Issue 42: The Performance Issue

NEWS! ART! MUSIC! CULTURE! POLITICS!

TALKING BACK SINCE 2004

Inside:

Learn to DJ!

Overcome stage fright!

Make Trinidadian doubles!

REMOVE FILTER:

THE PERFORMANCE ISSUE

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$ 95 FALL/WINTER 2021

DISPLAY UNTIL APRIL 2021

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CONTENTS

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ISSUE 42: Fall/Winter 2021

18 Data-Driven Friendships: The Reality of Me and You How has the internet impacted the way we define friendship?

BY JEAN BOAMPONG

24 Actor or Ally? Confusion on the Activist’s Stage What do diversity and inclusion actually mean? BY Y.J ZHENG AND JEAN BOAMPONG

28 Reclaiming Authenticity in our Cultural Foods

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Can “cultural authenticity” become a performance? BY GEORGIA LIN

QUICK READS 02 EDITOR’S LETTER 03 CONTRIBUTORS 04 LETTERS 05 NEWSFLASH: Climate change, Canada’s drinking water crisis,

ocean advocate 06 ACTIVIST REPORT: Nasra Adem 07 FIVE SHAMELESS THINGS TO DO 08 ON THE JOB: Get Bent, QTBIPOC drag collective 09 SHE’S SHAMELESS: Introducing a cool Shameless reader

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COLUMNS AND DEPARTMENTS

10 EXTRA CREDIT: We have been here all along 11 COMIC 13 ADVICE: How do I get started DJing?

14 BODY POLITICS: Misgendering and anti-Black racism 15 MEDIA SAVVY: Navigating comedy in the intersections 16 GREEN SCENE: Greenwashing 17 SPORTING GOODS: Sports can reinforce norms or push back

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ARTS AND CULTURE

32 SHOW & TELL: Spotlight 33 DIY: How to deal with stage fright 34 BEST OF THE BLOG: What we’re saying online 36 ARTS PROFILE: Michelle Thrush 38 STIR IT UP: How social media affects how we prepare, present

and eat our food 39 RECIPE: Trinidadian doubles 40 GET UP: The art of clown 41 GEEK CHIC: The joys of having a secret Instagram account 42 REVIEWS: Books, music, films, games and more 46 COUNTERCULTURE CLASSIC: All-American Girl COVER: ELYSSA PADILLO ART: ANNA DO, LILIAN SIM, YANNIE LO, OLIVIA SEMETSOVA

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editor’s letter

TAKING OFF THE MASK Dear Shameless readers, We hope that this issue finds you as well as can be, given everything that’s happening in the world, and everything that has happened since our last issue. Prior to the pandemic, and prior to the moment we all decided we’d had enough of white supremacy, police brutality, and the neoliberal neglect of our most vulnerable communities, many of us weren’t okay. Now, after almost a full year of fighting so many battles, on so many fronts, after a full year of not having real-life access to the supports that we may have had, we know that many of us are just hanging on. Before we get into the heart of this issue, we want to take a minute to say that it’s okay not to be okay. We want to honour everything it took to bring you to being present today. We share your grief, rage, and the oscillating feelings of hope and despair. We see you.

It feels like a different world now, when we first imagined the performance issue. Our initial conversations talked about a desire to explore both the performing arts and the role of performance in political organizing, and this got us started on some of the pieces that you see here, exploring performance as an act of radical re-imagination of gender (p.8), a mechanism that can further marginalize and silence (p. 24), and a tool for accessing the truth (p. 36). All of these points still feel relevant today, and we hope that you learn as much from our amazing writers as we did in the process of putting this together.

But something else happened along the way. Those of you who subscribe to Shameless may have noticed that this issue is long overdue. Our mandate is to publish three issues a year, and last year, we managed to get one out the door and into your hands. This issue was meant to be published in summer 2020 and, as I write this letter, it’s mid-January, 2021.

I thought about using this space to apologize to you, our readership.

But instead, I want to reflect on why we struggled to get this out the door, and reflect on what it means to perform through production.

In my personal life, I’ll share that in the summer of 2019, I had a baby, Uma. Uma is the light of my life; she’s warm, curious, and loves trucks and the colour yellow. My first year of parental “leave” was both joyful and complicated by work obligations. I sat on conference calls while I chest-fed her. I hid my pregnancy and leave from some clients, telling them that I was in “meetings” when I was actually caring for her. I woke up at 5am, and I paid for a service that would schedule emails to go out at 9am, so people wouldn’t know that this—having a human life to care for—would impact my work, my schedule, my life, my capacities.

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When the pandemic came, nine months into being a new parent, I continued this trend. I leaned into pandemic life; I shared photos of food we cooked in a WhatsApp group (aptly titled “Photos of Food”), I continued trying to juggle being a new parent (now without any extended support from family or friends) with working my day job, with Shameless, and with taking on a new role as a professor in a school that I had never even visited. I packed Uma’s nap time with Zoom conference after Zoom conference, stayed up late, and woke up early, to make everything seem normal. I pressed on. The work I continued to produce during this time, the seeming seamlessness of it, was a performance. Behind the scenes, I was exhausted, stressed and stretched beyond capacity, and sad. I was slowly feeling the gap left by my joyful interactions with friends, with co-conspirators, with Shameless collaborators.

I am used to pretending to be okay, to pretending like things are okay, even when they’re not. That’s something that came from my experience in an immigrant family; we can’t afford to let a ball drop, we can’t afford to ask for what we need, we have to press on.

I am lucky to be around people who have healed from that trauma and those patterns and have learned to be more honest about where they’re at. While the world burned around me, and I scheduled my emails to go out at 9am, I saw friends asking for what they need. I heard people from all parts of my life saying, “I can’t finish this,” or “I need more time.” I sat on the other end of calls while folks honestly said, “I am struggling,” and created space for me to say the same.

So much of 2020 was about performing being okay when we’re not.

About pushing through when maybe we just can’t, or shouldn’t. The last 10 months were not business as usual. Many of us were struggling. We needed time and space, and we took it. As I introduce this issue, the performance issue, I am empowered to take off the mask and substitute an apology with an honest look at where we’re at. In that spirit, I hope that you, too, are able to put down what is too heavy to carry, and to do what you need to stay present and “okay” until we meet again.

Yours shamelessly,

sheila@shamelessmag.com

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contributors

EDITORIAL DIRECTOR & ART DIRECTOR

Sheila Sampath(sheila@shamelessmag.com) PUBLISHER

Julia Horel ( julia@shamelessmag.com) EDITORS

Features: Jean Boampong, Front of Book: Nour Abi Nakhoul, ColuTmns: Sarom Rho, Arts: Sennah Yee, Reviews: Gabrielle Marceau

CONTRIBUTOR BIOS

CIRCULATION MANAGER

Angela Guardiani (subscribe@shamelessmag.com) WEB TEAM

Web Art Director: Beena Mistry, Web Editors: Naz Afsahi, Sadaf Ahsan, Tina Zafreen Alam, Jackie Mlotek, Roxana Parsa, Andi Schwartz, Michelle Schwartz CONTRIBUTORS

Marta Balcewicz, Amethyst Barron, Mia Carnevale, Ruby Condon, Sara Cornthwaite, Elle Côté, Erin Cutler, Anna Do, Kenn Enns, Foopklo, Ruth Hampton, Cheryl Harrell, Ida Henrich, Jaydene, Yash Kesanakurthy, Sarah Khan, Caroline Klimek, Ariel Kravitz, Tan Light, Georgia Lin, Yannie Lo, Russ Martin, Fiorella Morzi, Jez Nguyen, Elyssa Padillo, Wren Pragg, Denise Reich, Nish Rox, Olivia Sementsova, Elena Senechal-Becker, Lilian Sim, Lucinda Thee, Zuza Tokarska, Katie Ungard, Vic, Quincy Yee, Aruna Zehra, Y.J Zheng, Vivian Zhi COPY EDITOR

Lauren Perruzza ARCHIVIST

Frances Chepesiuk FUNDRAISING MANAGER

Liz Chornenki CO-FOUNDERS

Nicole Cohen and Melinda Mattos BOARD OF DIRECTORS

Shannon Clarke, Julia De Laurentiis Johnston, Ronak Ghorbani, Kate Miller SPECIAL THANKS

Rayne Fisher-Quann, Andrew Wilmot Shameless is a feminist magazine for teenage girls and trans youth, published by Shameless Media. Views expressed in the magazine do not necessarily reflect the views of the publishers. All content copyright Shameless Media 2020. Reprinting without permission is totally uncool. Ask first.

ISSN 1710-2022 Printed in Canada by Thistle Printing on recycled paper.

Distributed in Canada by Magazines Canada (www. magazinescanada.ca) and in the United States by Ubiquity Distributors (www.ubiquitymags.com).

Canada Post #41070511 SUBSCRIPTIONS: Canada $18/year, US $25/year, International $40/year; Institutional, school and library rates: Canada: $25/year; US: $35/year, International: $40/year To subscribe, visit www.shamelessmag.com/subscribe or send payment and address to Shameless Media, P.O. Box 68548, 360A Bloor St. W., Toronto, Ontario, M5S 1X1.

For inquiries, email subscribe@shamelessmag.com.

On occasion, we make our subscriber list available to carefully screened, like-minded publications. If you would prefer not to receive such offers, please email us.

WE’D LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU! PLEASE SEND

JEAN BOAMPONG is a communications specialist based in Toronto whose goal is to unearth and tell compelling stories.

ERIN CUTLER is a Canadian freelance illustrator. Cutler’s illustrations are digitally and traditionally embellished with an explorative and whimsical feel. She is passionate about illustrating from a feminist perspective and inspiring change. See more at instagram.com/illustrationsbyerin.

