An anti-oppressive publication about feminism, anti-racism, queer identity, financial security, mental health, and accessibility
Volume 7 2019 | 2020
Acknowledgments Social Issues Commissioner: Bunisha Samuels Editor-in-Chief: Ayushee Parida Section Editors: Ashley Jeon (ABLE) Gabrielle D’Aoust (Baseline) Michelle Boon (CultureSHOCK!) Pravieena Gnanakumar (HeadsUp) Emma Pritchard (OutWrite) Phaedra Leonard (Queen’s Feminist Review) Publishing: Dan Graham and Allan Graphics Cover Artwork: Levinas’ Face by Kayla Melbourne
Queen’s University is situated on traditional Haudenosaunee and Anishinaabe territory. Ne Queen’s University e’tho nońwe nikanónhsote tsi nońwe ne Haudenasaunee tánon Anishinaabe Tehatihsnónhsahere ne óhontsa Gimaakwe Gchi-gkinoomaagegamig atemagad Naadowe
2 | Collective Reflections
Editor’s Letter As I sit down to write this note/foreword/emotional reverie, I am pumped full of excitement, adrenaline, and a little caffeine. More than an editor’s letter, this is a thank you note. Putting together this volume of Collective Reflections has been a unique journey, one where we have relied endlessly on our fearless and brilliant Social Issues Commissioner, Bunisha Samuels. I am also grateful for our editors. Ashley, Gabrielle, Michelle, Pravieena, Emma, Phaedra: thank you for approaching your responsibilities with enthusiasm and grit, and for joining me in every gratitude circle. Next, I want to commend our contributors. Advocating for social issues is never easy. Advocating for anything in a creative space be even harder. This volume of CoRe, like all the volumes before it, and all the volumes after it, is the amalgamation of so much hard work, many challenging conversations, and a whole lot of tender love and care. I encourage you to flip through these pages; let this art envelop you, seep through you, and inspire you to advocate for something new. This volume is chalked full of resilience, strength, laughter, heartbreak. It makes references to the impending climate crisis; many of our contributors highlighted the crisis in their pieces across all sections. I hope these pieces tug at your heartstrings like they have mine. A huge thank you to Dan for all his guidance in this publishing journey. Take what you need from Volume VII of Collective Reflections, then share it with someone else who will also relish in this art. Thank you and, enjoy. Cheers! Ayushee Parida Editor-in-Chief 2019-2020 Collective Reflections | 3
4 | Collective Reflections
Levinas’ Face Kayla Melbourne
Climate change is around us, both literally in reference to our physical surroundings as well as in our discussions but also in the sense that our social climate is changing as well. What I like most about this piece is that it’s seemingly neutral and that so far, everybody sees and takes away something different when they look at it every time. When I look at this now, I see a face almost lost amongst chaos in the background whose symmetry speaks to the cyclical nature of a lot of the issues we see today and the historical social construction of them creating oppression and discrimination. This summer, one of my grandmas told me she sees a strong young woman making “coming into herself”, and a friend of mine said that they saw the inspiration and pride of legacies from my homeland nodding to the future. Thus, I invite you to draw your own parallels from this piece, and to reflect further and positively engage in discussions on the subject of climate change. This piece was done as part of a collective of digital artists dedicated to engaging in discussions surrounding climate change as it was defined earlier. It’s a charity print that I made a couple of years ago in collaboration with my very talented friend Rachael Quarcoo, in support of AYNI, a grassroots organization started by one of my high school teachers and works to support education in a small village in Northern Peru. The inspiration for the name draws from Emmanuel Levinas’ “Ethics of the Face” which to overgeneralize says that we’re all called to see the humanity in what he calls “the other” which is implied to mean each other. This speaks to me a lot especially in this digital age where a lot of our messages often become muddled. Ultimately, I hope this serves as a call to action to become more compassionate towards one another. Cover Artwork
Levinas’ Face Kayla Melbourne Collective Reflections | 5
Table of Contents
Able
Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2 Editor’s Letter | Ayushee Parida . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 Cover ARTWORK: Levinas’ Face, Kayla Melbourne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Table of Contents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Section Cover | Coast, Drew Davies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Editor’s Note, Ashley Jeon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Big Brother is here, Drew Davies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Curves, Jordana Leilah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Love Can Be Cold, E. C. B. Hamburger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 to see a grown man cry (feels like a sin), Alysha Mohamed . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Melancholy, Jordana Leilah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Scorching Tears, Gurleen Multani . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Scorching Tears: About the Piece, Gurleen Multani . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Swan [in] Lake, Aditya P. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Prepare for Take-off, Aditya P. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 The rapy Did Not Give Me A Life, It Enhanced My Existing Life, Courtney Weaver . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Glass, C.B. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20 The Last Look, E. C. B. Hamburger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 Take a Seat, Lackshana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
6 | Collective Reflections
Baseline
Section Cover | Natural Chaos, E. C. B. Hamburger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23 Editor’s Note, Gabrielle D’Aoust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24 It Smells Like, C. H. Wessel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Free, Biché Mène . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Receptacle, Lois Lardon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28 A tax-receipt to my parents, Biché Mène . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30 Until Morning, C. H. Wessel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Lonely Island, Aditya P. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 Despite, Celena Hoeve . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
CultureSHOCK!
Section Cover | Untitled, Angela Sahi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35 Editor’s Note, Michelle Boon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Half and Half, C.B. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 naturalized, Pamoda Wijekoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Roots, Alysha Mohammed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Working Woman, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Heavy is the Head, Rika Wong . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41 Canada: 21st Century, Mary McKeddie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 Representation as a Brick Wall, Tanisha Amarakoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46 Turtle Blues, Aditya P. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Excer pts from: The Power of a White Lab Coat, Katelyn Bell . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Indigenous Wildflower, Shara Francis-Herne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52 Excer pts from: Climate Refugees: Inequality for the Global South, Sydney Wade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Collective Reflections | 7
HeapsUp!
Section Cover | Mind Fog, Jordana Leilah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Editor’s Note, Pravieena Gnanakumar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Excerpts from: In Regards to Sinking to a New Low, Erin Vandenberg . . . . . 59 At Night, Charlie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Wading, Nika Elmi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Snakeskin, Alysha Mohamed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Ingest to Digest, Nadia Mahadi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Smol Poem About Grief, Daisy Fraser-Boychuk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76 Mind Fog 2, Jordana Leilah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 being, a.y.e. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78 Fragmented, Lackshana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Mirroring, Lackshana . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Green Robot, Drew Davies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
OutWrite
Section Cover | The Boy Who’s Overflowing, E. C. B. Hamburger . . 81 Editor’s Note, Emma Pritchard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 unfeeling, a.y.e. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Of Every Flower in the Valley, Finn Huang . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84 Retreat, Jordana Leilah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85 years ago, a.y.e. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 Whirlwhind, Drew Dinero . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 paradox, anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Don’t Move A Muscle, E. C. B. Hamburger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88 Shifting, Lifting, Jordana Leilah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Mimics, Aditya P. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89 Notes on gender expression, C.B. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Spectrum, E. C. B. Hamburger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
8 | Collective Reflections
Queen’s Feminist Review
Section Cover | Gray, Amelia Cockerham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 Editor’s Note, Phaedra Leonard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92 Pamela George, Anonymous . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93 Turn Around, Aditya P. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 Partners in Crime, Aditya P. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 Excer pts from: Raising Feminists: Early Education, Academia and Intersectionality, Rosalyn Martin . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95 A Song For You, E. C. B. Hamburger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98 Eternal Light, Luna . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 Collateral Beauty, E. C. B. Hamburger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 Gray 2, Amelia Cockerham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 About the Piece: Gray and Gray 2, Amelia Cockerham . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103 December 15, 2019, Sophie De Freitas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Circle of Life | Drew Davies
e-waste | Drew Davies Collective Reflections | 9
Editor’s Note
section cover
Coast
Drew Davies
Working on ABLE has absolutely been an eye-opening experience. Accessibility needs are often an unspoken dimension of the fight against discrimination in society, even today. ABLE is an important platform that gives individuals a space to embrace their identity and communicate their individual experiences, all while illuminating readers on the significance of ability as a whole. I would like to thank all of the contributors to Able who have been courageous to share their stories through their work. This section would not have been possible without your bravery to be open and honest about your experiences and perspectives; they are important, and we hear you. Collective Reflections is an important space–one that allows all voices to share without judgment, without fear. We are here to help you tell your story, in whichever form you wish, and it is an absolute honour. I hope that this section will empower you and help you gain strength and confidence in your own identity. Ashley Jeon Able Section Head 2019-2020
Big Brother is here
Drew Davies
Able | 11
Curves | Jordana Leilah
Love Can Be Cold | E. C. B. Hamburger 12 | Able
to see a grown man cry (feels like a sin) Alysha Mohamed have you ever seen a grown man (a man with blistered hands and cobblestone arms with a voice like sandpaper rustling blades of grass and shoulders that look like they can’t even be cut by glass) cry? it isn’t what you would expect. see, in the movies whenever all the men (the ones who wear masculinity like a cape) cry, they cry out of anger there always seems to be a table flipped or chairs thrown and the woman has to tame this wildfire of rage before knuckles bruise and blood spills last night, the man i love with knocked on my door and i opened it to what i can only explain as crumbling all the tears were spilling out with such force that i didn’t know what to do
Able | 13
see, whenever i’ve seen a grown man cry, i’ve wanted to cry with them. the shaking sobbing breaking it happens all at once (you never get a chance to catch your breath) men seem to feel these things physically. knees buckle fingernails press into palms heartbeats race and then stop all somehow in the span of a few seconds. it felt like a sin to watch him break down in front of me like i had walked in on something i was not meant to see but i couldn’t stop watching, nor was i meant to when i cry, i crumble like a marble statue worn with age. slowly, beautifully, gently (so gently sometimes that you don’t even realize what’s happening) when he cries, he crumbles like a ruin that seemed so strong and so large break all at once after a natural disaster (and all you’re left with is shock and terror and this realization in the pit of your stomach that you don’t know how to rebuild this) and all i can say is, to see a grown man cry, feels more like a sin than leaving one does
14 | Able
Melancholy Jordana Leilah
Able | 15
Scorching Tears Gurleen Multani
Scorching Tears About the Piece Gurleen Multani This piece signifies the current state of the world at it is in the hands of global issues such was climate change and global warming. In this piece, the woman in the centre is the embodiment of the ‘Mother Nature’ allegory. In this piece, she is crying as her hair burns. She sits in a meadow of flowers, and on one-half of the piece, is her natural state of peace and beauty. It has trees and flowers to portray life and represent the world pre-destruction. On the right, however, the land is charred & on fire, representing death, as ashes of fallen trees are blown away in smoke. This was inspired by the recent events of the Australian bushfires. This is a portrayal of what the world is actively enduring and how it may die as if we do not take the right steps to prevent it. This piece is meant to show the pain that Mother Nature takes on the expense of human activity.
