Q? Y Art? - queer and trans 'south asian' youth and art by Q? Y Art? Project

Q?Y ART?

Q? Y ART? QUEER & TRANS ‘SOUTH ASIAN’ YOUTH AND ART

Q? Y Art? Project 2013 www.qyartproject.com

COMPILATION TEAM

Amardeep Kaur Prince Anu Radha Verma Berkha Gupta nishant upadhyay COVER DESIGN & LAYOUT

Preethy Sivakumar FUNDERS

ArtReach Toronto Community One Foundation ADMINISTRATIVE PARTNER

Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention This book was launched on March 20, 2013 at a community event held at Ryerson University.

‘south asian’ We recognize that ‘south asian’ is a complex identity that cannot be encompassed by a simple listing of geographical places. We list the term in quotations to highlight its shifting meaning. We use the term strategically (we do not assume solidarity amongst all groups encompassed by mainstream definitions of ‘south asian’) and we are invested in complicating it at every moment. For this book, we have attempted to prioritize individual definitions and selfidentification of ‘south asian.’

queer and trans We use the terms queer and trans as umbrella terms, to include individuals that may identify as Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Transexual, Intersex, Queer, Questioning, Two-Spirit, women who have sex with women, men who have sex with men or any other identities related to sexualities and genders. We know that umbrella terms, especially those that come from western frameworks, can be limiting.

contents

04 INTRODUCTION

ART LINE, Amardeep Kaur Prince 08 ODE TO A GURUDWARA (FIRST WRITING SINCE), annu saini 10 MOTHER/WHORE, annu saini 11 SELF-PORTRAIT, Damindra Liyanage 12 k 13 MEDITATION, Georgina L. Maddox 14 Georgina L. Maddox 15 COMING OUT, Justin Hanif 16 THE DEVIL TAKES THE HIND(U)MOST, Madamit 18 KALI, Madamit 19 AN INDIAN SUMMER, nishant upadhyay 20 SECRETS ON PAVEMENT, Pandora Roxstar 22 BOMBAY BLUES, Pandora Roxstar 23 TO A WILD ROSE, Shaunga Tagore 24 Saira Muzaffar 26

29 Q?

Y ART? PROGRAM 34 RESOURCES 37 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 3

INTRODUCTION

Almost two years ago, we sat down to envision a project that would centre the experiences of people whose identities were complicated like ours – queer/ trans, connected to ‘south asia’, youth. We were seeking to be in, and to help create, spaces for conversation about (in)visibility and intersectionality. We wanted to use art as a medium, since it is deeply connected to some of our communities and also because in conversations with folks, we heard and felt the estrangement from art. This work has been difficult, on so many levels, in ways that we could not have predicted. We found, re-found, and lost community. We participated in hard conversations about space, safety and language, and struggled with ways to describe Q? Y Art? that would be meaningful and not alienating for community members. We re-imagined the project more than once, and learned so much about outreach and community building. From the start, we were excited about developing relationships with ‘south asian’ artists (and in some cases, deepening our relationships), and being able to bear witness to their skill-sharing. It’s not every day that you can attend a workshop on making candy bras, walking runway, or linocut (“what’s linocut?” we asked). The generosity of these artists has been incredible, and they have been a crucial part of the project, embodying the value of “all art is good art.” Oh, the conversations. The silences. The sparkly things that were made.

And in the program sessions themselves, we felt heard and held. The folks in those spaces told us – in words, doodles and drawings – that they felt they could speak, they felt heard. The simple pleasure of “they get it” when talking about family, “culture” or even a favourite meal. The intensive program felt like afternoon chai at someone’s house – too much food, tangential conversations and a surprisingly comfortable sense of intimacy. Tables pushed together, topped with an explosion of art supplies (some purchased, some pulled out of drawers that had held them for a decade), and we sat around, making art. It was actually, seriously, revolutionary. We are more than two sets of boxes, one labelled ‘queer and trans’ while the other labelled ‘south asian.’ We are more than the space between the two. We are something else entirely. Intersectionality means that how we move around the world, especially here on Turtle Island (sometimes known as Canada) is mediated by power structures that are bigger than the identity categories we are asked to check off. From the very beginning of this project, we have asked ourselves difficult questions about what it is that we value, how we value it, and how we live and play out those values. All of the community members, workers and organizations we’ve engaged have provided us with opportunities for deep reflection. For this, we are beyond gratitude. This book has been an unwavering part of Q? Y Art? – we knew we wanted to celebrate the experiences and stories of ‘south asian’ queer and trans youth and art.

After all, we/us/them are amazing! Contributors include Q? Y Art? program participants, but are not limited to those folks. The breadth of experience has been astounding and, bluntly, damn exciting!

Ode to our histories

Inspired and encouraged by Meem*, we too want to challenge the binary between the closet and invisibility, and so, some submissions do not have extensive bios. This is not because of fear (for writing these words, drawing these drawings, taking these photographs is so brave), but for a real valuing of folks’ selfdetermination and a real challenge to the ways popular culture demands all details.

‘south asian,’ queer and trans identities are fluid and everchanging. There is no one singular past to go to. Or one history to re/claim. The process of remembering is very complex, multi-layered and often contradictory. Which histories do we centre? Which identities do we focus on? How do we choose the past? Where is power located? How do we collectively navigate histories which have divided us? Oppressed many? Marginalized others? These are not easy questions to begin answering. So, to remember, reflect, and re/claim is very political, and in the process, very queer.

“Why art?” has been a framing question for this project, and for this book. The answer? Flip through and you’ll find a hundred answers. With love and glue sticks, Anu Radha Verma Berkha Gupta Mississaugas of New Credit Territory (sometimes known as Toronto) March 2013

Remembering ‘south asian’ as well as queer and trans pasts is a challenging and inherently political act.