GEORGIA LIN is a student at the University of Toronto studying social equity and identifies as a first-generation Taiwanese immigrant woman of colour who enjoys musing about the diaspora.

YANNIE LO is a Toronto-based illustrator/animator. Her work mixes nostalgic influences growing up in Hong Kong with contemporary designs, and she’s worn different hats before arriving at illustration.

ELYSSA PADILLO is a graphic designer and freelance illustrator from Oakville, Ontario.

Her colourful artworks are deeply inspired by childhood memories. Her mantra: to put magic and joy into the mundane.

LETTERS TO THE EDITORS, STORY PITCHES AND DONATIONS TO:

Shameless / P.O. Box 68548 Walmer / Toronto, Ontario M5S 3C9 talkingback@shamelessmag.com www.shamelessmag.com

Y.J ZHENG is a London based art critic living to salvage contemporary art from bad philosophy. Zheng is the owner of too many notebooks and firm believer in letting prose breathe outside the academy.

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letters

DEAR SHAMELESS, I recently discovered your magazine and became a new subscriber. I must say I was pleasantly surprised to receive my first print edition in a handwritten envelope. It truly shows through the editing, the focus used in the articles, and all over, the love and dedication put into this magazine. I just wanted to congratulate your team for such an important and high quality endeavour, I wish I could have had access to this magazine when I was a young teenager learning what it means to be a racialized woman in a colonized world.

Write to us! Email talkingback@ shamelessmag.com or send snail mail to Shameless, P.O. Box 68548 Walmer Toronto, ON M5S 3C9. Please include your full name, address and age.

Letters may be edited for length and clarity.

Thank you for the work you do, keep it going!

Much Love, L.E.

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Payment accepted: cheque, international money order or well-concealed cash. Send form with payment to: Shameless Media, PO Box 68548, Walmer, Toronto, ON M5S 3C9. Please allow 6-8 weeks for delivery. Shameless is published three times a year. www.shamelessmag.com

newsflash

The intersections of climate change and women’s rights According to the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), we should consider the ways in which climate change uniquely impacts women.

A recent press release from the international organization reports that women account for 80 percent of those displaced as a result of climate change.

Women and their place in environmental problems are also mentioned in a 2018 report released by the South Asia Consortium for PHOTO: MIDNIGHT SHINE Interdisciplinary Water Resources Studies. The to the government’s study refers to India’s website, in 2015 the Brahmaputra Valley, country had over where many girls will 100 drinking water Shameless news from around the world drop out of school when advisories. As of

BY ELLE CÔTÉ flooding occurs in order February 2020, this to help their communities. number has decreased to 61.

Ghost gear is any form of discarded fishing The IUCN says better representation of With hashtags such as #FIRSTWATER gear ending up in the Earth’s water. It’s conwomen within environmental organizations and #WheresMyCanada, Midnight Shine sidered by some to be the deadliest form of is a step in the right direction when addresshopes to give voice to those directly affected waste for marine life, often causing entangleing the link between women and climate by the crisis. You can find them online @ ment for whales, dolphins, seals and turtles. change: “Data tells us that women matter — Tragically, Toole did not make it to Nairobi. midnightshineon. and gender equality matters — when it comes She was one of the 157 killed in the Ethiopian to conserving and protecting our environAirlines crash in March 2020.

Women who give birth before 18 are ment…[t]he call is clear: now is the time to In memory of her mission, World Animal economically impacted for life, states scale up meaningful action.”

Protection has created the Joanna Toole new multi-country study Annual Ghost Gear Solutions Award.

Women’s economic empowerment is a huge Through the award and its financial compenaspect of gender equality, and, according to sation, granted to projects helping to solve new research, one often put in a precarious the problem of ghost gear, the organization position. hopes to continue Toole’s mission of creating A report, released in June 2020 by nona safer world for marine animals. profit organizations Population Council and Women Deliver, discovered “a strong and consistent lifelong negative association Indigenous band Midnight Shine between giving birth before age 18 and a spreads awareness of Canada’s drinkwoman’s economic empowerment.” ing water crisis The study used data that looked at women This July, Canada’s Environment Minister aged 20-49 in over 40 different countries.

Catherine McKenna took to Twitter to According to Women Deliver, few studies applaud Ottawa’s top-notch drinking water, have addressed the short- and long-term mentioning its rating as “among the best effects of giving birth before turning 18 on a in the world.” But for the Indigenous band PHOTO: JOANNA TOOLE woman’s financial abilities.

Midnight Shine, McKenna’s tweet did not “The study examines complex issues, but speak the entire truth. the implications are simple…women need to The band responded to McKenna via Award announced in memory of be able to control their own fertility and their social media, highlighting the ongoing water “extraordinary” ocean advocate own earnings…[w]e need societal investment emergency happening in Northern Ontario: In the spring of 2020, Joanna Toole, a in access to modern contraception, safe abor“Meanwhile, in #Attawapiskat, residents have campaigner for the non-profit organization tion, and comprehensive sexuality education, just been warned not to drink the drinking World Animal Protection, was headed for as well as in expanding economic opportuniwater, bathe in it, or inhale steam from it.”

Nairobi to attend the fourth session of ties for all girls and women.”

Canada’s rural and Indigenous communities the UN Environment Assembly. Toole was You can read the recent publication (and are disproportionately affected by drinking set to speak on the problem of ghost gear, many others) in full at Women Deliver’s water shortages and contamination. According and what we need to do about it. website: womendeliver.org.

NEWSFLASH

PHOTO: WORLDANIMALPROTECTION.ORG, MIDNIGHTSHINEONLINE.COM

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activist report

CREATING THE SPACE TO SPEAK Nasra Adem is using art in the service of community advocacy in Edmonton BY Y.J ZHENG

Nasra Adem is an Edmonton-based artist and performer who uses their platform as a way to create space for unheard voices; anyone who has ever refrained from expressing themselves because of the shade of their skin. This practice especially centres marginalized artists like women and trans people of colour.

Nasra has been performing on stage ever since high school. Since their nomination as Edmonton’s 2016 youth poet laureate, they have been actively encouraging women and trans people of colour to take up art, and empowering youth to work on building their own communities. In 2017, they published their very first poetry collection, A God Dances in Human Clothes.

Nasra’s own experiences with selfsuppression created a whole new desire for expression, a desire which emanated from their body more strongly the more their throat closed up out of fear of being seen. Nasra found themselves in dance and the completion of a theatre degree before discovering poetry. It was in poetry that they began the process of recovering their voice as well as their identity.

Performance allowed for Nasra to find liberation from the harsh boundaries set by family and society that dictate who they are and who they’re allowed to be. The artistic impulse that began as a way to locate an avenue of self-expression eventually moved beyond that.

No longer does Nasra feel constrained in their expression, and no longer do they feel that they require permission to be who they are.

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Nowadays, the artist spends much of their time creating the communities that had been absent when they were starting to make art; spaces where women and trans people of colour may find the courage to create. In 2017, Nasra launched Sister 2 Sister, an artists’ collective for women of colour, which hosted Alberta’s very first Black Arts Festival.

Nasra’s poetry is impressive in its flow and its use of vivid imagery, but what is most impressive is the way it reflects their respect for life. Such respect is uncommonly found in our current culture, where people are quick to dismiss ideas, dialogue, education and equality. Nasra’s poetry seems fundamentally interested in justice and building community.

Nasra uses their art to advocate for reconciliation and mutual understanding. Through performance, they remain grounded in the knowledge that their ideas are heard and acknowledged. By encouraging performance, Nasra invests in their community so that it will stand strong too, placing their effort into creating a place that may support them back in turn.

When asked whether they would consider pursuing their work in another city, Nasra replied in the negative. “Edmonton needs me,” they say. Having found their voice, they’re putting it to use by supporting the community that needs it the most.

“Performance allowed for Nasra to find liberation from the harsh boundaries set by family and society that dictate who they are and who they’re allowed to be. The artistic impulse that began as a way to locate an avenue of self-expression eventually moved beyond that. No longer does Nasra feel constrained in their expression, and no longer do they feel that they require permission to be who they are.” shameless

1. Create an alter ego

3. Become a beacon

Creating an alter ego can be a sure-fire way to liberate ourselves from the confines of our own imagination. It can also help us transcend our notions of sex and gender and redefine our relationship to those concepts.

We are multi-dimensional creatures who, like onions, have many layers. It can be hard to represent ourselves in our entirety, especially in places where we have conformed to the status quo, and in places where we resist or challenge it. To express our true selves takes courage, and I think by creating an alter ego, we can find strength to be the ultimate beauteous and fabulous expression of ourselves. I think identity itself can be inherently performative. Once we are able to examine who we are, and see our expression as a form of art, of resistance and an act of personhood, then we are able to make more informed, empowered and purposeful choices to reflect that expression of ourselves to the world. It’s like being your own manager, processing your identity through the lens of the outside world as though you were previewing something, learning about yourself and then using that knowledge to better represent yourself.

There is something incredibly soul-satisfying in undertaking the revolutionary act of openly defying gender or sexuality norms.

When you can wrap your head around the fact that gender is a social construct, and is used as a means to coerce, control and police people, you can rebel against the social structures that our society was built upon. One of the shameless things you can do is take a women and gender studies class, and learn about how gender has been used to become a tool of oppression for many folks. That awareness can seep into your skin and lead you to make radical choices of self-expression that challenge and confront societal norms. We live in a world where being heterosexual and cisgendered is the dominant and socially acceptable reality.