16 | Able
Swan (in) Lake Aditya P.
Prepare for Take-off Aditya P.
Able | 17
Therapy Did Not Give Me A Life, It Enhanced My Existing Life Courtney Weaver One of my current jobs involves reaching out to autism self-advocates. Through this process over the past year, I have researched and come across a variety of individuals around the world who all have their own perspectives on various issues. One polarizing issue in the autism community is therapy–whether individuals with autism should receive therapy and if so, what kinds? Or should they be taught maximum selfdetermination skills without professional help in their life trajectories? Some radical self-advocates have also condemned various forms of therapy including ABA (Applied Behaviour Analysis)/ IBI (Intensive Behaviour Intervention) as akin to torture. Doing such outreach efforts has been an opportunity to think about the personal benefits therapy has given me, the emphases that certain therapies have (e.g. ABA/IBI, sensory integration, art, music, speech, Montessori), and whether therapy should be used in the life of a person diagnosed with autism. Towards the end of a radio interview in July 2019, I was asked about my personal experience with therapy. I mentioned the various kinds of therapy I had received, their benefits and, I got to think—on the spot—about whether I would have been inclined to hug my parents if I did not have therapy and what my life would be like without it. The interviewer then 18 | Able
said, “Therapy changed your life.” I agreed, “It did.” Then she added, “It gave you a life.” I immediately tensed with disagreement. I politely responded back by saying, “It enhanced my life.” Do not put the power of life in therapy. That is a dangerous route to assign to anything. It also suggests that I did not have a life before receiving therapy when I was already a living breathing human being who was perceiving the world around me and the people in it. This year, I was also asked this question by a professor:
“It enhanced my life.” What would you say if a self-advocate was to say, “Therapy has harmed me?” Given how drastic such a statement is, and the benefits listed earlier, my response was, “I would ask, ‘how has it harmed you?’ In conclusion, therapy, when done well, engages the individual and is evidence-based, can yield positive results for the person receiving it, and can help people live their best healthy lives. However, it is but one of several aspects of a person’s identity–not a sole provider of life.
Editor’s Note: we would like to acknowledge that certain platforms of counselling or therapy may also be inaccessible to many stakeholders.
Able | 19
Glass C.B. When will you hear? When will you listen?
loud
must we shout How To be acknowledged. Or should we be silent, as we are meant to. Or should we accept it, as we were born to. Shall we stand on the backs Of those we’ve forgotten. Shall we turn on each other As you have to us. Or band together
and
stronger, become.
And through knowing support
Can we push each other up?
20 | Able
What note must we hit,
To shatter the ceiling? And will we be cut by the falling glass?
The Last Look | E. C. B. Hamburger
Able | 21
Take a Seat | Lackshana 22 | Able
volume 4
Baseline | 23
Editor’s Note My dear reader, Welcome to Baseline’s fourth volume, the section of Collective Reflections centered on financial barriers and poverty related setbacks as seen through the eyes of students. Routine is hypnotic; it is easy to become immersed in our own lives, to see our problems and our problems only, and to push aside tough topics. I hope that as you read through this year’s volume of Baseline, and CoRe as a whole, you are able to break free of life’s hypnosis and through the art presented here, see a clearer picture of the barriers facing students like yourself. To the courageous contributors, artists, and authors: thank you for sharing your heart with me and entrusting me with a small bit of yourselves; I hope you feel seen, heard, and loved, for what you do touches lives. Finally, thank you, my reader, for taking a step out of life’s mesmerising routine and picking up this publication. I hope you love it as much as I do. All my love, Gabrielle D’Aoust Baseline Section Head 2019-2020 section cover
Natural Chaos E. C. B. Hamburger 24 | Baseline
It Smells Like C. H. Wessel
It smells like Beer and mistakes And blood and glass and regret And hangovers Like it rained yeast and barley And this is the calm after the storm The obscene screaming Has created a new quiet That is somehow more silent. It smells like green A waste of money Spent on Tomorrow’s headache But maybe it was necessary Maybe we all needed the Time To become a herd To lose our individuality To lose who we are And become but one of the moving parts Of the mob that took over the street
Baseline | 25
That when we yell, our voice Is indistinguishable From any other. Where our actions are Forgotten And left behind Maybe we need to lose Individuality Before we are forced to Sell ourselves Be as individual as possible So we can do what they say Make a life Have success Change the world or try to The street transformed Back into a row of homes Of people asleep With curtains drawn And if they are lucky Some memories
26 | Baseline
Free
BichĂŠ Mene
Free tuition? T u i t i o n. Free to follow my dreams To seek higher E d u c a t i o n. But education is not free. Tuition is not free. Oxford says, Tuition fees are the money you pay to be taught in a college or a university. D r e a m s. I dreamt once of Oxford, But they get to go if they are backed by funds I am back Up, In loans. Fuck you Oxford is no longer an institution in my mindIt’s just a dictionary.
Baseline | 27
Receptacle Lois Lardon
They say loving yourself is revolutionary I agree Because it feels like a war most of the time And each victory brings its own relief They say loving yourself comes with time But how much time? Hurry up, Time Because I’m wasting you Trying to hack my body Into a mould that doesn’t fit They say you must love yourself For someone else to love you But I don’t think that’s true Because others teach you how to treat yourself And I can try to put all the blame on myself So I can suffocate under it But I’m not at the origin of this hate I’m just the receptacle Though, I do owe myself an apology And not just one For perpetuating it
28 | Baseline
But I guess loving yourself is forgiving It’s unlearning all you’ve been told And re-learning to forget about difference Like when you were two (Loving yourself might be about remembering how to be a kid again) Loving yourself comes with kindness, not time Every act of kindness is a drop of water Working to kill the hatred burning your life away So be kind Be fully utterly radically kind You’re a Revolutionary But the blood on your hands is your own And they win with every teardrop You’re a Revolutionary But your duty is not to give your life to the cause Your duty is to take it back
Baseline | 29
A tax-receipt for my parents Biché Mene Addressed to two stressed individuals Who double as worried parents Flexible chauffeurs Tooth fairies and monopoly bankers Today I had to count my pennies It was harder than counting blessings Blessings I have many of Pennies not so much I thought of how you said no To the shiny new boardgame When Toys R Us still had stores open Before I knew what HST stands for I thought of how twenty dollars can’t mean that much In the grand scheme of things What I know now that I didn’t know then Was that twenty dollars Was the difference between letting me go on my field trip And buying vegetables during your weekly grocery trips I was ready to throw a fit then But instead I throw a fit now
30 | Baseline
Thinking of everything you did Every sacrifice you made Every receipt you saved Every corner you cut To make sure I had new shoes for September And enough cupcakes to bring to class for every birthday, for every party everything I know now
costs more than twenty dollars
Baseline | 31
Until Morning C. H. Wessel
at night the thoughts come out to play the ones I thought I locked away I tell myself it will be okay just make it through till morning. make it through till morning and at the rising of the Son I know these ghoulish thoughts will run just breathe until my saviour comes keep trusting through till morning. trusting through till morning
32 | Baseline
Despite Celena Hoeve
The poorest are often also the richest Rich in joy Because they choose to see the good Despite the pain Rich in love Because they choose to be open Despite the loss they have endured Rich in creativity Because they choose to do what they love Despite the limited opportunities Rich in generosity Because they choose to give Despite how little they have themselves Rich in laughter Because they choose to keep smiling Despite the tears they shed
Baseline | 33
Rich in innovation Because they choose to make do Despite the limited resources Rich in perseverance Because they choose to keep going Despite the height of barriers
Now imagine what these people could do If they had the freedom to reach for their goals Without the label “despite poverty�
Lonely Island Aditya P.
