office for her.” Strange as it might sound, Dias’s story is becoming more and more common for many men in Vancouver. In

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MAY 2022

1994, the term metrosexual emerged to describe men who, despite a sexist culture, began to embrace aesthetics that were once exclusively the domain of women—think facials, manicures and spa days. But guys are not just buying more face creams and moisturizing shampoos. As the world opens up again, they’re also sticking to treatments that not too long ago were still considered taboo. And the Manzilian wax is one of them.

Not surprisingly, the name is inspired by the traditional Brazilian wax, a method of hair removal that became popular for women in the late ’80s, and is widely known for leaving the intimate area as hairless as a Barbie doll. The Manzilian is just for the guys, and it also involves complete removal of hair surrounding the upper thighs, pubic mound, genitalia and anal region. If you’ve read this far and the idea of getting hair

stripped from your private parts doesn’t scare you, you might be wondering: how painful is it? According to 33-year-old Dias, the pain is minimal. “I was expecting to feel as if I was being tortured, but the process was faster than I expected,” he says. “It only hurt while it was happening. I felt no pain after the strip came off.” Eric has been waxing for more than six years, and decided to stick with it for aesthetic and comfort reasons. “I’ve always felt self-conscious about the amount of hair I had, so waxing helped me feel cleaner, more comfortable and confident.” If you’re reading this with an eyebrow raised, think again: you might discover you’re the only kiwi fruit in a bunch of bananas. “My clients were all women, but now 40 percent of them are men,” says Jacqueline Bao, a self-employed esthetician in Vancouver. “Men have realized that the benefits of waxing, such as improved hygiene and disease prevention, are more important than the judgement of others.” Regardless of what you decide, it’s important to know that the excess hair should not be something to be embarrassed about—and waxing doesn’t make you less of a man just because you are taking care of yourself. And for first-timers, Bao offers a few final words of advice. “Do not shave, come with an open mind and relax,” she smiles reassuringly. “For many men, it is more the anticipation than pain. But I’ve never had a client that did not return.” n

PHOTO: LIGHTFIELD STUDIOS/ADOBE STOCK

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