Imagine then skewing that reality to make the world more inclusive towards non-normative folks who live on the margins, and face a lot of discrimination and hate. Trans folks, especially trans folks of colour, are some of the most endangered beings in society right now. If we can start to unpack the concept of gender, we can take aspects of it and rock them in our own ways, and make it the norm to take from it what we envision ourselves to be. Whether that’s a boy rocking nail polish or a girl who wears bow-ties and suspenders, gender can become a fabulous accessory that should be accessible to everyone, and be reflected in our choices on how we adorn ourselves with it.

2. Take a burlesque class or do drag A really great way to reclaim one’s gender and sexuality is through burlesque, where one is celebrated for the unique expression of their identity. The burlesque scene is not only full of glamour and glitz but can also be quite inclusive of non-normative or marginalized bodies, exemplified by groups such as Les Femmes Fatales and Colour Me Now. Burlesque is an art form that helps accentuate the way you present your mind, body and soul in front of a roaring crowd. It can be creative, transformative and healing to bare it all on a stage. It can be empowering to explore how you rock your identity, and find agency and autonomy in the process.

Some of the best performances I have seen are of a person doing a burlesque act or drag number and following it up with a heartfelt spoken word piece, or using their platform to engage in a political cause. The possibilities are endless, and figuring out a burlesque or drag act can unleash your creativity and selfexpression.

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4. Challenge gender and sexuality norms on the daily There is an arsenal of ways that you can challenge gender and sexuality norms every day. Whether that is through fashion, in-depth conversations with folks or by making zines, stickers and posters, it is up to you. Be an ally, not just in name but by stepping up your game. Subscribe to and post content that educates and elevates the marginalized voices of transgendered folks and queer folks. By living, breathing and sharing the gospel of empowerment when it comes to representing gender and sexuality, you can become a warrior for gender liberation. A better world is one where no one is boxed in or hemmed in by gendered expectations, and folks are free to perform their gender and sexuality in whatever ways they deem fit. In order to make that happen, use your voice to create change, fight for inclusivity and transform the system.

Set an example by confronting oppressive attitudes, policies and behaviours that folks harbour toward those who are different.

5 shameless things to do

Rigid gender roles can make you feel suffocated.

NISH ROX shares five Shameless ways to reclaim gender as a performance

5. Grace the halls of fame Attend, or speak at conferences. Book shows where you can perform your burlesque or drag act and spoken word or dance routine.

Share your work widely. Thrive as an artist, an icon, a warrior who zealously fights for the rights of marginalized folks such as transgendered or queer folks. Fight the good fight and shamelessly promote the cause of gender freedom. Host functions or do bake sales to generate funds for the cause.

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on the job

GET BENT IS TAKING DRAG BACK FROM WHITE CISGENDER MEN This Canadian drag organization wants to make more room for QTBIPOC acts BY RUSS MARTIN

The first time Ziya Jones performed in drag was at a party they organized in 2016 at Poisson Noir, a DIY venue in Montreal.

Jones served as host, performer and organizer — a drag scene triple threat.

This was the first-ever iteration of Get Bent.

At the time, Jones couldn’t find what they were looking for in a drag scene they found dominated by queens that were predominately white, cis gay men, so they decided to create their own space to debut their drag king persona, Dreamboy. They teamed up with their best friend, Emmett Phan, and the

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QTBIPOC drag collective Get Bent was born.

Part drag show, part performance party, Get Bent showcases a wide array of performers of all genders doing everything from dance to burlesque to singing and playing instruments on stage. While the majority of drag shows are over-stacked with queens, Get Bent is an explosion of gender; it’s kings, queens and artists who defy the binary. It’s also a fundraiser; the proceeds from every party go to different organizations that work with QTBIPOC. But Get Bent is also more than a party or a drag show; it’s a queer utopia. It’s a safe space for QTBIPOC to experiment with dress, drag and art. Attendees are encouraged to dress up and participate, blurring the line between performer and audience member.

As Jones puts it, “It’s a place for people to express themselves and enjoy other people’s expressions of their identity: to congratulate and lift up that sensibility.”

With Get Bent, which has produced seven shows to date in Montreal and Toronto, Jones and Phan are addressing the overwhelming homogeneity of homonormative gay culture, in which most supposedly “queer”

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spaces actually cater to white gay men. It’s a problem with deep roots. In Toronto in particular, near where Jones grew up, the issue stretches back decades.

During the 1960s and 70s when the drag scene was in its infancy, Black drag queens who performed at gay-friendly venues would often be the only Black folks in the bar. In the mid-2000s, Toronto’s largest drag bar temporarily introduced a racist ban of hiphop, reggae and soca, leading a Black drag king to stage a walkout. And, as Jones points out, drag shows today are still littered with cultural appropriation, from non-South Asian performers wearing saris to white queens rapping the n-word in lip syncs.

With Get Bent, Jones and Phan are making space for drag performers whose experiences often don’t receive as much attention as their peers. And working with the collective has also allowed Jones to explore their own identity. “Being a mixed person and being queer, with a background that, from my experience, doesn’t accept queerness very readily, it’s very easy to feel parts of your identity are siloed,” they say. “I’m either queer or I’m Arab and I’m somehow never enough of either of those things.”

Performing identity is at the heart of drag, and that can be an incredible tool for self-discovery. Such is certainly the case for Jones, who began performing as Dreamboy prior to coming out as trans. “Performing allowed me to take a closer look at some of the ways I was feeling about my body,” Jones says. “I bind most of the time, but I don’t bind on stage and that’s because it’s one of the only spaces in which I feel comfortable having and exposing my chest.”

Get Bent has offered many other artists a similar opportunity: to explore, bend and play with identity. But above all else, what the group does is celebrate. “The world sucks a lot of the time,” Jones says. “It’s nice to have a few nights a year where we feel we can celebrate the things that are so great about queerness and talk back to some of the forces we find exhausting.

PHOTO: MARLÈNE DESAIZE

she’s shameless

HONOURING HER SPIRIT Harley Gokoko Burden is fully embracing her Ojibwe culture as a two-spirited person BY SARA CORNTHWAITE

The first blow of the big drum rings out, echoing through the trees and sending its vibrations all the way to the water. Then a second blow, and a third, and a fourth, blossoming into a steady ripple as new drummers find the beat together. The rhythm rolls like thunder, booming into the sky and across the land. The cries of a first lone singer are heard across the sacred grounds, and the rest of the drum group soon joins in. Movement comes from the east as moccasins shuffle into position.

It’s noon at the Nipissing First Nation’s annual pow wow, exactly one hour before the opening ceremonies, which indicates the performance of a special song. In the eastern doorway, new dancers of all kinds line up.

Beadwork, feathers, jingles and other sacred items are draped in unique ways over each individual, forming their ceremony regalia.

Their hands carefully clutch their semaa (tobacco, a sacred medicine) as they prepare their prayers. This is these dancers’ first time dancing in regalia at a pow wow.

With the rhythm in full flow and loved ones standing by in anticipation, it’s time.

Harley takes a breath, feeling the texture of the tobacco in her hands. She turns one last

PHOTO: SARA CORNTHWAITE

time to see her mother standing beside her, beaming. They give each other one last smile before turning to face forward. The drum calls and her mother raises her eagle feather high above her head. Together, they move into the circle.

Feeling the vibrations of the drum, Harley begins to dance. Toe and heel bouncing, she raises her arms, extending them out to reveal the shawl with her skirt flowing below.

Circling her shoulders and hips respectively, she is in harmony with her regalia. A moment Harley has waited 24 years for.

This is not Harley’s first time participating in ceremony, nor is this Harley’s first time dancing. Harley was raised in the Ojibwe culture; with a strong mother as a guiding figure, she was taught the intricacies of ceremony and what it means to be Anishinaabe from a young age. As a child, she took on traditionally male roles within her community. She learned the ways of a shkaabewis (fire keeper), a position of responsibility towards tending to the sacred fires and ensuring they stay lit, one typically held by men. She danced in pow wows as a grass dancer, a dancing style typically reserved for boys and men. As she grew

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to adolescence, she would receive new traditional clothing, grass dance regalia to fit her growing height and men’s ribbon shirts to wear to ceremonies.

As time passed, it became apparent to Harley that something wasn’t right. She began to realize that how the world perceived and understood her body was not aligned with how she felt in her soul. After years of feeling unsettled and not fully understanding why, she began to explore her relationship to her identity. Then something magical happened. In 2017, Harley’s spirit sang loud as she came forward with the full knowledge of her truth. She now proudly identifies as a two-spirited individual, a trans woman, and a stunning Anishinaabe Kwe (Indigenous Woman).

The moment of the annual pow wow is Harley’s first time dancing in ceremony as the woman she’s always been. Her mother sits proudly beside her and her family cheers her on. The drum rings louder and she gains momentum in her step. Her white leather moccasins gliding through the grass, the fringe on her shawl dancing in rhythm beside her. She raises her arms one last time.

Light blue, pink and white flash across the sacred grounds as she is welcomed into ceremony as her authentic self: a shawl dancer and a proud, radiant trans woman.

Her two-spirit heart is represented by the fabrics of her regalia and by the figure of a butterfly woman carefully embroidered on her front, acknowledging the brilliance in her transition.

The final drum rings out and Harley lets the tobacco fall from her hands, releasing her prayer. A smile spreads across her face as her family rushes to her side, teary-eyed and full of love. Like the butterfly on her chest, Harley’s spirit soars high. She is free. She is home.

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extra credit

WE HAVE BEEN HERE ALL ALONG A look at how Indigenous rituals have been policed and restricted by Canadian settler-colonial authorities throughout history BY JAYDENE

The thump of moccasined feet on the ground. The beat of a deerskin drum. These are the sounds of prayer. These are the sounds that remind us of the heartbeat of the Earth, our mother; ceremonies that have been performed every year at the same time for thousands of years.