Connecting with our histories can be a liberating process – more so if our identities, communities and histories have been marginalized in a white supremacist, settler colonial, racist, heteronormative and cissexist society, like Turtle Island (sometimes known as Canada). But still, we need to be cautious when we reclaim our histories, because even our pasts are laden with power dynamics. We also need to remember that our histories don’t have one singular starting point, one trajectory, or one narrative. Queer and trans histories are everywhere, just as queer and trans peoples/communities are everywhere. We don’t have to locate, isolate or pinpoint one group there, one person here, one event there, one struggle here. Because we can’t. And we shouldn’t. History is present in our bodies.

*Meem is a community of lesbian, bisexual, queer & questioning women and transgender persons in Lebanon

We are not the first to ask these questions or do this work. We will not be the last.

ART

Line Title

Amardeep Kaur Prince Name I grew up, often scared of lines, and yet so strongly attracted to them. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been afraid, for being the Indian who will be looked down on for not knowing the practice of queuing. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve observed in silence as first class passengers jump ahead by simply flashing an elite card. From gendered lines dividing people in schools, gurdwaras, airports to constructed borders dividing nations, religions, families, what exactly is the meaning of line? In this ongoing series, I explore the many facets of lines that are so present and significant in my culture. Perhaps in these unique everyday patterns taking form naturally, outside of institutions, I find myself with a sense of calm, acceptance and bonding. Safaid/Rang

6am IST

A. K. Prince is a diasporic South Asian videomaker, artist and educator. Having grown up in Hong Kong, she has lived and travelled through various places: Amritsar, Berlin, Toronto and Peterborough. Princeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s artistic practice is concerned with portraying diasporic memories, identities and emotions.

Ode TitleTo A Gurudwara (First Writing Since) annu Namesaini

If you cover your head You may enter me Bow to my altar Touch face against tapestry I will make you Sing my praises Only the most experienced players May strike fingers against tabla’s Skin inside me Tread lightly for I have been Violated time and time Again I am covered with Bulletholes that stand As a testament to my Strength and beauty Which are one and the same I have known devotion So deep, devotion so complete Loves commit lifetimes of seva They bathe me in warm molten gold Eat inside me I will feed you And when you are done Cleanse my body With pure, sweet, milk Cover me so that Every crevice, every fold In my fat, abundant belly Is penetrated with your Careful hands. I will never stop loving you.

Mother/Whore annu saini

annu saini is a writer, poet, performance and conceptual artist and survivor. She has performed at Mayworks! Festival for Working People and the Arts, Toronto Pride, Toronto’s Nuite Blanche, When Lions Speak - Remembering the Sikh Genocide, and Whores on Top! Her work has appeared in Make/shift magazine and the anthology Colored Girls. She is an Asian Arts Freedom School artist and collective member. She resides in Brampton, Ontario.

Self-portrait Title

Damindra Liyanage Name

My name is Damindra Liyanage. I am a Visual Arts and Social Science double major, attending York University. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like think that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m on some kind of path toward self-actualization.

k I left my mother’s womb with the cord wrapped around my neck three times. A carefully planned yet unrequited mixing of brown and white blood created me.

with I was born here. It is so important to me that there are people who look like me who were born on this stolen land.

From my mother I learned to survive, that hiding parts of yourself was necessary, that keeping quiet was necessary, but also that you could be strong inside without having to say a word.

I never know what to answer next, I break it down to the eighths of what I have been told. It was always important for me to fully break down where I was from because I didn’t know any other way to sum them up. It was all the parts of me that made me, me.

From my father I learned of harsh reality, a series of hoops checkpoints he would say, just to live. I still argue with him to this day. I make the checkpoints, but I am hard from having learned from his hate.

I soon realized that people would define me as they wanted regardless of the breakdown and so I let myself be defined by the ways other people see me because I just didn’t know, and all I had were guesses anyways.

As a child I divided my lives, it seemed to be the best way to stay out of trouble. It was in this act of separation I made myself isolated. It was easier to make myself isolated than to admit that I walked the playground alone or was made fun of for the lunch I had that day or the colour of my skin.

After years of being silenced and told who I was, I have begun to find a voice to define me. There was a dark room called queer-ness that I finally realized I was in and when I opened the door to see who else was with me, I realized there were others, others who felt more like me, and looked more like me. The way the world worked I had been made to believe that none of us existed. It was powerful for me to know that there were others, and that we together could start to value and embrace ourselves, and figure out how we were similar and different. We need more spaces to challenge the silencing and to bring together experiences and lives that we are made to believe don’t exist. We need more spaces to start being whole.

It was easier for me to hate myself than to let others hate me. People like exotic bodies, or ones they consider as such. My brown body surrounded by white bodies seemed to be a mysterious place where everything came together and exploded in questions. I was beautiful but ugly. I was from here but different. Still I get asked where I’m from, I always start

<3 k 13

Meditation Title

Georgina L. Maddox Name I read you like a prayer, Hoping the softness of your mouth, will cleanse me of bitterness. Your prayer bead nipples roll between my fingers Chanting your name I escape. I slip between your thighs savouring your salt These are not prayers the priest taught me. Their language of love, is guilt. A poisoned chalice That stops at the lips. Instead I savour your bruises. 2005 Mumbai, India

Georgina L. Maddox is interested in art practices that examine issues of gender, sexuality, marginalization, social hierarchy, and acts of agency and defiance. Her writings have appeared in several magazines like Art India, Take on Art, Biblio, Open Magazine, India Today and papers like Indian Express and Times of India. She is currently a critic-curator and a closet poet who has only published her work in Scripts the queer zeen for LGBTIQs.

Coming Title out Justin Name Hanif

My first year at university was a blur; I was lost, sometimes fearful, but always in pursuit of my own self-acceptance. My friends had no idea, they didn’t see me like I see myself, they never knew what I was going through. I was good at hiding things; I wore several masks, carried with me shifting identities and fake smiles but behind my charade I was suffering, alone.

Where do I fit in? The air around me was stifling; my friends and family had no clue what I was going through. I never thought my story mattered, never fathomed I could exist here, never believed in myself, never was proud of who I was becoming-to not be fearful, to embrace the person I never knew I was: a Queer Indian.