34 | Baseline
volume 24 OutWrite | 35
Editor’s Note Welcome to CultureSHOCK!’s twenty-fourth year of publication! As this year’s section editor, I am honoured to be a part of this long-standing platform for ethnic and cultural voices. This year, our wonderful contributors have shared their experiences through, art, poetry, and criticism, lending a nuanced perspective to cultural identity. While Canada is home to every colour of culture, it is not always welcoming. With so many different identities co-existing in one space, it is a challenge of empathy and understanding to make everyone feel a sense of belonging. The works within this section challenge the idea that Canada is a multi-cultural utopia, confronting the reality of systemic racism. Simultaneously, these artists lend their individual voices, humanizing their experience as people of different cultural backgrounds. CultureSHOCK! is a protest against racism and marginalization and actively contributes to the dialogue surrounding culture and ethnicity. As you flip through these pages, I encourage you to join the conversation. Enjoy! Michelle Boon CultureSHOCK! Section Head 2019-2020 section cover
Untitled Angela Sahi 36 | CultureSHOCK!
Half and Half There once was a girl who was mixed But race is a thing that is fixed She was thrown from her clan By many a man And all her opinions were nixed
- C.B.
CultureSHOCK! | 37
naturalized
Pamoda Wijekoon
As loved our fathers, so we love, Where once they stood, we stand… We love thee, we love thee, We love thee frozen land… -
Ode to Newfoundland
when I was five I saw my skin for the first time in the contrast between closed fist and lined palm. relief burst sunlight into every cavern of my chest— I knew then I was redeemed by the pink flush below the dark surface: human, and beautiful at last. when I was seven I felt the threat of my heritage like a choke-chain gleaming lightly around my neck. I couldn’t stand the scrutiny of young eyes and tunneled into snowbanks with bare hands, carving my own cradle of ice. I would sink into the rough stones and sleep
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with the windows pushed all the way open, run to the edge of the cliffs to see where fog met open air, and ground dropped into black water, to watch wide-winged sea birds cut between impenetrable walls of grey. when I was twelve, the word brown would twist my stomach into stress knots and rise bile in my throat, I couldn’t bear to be broken down and shelved beside strangers, I couldn’t bear that I couldn’t show myself better than how I was born, I couldn’t bear it. when the temperature drops I still open my jacket so the wind cuts my skin and blows through my ribs, my pulse only stills when the earth tears me apart and buries the pieces, I still push my bare hands into the snow until they burn, I am still trying to prove I’m home I am still trying to prove I’m home I am still trying to prove I’m home
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Roots
Alysha Mohamed
I am not just metaphor and misunderstood poetry I am hot oil, fried-samosa sass dripping from my lips and spilling out of my mouth with ease Rap music at two in the morning, sitting next to the Punjabi boy who just got his beard lined up, who just told me he loves me I let my roots wrap around me and wear them out like a new saree My mother’s breath in my lungs, culture coursing through my veins
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Heavy is the Head Rika Wong
Working Woman - Anonymous When I was little, I remember waking up early and watching my mother get ready for work. I regarded in awe as she draped a multi-coloured saree over her body in patterns I cannot decipher to this day. She stood tall with dignity—the dignity of a working woman who does her job well and knows it. She had the dream: a steady office job right in the heart of downtown Colombo, Sri Lanka. She came home every evening after work, with a smile on her face. *** Immigrating to Canada was an investment in her children’s future, and one that was paying off well for them. But, where did it leave her? CultureSHOCK! | 41
*** She rose up one wintery morning, careful not to wake her sleeping children. She dressed in her uniform; black pants and a black top. Easily disposable clothes for a cleaning lady. It was not the dream job, but it helped fuel her children’s dreams and somehow that was more than enough for her. She took a couple of seconds to rest her aching back before leaving for a hard day’s work. *** Years later amid a conversation, she revealed how that night, she walked home from work, crying. It was cold, she was alone, she was hurt. I never knew since she came home every evening after work with a smile on her face.
Author’s note: this poem explores the effect that immigration has on parents who often re-build their lives from scratch in a new country in order to support their children. Most times, their professional and academic qualifications from home may not transfer accordingly, and language barriers keep them restricted to menial jobs. This piece explores the mental effect this sacrifice has on adults and how it robs many of their dignity.
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Canada: 21st Century Mary McKeddie What a time to be alive! Freedom, for all? Fundamental: religion, thought, peaceful assembly, association. Who is this made for? Because there are people who are dying by the pipelines, in their homes trying to attain the rights that Canadians have been promised since 1982. Democratic: voting, new government (stagnant during war) yearly sitting. Parliament has looked the same since 1867 because certain people have had the right to raise their voice longer than others. Some were waiting until 1960 and still only make up 3.25% of the People’s House.
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Mobility: motion (includes permanent residents), not forced. Since when? Descendants of immigrants benefit from the choice of their ancestors. But not everyone was granted this privilege. Imagine being trapped by an Act while others roam freely on your own land. Legal: life, liberty, security (of person). Represented by 27% in federal custody while only being 5% of the population. Disproportion trickles down to the most vulnerable, who go missing on the side of the road, and when murdered remain lost in the legitimacy of the legal system. Equality: Discrimination. How have we upheld this? Some would beg to differ considering that their brothers and sisters, all different and unique like the two spirits (LGBTQ+) MĂŠtis (mixed race) were stripped of their humanity.
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They were let to rot in colonial prisons, disguised as education centres until 1996. Language: French, English. Written and spoken by The Colonizer since 1608. Inuktitut and Ojibway are mostly what is left of millenia oral tradition. People are now civilized. Minority Languages english, french. What does this mean? The children who were stolen from their homes in the sixties have found their voices, but not their native tongue. This trauma is voice by present Indigenous generations, despite action of the past creating a cultural disconnect between their ancestors and themselves. They are forced to use invasive language to be heard. My Voice raised since 1918 asks you to consider the Charter. Is it truly Right and Free, or is that only for people like you and me?
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Representation as a Brick Wall
Tanisha Amarakoon
Representation matters every scholar says, in the media, workplace, and beyond as representation teaches us how the world turns and our place in it You see, representation can be looked at as a brick wall It builds up and you start to believe that what you see Represents what is “normal” And these memories of what you now think to be “normal” exclude the stories of so many But be careful to Represent diligently Representation is not To tokenize a minority To present an individual of an outnumbered group, a person of colour, a woman, a queer and use their apparent “belonging” as a means to appear Inclusive Representation is To include voices The voices of such outnumbered groups To be included in policy, bureaucracy, tradition
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So that they too can be seen beyond their face beyond the guise of what makes them a minority In order to see and hear their voices crying to be heard So let’s send the message that everyone has a place in this world and be careful that the message is supported by Love, by Interest, by Engagement so that we can truly begin the process of Diversifying
Turtle Blues | Aditya P. CultureSHOCK! | 47
[Excerpts from]
The Power of a White Lab Coat
Katelyn Alicia Bell
Respectful, compassionate, empathetic, and judgement-free. All are words that come to mind when I think about the healthcare I have received in Canada as a colonial settler. Unfortunately, these are not words that describe the care Indigenous Peoples receive when they enter Canadian hospitals; that is, if they even receive care at all. One evening, a gentleman by the name of Brian Sinclair was referred to the emergency room by a community physician for a bladder infection. Because Mr. Sinclair was Indigenous, healthcare workers assumed he was drunk or homeless and came in to avoid the cold.[i] After thirty-four hours of waiting—throwing up all over himself in distress—and, after other patients pleaded with hospital staff to attend to him, Mr. Sinclair died without receiving adequate care.[ii] It was 48 | CultureSHOCK!
the interpersonal racism of the healthcare professionals on duty that prevented Mr. Sinclair from receiving the care and attention he deserved as a human being. This inequitable access to healthcare is unacceptable. I am working to become a healthcare professional because of my innate desire to help people and to advocate for patients. It is a great honour and privilege to be a healthcare provider; however, we must understand that this position comes with professional and institutional power. Healthcare professionals must understand the traumatic effects of colonialism on Indigenous Peoples, recognize the presence of systemic racism in our healthcare system, and be devoted to continuously learn and reflect on how to address the needs of Indigenous communities to improve the quality of Indigenous healthcare.