From the outside one might mistake the colourful regalia and theatrical movements of pow wow dancers as entertainment, but they are far more than that. The pow wow, along with the sundance, the potlatch and the rounddance, are life-affirming and lifecreating rituals, sacred ceremonies that serve as humbling experiences and opportunities for growth. They create moments of togetherness for communities traditionally split apart by hunting parties and wintering camps, nowadays split apart by the nine-to-five pressures of capitalism. These rituals allow us to be who we are as a people, in relation to each other and to the land. It is for these reasons our ceremonies threatened settlers, who used the forces of the state against them.

Christian puritanism recoiled at the sights of bloodletting, fasting and open displays of collective grief. Some ceremonies were banned in attempts to “civilize” Indigenous

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peoples and bring them closer to the idea of godliness perpetuated by European religions. Others were banned because they served as the weaving fronds that held our communities together, through redistribution of goods, food, marriage rites and negotiations. In all cases, Indigenous ceremonies were banned because they reaffirmed our connection to the land, a dangerous notion for those looking to steal it. Settlers had no claim to Turtle Island but planned to establish one by force, using treaties, theft and scrip to try and divorce us from the land. But Indigenous people have a spiritual connection to this territory, one that cannot be bought and sold. Frustrated, the settlers sought to rip us away from our culture. They banned our sweatlodge ceremonies, sundance, potlatch and powwow, all in the hope that time would wither away our memory and our connection, and assimilate us into their ways of life.

In 1884, the Indian Act made it illegal to conduct potlatch and sundance ceremonies.

In a 1914 amendment, dancing off-reserve was outlawed, as was our ceremonial clothing.

In 1925, another amendment outlawed dancing entirely. The agents and priests tasked

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with the enforcement of the Indian Act were encouraged to apply the ceremonial bans as widely as possible, so our people had to try and keep the ceremonies going in secret.

It was only in 1951 that the government reversed these authoritarian colonial restrictions, and communities are now reclaiming what is left, assisted by the passing down of knowledge, protocol and story. While our ceremonies were banned, the colonial state took the time to create its own ceremonies of ownership and control over the territories: Canada Day, elections and the raising of a red and white flag. Our ceremonies, though now deemed legal, are seen as simply enriching the multicultural landscape of Canada, our beliefs relegated to quaint trivialities of a bygone era.

We have been here all along. We are still here. Indigenous connection to these territories remains an unbroken history of 10,000 years. We are not Canadians, and our ceremonies are not spectacles for settlers to enjoy. They should make settlers uncomfortable to watch, a consistent reminder of how we have maintained our connection to the land and to each other, regardless of how hard settlers tried to extinguish it. Hearing our feet dance in heartbeat rhythm on the bare earth should remind settlers that being “Canadian” endows them with no real relationship to this place. It should move them to walk a different path, away from the state, towards respect for the land and the people from whom their families took it. This work is yours alone, and it is as relevant now as it was in 1867.

ILLUSTRATION: BEENA MISTRY

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advice

Advice from ARUNA ZEHRA Dear Shameless, I want to do something creative and I love music. Someone suggested that I try DJing or playing music at parties and making mixes, but I don’t know where to start. How can I make this happen?

That is so exciting, and something to look forward to when we can have parties again!

I’m so glad someone suggested DJing, because it’s such a great way to connect with people, build community and also get out political messages! I’m going to switch hats here and write from the perspective of my side hustle persona: DJ Zehra. I’ve been playing music and DJing at events, rallies, nightclubs, PRIDE, parties, weddings and family BBQs for the past 12 years. I started similar to you — a friend of mine believed in me and started me off. Bear Witness, who is one of the founding members of A Tribe Called Red (an amazing Indigenous pow wow dubstep DJ collective) put 1,000 songs on my computer one day and that started me off on my DJ journey. For me, playing music

ILLUSTRATION: ANNA DO

is a political practice. I cannot separate the importance of anti-racism, anti-oppression and my commitment to decolonization as a settler from my work as a DJ. This means asking myself some big questions: how do I as a non-Black person of colour, Caribbean diasporic, queer cis-gendered person interact with the music I listen to and share? Given that most of the music I play is made by Black and Indigenous people, how do I make sure that I am being respectful and not perpetuating oppression or harm in the music I share?

Here are some tips on how to start your DJ practice and some things to consider: • Start with what type or genre of music you like to dance or move to. What will you play? Will it be Soca? Dancehall? Techno?

House? Country? Pop? Find out the origins of the music you will play and ask yourself how you feel connected to it. How does it make you feel? Why do you want to share it? I play a lot of Soca music (originaly from Trinidad) because that’s where I am from. It’s freedom music, music that makes you want to move and love your body and feel free. I share this when I DJ because I consider it my people’s medicine. I also play a variety of other genres that I am also

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connected to in different ways.

• Do you have music already downloaded?

Are they on USBs? Vinyl? CDs? Online?

You will have to figure out a way to play and mix the music in a way that works for you. You do not have to spend a lot of money at first. When you are starting out, you can use free programs online and play around with them. One that I suggest using at first is Virtual DJ — it’s a free online program that allows you to connect to your iTunes or music software and play and mix without a mixer. If you are playing music from indie or community artists, make sure to pay them! They live off their work and paying them is important to keep good music going.

• Practice! Once you have your music and program downloaded or collected, start practicing. Take your time and see what kind of music fits well together, what sounds good and what excites you about mixing songs. There are so many great ways to mix, and you can find Youtube and tutorial videos online if you want to learn more.

Remember that music, dance, parties and spaces where people move their bodies together on dance floors, the streets and living rooms are all political places where lots of important stuff happens! Just like when you are creating all forms of art, when you are DJing or inviting people to listen to the music you are choosing, you are curating a space for communities and people to connect! Go DJ, go!

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body politics

MISGENDERING AND ANTIBLACK RACISM How I navigate a world full of misogynoir BY JEAN BOAMPONG

I have vivid memories of being misgendered as a teenager. I was a dark-skinned Black girl walking into a restaurant, clothing store or grocery store and the server, greeter or cashier would address me as “Sir.” Some corrected themselves; others kept on. I barely corrected them.

I knew my skin and my gender expression had something to do with it. Colonization, slavery, capitalism, white supremacy and other systems of oppression have created a system in which dark skin is associated with danger and last place. Colourism and caste systems, largely products of colonization themselves, don’t help either. It is why Blackness — especially dark-skinned Blackness — and womanhood together are treated with contempt. For instance, in 2014, a columnist for the New York Times somehow thought it was appropriate to call Viola Davis, a dark-skinned Black actress, “less classically beautiful” than her contemporaries.

When I walked into public places, I wasn’t expected to perform femininity or girlhood because I wasn’t perceived as feminine or as a girl at all. And even when I tried to be, often by choosing feminine clothes such as dresses, skirts and earrings, it wasn’t the “right” kind

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of femininity because I wasn’t white, dainty, innocent, thin — not “classically beautiful.”

As I grew, I understood this experience as one that Black women shared, especially in the public sphere. Daytime tabloid talk shows, especially in the 90s and early 2000s, were notorious for their reckless, offensive show segments. The Maury Show had a regular segment called “Man or Woman?” where audience members guessed whether guests (of all races) were men or women based on their gender expression and sometimes their voices. The world of sports also reinforces this heterosexist, binary line of thinking.

Track and field athlete Caster Semenya has been assumed to be a man because of how gifted she is at running. She is required to take drugs that lower the testosterone her body naturally produces if she wants to continue to compete in the Olympics, even as white male athletes like Michael Phelps are praised for their genetic advantages.

As a teenager, I didn’t know what this experience was called. At first, I called it transphobia. Transphobia appears as violence, discrimination and hatred when people think they have the right to define other people’s genders. I thought this was happening to me

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because every time I was misgendered, I could see people trying to figure me out. I realized later that while transphobic ways of thinking play into what I experienced, misogynoir is a more accurate term.

Misogynoir was coined by Black feminist scholar Moya Bailey to describe the specific experiences misogyny and racism together produce for Black women individually and collectively. So, while all Black women experience misogynoir, not all Black women experience transphobia — I am cis, and cis women are not the centre or standard of measure for all women. So, while I experienced a kind of harm based on people’s perceptions of my gender and race, it is not the same as what trans women face on a daily basis.

Misgendering is one way that misogynoir plays out. It relies on one-dimensional tropes about Black women and other women of colour that do not afford them grace and complexity. One such trope, the Strong Black Woman, is based on the idea that Black women are so strong that they are incapable of feeling pain. It’s an old idea that originated during the enslavement of African people, but it was especially pronounced during the 19th century. This is when Black people were subject to horrific medical experiments by white medical practitioners looking for fundamental biological differences between them and Black people, to justify treating Black people as less than human. Enslaved Black women, for example, were subject to gynecological “research” without anesthesia by the supposed “father of gynecology,” Dr. Sims. Even today, there are numerous stories reported by the Washington Post, the New York Times, Vice and other publications of doctors readily dismissing Black women’s pain, which has resulted in grave illness, injury and even death. This is how I was perceived as a teenager and even now: incapable of feeling and not worthy of being seen. Black trans women face an even greater impact of oppression from both transphobia and misogynoir operating together to deny them their basic humanity.

Every day, we are somewhere we’ve never been before and that is because people dare to challenge old ideas, ask questions and work to dismantle the gender binary that centres cis people. I am grateful for the work of Black women, especially Black trans women, who have named these systems in their intersectional complexity and challenged one-dimensional thinking.

ILLUSTRATION: LILIAN SIM

Navigating comedy in the intersections BY AMETHYST BARRON Growing up, I enjoyed listening to stand-up albums in the car with my Dad and brother, but I never imagined myself getting onstage and telling jokes. I was a painfully shy child who grew into a painfully shy adult. A few years ago, I attended a comedy show put on by a mental health peer support group at the library. Hearing folx tell jokes about their psychiatrists and medications — a major source of stress for me — was empowering.