Sometimes I feel lost. What does being gay and brown mean? Looking out into a sea of white faces, not seeing other queer people of colour, my mind wanders. I quickly realized how the colour of my skin was just another hurdle I had to climb and I was already used to fighting. Fighting off feelings of loneliness, of shame and regret, of pity and sometimes suicide, my life within an instant was turned upside down. Everything changed. I changed. But my fears only grew stronger. For me being Queer meant losing the majority of my friends, being kicked out of my house (almost disowned), and at times I considered taking my own life, I was depressed but also lost trying to navigate through a sea of white images. Images I could never relate to, tiresome images of whiteness, the only queer representation I see in every Gay

magazine, or carefully contrived advertisement. I never fit in. I’m the darkest in the family. I always felt like an outsider. My life was full of secrets and the anonymity of online communities intrigued me, I would spend hours toiling online, just me and my Macbook: chatting to strangers, sending and receiving messages, deleting horny messages from old men, porn bots, and more porn bots, pokes on Facebook, and retweets on Twitter. I was like a machine fueled by coffee, it was addictive, I got high off my online presence. I was slowly building an online identity for myself, and with the rise of social media, I was in the midst of one of the biggest human right’s movements. The online campaign titled the “It Gets Better Project” was launched on September 21, 2010, by Dan Savage, a campaign which has definitely brought about awareness when it comes to homophobic bullying but I find it to be a seemingly white narrative which deduces the experiences of the marginalized LGBTQ community as something massproduced, homogenous, and symptomatic of privilege. A mass-produced, chicken soup for the gay-commercialized queer narrative like Lady Gaga’s “Born this Way.”

I can’t relate. I find myself lost among these images of white beauty, and privilege. These depictions of white queerness gloss over the struggles of the marginalized LGBTQ communities. These stories are lost and almost always missed but I’m here, alive, and breathing.

I am a Survivor. I’m the LGBTQ coordinator for UTM, I am brown, I am gay, and I am a social activist, writer, poet, and traveler. I have a scar on my face I’ve learned to accept and love, a battle scar, a wound I can carefully dance around. I share

stories that are never told, a person who believes in “equity not equality” who is not bound by sexual orientation or skin colour and who is rich with stories of survival and resilience, loss and struggle, love and empowerment. It is my goal to share these stories, providing a positive space for LGBTQ people through art, story-telling, and self-reflection. I want to be the voice of the lost and dismal, the murmur in the moonlight where my brown skin glows.

Justin Hanif is a foreign-film buff, wine connoisseur, and social media junky based in Mississauga. His love for travel and Shakespeare even landed him an opportunity to study Shakespearean literature at Oxford University. When he’s not studying, you can find him indulging in sushi, shopping for new technology, and reviewing the latest trends from the fashion world. He drinks copious amounts of coffee, writes spoken word, dabbles in art, and speaks OUT for social change!

The TitleDevil Takes The Hind(u)most Madamit Name

Kali

Madamit

Madamit is a multi-disciplinary artist based in Toronto, Ontario. Originally from BC, Madamit was born and raised in a hindu household which was incubated within a christian-dominated community. His upbringing is heavily reflected in the work that he creates. Madamitâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ethnic background in combination with his sexuality has created an intersection of dissimilar themes; the major topic highlighted through his work. His taboo creations are artistic investigations through his subjective perspective.

An TitleIndian Summer nishant Name upadhyay

My journey with sexuality has not been what is stereotypically assumed for diasporic South Asians. I did not find “freedom” when I moved to Canada at the age of 19. I was already (s)exposed before I came here and was more or less comfortable with myself. My sexcapades were limited to the summer trips I made to Delhi. And nothing in Kingston. I felt I was more hetero-normally-disciplined here than there. Performed being straight. Hid my emotions and desires from myself. Delhi was where I could be “free”. It took me five years of being in Canada to come out fully to myself and some of my friends. It was a long journey. Political. Emotional. And intellectual. From being gay to being queer. Queer that which is not only about sexuality. Which is (potentially) transgressive, and subversive. That which also, ultimately, questions the category, the identity and the politics of queering. Where as an “end” it queers itself. In the summer of 2009, while visiting my family in Delhi, I had decided that I may come out to my parents during the trip or find a way to at least talk about homosexuality. I had also decided to get involved in Delhi’s queer pride. I met so many wonderful, brave, proud, and amazing queer people at pride organizing meetings. I was moved by how so many people were comfortable and out despite their backgrounds. This group satrangi salaam

of people very easily transcended gender, caste, class, religion, age, rural-urban, regional, linguistic boundaries, it seemed to me. There was politics. Happiness. Fear. Struggles. Support. Family. Bollywood songs. And sex! To be clear though, while this group challenged many boundaries, queer politics, often, still remains not-so-queer. The nexus of caste, gender, and class is very dominant(ing). Who can access and claim to be queer, are important questions. How easy is it to then still stay within the upper caste, urban, middleclass, English-speaking (and gender-controlled?) boundaries, while being queer? How do I question my own privilege when I wanted to wear a mask at Mumbai Queer Azaadi, and was given one, while a hijra in front of me was denied one? Or when I could fly to Mumbai to attend Pride, when I was “banned’ from attending it in Delhi? Or when during a Delhi Pride Committee meeting, the question turned to who will talk to the young cross-dressers in Hindi, after 20 minutes when “we” realized that “they” did not understand “our” instructions to “them” in English? Or when Pride after-parties costed more than 500 bucks per head? And when the guidelines for the parties came with strict (gender-defined) dress codes? Or when a Times of India editorial said thanks to western capitalism, queers in India can be liberated: a reasoning also shared by queers with privilege. It was during this time that I came out to my parents. My parents, to say the least, were not impressed by my proclamation. Mom refused to show hamdardi to me. She cried. Dad was adamant on taking me for correctional therapy. All homophobic stereotypes, like, depression issues, sex-mania, pedophilia, suicidal tendencies, psychological disorder, phase-in-life, western-influence, etc., were used by my parents. Mom blamed it on my left politics and