Colonial settlers have tortured Indigenous Peoples through the residential school system, the forced removal of Indigenous children from their families, restricting the ability to hunt, coerced sterilization, slaughtering Inuit sled dogs, and stealing Indigenous land.[iii] As healthcare professionals, our job is to serve our patients. In order to serve Indigenous patients equitably, healthcare providers must employ trauma-informed care, which is the understanding that colonization has a “fundamental impact [and is a] key determinant on the health of Indigenous Peoples” intergenerationally physically, mentally, and emotionally.[iii] Janet Smylie, a Métis doctor working in Toronto who has conducted extensive research on racism in Canadian healthcare, states, “Our health care services were set up with the best intentions in mind, but they weren’t set up with Indigenous people in mind.”[iv] Indigenous Peoples are people of great resilience and strength, but our healthcare system makes them vulnerable and this injustice must end. Systemic racism refers to the “practices entrenched in established institutions that harm
certain racial groups and help others.” [v]Unfortunately, systemic racism acts as a “major barrier between healthcare providers and Indigenous patients” [vi]Research has shown that physicians provide different treatment to Indigenous Peoples, even when the physician is explicitly opposed to racism. Additionally, a study in the United States identified that a “large majority of physicians have significantly higher implicit
--“…culturally-safe care can be achieved by respecting a patient’s way of knowing…and allowing the patient a to determine whether the care they receive adheres to their cultural identity.” --positive associations toward white patients compared to black patients.”[vii] The quality of healthcare should never change because of the colour of one’s skin, religion, culture, or values. CultureSHOCK! | 49
Everyone who walks in through the doors of a healthcare facility should be treated first and foremost as a human being who requires and deserves to be heard, cared for, and valued. Another study found that Indigenous Peoples in Australia, Canada, and New Zealand are “less likely than non-Indigenous people to get timely access to coronary angiography and/or revascularization following acute myocardial infarction.�[viii] We like to think that our healthcare system is objective and that those who require a course of treatment will receive it, but statistics like this recognize that this is not the case.
may make assumptions based on negative stereotypes. Indigenous writer, Chelsea Vowel describes some of the stereotypes settlers attribute to Indigenous Peoples such as laziness, alcoholism, and aggression.[ix] As a result, healthcare providers may attribute poor health status and socioeconomic challenges to physiological or biomedical failure instead of symptoms of systemic oppression: inadequate food, shelter, and water. Healthcare providers must self-reflect on their personal biases and stereotypes in order to adequately improve the quality of care they provide.
Medicine is an art as much as it is a science. Every day, healthcare providers are forced to make decisions without complete knowledge of the consequences. The healthcare system is advertised as equitable and autonomous; however, physicians are forced to make quick decisions in highstress environments. Therefore, they may subconsciously rely on representative heuristics. This decision-making method bases decisions on impulsively formed stereotypes or assumptions to simplify the choosing process. Based on exposure to colonial perspectives, healthcare providers
After understanding the traumatic effects of colonialism on Indigenous Peoples and recognizing the presence of systemic racism in our healthcare system, it is our responsibility as healthcare professionals to provide culturally-safe care. According to doctor and researcher, Ruth DeSouza, this care can be achieved by respecting a patient’s way of knowing and being, making the patient a partner in the healthcare decision-making process, and allowing the patient to determine whether the care they receive adheres to their cultural identity. [x] Moreover, healthcare teams
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should work with regional tribal councils to learn the specific needs of local Indigenous communities. My desire to become a healthcare professional has further developed as I realize the responsibility and privilege I have to make a positive change towards culturally-safe
care. A physician’s white-coat ceremony signifies more than an article of clothing; this coat dawns responsibility and power. Colonial healthcare providers must use this power to fight systemic racism and improve the quality of Indigenous healthcare.
Works Cited [i] Geary, A. (2017). Ignored to death: Brian Sinclair’s death caused by racism, inquest inadequate, group says. CBC News. Retrieved from https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ manitoba/winnipeg-brian-sinclair-report-1.4295996. [ii] Puxley, C. (2013). Woman in ER where man died after lengthy wait says it was obvious he needed help. Maclean’s 2013 October. Retrieved from www.macleans.ca. [iii] Cunningham. M. (2009). Chapter V: Health in United Nations, permanent forum on Indigenous Issues, state of the world’s Indigenous peoples (pp. 1560187). New York: United Nations. [iv] Gerster, J. (2018). A man was ignored to death in an ER 10 years ago. It could happen again. Global News. Retrieved from https://globalnews.ca/news/4445582/brian-sinclairhealth-care-racism/. [v] Desmond-Harris, J. (2015). Finally, an explanation of systemic racism that won’t put you to sleep. Vox. Retrieved from https://www.vox.com/2015/4/23/8482799/systemic-racism-explained-examples. [vi] Allan, B., and Smylie, J. (2015). First Peoples, second class treatment: the role of racism in the health and well-bring of Indigenous Peoples in Canada. Toronto, ON: Wellesley Institute. [vii] Blair, I. et al. (2013). Clinicians’ implicit ethnic/racial bias and perceptions of care among Black and Latino patients. Annals of Family Medicine, 11, 43-52. [viii] Kerr, S., Penney, L., Barnes, H., and McCreanor, T. Kaupapa Maori Action Research to improve heart disease services in Aotearoa, New Zealand. Ethn Health 2010; 15(1), 15-31. doi:10.1080/13557850903374476. [ix] Vowel, C. (2016). Indigenous writes: A guide to First Nations, Métis & Inuit issues in Canada. Winnipeg, Canada: Portage & Main Press. [x] DeSouza, R. (2008). Wellness for all: The possibilities of cultural safety and cultural competence in New Zealand. Journal of Research in Nursing, 13(2), 125-135. CultureSHOCK! | 51
Indigenous Wild Flower
Shara Francis-Herne
Indigenous wild fire, Indigenous wild flower how you bloom is magnificent. Empowered by ancestral knowledge, engraved in your bones. Standing tall, walking bravely, until creator calls you home. Indigenous wild fire, Indigenous wild flower they tell us we are the ancestors of tomorrow. Spreading across Turtle’s back, fierce cries for revitalization; rising of red nations. Carefully walking in connection with all of creation, offering protection for the next seven generations. Your purpose is sacred. Indigenous wild fire, Indigenous wild flower Your very existence is a disruption: to systems, structures, and colonization defying policies and assimilation legislation. The culmination of ancestors’ prayers, surviving removal and termination. You are powerful.
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Indigenous wild fire, Indigenous wild flower Your voice as robust as the howling wolf Your gaze as piercing as eagle’s cry In the face of resistance You remain resilient, carrying tradition, as you dismantle the system. Unleash the flames of change. Indigenous wild fire, Indigenous wild flower How you bloom is magnificent. Empowered by ancestral knowledge, engraved in your bones. Standing tall, walking bravely, Until creator calls you home
But here, now there is work to be done.
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[Excerpts from]
Climate Refugees: Inequality for the Global South Sydney Wade Kiribati, a small island in the Central Pacific, is losing its agricultural land and water supply from saltwater intrusion. Lack of resources, pollution and overcrowding is expected to hit the island before it is completely engulfed as a result of rising sea levels by the mid to late 21st century. Vietnam is facing monsoon flooding, typhoons and deforestation, all of which is destroying crops and land that citizens’ livelihood depend on. Climate induced deforestation, rising sea levels, toxic leaks, earthquakes, drought, and forest fires are just a few factors contributing to mass migration and dislocation in the Global South.i The catastrophic effects of climate change in the Anthropocene Age have crafted a contemporary classification of refugee, frequently identified as ‘climate refugees.’ii In 2009 there was an estimated 24 million people displaced by climate change.iii The Global Humanitarian Forum estimates that there will be over 78 million climate refugees by 2030.iv Others predicts that there may be 150 million climate refugees by 2050v, potentially even more than 162 million.vi As the climate crisis worsens, more climate refugees are put at risk with little to no aid. In stark contrast, industrial nations of the Global North have the capacity and willingness to support their citizens with suitable solutions when environmental changes forcibly displace the population.vii For example, the Dutch government invested 3 billion euros to pay out local farmers for their estates, as part of their “Room for the Rivers” program.viii This 54 | CultureSHOCK!
program was developed in 2007 by the Infrastructure and Environment Minister for the Netherlands as a flood protection mechanism, needed to mitigate the outcomes of climate change.ix Therefore, those from the Global South do not have accessibility to safe conditions, while those from the Global North often do. This disparity is largely due to developed countries in the Global North persistently contributing to climate change at a faster rate than any other countries on the planet.x The International Energy Agency (IEA) regionally broke-down global carbon emissions worldwide, testifying that in 2019 the United States and China combined, were accountable for 45% of the worlds CO2 production,xi while Canada and Germany each contributed two percent, and The Russian Federation, five percent. The IEA concluded that 20 of the world’s most industrialized nations contributed 81% of the world’s total carbon dioxide emissions, while the remaining 175 countries contributed a mere 19%.xii This is an issue of global justice. Although it will take collective action worldwide to yield significant results, from a moral perspective it is evident that there is a greater obligation for the Global North to implement meaningful action, compared to the Global South. Unfortunately, this obligation is not being fulfilled. As the Global North continues to emaciate devastating effects of climate change, the fate of climate refugees should not be dependent on their geography.