My biggest fear is still public speaking, so I challenged myself to enroll in the program.

While there have been many hiccups along the way, I’m now a working comedian.

Humour, at its best, is a transformative tool; and a powerful one. Unfortunately, the stand-up comedy scene includes too many comedians who use their power to cause harm, and has been particularly dominated by cisgender, heterosexual (cishet) white men for too long. We’ve all heard jokes that made us uncomfortable or angry: racism, transphobia, misogyny and more, presented as “harmless” kidding around. Appropriating Black women’s language, hairstyles or clothes, making transphobic “jokes” or mocking sex workers are all examples of how privilege can be weaponized. Hopefully, though, we’ve also heard jokes that empower or teach us. Things seem to be changing for

ILLUSTRATION: RUTH HAMPTON

the better, largely thanks to producers and comics who strive to make the scene more diverse and create safer spaces, one show at a time.

Here, I’d like to share some tips I’ve gathered from my own experiences as a marginalized person trying to navigate the stand-up comedy scene. It’s important to acknowledge the social position from which these experiences are drawn: I’m a disabled, mad, white, non-binary, cis-passing comic. I write and perform on unceded Indigenous territory. I acknowledge that my experiences are not representative of every marginalized person in the comedy scene.

Write, write, write. Every day, if possible, even for 10 minutes. Then, comb through your notes to find the funniest parts. A lot of what you write, you’ll never use. Hold onto it in case you decide to revisit it.

Write what you know. The best jokes come from personal experience. Speaking from experience also safeguards against writing jokes that are harmful, out of ignorance of the lived experiences of others.

The most important rule of comedy I’ve learned is to “always punch up.” This means that jokes should never come at the expense of those who are oppressed (“punching

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media savvy

STAND-UP, FIGHT BACK

down”), but instead at the expense of those in power. Following this rule also keeps you from writing lazy jokes based on stereotypes.

Consider enrolling in a free or affordable comedy course. Do some research on the program and instructors beforehand. Many of the larger comedy training programs advertise themselves as promoting diversity, but often fall short. Ask others about their experiences.

Attend local shows that advertise as being safer spaces. Check to make sure they’re all-ages if you’re under the legal drinking age. Find an open mic room that feels supportive and inclusive. When you have a set that you feel confident about (I swear by rehearsing my set), try it out there first. If you’re unsure of a room, consider bringing along a friend and/or asking for suggestions from people who feel safe.

Don’t be afraid to talk to other comics and get to know people whose material resonates with you. It’s a great way to make friends and get booked when you’re ready: comedy involves a lot of networking.

Although many rooms advertise themselves as safe spaces, remember that no one can ever account for the behaviour of every comic and audience member in every show. Like many, I believe that safer spaces exist, but truly safe spaces don’t.

Not every comic, producer or audience will like you or connect with your material. I’ve learned that you cannot take this personally.

Once you have some experience and feel comfortable performing, consider starting your own show. I’m working on producing disability and mad-positive shows for mad/psychiatrized and/or disabled comics, for example.

Go at your own pace. Like with anything else, comparing your progress with others isn’t helpful. We all learn and grow at different speeds: be patient with yourself.

Navigating the world of stand-up comedy is tricky if you’re not a cishet white man. I cannot stress enough how finding representation on the stage changed my perspective of what was possible. I hope that, one day, it will be the norm that comedy stages are diverse and inclusive, because we need to hear more voices. Here’s to a future with more jokes that punch up and fewer that punch down.

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green scene

GREEN SCENE How keeping an eye out for “greenwashing” can help you be more critical of environmental practices BY FRANCES CHEPESIUK

Within environmentalism, a lot of attention is paid to ideas of the best practices for preserving the planet. Many of the responsibilities of maintaining these practices fall on the shoulders of individual consumers: using reusable bags and straws or following proper waste disposal protocols. Some companies and corporations join in, pledging to reduce waste and start environmentally-friendly initiatives. But how much are these companies actually contributing to a better planet?

The trend of companies failing to meet their own environmentally-friendly benchmarks, while misleading the public that they have reached their environmental goals, is called greenwashing.

Companies use greenwashing to protect and promote their brand by hiding behind the image of being environmentally savvy, all while doing the bare minimum. When companies put out “green” initiatives, they are trying to signal that they care about their impact on the Earth and are looking to make lasting change. However, these efforts often fall short. Companies don’t always go beyond their press releases and count on people to applaud the initial message without holding them accountable.

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This trend is particularly obvious within the energy sector, where oil and gas corporations frequently pat themselves on the back and claim that they have lowered greenhouse gas emissions. In reality, statistics show that emissions have risen. We can also spot this trend in food and beverage companies like Starbucks, who place signage in their stores indicating that they will only give plastic utensils to those who ask but continue to put them in every order regardless. As consumers, we should pay attention to how greenwashing is used to improve a brand’s image. We can put pressure on these companies to change how they handle environmental initiatives.

It might be more difficult to change the entrenched practices of huge corporations within the oil sector, but we can always try to enact change locally. Recognizing when a company is engaging in greenwashing is a great first step, as we are then able to raise awareness and get others involved. Look at what places are using for packaging and utensils. Could they be compostable instead?

Does a certain shop still use black plastic, which can’t be recycled in some places? Talk to the people at the store and see how much

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they know about the materials they use. We can also become familiar with the alternatives ourselves, so that it will be easier to offer up a solution if asked.

Another method is to start rethinking where you shop. Plenty of stores are now doing their part to reduce waste, such as “unboxed” stores that allow customers to bring their own containers. Popularizing these stores will lead to more of their kind and push other stores to do the same. The main idea here is shifting habits; it can be difficult at first, but the more common it is, the easier it will be to switch.

We need to also reflect on how to make these ideas more accessible. While it is easy for someone with a personal vehicle to pack up all their containers to go to the store, this won’t work well for someone walking or taking public transit. Those living in rural or suburban areas may not have access to stores that participate in environmentallyfriendly practices. As well, many disabled people need access to things — like plastic straws — that abled people can easily give up. We must resist the urge to shame others for not being able to accomplish what might seem simple to some, and work to help those who do not have the same access as others. A good place to start would be to find out what barriers exist that block people from accessing or participating in better environmental practices. We should start conversations and get to know people who might be willing to help us get started on new green initiatives.

Start small. It can be overwhelming to look at every company and see that many are not living up to the standards they claim to be adhering to. Starting small while also keeping an eye on the larger picture will help bring more people together to fight against the poor environmental practices that worsen climate change.

ILLUSTRATION: FOOPKLO

sporting goods

POWER PLAY At its worst, sport reinforces dominant norms. At its best, it pushes back BY ANGELA GUARDIANI Sport is all about making a show of strength and dominance. What does it mean when that performance is influenced by the world outside the stadium?

I think a lot about sports, which is weird because I am the least competitive person you are ever likely to meet. I don’t even like ranking books or movies or artists! But put me in the right set of circumstances and I become a rabid, bloodthirsty, partisan screaming machine. Those circumstances usually come along every four years when the FIFA World Cup of soccer is happening, and my teams are in the running.

There’s been plenty said about the downsides of elite sports — in some leagues, the money that makes everybody rich but the athletes, the human rights abuses that go into building stadiums — but while I do think there’s a lot that can be improved on, I believe that sport can bring out the best in us.

It gives even mild-mannered, conflict-averse folks like me a way to express some very deep emotions that would wreak havoc if we let them run wild in our daily lives. And that’s why I think a lot about sport, because it gives us humans — in all our wonderful and varied complexity — a safe way to dominate and yell

ILLUSTRATION: MIA CARNEVALE

and posture and fight, with all our skill and strength and strategy. I have no issues with power and dominance on the field. In fact, I think it’s a positive thing; let’s put that primal rage someplace! But when sport becomes an extension of inequalities that are baked into our governments and institutions — instead of a competition between individuals — I think it’s something we need to watch.

We can argue that the performative violence of sport is egalitarian, pure and free from all the grossness of the racist, sexist, colonial garbage of the outside world. But we’d be kidding ourselves if we did. In the summer of 2019, the USA played Thailand in the first round of the women’s World Cup. It was never a contest; the Americans won with a record-setting score of 13 to 0.

This is what it means to play the game: the better team won, and it would have been disrespectful of the Americans to hold back, as some commenters suggested they should. The bold and brash celebration of the US players, however — dancing, cheering, fist-pumping, chest-thumping — after every one of those thirteen goals was another story. The American women faced international criticism for that display,

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which they defended by saying that their male counterparts would never have been censured for celebrating a goal. True! But men’s soccer (and indeed, all elite sports played by male-identifying people) is better and more consistently funded. The US women’s team didn’t just win because they are very, very good. They also won because they’re from an extremely wealthy capitalist country that funds women’s sports specifically in order to defeat countries that have little to no history of women in that sport: countries with unstable governments, nonwhite populations and considerably less money. Even before the players took the field, it wasn’t a fair fight.

Look closely at some of the better publicized power plays in professional sport and you’ll find something ugly, like absolute legend Serena Williams’ so-called “tantrum” (arguing with a referee who made some borderline calls in favour of her opponent) at the 2018 US Open tennis final. Williams was almost universally dragged in the press for her “unprofessionalism.” What an unfair double standard! We call Williams an Angry Black Woman for showing emotion while we defend the USA women’s soccer team for the same thing. The difference in these two examples isn’t the individual performance of the athlete: it’s that one reinforces our hot mess of white supremacist capitalism, while the other questions it.