dad blamed it on my “corrupt” left politics. They failed to see how being queer was political for me. In one of the heated discussions, my earring was physically taken out by my father. And I was quite literally banned from attending pride that weekend. My first time that I got grounded by my parents. I had always assumed that coming out was overrated, westcentric and not always desirable. But my experiences, quite shockingly, despite my parents’ reactions, were healing and positive. This is not to advocate for coming out as a process of queer “liberation” for everyone. For I don’t subscribe to any universal notions of queer “liberation”. Pride, came and went, my parents and I hardly spoke, but the media went crazy. Especially english media. Somehow they took it upon themselves to be the champions of queer rights in India. Through a series of articles, images and commentaries, I could see my parents getting alienated by the media. The images of the pride, which I thought were predominantly of white people, alienated even me as well. While the support should be acknowledged, it also needs to questioned. Why is the media so queer happy? Why is it promoting India as a this new liberal haven for queers? How is its response connected to the needs of the neoliberal market and economy? Is the media happy because of all the “pink rupee”? Does it really make a difference in the lives of queers? While my house, quite literally, was a battle-field, Delhi High Court read down Article 377. All of a sudden, my sexual desires and activities became “legal” in India. This was definitely a big

moment in most queer peoples’ lives in India. And especially for the countless activists, lawyers, social workers, health workers, intellectuals, media persons, families, and friends who had been fighting the fight for a long time. I thought the recommendation (it is by no means a judgement) would help me communicate with my parents more. But it didn’t. And what about the recommendation itself? What does it achieve? Who does it benefit? Acceptance is not only a legal battle. Or merely political bereft of its personal, emotional and social dimensions. Can the court (or even the government) “open up” the society at all those levels? How does it effect the ways my parents, the media and the society “control” and “discipline” me? And others, queers or not. That was almost five years ago. My parents and me are still negotiating. Every few months we exchange the same discussion that we had some four years ago. My earrings, my dupattas, my marriage, my politics, my desires, my sexuality and my struggles (including of my “choices”) are still on the frontline. The recommendation has not gone further away from the purview of law. The government is still non-committal to it. Thanks to the recommendation I am “legal”, although there was a certain kick in being “illegal” and engaging in unlawful activities in bedrooms, parks, public washrooms, outdoors and elsewhere. And, I remain queer.

nishant is a teacher, researcher and writer. they are based in toronto now, while always imagining delhi to be home, which is no longer home.

Secrets Title on Pavement Pandora Name Roxstar

Bombay Blues Pandora Roxstar

I am eight years old. We are in Bombay attending a relative’s wedding. I promise my parents that I am a big girl and can pack for myself so they let me. After we check into our hotel room, I go into the shower to freshen up before the engagement party that night. It turns out that I forgot to pack any underwear, and that my suitcase is full of dresses only. My parents have no choice but to take me shopping for some. It’s one my first lessons in growing up realizing that underwear is apparently a necessity when it comes to dressing up. There are tons of people at the party, but I feel alone and like I don’t fit in. I keep a look out for kids my age when I see her. She’s dressed in a beautiful dress that brings out her eyes which are blue. I can’t help but stare at her because I had never seen a brown girl with blue eyes before. She looks up at me, and we smile at each other. I am smitten and make my way towards her. I tell her that I don’t know anyone at the party, and that I feel bored. She invites me to hang out with her and her pals up on the roof. I jump at the chance, happy to have made some friends. The party is at a house right by the beach. The moon is out, glimmering onto the waves as they crash against the walls below. I watch, fascinated by the turf churning white as it heads back to sea. There are stairs leading down towards the water but we are too afraid to venture out. At night, the tide is high and the water encroaches upon the sandy parts of the beach. I am awe-struck by the beauty of the place and decide to stay up on the roof lulled by the ocean. It was pulling at my heart strings as a secret was

gurgling inside of me, one that would change me forever. My feelings for that girl were deep and intense unlike that of a friend but I didn’t have the understanding then to piece it all together. The next day, to my delight, we visited her house! Our parents give us some money to make a run to the store to get some milk and candy for ourselves. Her building had one of those old-school elevators which had one of those chain-link sliding doors. I don’t know what compelled me to do this, but while the elevator was in motion, I pulled at the chain door. The elevator screeched to a halt, and we found ourselves stuck. I had a box full of gem’s (the Indian version of smarties) that fell out of my hands scattering all over the elevator floor. She burst into tears yelling at me for being so stupid. I wasn’t scared though. I think I wanted some alone time with her to tell her how I felt about her. But she was so angry at me that I didn’t feel up to it anymore. I was disappointed that she didn’t see the thrill in what I had done. She was in emergency mode, frantically pressing the alarm button, and screaming at the top of her lungs. After a few minutes, the superintendent and some building helpers came to get us. We were stuck between floors and had to crawl out into their arms. She never got over the prank I had pulled and we went our separate ways after the wedding. All I can remember is seeing the rainbow coloured candies all over the elevator floor like little pieces of my heart.

to a wild rose Title Shaunga Name Tagore to a wild rose, at the top of the music sheet it says: play with simple tenderness soft, uncluttered. chord structure complex. melody simple. wild rose petals on a lily-pad, quietly swaying down a slow moving stream. specs of gold sparkling from the sun. kindness. gentleness. forgiveness. all my silences turn into water. they leak onto eighty-eight black and white keys. you sit behind me on your red rocking chair and you listen. far-away serene expression, lost in your thoughts. gazing out the window, you don’t miss the details, the children and dogs playfully sauntering down our elm tree filled street. the people walking to the synagogue at the end of the block. I learned a lot about language from my Thakuma, I learned a lot about voice. I forgot my language about the same time her voice changed. Bengali rippled off my tongue like waves then got

stuck - inside my first grade classroom, somewhere lodged and knotted inside english and whiteness and shame and piles of stale garbage hoarded away in my desk and in my body. Around the same age I remember meeting these two grown-ups traveling in wheelchairs at the airport - I didn’t know who they were but her bursting happiness and excited laughter made me certain that I belonged to her, to them. I always heard stories of how different her voice was when she lived in India, realizing it must have been the ordeal of immigration that shocked her voice thin, highpitched and almost weightless. I realize that I have no idea what her voice sounded like for the first 68 years of her life. I remember coming back from the airport and rolling around the beige shag carpet at 46 Lancaster while having long conversations with my Thakuma and Dadabai, not yet noticing we weren’t speaking the same language. But still feeling understood, and understanding. Later on, I remember we would get into fights while I tried to teach her English: “CHESHTA KORO!” “CHESHTA KORCHEE!!” Later still, so many of our conversations were filtered by third party translation: “Mom, can you tell her I said this, What did she mean by that?...” In our family, my Thakuma and I had a lot in common: we are the ones who stay quiet amongst heated, excited debates and loud commotions of Bengali mixed with English, lost in our own worlds, smiling and tilting our heads yes or no if anyone makes a passing comment our way.