Works Cited i
Economic and Political Weekly. (2009). Climate Refugees. Economic and Political Weekly, 44(23), 7. Retrieved from https://www.jstor. org/stable/40279073
ii
n(i)
iii
n(i)
iv
Funk, M. (2009). Come Hell or High Water. World Policy Journal, 26(2), 93–100. doi: 10.1162/wopj.2009.26.2.93 CultureSHOCK! | 55
v
n(i)
vi
Nicholson, C. (2011). Is the “environmental migration” nexus an analytically meaningful subject for research? COMCAD Working Papers. Retrieved from https://www.ssoar.info/ssoar/bitstream/ handle/document/42202/ssoar-2011-nicholson-Is_the_environmental_migration_nexus.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y&lnkname=ssoar-2011-nicholson-Is_the_environmental_migration_nexus.pdf
vii
n(iv) n(iv)
viii ix
Room for the River. (n.d.). English. Retrieved from https://www. ruimtevoorderivier.nl/english/.
x
n(i)
xi
Union of Concerned Scientists. (2019). Each Country’s Share of CO2 Emissions. Retrieved December 1, 2019, from https://www.ucsusa. org/resources/each-countrys-share-co2-emissions.
xii
n(xi)
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volume 14
Content Warning Please be aware that the material in this section includes themes of mental illness, abuse, and personal-lived experiences. I ask that you practice self-care while reading this section. HeadsUP | 57
Editor’s Note Every word triggers a different memory. Every story evokes a different emotion. Every person experiences life differently. We all struggle with mental health, one way or another, and this section aims to showcase the some of the ways in which we can cope and understand ourselves, our world, and our place within it. Working on HeadsUP this year has been both a pleasure and an honour, but also a source of healing for me. During these past few months, there have been many moments where my mental illness consumed me. Mental illness got in the way of finding my voice, doing things I loved, and being true to myself. But Collective Reflections reminds us how art and the power of the written word can be a huge part of the healing process. Publications like Collective Reflections that remind me that I am not the only one who feels this. Thank you to all the contributors who made this volume of Collective Reflections possible—the beautiful words that grace these pages hold so much power and authenticity, and remind us that we are not alone. Let these pieces inspire you to live your truth. Refuse to let anybody or anything control your truth. Let your strength help you overcome barriers. Allow that strength to be celebrated. You are not alone. We hear you. We see you. We support you. We believe you. We love you. Pravieena Gnanakumar HeadsUP Section Head
section cover
2019-2020
Jordana Leilah
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Mind Fog
In Regards to Sinking to a New Low
Erin Vandenberg
I write this out of necessity, a desperation to have my brain finally unpacked of its excess luggage. Something happened to me in the past month: I have sunk to a very low level of being. I might just be the lowest of the low, sliding down the chain as if it were a fireman’s pole; I’ve passed katydids and worms and deep sea abnormalities, and now I’ve settled in a level that I only share with manure, spring sludge, malignant bacteria, and yellow toenail clippings. If you’ll indulge my use of an exhausted metaphor, picture my self-esteem as an Inferno-esque spiral, with many-a-level of shit. It gets hotter the deeper down you are, obviously. So, if this metaphor is to be properly developed, picture me at a troubling depth: my skin is melting, my hair is crispy, my fingernails are peeling. If I may be frank, I’m in deep discomfort. I’m always in discomfort nowadays, which is a difficult state to be in when you have to go outside and wear nice clothes and talk to people. Some days are better than others, as if, every now and then, I’m treated to a glass of water or a glimpse of daylight. But the spiral remains no matter what, and I’m in a frantic search for a very tall ladder to help me reach the top again. CIRCLE ONE: LIMBO The spiral has existed for me since I was twelve, coming home from nighttime guitar practice with my sister and my mother. I first saw it when a man stuck his head out of a moving car and shouted something about my outfit, and I heard my mother say under her HeadsUP | 59
breath, “Oh God, it’s starting.” And I was far away from the spiral, teetering at the top tier, like when you feel hot tea under your nose or hover your hand over a toaster. I don’t remember what my body looked like before I was thirteen. I just knew simple things: I was strong (I always beat my Dad at armwrestling, without fail), I had a smart mind (I could beat my Dad at checkers, every time), I was a quick runner (I beat my Dad at every race he challenged me to), and I could do pull-ups on the bar that was wedged between two pine trees at the cottage. My body did a lot of things for me. I could fit into small places. I had impeccable vision. I had long eyelashes. My mother said I had nice nail beds. I was insecure about my teeth, perhaps, after I got two on each side taken out and I looked buck-toothed for several months, but that was just a temporary hurdle. Middle school was a level down in the spiral. I got closer to the core of the Earth, but just enough to develop a light sweat on the back of my neck. CIRCLE TWO: LUST “Five people in our class have called you hot,” my friend James said as we walked home one day. He only ever talked about sex, but it never bored me because, well, I was thirteen. I got to thinking, both blushing and flattered. Maddy had been declared– by James and several other boys– as the hottest girl in the grade, because she wore short shorts and would always bend over in loose-fitting tops. She was my friend, but now I felt the blossoming tinge of competition. Five is good, but it could be better. James would grab my thigh in class, and we sat beside each other in every class. It was our little joke: he would grab me and I would jolt, inhaling sharply and flinching away. We would laugh about my reaction every time it happened. I loved playing the idiot around guys. I enjoyed getting attention for being a bit giggly and for feebly fending off James’ advances. James would tell me what porn he had watched the night before. James would text me whenever he was jacking off. James asked me daily invasive questions about my body. James was the first person who made me aware that I had a body 60 | HeadsUP
that people looked at and thought about and compared against other bodies. A few months ago, I told my friends some stories about James and noticed that they weren’t laughing like I’d hoped they would. What is middle school if not our first experience with lust, eh? Everyone was grabbing everyone else’s ass. People would make out at school dances. I wasn’t ready for that, even though James wanted me to be. Plus, I was looking at myself in the mirror and, for the first time in my life, turning around to see if my butt was grabbable, which I decided it certainly wasn’t. CIRCLE THREE: GLUTTONY Eighth grade and ninth grade saw a change that I never anticipated– my relationship with food altered permanently. I was scarily thin until I turned thirteen. I didn’t eat because I really wasn’t hungry, no subtext to it whatsoever. I was comically short and comically small-boned, so not much was needed to sustain me. I felt ashamed when people around me would bring it up, though. James would say skinny was a good thing and that I looked good in crop tops, but I was beginning to pull my shorts farther down my thighs and wear bigger shirts to cover up my body. When puberty hit and I still didn’t grow, my parents very politely began asking me what I wanted to put on the grocery list, as a subtle effort to find out what I would willingly eat. I wanted to get bigger very badly. I wanted to be curvy like Maddy. I wanted to get boobs and loose shirts to bend over in. I don’t know what special puberty-magic they pumped through the air vents in my high school, but all of that changed when I entered the ninth grade. One day, in the gym changing rooms, I noticed a red line on my stomach. My stomach had never had that mark before because I was always too skinny for any sort of stomach rolls. I guess that had changed. There were other girls in the changing rooms who were bigger than me, but they were simply more confident about it than I was. I started changing in the showers from then on. It was an art high school, and for whatever reason I fell into friendship with a group of dancers, who didn’t seem to mind my HeadsUP | 61
inability to bust a move. I felt good around them– I could spell better than all of them and I helped them with their homework whenever they asked. Will was the only boy in the group of dancers. I was painfully shy, and Will was extremely self-assured. He found my shyness very charming. He was dared to kiss me once, and I said no, so he leaned in for my cheek instead. “Holy shit, you taste like foundation.” My acne was unbearable back then, so I had gotten very good at packing on makeup. Will would lift me up– literally, he would grab me in the halls and flip me around in some insane dance move, and I loved the attention. Will would also put me down. The final straw was when we were sitting in the back field of the school, having a picnic with our friends, when he pointed at my thighs. “Your thighs look so weird! Don’t they look weird?” I looked down at my legs. I could tell what he meant– since my sudden gain of weight, my thighs had become too big for my pregrowth-spurt shorts, and they popped out somewhat near my crotch. “Look,” Will added, as if to prove his point, and made a grab at my thigh. I dodged his hand and stayed very quiet. A friend came to my defense, I think, but I don’t remember what they said. Shame burned my eyes. I hate crying. I packed up my backpack and headed back to the school as Will called out a patronizing apology after me. I got a text from him that evening: “I’m sorry for saying that. You’re beautiful, and I’d fuck you if I were into that.” It didn’t stop me from eating, though. By this point, my metabolism was still high, and my appetite was picking up, which my parents were probably very grateful for. I started wearing black because it covered up my stomach and boobs (I had gone from a 32Nothing to a 34DDD in the span of two years). Plus, my relationship with acne was getting toxic. To this day, I’m known as the girl who covered her face with her hair for most of high school. My Literary Arts teacher said, in front of the class and in a well-intentioned manner: “Erin, for our 62 | HeadsUP
coffeehouse, you need to put your hair in a ponytail. People won’t be able to see your face or hear you have to say.” CIRCLE FOUR: GREED I want to be Kendall Jenner. I want to be Emily Ratajkowski. Basically, I want to hoard the beauty of others. Greedy, greedy, greedy. Give me abs, please. Give me a symmetrical face. Give me at least one gorgeous feature, so when someone goes, “she’s got a HUGE nose,” someone else will retort with, “but she’s got BEAUTIFUL eyes, so fuck right off.” I do have a big nose, by the way. Very slender and very long. It’s interesting– it’s one of the first things I remember feeling insecure about, but now it’s one of my favourite things about myself. I think this shift is most definitely because a nose, unless you poll a very niche group of people, isn’t a sexual part of the body, and therefore I care less about what men think of it. I’ve also started to do something new: I’ve begun to make fun of it. A lot. And it’s genuinely fun to do. I’ve given my friends free reign to make fun of my nose as well. Greedy, greedy, greedy. I collect nose insults and bottle them up, like a seaman collecting odd little specimens. I collect and collect and collect compliments, but I always end up confusing a bottle with a sieve and I watch them fall away, very quickly, from my memory. Only a few compliments will stick with me. My mother’s nail bed comment is one. Another one is a time, at a very shy stage in my life, when I entered French class and a kid turned to me and went, “God, Erin, you looked so cool just now, you walked in so confidently!” My friend, who takes pride in being honest, once said, “when we’re in film class, I’ll sometimes look at you and just think: How?” I felt like crying when she said that. I got two compliments on my voice last summer, which has made me purposefully bring down my voice several octaves to make their comments feel justified. Do you see how I dole out these memories shamelessly, like I’m opening a jar and showing you a colourful array of plankton? Greedy, greedy, greedy.