In late 2019, Canadian Don Cherry, famous for his rants considered racist by many, was fired from his job as a commentator for making one anti-immigrant remark too many. A few weeks later, NHL players started speaking out about systemic bullying (often racially motivated) coming from their coaches. This gives me hope that elite sport is being shaken up from the inside and athletes are questioning where their fire and fury is being directed. Being a decent human being doesn’t make the sport any less sporty. It just keeps the bloodlust and the competition and the warrior instincts where they belong: on the field and between players.

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Data-Driven Fri The Reality of 18

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iendships: f Me & You

The internet has brought people closer together, online and offline, who would otherwise have never met in real life (IRL). It has changed the way we interact on a day-to-day basis. But how does it impact the way we define friendship?

BY JEAN BOAMPONG

ILLUSTRATIONS: ERIN CUTLER

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We live in a time where we are more connected by technology than ever before. Social media has transformed the ways we communicate. No longer are we using the internet anonymously as instructed by online safety PSAs and our parents; instead, we are visible and honest, operating in an online ecosystem that includes gifs, memes, short videos, an endless number of acronyms and quips about life (formerly within a 140-character word limit). It’s very hard to function personally or professionally without the internet, especially social media. The reason it’s hard is because so much of our knowledge and data exists online. This is also the reason it’s easy for people to assume they know you on a personal level, even separated by the distance of the screen.

Because our proximity to each other online feels so close despite the actual physical distance between us, it often feels like we know each other when we find relatable content. We like, retweet, share and quote content that compels us to begin and continue conversations.

It’s no wonder that, according to the Cystic Fibrosis Trust, we tend to have almost twice as many friends online as we do in real life (IRL) and, according to the Pew Research Institute, teenagers spend more time with their friends online than they do in person on a daily basis.

But there’s a good reason; we’re able to better curate our experiences, environments and the people around us there.

Friendships are great, impactful and meaningful relationships between two or more people that facilitate actions and feelings of care, loyalty, love, respect and more. IRL, we can share moments and experiences together that we can talk about for years to come.

However, sometimes those friendships fizzle out for a number of reasons. Sometimes, we outgrow them because we no longer share

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the same interests. Other times, we have to distance ourselves from them to maintain our well-being. In each of these circumstances, it can be difficult to leave. It can be difficult to be ourselves. Social media changes that precisely because we have the freedom to curate ourselves in ways IRL doesn’t allow. We have the full opportunity to bring our hobbies — hidden or otherwise — to full light; we can connect with people we may be otherwise judged for connecting with in IRL; we can talk about our experiences with less shame and guilt; we can be ourselves without explanation. Social media has really opened doors we might never have seen otherwise.

Take the platforms we use: the most popular social media platforms, including Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, are designed to encourage users to follow each other and to engage with content through gestures in the form of emojis like hearts and thumbs up.

Users are encouraged to scroll endlessly and stop only momentarily to like or comment on something. Users are encouraged to post content consistently to gain attention through the rewards of interactions. The content that gets the most engagement is equal parts visually striking, thought-provoking and often vulnerable.

Despite “going viral” — a post, meme, photo, video or other form of media that is shared rapidly and frequently on social media platforms and sometimes even in popular traditional media like TV news — being an uncertain phenomenon that partially combines luck and timing, it’s what brands, influencers and regular users alike aim for.

As a user of any social media platform, you have access to whatever someone wants to show you. The only way you can “make sense” of who they are is by making assumptions about whatever they post. If you’re unclear, you can @ them, direct message (DM)

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“Think: how do we decide to follow the people we follow? It could be having a similar opinion, an interesting take on an issue, reputation, something funny or even a shared experience.... And in every example, it’s so easy; it’s one moment, one click of a button. Some people mistake this common action of curating our online content and our online personalities as permission to practice familiarity. This is where a performance of friendship often begins, especially since social media platforms encourage this ease of familiarity and equate it with complete friendship.”

ILLUSTRATIONS: ERIN CUTLER

them or tag them in a post for clarification. But even if they elaborate, you will only know what they choose to share.

Think: how do we decide to follow the people we follow? It could be having a similar opinion, an interesting take on an issue, reputation, something funny or even a shared experience. I know I’ve followed people on Twitter for all of those reasons. And in every example, it’s so easy; it’s one moment, one click of a button. Some people mistake this common action of curating our online content and our online personalities as permission to practice familiarity.

This is where a performance of friendship often begins, especially since social media platforms encourage this ease of familiarity and equate it with complete friendship.

Sometimes, this goes even further and turns into something called trauma bonding — the ways in which people stay loyal to other people because of shared or similar traumatic experiences, even if they may be toxic, abusive, codependent (excessive reliance on someone for a specific reason, such as validation) and controlling. Online, this can look like dismissing the idea that people, even those who share our traumatic experiences, can be problematic (an umbrella term for an action, behaviour or language that poses challenges, often those that infringe on the humanity, dignity and respect of others, such as racism and sexism) and defending everything they say. It can also look like users disclosing highly traumatic and triggering (a specific thing that causes an emotional distressing flashback or memory of trauma after the fact of said trauma) stories in response to other people’s personal stories, without an invitation to do so. We can become fiercely protective of someone in the name of friendship to the point of fighting with anyone who disagrees with them.

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This is apparent in how users interact with celebrities and other highly visible people online. Not only do users interact in personal ways, they also project politics, behaviour, ideas and expectations onto these visible people. So the performance of friendship here is really a fictive form of care because the care only extends to a user’s capacity to comment. People comment under celebrity posts all the time when those celebrities mention anything personal, whether it’s being sick, happy, tired or frustrated. They seem “like us” when they get personal, even though we don’t know anything more than what they are showing us.

However, celebrities and highly visible people can also fabricate intimacy to hold themselves above criticism and accountability. In other words, they can exploit this “down to earth” dynamic. Rapper and singer Lizzo recently came under fire for wrongly accusing a Black woman of stealing her order from Postmates, an American food delivery service. Not only did she name the woman, Lizzo also claimed that the accused was “lucky [I] don’t fight no more.” While Lizzo later acknowledged the responsibility she has as someone with a large following, the damage was already done; she incited her fans to do her dirty work. The accused woman has stated she fears that Lizzo’s fans will attack her.

It doesn’t help that social media platforms themselves also exploit this dynamic. Both Twitter and Instagram got rid of their chronological timeline displays. Now, users are looking at their feed out of order, using a computer-generated algorithm. In the case of Twitter, users are now seeing tweets from people their followers follow, in addition to advertisements from random people and organizations.

Like many people, I am frustrated with this decision, as it doesn’t make the user experience any better. Twitter is just guessing what is important to me based on data. Instagram doesn’t fare better, as its algorithm places celebrities, instead of your actual friends, at the top of the feed. Instagram has recently removed the number of likes from posts to discourage influencers from capitalizing on the platform and regular users from investing in popularity. But this doesn’t change how much we attach ourselves to strangers. These platforms sell the idea that performative friendship is real friendship.

The message is that the more you use them, the closer you are to these celebrities because you won’t miss anything. In other words, social media platforms push the Fear of Missing Out (FOMO) message onto their users in order to encourage them to keep consuming information and using the platforms. What good is using social media if it facilitates fabrication?

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The day-to-day impact of online friendships on IRL friendships can unfortunately lead to two-faced behaviour. For example, you may be friends with someone who likes all of your photos on Instagram, but won’t talk to you at school. You may also have friends who will tell you online that they can’t wait to see you, but never invite you to any of their IRL events, such as birthday parties.

While we aren’t anonymous online, we do appear less complex by virtue of dealing with only text, images and videos of people, none of which convey difficult emotions, body language and long-lasting discomfort. There’s less need to explain because we can set more boundaries by logging off, blocking someone or just ceasing contact (also known as ghosting). This can enable people to take advantage of how they present themselves, since they know they don’t need to answer or be accountable for that presentation to their close friends, even if their friends question them online.

While the internet can be a glorious place, if you consider all of the ways social media is designed to function, there is this unspoken consensus that you are entitled to the time and ideas of a person you may have never met in your life. For example, I had someone DM me and infer that because of my last name, I could not empathize with the plight of Black people who “can’t point to a map” — a common phrase used to distinguish between Black people with enslaved ancestors who cannot trace their lineage to anywhere in Africa and Black people who can assumedly trace their ancestry to Africa — because I made a thread about Toronto not being a safe haven for Black people. In other words, this person assumed my name meant I was of the latter group (Black people cannot trace their lineage past a few grandparents irrespective of pointing to a map or not). I didn’t (and still don’t) know them personally, and yet they believed it was necessary to argue with me. Even when I explained otherwise, they refused to admit they had made incorrect assumptions. Other than entitlement, what other reason did this person have for engaging with me in this manner?

If that exchange had happened in a public space, the interjection would have been understood as rude and unnecessary. Imagine having a conversation with your friend or even journaling on paper, and someone you don’t know comes out of nowhere and stands over your shoulder to tell you that you’re wrong. That person, a stranger, feels entitled to your space and time for no other reason than the fact that you’re talking in public. But that’s just the thing; the internet is a public space. And just like any one of these public spaces, there are rules of engagement, such as respecting people’s

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“There are countless times where I’ve seen Black women make threads about their specific experiences only for someone to try and debate their humanity or pathologize their use of social media as an indicator of “too much time on their hands,” especially those who are over 30 years old. I’ve even seen people trivialize and investigate those experiences as well as snitch-tag people just to encourage bullying.” boundaries and personal space. Unfortunately, not everyone follows them. This lack of boundaries has meant that social media has become a breeding ground for bullying of the worst kind.