I learned a lot about language from my Thakuma, I learned a lot about voice. My relationship with my Thakuma is the most powerful lesson I’ll ever learn that language is about so much more than words. More than anyone, she has seen me at my most self - the many times we’ve shared an empty house, sitting behind me on her red chair and listening as my fingers danced Mozart excited, bubbly, and carefree or while my voice belted a sad, aching Emm Gryner cover. During the last two weeks of December 2012, my Thakuma taught me the most powerful lesson that I will forever keep as truth in my bones. That is that language transcends the physicality of voice. That is to trust the ways I know she came to visit me when I couldn’t travel across the country. Showing us that she was spending time with everyone she loved before departing on a journey back home - not lost in her own world, but finding all of us there. I learned from my Thakuma that language is never forgotten, only created.

I learned that our spirits don’t follow the same rules as our bodies. Her spirit slipped away from her body so quietly. The lines between the spiritual and physical got so blurry. So that I can’t any longer distinguish between boundaries, or what is an ending, what is a beginning and what is always continuing. Whenever I come back home to Brock Street for the holidays, I sit with you in our living room and we have the same conversation. I ask how you are, how is your health, is your leg still hurting? You ask me if I eat properly in Toronto, how are my two cats, how long am I staying in Winnipeg and when is the next time I’m coming back? I ask you if you want a cup of tea, you smile and tilt your head yes. For a long while, we sit and say nothing. Then I play the piano, and you listen.

shaunga tagore is a performance artist, community organizer and astrologer by day, and fights oppression by night as her burlesque super queero alter ego scorpio rising. www.shaungatagore.com

Title

Saira Muzaffar Name March 27, 2012 6:05 PM A woman boards the TTC Dundas West Car #4082. She is tall, with dark hair that’s tied back. She is wearing glasses and holding a purse. The woman turns away from the fare box beside the driver and begins walking to the back of the streetcar. “Sorry people, I can’t afford it. I live on Dundas West. I can’t afford it,” she says while shaking her head and holding her hand up. The streetcar doors remain open. The driver remains quiet and turns the four-ways on. Shortly after, a pre-recorded announcement comes on saying passengers who do not pay the fare must leave the vehicle or will be taken off by police. “Is that me?” the woman asks, looking toward the driver and pointing to herself. She walks back up to him and says, “All you have to say is aboriginal. I am aboriginal. I just want to go home.” She looks around and points at other people on the streetcar. “Black, asian, white. What the fuck?!” Another TTC employee boards the streetcar. He asks the woman to step off or he will call the police. “What are you going to do? Fine!—Where’s your police?!” He says they are coming. Passengers are getting impatient and agitated. Some yell: “Get off!” “Just get her off!” A heavy built man wearing a toque blocks her path, preventing her from moving further into the streetcar.

The woman smiles, holds her purse closer to her body, and asks “What are you doing, whitey?” She then points to another passenger and says, “You’re a whitey and you told me to get off the streetcar. I am aboriginal.” Someone says that there are a lot of nice aboriginal people and that the woman is giving them all a bad name. “So what?!” she replies. The woman once again moves to the front of the streetcar and brushes against a passenger. “Yo, can you not touch me with your fat ass please?! Can you not touch me?!” he says. The woman turns around and faces him. “Oh, do I have a fat ass?” “Yes you do.” “You Asian. What are you going to do? Crater face!” she yells. “Fat-ass four-eyed bitch! “Ugly-ass bitch!” A police officer boards the streetcar. He asks the woman to step off or she will be arrested for trespassing. “I just want to go home!” she says as she hunches slightly, slapping her thigh with her right hand and pulling her purse tight to her body with the other. The officer grabs her right hand and pulls her toward the front door. The woman wraps her free arm around a support pole and holds tight. “You can’t do this! You can’t grab me like this! I just want to go home.” The officer lets go. The woman tries moving away from him but she can’t get very far. The man with the toque moves closer. “You guys are trying to be like the 14th division,” she says. The officer repeats his warning that she needs to get off the

streetcar. “You can’t grab me like you did before.” The officer assures that he will not grab her. Passengers say he didn’t grab her. They say he asked her nicely and she didn’t get off. “They can’t grab me like this. You know why? They already broke my arm. They broke my arm seven years ago. I’ve dealt with the 14th division for seven years.” She points at a scar on her arm. “See!” Two more officers board the streetcar, male and female. “You need to get off the streetcar,” says the male officer. The woman repeats that the other officer grabbed her. The male officer lunges at the woman, takes hold of one of her arms and begins dragging her toward the front doors. He pulls with his entire body. The woman resists. She digs her heels in, trying to maintain her balance but her feet slip on the smooth floor and she lurches forward. The female officer grabs the woman’s other arm and begins to pull. The woman’s purse comes off her shoulder and lands on the floor. It bounces between her feet as she’s pulled toward the front doors, hitting passengers’ legs and feet along the way. She resists and smiles with the strain. She keeps looking toward the back of the streetcar, past the agitated passengers and man with the toque. The first officer onboard has come around through the back doors. He makes his way to the front and begins pushing the woman as the other officers pull her down the steps and through the door. Another officer, this one standing on the street, also takes hold of the woman, and together all four officers struggle as they force her toward a police cruiser. The woman’s glasses slip off and land on the street. One of the male officers is pulling her hair back in his fist. She