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CIRCLE FIVE: ANGER I get angry at myself a lot, more often than I lash out at others. I get very angry when I think about James in middle school. He’s currently dating a girl in high school, and they seem nice together, but every now and then I wonder whether she feels the need to laugh off the things he says to her. I get angry that I never said anything. He must’ve had no idea how uncomfortable he made me. He knocked it off when I told him to stop sending unrequested dick pics to my friends, didn’t he? I get angry at myself when I act dumb around guys. I thought me being smart was turning guys away, so I would giggle and mess up my words, and ask constant questions. My signature move was putting my hands in front of my mouth when I giggled, because it provided me with two benefits: it made me seem ditzy and covered my braces. I had a pretty big crush on a guy in high school, and he knew about it by the time we graduated. At a party that summer, we decided to talk. I rambled in a humiliating stream of consciousness, and then I said something I had never realized up until that point: “I really hated it when I got stuff wrong around you. I always, I don’t know, dumbed myself down around you.” “Why?” “I thought you’d like me more,” I said, glad that the 4 a.m. dusk was hiding my red face. “That’s really sad, dude.” It was pretty sad. I’ve made a conscious choice to stop doing that, since then. I’ve done a pretty good job so far– I have not a single guy friend in university, nor any romantic prospects, but that’s obviously because I’m too smart for them. CIRCLE SIX: HERESY That last line was a joke, by the way. I’m too ugly to be worthy of dating. 64 | HeadsUP
Whoa, whoa, whoa! That’s heresy! Stop that talk right now, you’re beautiful. I often think about how ridiculous it is to be feeling this way about my body. I’m a smart person. I read and write, I get good grades, and I look at things objectively. I’m sinking below the knowledge that my looks aren’t everything, that I’ve got good qualities, that I’ll die someday and will have wasted all this time worrying about a red line on my stomach. Sometimes I try to test out my Nose Theory on my body in general, to no avail. If I make a joke about being fat or ugly, my friends will scream “HERESY!” and shower me with compliments that go right through the sieve and down the sink. My friends are very good people; they have the moral code to never insult someone’s body or let someone insult themselves. They’re so innately lovely that it’s frustrating. Sometimes I wish Will would jump back into my life, prod my thigh and make a joke about my tits, before disappearing again. It’s heresy that I’m speaking against my body, but I’m so scared that if I compliment myself out loud someone will go, “Whoa, that’s enough of that.” CIRCLE SEVEN: VIOLENCE I went to a club for the first time this year, a week after I turned nineteen. That night was the first night in my life that I got angry in order to defend myself, rather than another person. Less than five minutes into the club and this guy got up close into my face, trying to talk to me. I moved closer to my friend and pretended to look at something on her phone, but I could still feel his breath on my neck. After a few seconds he backed off, and I felt a moment of relief before I heard: “I guess she thinks she’s too good for me.” I felt him slap my ass and laugh. I didn’t end up hitting him for two reasons, one of which I think was rational, another which I’m ashamed of: I didn’t want to get beat up by his friends, and I thought he was attractive. When he said, “I guess she thinks she’s too good for me,” I whipped around with the HeadsUP | 65
intention of saying something like, “Damn right I am,” but then I caught a look at him and immediately thought: “Oh my God, I’m not. I’m not. And he knows it. And if I say something, he’ll laugh and say something back that I’ll never forget until I die.” Compliments go through sieves like tap water, but I remember insults so vividly that I’m able to write them down, verbatim, in this story. So I said, “What the fuck?” and he was expressionless as he backed into the crowd. I felt myself spiralling. I turned back to my friends, who hadn’t witnessed a thing. I wasn’t angry, I was more than that. Violent is the adjective I’ll go for here, since I’m forced to, since Dante made these circles, not me. I stayed at the club for another hour and a half, up at the bar and watching the dancing on the floor below me. I noticed a boy dancing with this beautiful girl and realized I knew him from elementary school. I cried intermittently, because I had had a lot to drink, but also because I was humiliated. It must’ve been such a laugh for his friends, to see my body momentarily not be exclusively my own. Also, it was only a slap, so I shouldn’t be so upset. Also, I should’ve hit him. When I got home, I remember my friends giving me cheesy bread from the pizza place down the street and hugging me in a big warm group. I remember saying, “I should’ve hit him,” but the end bit of the sentence must’ve gotten muffled in the hug because my friend Nat said “if you’re about to say that you should’ve done something different, I need to stop you right there. You reacted understandably; you did everything you could’ve. This isn’t your fault.” I was going to repeat myself, but I just shut up instead. My friends didn’t need to see that I had sunk to that level. I still wish I had hit him, though. CIRCLE EIGHT: FRAUD Sometimes I’ll look at myself in the mirror and see a pretty face staring back at me and think “I wish that I could look like that.” Swear to God.
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I’m a fraud in the morning, because the blueish morning light that comes through my windows would flatter just about anyone. I’ll look in the mirror, see a morning face and morning body– one that has yet to be affected by daytime activities such as eating and sitting– and think, “I wish that this could be what other people see.” I’m a fraud when I go out with my friends. I wear high-waisted pants and choose from the small selection of tops that fit into the overlap of my “Comfortable Clothes versus Flattering Clothes” Venn diagram. I have a strategy that involves never wearing my hair up, because I never got over the insecurities regarding my face. My hair is a very helpful built-in security blanket that hides my acne scars and makes my face shape nicer. Plus, there’s less of a possibility of having bad pictures taken of me when my face is hidden from the camera. I’m a fraud and a narcissist. I take so many collective hours out of my day to brush my hair and look in the mirror. If there’s a mirror in the room in which you and I are in, and you’re talking to me, you’ll soon be painfully aware of my disinterest in what you have to say. I’ll be taking glances at the mirror, questioning the lighting and how my face looks. If I look ugly, I think I should head home to save everyone from having to look at me any longer. I think I’m a celebrity. I walk around under the assumption that everyone is looking at me. It’s tough being a celebrity, I get it. I’m just like you, Kendall Jenner. I hide my face from strangers, I always look over my shoulder, and I say no when people ask to take pictures of me. But I’m faking it all, I admit it, I’m a fraud! I live in Kingston, Ontario, rather than L.A., and I don’t have the cash to get more clothes that fit into the overlap of my Venn diagram. About a month ago in Quebec, I went to a Nordik spa with my sister and my mother. There were tons of people at this spa, and I had recently gained more weight and gotten these dark new stretch marks that go from my hips to my knees. We went into one of the saunas and lay down in separate beds, and I found myself beginning to panic. I just sat there, frozen, thinking about how I would eventually have to take off my bathrobe in public, which was something that I’d never
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had much of a problem with before. I wondered why I cared so much about what a bunch of forgettable pasty Quebecois men thought of my body. Suddenly I found myself having a breakdown. I felt like this moment might be the lowest I had ever sunk. What a place to have my insecurity reach its climax, sitting in a relaxing chair and staring up at white hills and barren trees and blue, blue sky. CIRCLE NINE: TREACHERY I’ve been in circle nine for a long time. I betray myself at every turn, ever since I first noticed my body in the mirror. Circle nine means something else, too. It means that I’ve been suffering acutely this whole time, even if I haven’t realized it. I make myself suffer; I cry from frustration when I’m dressing up for outings and I feel a pang in my chest when I see a photo of myself. That is a form of suffering, isn’t it? I don’t allow myself to go outside wearing certain things, I don’t allow myself to feel beautiful. Lately, I don’t always allow myself to eat, and I hate eating in front of strangers, especially men. My objectivity from childhood has left, I think. I abandoned it before I entered Limbo. My body is healthy, my body helps me see and touch and breathe and hear and do well in school. It’s so unbearably pathetic that all those things aren’t enough for me. Sure, it isn’t akin to burning eternally in Hell, but it’s still there and hurting and I wish so badly for it to end. Let’s hope for a cleansing. Dante didn’t climb out of Hell; he got to the deepest level, faced Satan, and travelled further still. Let me wash off these circles in a nighttime shower, with every harsh fluorescent overhead light on. Let me expose myself. I started this piece at 9:48 at night, and it’s 1:37 now. I’ve stared at my body for four hours and found it beautiful and ugly and confusing and mundanely human. It’s fantastically relieving, like dipping into a cold pool after being in the heat of the spiral for so long. After my Nordik spa meltdown, I wrote a list of things I like about my body. I encourage everyone to make a list every now and then, because it helped me. 68 | HeadsUP
What I Like About My Body Today: – How my roots actually look cool when I’m growing out my hair dye. – My index finger on my left hand. – My eyes. – My thighs. I’ll get used to the stretch marks. – The freckle on my right hand that’s truly been there for me since day one. – How the bottom of my ribcage makes it look like I have abs in high-waisted shorts. – My arm hair. – How my facial skin feels very smooth and acne-free lately. – How the top of my foot looks like Dad’s and the bottom of it looks like Mom’s. – My lips, my cheekbones, my voice. – The weird indent in my ear that looks exactly like Dad’s. – My nail beds, because it was the first thing Mom pointed out when I was born. – And, finally, the NOSE, in side profile.