There are also, of course, many benefits to the kind of spaces it creates; it has encouraged marginalized people to control their own narratives, tell their own stories and use their own voices to publicly dissent against harmful ideas. The creation and rise of Black Twitter, for example, has given Black users an incredible space to discuss, debate and dissect information in culturally specific ways. Everything from gifs and memes to hashtagged challenges have become a language with which Black users communicate with each other around the world. But for some, this popularity is license to violate boundaries. For marginalized BIPOC in particular, this happens when we tell stories. There are countless times where I’ve seen Black women make threads about their specific experiences only for someone to try and debate their humanity or pathologize their use of social media as an indicator of “too much time on their hands,” especially those who are over 30 years old. I’ve even seen people trivialize and investigate those experiences as well as snitchtag (tagging someone into a conversation they weren’t part of, to encourage negative engagement) people just to encourage bullying.

This idea replicates the one-way, non-consensual exchange nature of social media. Unfortunately, that has often translated into harassment, abuse, trolling, threats, unsolicited advice and everannoying devil’s advocate antics. In 2018, Amnesty International called the online abuse on Twitter a “human rights abuse,” as it is especially prevalent against women. However, this is an importantyet-late assertion — this has been an issue for women in particular for at least five years. Some women who have created or participated in several hashtag campaigns that sparked important discussions have been subject to widespread abuse. In 2013, Mikki Kendall, the creator of the hashtag #SolidarityIsForWhiteWomen, was the point

ILLUSTRATIONS: ERIN CUTLER

of attack for terrible people who believed that race shouldn’t factor into discussions about feminism. A year later, #GamerGate, a targeted harassment a campaign against women and non-binary video game developers and critics (including Zoë Quinn, Brianna Wu and Anita Sarkeesian), spiralled into a misogynist, hate-fuelled operation. Over the years, several Black women have written numerous articles about the ways they are specifically attacked and simultaneously praised for being so “strong,” as if they don’t need help. While this is not a performance of friendship, it is a fake performance of intimacy. In difficult times, such as when funds need to be raised for a variety of reasons or when you may be experiencing emotional distress, people often respond paternalistically as if they know you, using assumptions they gathered from your online profile. It’s strange when you realize this is a daily occurrence.

As a kid of the 90s and the 00s, I made friends with people online with whom I would likely never cross paths due to distance and limited ways of interacting. Nonetheless, these online friends felt like my real friends because of how much we had in common. They were my real friends. Reflecting on it now, I know that the way I had to use the internet growing up made my investment in those friendships somewhat shallow. The level of anonymity allowed me to perform some of those friendships to keep myself safe and give me permission to fill in the blanks however I wanted. Social media has changed that by facilitating a level of honesty, trust and respect that we’ve never seen before. We don’t have to auto-fill in so many blanks for people because we feel so much more comfortable sharing. However, regardless of how we use it, social media relies on interpreting hyper-consumption of information as friendship. No, we shouldn’t all delete our accounts because of this or now invalidate those friendships we know are real. But we should ask ourselves if we’re responsibly engaging with people or just endlessly scrolling through a glimpse of their lives.

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Actor or Ally?

Confusion on the Activist’s Stage Sure, diversity and inclusion all sounds very pretty, but what does any of it actually mean? What does it entail to be inclusive of marginalized communities? Is it affirmative action and corporate quotas, or are we looking for a more fundamental social restructuring? BY Y.J ZHENG AND JEAN BOAMPONG More and more, we observe a reliance on positive terms, such as “diversity and “inclusion,” as a means to show commitment to universal morality. Diversity often means that there are a variety of people who are visibly different from each other under one roof; for example, academic policies often list different marginalized communities in their statements of commitment to equity. Inclusion often represents the step after achieving diversity, where the actions, statements, and opportunities of a governing body involve different marginalized communities so as to represent and include them in decision-making processes. For instance, some companies have quotas for their workforce, and some callouts for opportunities specifically encourage marginalized community members to apply. In short, diversity is the statement — what will happen — and inclusion is the action: how something will happen.

The words have transformed historically exclusive environments significantly and symbolically. Universities and colleges across Canada have created equity, diversity and inclusion (EDI) offices within their institutions in order to provide students from various less-privileged backgrounds with a physical location to seek support and opportunities. According to Universities Canada’s national survey on equity, diversity and inclusion — the first survey of its kind — 77 percent of universities have included EDI in their long-term strategic plans. Employers have diversity and inclusion statements in their job postings as well as job titles with the term; there’s even an annual top 100 list, “Canada’s Best Diversity Employers.” Companies host panels and workshops on advocating for diversity and inclusion in various industries; celebrities and the general public alike use the term to leverage power and advocate for change. “Diversity and inclusion”

ILLUSTRATIONS: ELYSSA PADILLO

has become an instantly recognizable phrase once spoken or written.

However, the confusion about that phrase — which is almost always said in that order: diversity, then inclusion — arises when we consider what it looks like in practice. Is diversity only actionable when the people involved look especially different from one another? Is it valid if there are diverse ideas presented from people who appear to be similar? Is inclusion acceptable if diversity only works until it doesn’t?

Is inclusion a valid measure of diversity if its only gain is to give more marginalized folks a seat at the table? This is yet to be determined.

What is clear is that the usage of ambiguous terminology can be misleading and detrimental to the communities they appear to be helping; they can become empty slogans to be shouted with little consequence. People who champion diversity and inclusion feel they have contributed to the social cause by “raising awareness,” as if less represented and less privileged folks had been unaware all this time. The allies end up speaking over the communities in question and exclude them from the conversation. They are loud with little to say; a thousand drops of water hitting the pavement at once, and the glass remains half empty. This is the point at which performative allyship often begins.

First, there are many definitions of what an ally is. Generally speaking, it’s someone from a non-marginalized group (white, ablebodied, cisgender etc.) who uses their privilege to advocate for those from marginalized groups with less privilege. An ally is not a term someone can give to themselves; it’s a term that the community that they are advocating for bestows upon them so as to centre the actions of the ally and the impact those actions have on the community.

Authentic allyship requires actual effort to understand and establish ties with communities, and those communities must also recognize

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an ally’s efforts as needed, impactful and important. It is a lifelong process of creating relationships based on trust, consistency and accountability with actual individuals, and not conceptual entities in need. For example, many people of colour may consider their white friends their allies because of how they show up for them, whether it’s physically defending them, financially supporting them or speaking up against something that impacts them. Similarly, many people consider the artist Beyoncé an ally to the LGBTQ2IA communities because she has consistently shown her support by hiring people of colour within those communities, highlighting their successes and even supporting policies such as marriage equality with a music video to celebrate its successful implementation.

Often, allyship is too large a responsibility, and one does not have the self-justification or means required to commit fully. Yet, as allyship becomes synonymous with acceptance or even morality, many resort to performative allyship to engage with social issues momentarily.

Outside of this, they remain within their own communities: sympathetic, but ultimately apathetic to another’s needs.

Performative allyship takes place when the act undertaken prioritizes the actor over the cause itself, for the purposes of social capital, financial gain and/or rebranding, all of which have zero impact on the communities the actor intended to help with the aforementioned act. These acts can be verbal or physical, and both are performative insofar as they remain within the stage of advocacy, soon to be forgotten after the parade. There is no history that precedes its undertaking, nor is there a future objective to be attained; they are concerned with what can be done right here, right now, even if the scope of present action is reduced to a shout into space. The “performative” part of performative allyship is the pursuit of public praise that amounts to no measurable change for the communities that were supposed to be positively impacted by an ally’s actions.

While all activism is performative by nature, there is a distinction between using the performance as a means to greater good and acting for the sake of action alone. As the average person lies between the spectrum of extremism and ambivalence, the muttering of slogans and a half-mile march remains a comfortable alternative that requires little commitment. When allyship is expressed in such a way, it is often at the detriment of marginalized communities, who are used as moral capital to promote a discussion of goodwill from which they are excluded. Like a developing world visit that generates eye-opening stories and a new profile picture, these acts are done to be seen and perceived with the individual at the centre, and little regard for the

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communities and people said to benefit from these actions.

Let’s say that you, Jessica and Aïcha — people who you just met — are at a party and someone comments on Aïcha’s hair in an underhanded way. Aïcha is a Black woman with locs and Jessica is white with wavy, red hair. Jessica stands up and expresses her outrage. Aïcha says to Jessica that’s all right; she doesn’t seem to be troubled as she is accustomed to this and doesn’t like the attention.

But Jessica disagrees, stating that these people must be educated about oppression. So Jessica continues to shout her grievances. You look on as this is happening, confused.

Surely, someone must speak out against offensive speech. It’s important to call things out. But by Jessica speaking out, not only did she marginalize Aïcha by reducing her to a symbol of her injustice through her hair, she also assumed that it was more important for people to be educated than for Aïcha to be safe. Aïcha made it clear that she didn’t want a scene, and Jessica ignored this. At that very moment, she was not Aïcha, but the oppressed girl that needed privilege to save her. When allies centre themselves over the communities they’re supposed to be in solidarity with, they do more damage than good. Jessica was not the one who has to feel responsible for the discomfort that followed the callout; Aïcha was.

And therein lies the problem — allies shouldn’t appoint themselves the spokespeople for those wronged and harmed, and they certainly shouldn’t ignore the needs of those they intend to help. But they do and they can because they are often rewarded for it. There’s no shortage of examples of someone relatively privileged speaking up on behalf of a community — with or without consent from that community — and being given an award or accolade for it.

RBC, the University of Alberta, Canadian Centre for Diversity and Inclusion (CCDI) and other companies have awards for individuals and collectives that demonstrate a commitment to diversity and inclusion. However, any championing of diversity and inclusivity in the workplace will only apply to individuals who already share the same socio-economic status, as the communities who most require inclusion — underemployed, low-wage workers, unemployed folks, those without job experience — are unlikely to have access to the resources required to partake. As such, when vague terms like “inclusion” are used to guide policy, the result is often passive regulation that gives an impression of integrating marginalized communities by offering “equal opportunity” without providing the conditions for them to participate or addressing the circumstances that have deterred communities from participating in the first place.