stiffens her body and shakes her head to loosen his grip. Strands of her hair come loose around her face. Another male officer twists her arms and folds them up her back. He pushes her elbows up with one hand and pins her hands between her shoulder blades with the other. Looking at the passengers in the streetcar, she yells: “See what they are doing to my arms?!” The first officer to confront her steps back into the streetcar. “Did she assault anyone? No? She was just unruly?” A passenger tells the officer that the woman’s glasses fell on the street. “OK. No worries. I’ll check them out.” The woman is finally forced into the cruiser. The female officer is going through the woman’s purse, spilling the contents on the trunk of the cruiser. She pulls a piece of paper from it and laughs. The second male officer pulls out an empty bottle and shakes his head. They continue looking through the contents of her purse. The streetcar starts moving. It’s 6:17 PM. My head rings with what I heard passengers say during the past twelve minutes. “We all want to go home.” “Get off the streetcar.” “Are you going to argue with the police officer?” “No, he didn’t grab you. He asked you nicely and you didn’t move.” “She’s going to get hurt.” “I hate it when they bring up the aboriginal shit. That’s not aboriginal. That’s being a drunk-ass.”

Q? Y ART? PROGRAM

In 2011, queer south asian youth applied to ArtReach Toronto for an opportunity to use multidisciplinary arts to engage queer/trans south asian youth in Toronto, with the hope of building connections and developing skills. Dubbed “Q? Y Art?”, the program has created learning opportunities for the organizers, the space for community-building, an employment opportunity for a community member, and the bringing together of established artists with emerging ones. The initial structure was to host two twelve-week multidisciplinary arts programs (one for youth under 19, one for youth 20-29). However, the very real constraints of Add Ink - Linocut Workshop trying to recruit for a program that had never been offered before meant that we needed to rethink the program parameters. We actually had to re-envision the program three times, finally “Holding Our Stories Together” – Intensive Program landing upon a spring/summer program made up of one-off workshops and an intensive program. To keep the program

grounded, Kumari Giles (Coordinator) fielded inquiries, reached out past the usual stomping grounds of queer/trans communities to Toronto’s priority neighbourhoods, and coordinated all of the logistics for the workshop sessions. Kumari also took on the task of preparing food for almost every session, bringing a sense of intimacy to the arts-based workshop space. In the spring of 2012, the Community One Foundation provided us with additional funding so that we could do programming outside of Toronto, and be better equipped for the largest component of the project Q? Y Art? refers to queer, questioning, and the LGBTTIQQ2S umbrellas, – this book! youth and the arts. Q sounds Through the spring and like “kyon” which in Hindi, Urdu, summer of 2012, Q? Y Punjabi and some other languages Art? one-off sessions derived from Sanskrit, means were held in various “why.” We are focused on youth locations in Toronto (and (with a broad definition – 13 to one in Mississauga). In 29), so the “Y.” The name is a play each workshop, an artist on words, a play on language(s), a facilitator led participants fun and questioning way to think through skill-building about art, youth engagement, and while also sharing their community building. own story as a south asian queer/trans artist. In addition to the art facilitation, Q? Y Art? organizers led participants through a participatory group agreement process as well as other arts-based activities. These activities directly connected to the values of the project as a whole. To close each session, a group evaluation technique was employed, where participants were asked to draw/write a) something they will be thinking

about on their way home; b) something they felt during the workshop; c) something that surprised them. In the summer of 2012, an intensive program was held at Delisle Youth Services, where participants spent much more time together, developed trust, and delved deeper into issues related to identity, geographies and more. Artist facilitators were also invited to the intensive program. Q? Y Art? organizers spent a significant period of time facilitating discussion and activities during the intensive program. This included a three-hour group agreement process, a collective poem on Indigenous solidarity, mapping why/where is ‘south asia,’ and making puzzle pieces that fit together in the end. Open crafting also played a significant role in the intensive program, as participants worked

Masti Khor’s Amazing Handmade Stage Outfits – Burlesque Workshop

What Will You Be Thinking About On The Way Home? – With Words Workshop

through prompts (or their own art ideas) at a large table together. The crafting was peppered with conversations about memories of places, desires for more, and reflection on how amazing it felt to be in a closed ‘south asian’ queer/trans space. We wanted to envision a project that could ground itself in values that we believed in. These included: » » Working from a place of Indigenous solidarity » » Creating a peer support space » » Working from a harm reduction approach » » Recognizing power and privilege » » Valuing self-identification, Valuing intersectionality » » Recognizing (in)visibility » » Respecting the complex relationships to our bodies » » All art is good art! » » Creating a youth-centric program These values were internalized within every part of the program possible. From recognizing the Indigenous territory workshops were held on and having a dialogue on the need for south asian communities to engage in self-reflection about settlership and allyship, to deconstructing maps which have often been used to define us without our say. In both one-off workshops and the intensive program, participants talked through the complexities of negotiating multiple identities this was held, valued and centered throughout the program.

Drag and Burlesque Artist Facilitators: Masti Khor and Sammy Samosa Location: Toronto Public Library, Richview Branch With Words: Exploring words and text Artist Facilitator: Steve Khan Location: University of Toronto Scarborough Campus

Intersecting Communities – Intensive Program

One-off Workshops &Intensive Program Crafting and Movement! Artist Facilitator: Kumari Giles Locations: East Mississauga Community Health Centre (part of Pride Week in Peel 2012) and Parkdale Community Health Centre Linocut Artist Facilitator: Eshan Rafi Location: Toronto Public Library, Riverdale Branch Writing: Exploring personal narratives Artist Facilitator: Vivek Shraya Location: Toronto Public Library, North York Central Branch

Intensive Program Artist Facilitators: Jamilah Malika (Storytelling and Poetics), Nadijah Robinson and Eshan Rafi (Bookbinding), and Masti Khor (Bollywood Burlesque). Location: Delisle Youth Services

Learnings & Challenges Q? Y Art? provided learning opportunities not just for participants, but also for the organizers and for the Coordinator! These learnings, compiled by Kumari, include: »» sometimes accessing spaces is scary, especially when they talk about you!