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At Night As my head sinks in deep I close my eyes and dare to sleep My mind is tangled, with the strings of time attempts to unravel, lead down the line How can I sleep, when behind my eyes A swirling pit of darkness lies My mind is a maze, I can never leave With every image, my throat will seize The thoughts rage on, and the fight is useless I cry into my pillow, no not the nooses! My mind is a cliff, and I’m right at the edge Looking down into the seas of revenge How many times must I pull myself back From this raging heart attack My mind is a trickster, and I am it’s joke The butt of all the fun it pokes Because every night until the end Into the its madness I will descend As my head sinks in deep I close my eyes and dare to sleep Once more
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C.B.
Wading
Nika Elmi
beneath royal blue skies you kiss her eyelids shut a home for your lonely such a soft sadness to trace the clouds, see nothing to love, just at night leave marks then paint them in gold pull her ankles to stay afloat but she is not the love you coast on your lust smells of cheap leather, whiskey and I am suffocating drowning in the bitters of this old-fashioned filled the hollows of my eyes with dust raced salt water droplets down the contours of a face now sit, watch the race in its currents weary from chasing empty turn this tired into beautiful a foreign tongue a mind with waters too deep it’s dark at the bottom of the sea, do not wait for treasure at the shore a dandelion puff in your forest fires while you bathe in a nicotine sort-of love tilt your chin to the flickering sun and watch my resilient drift far away from your barren, empty this body is tired of dust when it deserves the sun when is it my turn to breathe? HeadsUP | 71
Snakeskin
Alysha Mohamed
I thought lust would save me femininity seeping into tired veins drenched in desire and packaged all pretty but stretch marks like tribal patterns run up my thighs, stomach sticks out, spine curves backwards the poetry in my womb rots and shrivels I have miscarried my words barren as ever I thought the still comfort of love would fill me glowing with the light of an East African sunset soul aflame but throat closes shut when I try to introduce myself, as if even my name renounces me so I curl inward once more Decayed versions of myself are buried underneath my skin, they wrap around bone and hide inside marrow bruised goodbyes cling to my tongue I was not meant to shed myself like snakeskin yet here I am
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Ingest to Digest
Nadia Mahdi
Peppermint tea & me Brown lips rim my cup, Slowly it coats, down my throat, down my toes, Soothing a pain, Dulling an ache. I am full, Full of stories, Full of food, Full of dread, Full of stones, Each roaring between my shoulder blades, Coursing through my veins, Grasping at my breath. I am doubled over, Catching air between my teeth, Sharp it blows down, I can’t stand the PAIN! But I stand their fatphobia? Doctors say anxiety, MRI reads OK.
“She doesn’t have diabetes” “Cholesterol is fine” “Maybe she’s just fat, fat and sad.” Undiagnosed, HeadsUP | 73
Misdiagnosed, I leave, That’s the TEA, Stirring in my pot, Sour in my gut Brewing on my lips. Words tight, & taut, I grow heavy, Full of stories, Full of food, Full of dread, Full of stones, “they don’t care,” Fuck their fatphobia. Auntie tells me I wear my trauma as fat, I resent that, How could she assume that? Fuck her fatphobia. All my life I have been fighting to be. Little girl in a dressing room, Eyes light, smile wide, stripes popping in pink, “Nothing bright, nothing tight, and definitely no stripes” I ingest, To digest, Not food, But their stares, their silence, their words Fuck their fatphobia. I step up,
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Look down, They ask: “Guess how many pounds?� Disproval in every sound, Creaking scale, Age 13, Let me exist I think, Story prepped and ready, my life is balanced I eat lots of green and bean, My face is sweaty it has a healthy sheen, I work out, I go out, Insisting I have the right to exist, Fuck my fatphobia. Respectability politics, wrapped around my thumb, Hard to let go, All that I came to know, Fuck fatphobia.
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Smol Poem About Grief
Daisy Fraser-Boychuk they/them
when sadness turns into a thoughtfulness and grief into giving it is a space, a movement like a breath of air passing and then it’s gone at a time, inside you at once, released like pouring streams of silver puddling in your hands like a reflection staring back at you and laughing joy ties me to nothing looking up, out to you I might see you how you really are an image of myself I untie without blame without hesitancy
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when passion turns into piety or anger to acquiescence it is a place knowing that I held you hurt and confused to a place where I hold myself giving thanks for all I am I might feel your palm on my chest and know that’s all it is I expect from you nothing and from me, freedom to think of you how you always were all that is inside of me becomes mine
Mind Fog 2 | Jordana Leilah HeadsUP | 77
I don’t feel very good Not as good As I felt before
The flash hurts my eyes But they say The eyes are a window to the soul
Not as strong Not as smart Not as clear
So does this flash hurt my soul? But my eyes
My brain feels duller My heart feels number My skin doesn’t feel
They’re closer to my brain is it a mind-body connection? Or is it all in my head?
like it belongs to me I’m imposing Is this imposter syndrome? I’m posing for everything As though I’m in Front of a camera
being a.y.e. 78 | HeadsUP
Fragmented | Lackshana
Mirroring | Lackshana HeadsUP | 79
Green Robot Drew Davies
80 | HeadsUP
volume 16 OutWrite | 81
Editor’s Note Dear reader, Thank you so much for taking the time to read this year’s edition of Collective Reflections. In an increasingly digital world, I am so heartened to know that the joy of flipping through a physical collection has not been lost on you! Welcome to OutWrite - a section dedicated to amplifying the diversity of voices within the LGBTQ+ community. In its sixteenth year of publication, OutWrite continues to create space for stories that are toooften silenced. I am so grateful to have had the privilege to learn from this year’s passionate, kind, and hardworking Collective Reflections team. The bravery and talent of our contributors is evident in the following pages, as is the power of words to remind us of our collective humanity. I hope that these pieces resonate with you as much as they do with me. Thank you, Emma Pritchard OutWrite Section Head 2019-2020 section cover
The Boy Who’s Overflowing E. C. B. Hamburger 82 | OutWrite
unfeeling a.y.e.
unfeeling scary how they tell you: it’s okay you’re safe now don’t worry i seek words to reach me to warm me to envelop me so i can feel i seek tundra but snowflakes the soft silent ‘beautiful’ kind i seek people: willing them daring you to make me feel anything
i seek fire it’s hot enigmatic exergonic hoping it will burn i want to feel words ice people fire i want to feel things deeper than my face not maxillofacial only mirroring what is around me i want to feel everything raising goosebumps on my skin raging fire through my lungs nervous laughter bubbling from deep deep deep within
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Of Every Flower in the Valley Finn Huang
The scenery was of rolling mountains, valleys and hills of the softest, greenest grass, the vivid, stunning colors of the flowers. We were somewhere close to the sea, the waves crashing onto the rocks below. And at night, on top of a grassy roof, I could see the stars and the dew on the grass below. I’m almost sure I saw a shooting star rocket by, And I wasn’t alone up on that soft roof. Lying underneath the stars, I was beside a girl, feeling a deep, unspoken, unbroken need to hold her close. I sat with her in silence, threading my fingers in hers and on occasion, playing with her hair in my other hand. We were watching the stars for the longest time before I unhooked my hand from hers and reached behind me to pick up the flower I had gotten. I told her she was the prettiest wildflower in all of the valley, and I placed it behind her ear.
She kissed me, slow, but wonderful.
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Retreat | Jordana Leilah
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years ago a.y.e. years ago i was in the woods on a midday hike i got lost i was alone all I saw was green and brown and earth and flowers all I heard was pitter patter chirps and chatter rustling leaves slight breeze
86 | OutWrite
i didn’t understand these sounds brows quirked nose crinkled but I felt it all around when they found me they said they were scared eyes wide big sighs but that was the first time I felt alone and I’ve been searching for something to make me feel that lonely ever since
Whirlwind | Drew Dinero
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paradox anonymous
how can i fall for her femininity but hate my own? embrace the same softened edges of her body that i try so desperately to harden on my own i was taught that my womanhood exists to be consumed by men whose eyes squeeze me into a too-tight gown of femininity restrict compress reduce my gender to fit a mould that she splits open in learning to love her i am learning to love myself
Don’t Move A Muscle | E. C. B. Hamburger 88 | OutWrite
Shifting, Lifting | Jordana Leilah
Mimics | Aditya P. OutWrite | 89
Notes on gender expression C.B.
over look to look over looking over us we are looked over but more importantly we are over your looks
Spectrum | E. C. B. Hamburger 90 | OutWrite
volume 28
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Editor’s Note Art is powerful. Art can change lives or have the power to transform someone else’s. It is cathartic, beautiful and sometimes dangerous. This year, Queen’s Feminist Review is about themes of the present, the healing, a moment, gender, pain and exploration. It is a mix, a blend, a series of different voices and eyes that cannot be turned away from or ignored. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did when editing. Feminism is not something that can be started and finished within a life phase or theory class. It is something to be enacted upon, lived through and challenged and refined in our everyday selves. It has been a great pleasure to work on this collection with such an amazing team of incredible women. To my EIC, thank you for all your help. May we always strive to lift one another up and forward. This collection is about sharing spaces in a safe, yet challenging place. May we read and share with care, but also with a critical understanding that we must look after one another in times of radical reform and change. Love and well wishes, Phaedra Leonard QFR Section Head 2019-2020
section cover
Gray
Amelia Cockerham 92 | Queen’s Feminist Review
Pamela George Anonymous
It’s going to be alright, They say. She stands in the corner screaming. It’s not your fault, They say. Blue on their backs, as if to say, We are the night sky, protecting you.
g
You’re a good person, They say. She starts to shake, and never stops.
n i
Don’t worry, They say. She is losing her voice, but no matter. No one was listening anyways.
h t
“Your whole life is ahead of you,” They say. Comforting him, as though he was the one to lose
e
v
e
y r Queen’s Feminist Review | 93
Turn Around | Aditya P.