Thinking Through Indigenous Solidarity – Intensive Program

»» meeting someone who may align with your experiences in one way or another can be beautiful and transformative »» we’re all really awkward »» silences are golden »» being seen is scary »» sometimes I’m not ready to talk about being queer and ‘south asian’ »» most of us are really confused by what ‘south asian’ means! Some of us align with geographic places, languages, clothing, food, and other “cultural” markers, but lots of us don’t! »» sometimes queer and trans or lgbttiqq2s/wsw/msm doesn’t resonate with who we are and how we think about ourselves » » the lack of solely ‘south asian’ Where Is South Asia? – Crafting and Movement Workshop spaces means most of us have found communities where having access to ‘south asian’ spaces doesn’t always make sense to us »» a lot of us don’t to make space for arts exploration in our everyday lives

»» sometimes our connections to our histories are so lost or hard to reach that being in spaces to explore them is too hard »» crafting is really fun and a good way to sit and process without thinking too hard »» it’s hard to constantly think about whether or not we’re enough, but we have to remember that we are enough, because we are the best we can be »» there are no words to describe being your whole self in a space »» sometimes the language of queer and ‘south asian’ doesn’t make sense unless people have called you that before »» it feels amazing to say “I ate a paratha” and have the majority of folks in the room know what you’re talking about! There have been so many challenges in doing communitybuilding work through Q? Y Art? and because we value transparency, we want to be honest about the struggles we have faced. Recruitment »» engaging high school students outside of the school year can be very difficult unless you’ve outreached a lot during the year and have already developed relationships »» online outreach can seem like a great tool, but knowing what’s most effective can be difficult and if you’re doing a program that spans across a city, the same tools don’t always work

Program Participation »» working through the application process was a big challenge for us: we wanted to get as much as information as we could to ensure safety and have a participant-responsive program. But, we wanted to make them open-ended, short and not intimidating. Applications can often turn into a ‘gatekeeping’ process, and in some cases can make folks feel like they have to prove themselves or that they aren’t good enough »» life gets in the way, and sometimes even when folks say they really want to attend a program, they just can’t.

This doesn’t mean the program isn’t needed »» most folks may find the language of “safe” or “safety” new – we can’t just throw these words around assuming that people have had the chance to think about or talk about safety »» even those involved with a project can feel insecure about participating - but how do we manage that, while trying to hold the space for participants? Partnerships »» negotiating partnerships can be difficult when there is a scarcity of resources all around!

Q? Y Art? Flyer

RESOURCES

Agencies and Organizations The 519 Community Centre - Toronto A dedicated centre for queer and trans communities offering numerous programs for youth, adults, immigrants and refugees; also offers meeting space for numerous LGBTQ community groups. P: 416-392-6873 E: info@the519.org W: www.the519.org/ Access Alliance Provides programs and services for LGBTQ+ newcomers including monthly drop-ins, fields trips, expressive arts groups and community forums; they also offer settlement services for LGBTQ+ newcomers http://accessalliance.ca/LGBTQ Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention (ASAAP) - Toronto Offer ongoing queer/trans spaces for men such as Dosti (www.dosti.ca), Snehithan (www.snehithan.ca) and Lassi; they take on regular projects to support queer and trans South Asian communities. P: 416-599-2727 E: info@asaap.ca W: www.asaap.ca Buddies in Bad Times Theatre - Toronto Supports queer and trans youth to achieve theatrical excellence through play development and youth mentorship initiatives; they also host monthly drop-in performance spaces for queer and trans youth. P: 416-975-9130 E: youth@buddiesinbadtimes.com W: www.buddiesinbadtimes.com/youth/ Canadian Lesbian and Gay Archives - Toronto Houses a wide range of materials including personal papers, photographs, moving images, sound recordings, periodicals, and clipping files; they also collect artifacts like buttons,

board games, t-shirts, and banners. P: 416-777-2755 E: queeries@clga.ca W: www.clga.ca/ Reach Out Program @ The Griffin Centre – North York Offer drop-in groups, community outreach, art and skills exchange, counselling and training for LGBTQ youth; dropin groups include spaces for LGBTQ youth of colour, LGBTQ youth with intellectual disabilities and newcomer LGBTQ youth. P: 416-222-1153 W: www.griffin-centre.org/reachout.php The Lesbian Gay Bi Trans Youthline - Ontario An anonymous toll-free call or chat line where you can talk one-on-one with other LGBTTIQQ2S youth. P: 1-800-268-9688 E: askus@youthline.ca W: www.youthline.ca My House – Rainbow Resources of York Region Provides space for LGBT community to gather and form social supports and recreational activities; they also act as a central point for information and resources on LGBT services, arts, culture, and volunteer opportunities. P: 1-888-905-5428 x74 E: info@myhouseyr.com W: www.myhouseyr.com Pride & Prejudice @ Central Toronto Youth Services Offer ongoing support groups and individual counselling for LGBTQ youth. P: 416-924-2100 x245 W: www.ctys.org/programs#pp QX at East Mississauga Community Health Centre Offers weekly drop-in, one-to-one support and referral sessions for LGBTTIQQ2S community members along with intake for trans-specific health care; they also collaborate

with other agencies for queer and trans events and trainings P: 905 602 4082 x4 E: qxposure.emchc@gmail.com W: www.qxposure.blogspot.ca Sherbourne Health Centre – Toronto Offer comprehensive primary health care and counselling for LGBTQ communities; also run various LGBTQ groups on topics including parenting and families and trans health care. W: www.sherbourne.on.ca Stars @ Delisle Youth Services - Toronto Offers a range activities and workshops including expressive arts workshops, youth leadership, skills development, field trips, discussion groups for all sexually diverse and gender diverse youth. P: 416-482-0081 E: infor@delisleyouth.org W: http://www.delisleyouth.org/pages/stars-y Supporting Our Youth (SOY) – Toronto A program of Sherbourne Health Centre working to create healthy arts, culture and recreational spaces for LGBTQ youth along with a mentoring program; they also provide supportive housing and employment opportunities. P: 416-324-5077 E: soy@sherbourne.on.ca W: www.soytoronto.org TEACH – Toronto Teens Educating and Confronting Homophobia (TEACH) delivers anti-homophobia peer education activities in high schools and community settings. P: 416-961-0113 E: teach@ppt.on.ca W: www.ppt.on.ca/anti-homophobia_teach.asp The Triangle Program - Toronto An alternative high school program for LGBTQ youth.

P: 416-393-8443 W: www.triangleprogram.ca The Well – Hamilton Facilitates various peer support and social groups for LGBTQ communities; they also offer individual and family support along with training for agencies and service providers. P: 905-525-0300 E: info@thewellhamilton.ca W: www.thewellhamilton.ca Youth Beyond Barriers – Peel Region Provides support and resources to queer and trans youth in Peel through groups, one-to-one support and a confidential telephone line; they also provide educational workshops and organize community events to raise awareness regarding queer and trans issues. P: 1.800. 762 8377 ext 460 E: youth@aysp.ca W: http://www.aysp.ca/programs-groups/community-basedprograms/child-youth-programs/ybb/

Community Groups Community groups are constantly evolving with amazing new programs taking birth every year. This list is just a snapshot of some of the great community organizing happening in the Greater Toronto Area. Asian Arts Freedom School An art-based radical Asian history and activism program for Asian/Pacific Islander youth that covers various art forms including writing, spoken word, music, visual arts, film, break dancing, theatre and modern dance. F: https://www.facebook.com/groups/asianartsfreedomschool Deviant Productions Supports and collaborates with queer artists to produce theatrical works that explore and challenge normative

views of gender and sexuality from a feminist or queer perspective. F: www.facebook.com/ProDeviant Eventual Ashes A Performing Arts Company that produces and presents interdisciplinary work by people of colour and queer/trans people. E: info@eventualashes.com W: www.eventualashes.com ILL NANA/DiverseCity Dance Company A queer positive multiracial dance company that recognizes and fills the need within marginalized communities for accessible affirming dance classes; they host free professional drop-in classes and a 2 month free professional training intensive. E: ill_nana@live.ca W: www.illnana-dcdc.com Salaam A national organization dedicated to LGBTTI Muslims, as well as those questioning their sexual orientation or gender identity, their families and friends. E: salaamtoronto@salaamcanada.com W: www.salaamcanada.com Unapologetic Burlesque A show where the performers can tell their own stories, giving performance space to emerging, first-time, and seasoned performers who are people of colour, Indigenous, queer, genderqueer, trans, people of varying body sizes, people of all abilities, people from varying class backgrounds. W: www.unapologeticburlesque.weebly.com

Selected South Asian Resources This list of resources is in no way exhaustive of the ‘south asian’ queer and trans resources that exists. We have attempted to compile a short list that exhibits some stories that may be relatable to ‘south asian’ queer and trans youth in the Greater Toronto Area. BOOKS » » Funny Boy, Shyam Selvadurai, 1994 » » Red Threads, Poulomi Desai and Parminder Sekhon, 2003 » » Babyji, Abha Dawesar, 2005 » » Stealing Nasreen, Farzana Doctor, 2007 » » God Loves Hair, Vivek Shraya, 2010 » » Six Metres of Pavement, 201 » » What I Love About Being Queer, Vivek Shraya, 2012 FILMS » » Fire, Deepa Mehta, 1996 » » Rewriting the Script: A Love Letter to Our Families, Friday Nite Productions, 2001 » » A Touch of Pink, Ian Iqbal Rashid, 2004 » » Brown Like Me, Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention, 2009

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS The Q? Y Art? Project would not be possible without a whole host of individuals, community groups and organizations. We are so grateful for the support.

Funding for the project and the book has been provided by ArtReach Toronto and the Community One Foundation, both amazing funders who are committed to providing support for projects that engage marginalized communities. The Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention (ASAAP) provided crucial administrative support for the project, without which the project could not have happened. Q? Y Art? took place across the Greater Toronto Area, and we are so grateful to the organizations that helped us by giving space for all aspects of the project. The Alliance for South Asian AIDS Prevention (ASAAP) provided us with space for meetings, interviews, and a desk for the Coordinator to work. One-off workshop space was generously provided to us by the East Mississauga Community Health Centre (EMCHC), Parkdale Community Health Centre (PCHC), and the Lesbian Gay Bi Trans Youthline (LGBT Youthline). The intensive program was held in the beautiful Studio space, provided by Delisle Youth Services (DYS). Finally, thanks to the Ryerson Students’ Union (RSU) for helping us with space for the launch at Oakham House. Thanks to Karishma Golani for contributing to the conceptualization of the original project and supporting the first steps. Kumari Giles was an amazing Coordinator for Q? Y Art? and also filled our bellies with delicious food over and over again. Thank you for your constant positive energy!

The community-based artists who shared their skills and stories with participants were so generous, and we have so much love for them. Thanks to Eshan Rafi, Jamilah Malika, Kumari Giles, Masti Khor, Nadijah Robinson, Sammy Samosa, Steve Khan, and Vivek Shraya. Seriously, thank you! The talented Eshan Rafi designed our amazing poster. Thanks for setting a fabulous tone for the project! Intensive program participants were fed well by Aemilius (Milo) Ramirez. Yum! When it comes to this publication, we could have not done this without the compilation team: Amardeep Kaur Prince and nishant upadhyay. Preethy Sivakumar designed this in a ridiculously short period of time, and we are so thankful! Many thanks to Raymond Correa at Grace Printing for getting this printed at lightning speed. There were so many people who supported us through the project by providing advice, putting up a poster (or two), letting us do a plug during their program, and reassuring us that this work was good and needed even if the journey was difficult. Thank you for being community! Finally, much gratitude to those ‘south asian’ queer and trans folks in the Greater Toronto Area who found this project interesting, reached out, and participated in the program. Thanks also to those who submitted their work for this collection – you may never know the ways in which your pieces will impact someone today, tomorrow or way in the future.