Partners in Crime | Aditya P.
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[Excerpts from]
Raising Feminists: Early Education, Academia and Intersectional Analysis Rosalyn Martin Intersectional feminism is embedded in all aspects of society- it is a reflection of how we think, speak, participate in politics, parent, study and interact with the natural world. While feminist thought is apparent in all aspects of society, it is seldom taught to young students, is commonly absent from the university curriculum and not often emulated through parental practices. In raising feminists, intersectional theory is essential in understanding anti-racist and sexist thought, granting students the ability to apply this to local and global communities. Incorporating intersectional feminist theory in early childhood education and within the university environment is an essential element to the creation of equitable societies. Drawing on personal experience within the public-school system to academic integration within the university atmosphere, I will suggest that exposure to intersectional feminism within elementary curriculum would improve antiracist and sexist environments within 21st-century settings. When students are equipped to challenge institutionalized racism and sexism from an early age, they are more likely to consider applying an intersectional lens to their interactions with a more equitable world. Situating Feminist Thought: Intersectional Education Feminist thought describes particular analysis used to critique, strengthen Queen’s Feminist Review | 95
or challenge feminist movements within society. As culture develops, technology advances and advocacy strengthens, theory alters to fit these aspects of individual and community identity. Intersectional feminism is a theory coined by Kimberle Crenshaw and advocates for the consideration of privilege and oppression in feminist thought (Crenshaw, 1991). Presently, intersectional feminist analysis aims to situate race, gender, class, sexuality, ableism and other elements of identity within feminist activism and theory. With a focus on how specific identity intersects with institutionalized privilege and oppression, intersectionality is an element of feminism that has been overlooked in liberal and individualistic feminist thought. In the nature of social progress. intersectionality is essential to “recognizing that internal exclusions and marginalizations have been centered on the intersectional identities of the few” (Crenshaw, 1991). How Should Feminist Thought Be Evolving? bell hooks writes: “within white supremacist capitalist patriarchal cultures of domination, children do not have rights” (2000). In reflection of my support for intersectional feminist theory, I argue that raising socially aware and truly educated children must be based on anti-racist and antisexist theory. The early introduction of the possibility for “a world without systemic hierarchies, sexism, racism and oppression” (hooks, 2000) gives these young lives the motivation to dismantle power hierarchies through socially relevant pedagogy within educational systems (Hollingsworth, 1992). Children deserve a space free of misogynistic thinking, racist considerations and domination. In such cultures, the powerful - in many case white, cis-gendered, heterosexual man, have the ability to exert autocratic rule of power and subordination over children (hooks, 2000). In universities, the suppression of intersectional equity can be further challenged, as institutions, professors and privilege centred culture tend to “treat sexism, racism and other forms of marginalization and exclusion as “attitudinal and individualistic properties” (Ng, 1993). Sexism and racism are systemic in nature within these institutions and complicity to them only normalizes imbalances of social power and discredits intersectional work. 96 | Queen’s Feminist Review
Why I am (An Intersectional) Feminist My personal experiences in the public-school system have been riddled with misogyny, racist undertones, cis/heteronormative thought and stark cases of ‘othering’. As a child, I was taught about nuclear families: one mother, one father, a sister and a brother. We were told stories about Indigenous communities living harmoniously with their colonizers. All holidays celebrated were Anglo-Saxon based. We sent packages to children in developing nations under the notion that they “had absolutely nothing”. There was no consideration for oppressed and marginalized people in Canada, let alone the students or families within the school. I did not question this because I was actively benefiting from this education- I did not know anything different. A student, such as myself could benefit greatly from an intersectional based elementary education and those in my classes who were marginalized Canadians would have seen themselves represented in a system that has historically favoured backgrounds they did not identify with. Entering university, I was oblivious to my privileged positionality within society and was compliant with sexist, racist and problematic ideology- of which I was not aware that I was participating in. It has taken work to unpack and unlearn what I have been taught throughout the years, finding passion in studying why my comfortable education has largely impacted the discomfort of others. Roxanne Ng suggested that the student compliant with problematic subtext presents excellent opportunity for challenging assumptions in their thinking and educating them about academic freedom”. Feminism and intersectional analysis have and will continue to impact the ways in which I choose to interact with society, as a woman, an activist and scholar. As such, I have argued that intersectional analysis is imperative pedagogy within the spectrum of educational systems and will result in thoughtful and well-reasoned, feminist scholars who are committed to dismantling systemic hierarchies of misogyny and racism.
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A Song for You Scratch out the words from our lips Before you could tell me How lovely you think I am You think? I know. That the flowers will bloom and the beauty of you You and Blue But it’s not meant to be you Your words flow, I am speechless. A generator of words broken with time Torn out of the book for you to chew and swallow Along with the feelings of truth Words lost in translation Lost in the poems that were never told in the right language Because this song for you Is all I am willing to give All I am willing to give away At the point of no return For you have taken your notes Your memories Your happiness And have decided to take what you gave to me And to give to yourself A song for you For you deserve to be With You and Blue
E. C. B. Hamburger 98 | Queen’s Feminist Review
Eternal Light Luna
When we climb the mountain we are pushed down When we try to seek our identity we are given one When we try to learn something new we are told we know enough Yet they blame us when we cry Only seeing pathetic tears rolling down our cheeks Hearts that have no feelings and minds that can only carry so much Because as girls we were raised to be visually appealing Get married have kids and raise a successful family Is that what you call success? Watching your son go to school, earn an education and take the right path while your daughter can only take the same path that you and so many other girls in the world are given? No. Because this girl has a dream To live life to the fullest and never be held back by the bigots who claim to be better than us I dream of making male dominated work fields just work fields I dream of making playing soccer like a girl sound intimidating I dream of writing until all the pens in the world run dry because our voice needs to be heard We’ve been silenced for too long and our throats are getting dry from swallowing all the words, ideas, and dreams that are forbidden Because as girls, as women we are condemned to live suppressed Compressed To fit inside the tiny little box society allows for us And yet as much as I wriggle and pry I cannot fit inside
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My head is bursting My heart is pulsing And I am alive So I am making my own path A path where I can climb the mountain and have encouraging hands help me reach the peak A path where I can find my own identity and love it A path where knowledge will never be too much for my avid mind Come with me girl I see the bright light of our future Shining, and urging us on
100 | Queen’s Feminist Review
Collateral Beauty | E. C. B. Hamburger
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Gray 2 | Amelia Cockerham
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Gray: About the Piece Amelia Cockerham This photo series, titled “Gray”, is an exploration of my bi-racial identity. The title is a play on the colour grey, which is achieved by mixing black and white. Coincidentally, my mother’s maiden name is Gray. These photos are meant to explore how different aspects of one’s identity intersect, and look into how racial identities are not necessarily exclusive of each other. It can be difficult to understand how to manage coming from two very difficult cultural and racial backgrounds, particularly as an adolescent. These photos are reflective of my own personal struggle and journey of coming to terms with my own identity. One doesn’t simply have to be black or white, but can instead be both, and have an identity that is all encompassing.
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December 15, 2019 Sophie de Freitas I am driving around my small university town with my friends in someone’s dad’s car. It’s below freezing, and all the windows are open (what’s the point of singing so loud if all the windows aren’t open) I think: there is nothing better than right now, being a girl, in this car. - Seeing how many streetlights we can touch before the light turns green (not all 4). - Laughing and screaming. Freezing lungs. Screaming and laughing. Cold teeth. (I feel as though I have stepped into my skin) There is a bond here, a thin gold thread. I notice it when we take a hard left, and together we crumple up against the window, like swept up candy wrappers. (A note on driving with your friends late at night, when you all feel electric. The music is important. You all should know the words. You should all inhale together.) We decide on a song within its first few seconds, there is a collective breath held: if we like it, we may keep it till the first chorus.
104 | Queen’s Feminist Review
The sunroof is frozen over. The sky looks cracked through the ice. A deep blue/black. I think: this is probably the only way I’ll ever see the sky from underneath ice. I think: I will remember this forever. We may never do this again At dinner we laughed with our mouths full, and one of us said she could levitate. In that diner booth I didn’t believe her. In this car I believe her. There is so much here, in this weather. There is so much on this thread. I wonder how it does not snap. I wonder how all of us, together, do not snap. The weight of laughing so hard, of being a girl. The weight of all of us, together. A deep blue/black I get dropped off at home. I hear the snow, that delicate noise it makes if you really listen. I stand still, waiting to hear if they’ll change the song. The shadow of the car stretches under the streetlight, then crumples in the afterglow.
Circle of Life | Drew Davies Queen’s Feminist Review | 105
e-waste | Drew Davies
Thank You 106 | Collective Reflections