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For allyship to be performative, it doesn’t have to be public; it only has to be undertaken with the intention to demonstrate something about the performing subject. For example, if Susan, a cisgender, straight woman, donates to a local LGBTQ2IA charity and subsequently becomes the face of the venture, is she an ally? If Sam, an employed person with a high annual salary, decides to be outraged about low-wage working conditions and payment, then organizes a sit-in at corporate offices, is he an ally?

If either of them succeeds, does that make them any more of an ally?

If either of them is a member of a marginalized community other than the community they seek to help, does that make their plea any less performative?

No matter the answer, the premise underneath highlights an important fault in the idea of allyship — allies can opt out at any point. It is easy for very real problems to become trivialized and categorized as a side project for someone with a vague notion of the good desired and little understanding of the communities they seek to help. And when that is no longer desirable, allies can default to the privileges they already have if things become uncomfortable. It happens everywhere: classrooms, public spaces, private spaces and every other space where dialogue happens. We’ve seen white people in particular use their tears at conferences and workshops to divert difficult conversations about race; we’ve seen cisgender people speak over LGBTQ2IA folks for using violent, essentialist language in the name of a supposed right to speech; we’ve witnessed people who are barely making more than minimum wage decry people fighting for minimum wage; we’ve read supposed unpopular opinions that are really just regurgitations of the status quo. And everyone is capable of this; we’re all complex with varying degrees of privilege in terms of race, gender identity, sexuality, ability, class and other systemic markers of identity. So, when discussion of dismantling systems of oppression arise, there are valid questions about how folks with systemic privileges and power can meaningfully engage with the divestment from the way things are that is required for substantial change. What stake do these allies have in essentially “losing” something?

Performative allyship has set a low bar for institutional support of marginalized communities. To understand this lack of enthusiasm, we must understand the very real socio-economic causes that lie at the root of this discrimination. Some may be attributed to history, but most are an accumulation of deteriorating conditions that have led to

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to present realities. That’s why performative allyship is so dangerous; actual systemic, substantial change has to happen at the expense of the top of the economic hierarchy. People and allies who are willing to fight injustices must understand what is required of them beyond speech. The right to become an ally comes at a cost too steep for those who cannot think past themselves.

Social media has completely changed how we engage with the idea of allyship. There are more ways to engage with injustices because there many ways to share content and encourage people to increase their knowledge of happenings around the world. Users create campaigns, stories, hashtags and innovative images in the form of gifs. People like and share content at lightning speed. What this often translates into is people being appointed thought leaders, given unbridled authority and branding opportunities and protected from scrutiny by loyal followers in the name of raising awareness and stating supposed unpopular opinions. Look at the year before the 2016 US presidential election. While people were making jokes about Donald Trump’s level of intelligence, his consistent lying and how unqualified he was to run for President on social media, some people were trying to have progressive conversations about the implications of his presidency. The problem was, social media makes all of that appear more similar than not by virtue of being available, free content that anyone can engage with. It became unclear who was an ally and who was a performative ally, effectively making social media a gift and a curse in this respect.

The utterance of empty terms on their own does not amount to much. However, terms like diversity and inclusion remain essential to the creation of a discourse that will allow for us to make sense of the problems within reach. To move past our reliance on terminology, we must find ways to incorporate allyship into our daily lives and get in the habit of acting in a way that directly supports the values promoted by terms like inclusivity. By catering to these directly instead of using marginalized communities as a proxy to moral identity, one is in a better place to establish the relations that are required for allyship to take place.

To this end, we must stop using words like diversity and inclusivity as guiding terms in achieving equity and systemic change for marginalized communities. To say we need diversity does not tell us why we need it, and what a more diverse population may look like. To say we should be more inclusive does not tell us what we are trying to exclude and why. No concrete action can take place if no one knows what they are trying to say.

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Reclaiming Authenticity in Our Cultural Foods We often call for cultural authenticity, foods and cultural markers that remind us of home. We find them wherever they may be: restaurants with culturally specific themes, grocery stores with “ethnic aisles” and even fusion restaurants. But can “cultural authenticity” become a performance?

BY GEORGIA LIN The Taiwanese culinary diaspora in North America does not allow me to be gluttonous. While our family ate at Deluxe Diner in the Morningside Heights neighbourhood of Manhattan every week — indulging in classic Americana food and refills of sweet iced tea — my favourite Taiwanese snacks, like sticks of congealed pig’s blood bought at night markets, were nonexistent. Instead, I found and continue to find East Asian food in particular to be melded together in the great melting pot of taste experiments. So, you find Chinese, Taiwanese, Korean and Japanese food in one menu with little distinction between them.

Throughout history, immigrants and people of colour have had to appease and bend to the wants of white hegemonic powers; the same pattern can be applied to non-Western restaurants in North America deemed “culturally authentic” according to narrow definitions of what makes food authentic. Deluxe Diner would end up being the first of countless restaurant-going experiences in North America that have contributed to the chipping away of my Taiwanese cultural memory.

Cultural authenticity is felt, with soup steam seeping into noses and tingling excitement when you hear about the availability of a dish that transports you back to your grandparents’ kitchen. It is an intangible, mutual understanding that food cultures are inherently diasporic.

Though ingredients may be sourced differently, and forks and knives are used instead of chopsticks, the genuine feeling of home is embedded regardless of the meal’s migratory distance. It is felt through the creation of a shared community among folks of colour, where the pervasive institutions of whiteness that operate in Canada are dimmed over plates of food from our ancestral homes. It is having a common understanding of why we keep our cultures close to our hearts:

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because their marginalization in Canada’s settler-colonial world is already all-encompassing, and we carefully guard their diasporic remnants in order to maintain the slivers of home we have left.

Immigrant communities of colour deserve the agency to broadcast their culturally authentic experiences, whether it be through food or other media, without fear of further marginalization by Canada’s white hegemonies. However, cultural authenticity has come to be defined by those hegemonies. For example, restaurants in the Annex neighbourhood of Toronto are populated with a plethora of restaurants offering lunch bentos (Japanese boxed lunches) with Korean bulgogi (marinated meat) as its main component, or dishes like Kimchi Udon that make no distinction between the two countries. Within this amalgamation of two separate cultures is a racist assumption: that Chinese, Japanese and Korean letters all look the same. This collating of foods from the same region and marking them under one general Asian umbrella makes it easier to sell cultural authenticity primarily to white people.

The commodification of culture serves an inequitable capitalist system, designed to stoke internal competition between marginalized communities. Capitalism then manifests itself in the mass production of watered-down cultural expressions, which then become generalized understandings of an entire history. Think of the common association of Chinese food with General Tso’s Chicken: a dish with no legitimate origins in mainland China, but is instead a reflection of how North America has warped our understandings of what constitutes “Chinese” food. A community-led voicing of true cultural authenticities will shift our traditions from solely existing in the margins to thriving in the cruxes of the Canadian mainstream. It will showcase

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the tenacity of immigrant ventures against xenophobic cultural gentrification of immigrant lives.

White restauranteurs have the institutional advantage of already being viewed as capable of successfully cooking ethnic foods to which they have scarce direct ties. But a restaurant owner of colour who achieves this same success with their own ethnic food is viewed as a success story. Overall, immigrant success is romanticized as having reached the pinnacle of new, Western societal ideals. News outlets such as PBS or Forbes publish stories with titles like “A chance encounter leads to a story of immigrant success” and “6 Immigrant Stories That Will Make You Believe in the American Dream Again,” respectively. Groups in power sweepingly categorize the oppressed by types, with the marker of being a “success story” acting as the ultimate gateway into the ever-moving system. The same goes for success in the food industry: in her 2016 NPR article “Why Hunting Down ‘Authentic Ethnic Food’ is a Loaded Proposition,” Maria Godoy credits Krishnendu Ray, the chair of the food studies program at New York University, with researching “how immigrants in the food industry have shaped American notions of good taste — even as they themselves may occupy the lower echelons of social hierarchy. How we value a culture’s cuisine in our society, Ray says, often reflects the status of those who cook it.”

The immigrant-owned restaurants deemed “success stories” are the only palatable locations to source “authentic ethnic food,” a fraught term that when defined by white institutions is moot; see how trust can be easily placed in any burger joint because it is assumed that its basic building blocks will not be tampered with. Moreover, Godoy also points out the double standard on authenticity that consumers demand from “ethnic” cuisine: “What we really want is a replica — some platonic ideal of what a dish should taste like. It’s a definition of authenticity that can trap the immigrant cook in very narrow expectations.”

North America must move beyond separating what we eat into two disparate categories: “ethnic food” and “food.” This is no more apparent than in grocery stores across Toronto. “Ethnic food” makes up all non-white cultures and “food” is everything you can find at your local Costco; even then, its generic “ethnic” aisles are shafted towards a few rows of squished shelves that contain a smattering of East Asian, South Asian and Middle Eastern ingredients without much organizational care. Furthermore, the condensing of continents into a corner of a big-box grocery store underscores the reductive portrayals of minority cultures in Canada. It’s the T&T Supermarket, founded by

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a Taiwanese-Canadian immigrant, that sits at the margins of the city away from widespread view, with only one close to downtown Toronto (T&T was purchased by the Loblaws supermarket conglomerate in 2009). It is the bastardization of bubble tea morphed into contorted flavours, away from its simple mountaintop oolong roots, costing $7.50 at Chatime when a bag of tapioca pearls from T&T is half that price.

Food should not be inaccessible, least of all to those whose cultures it belongs to. This inaccessibility feeds into the continual erasure of minority voices, which has far-reaching implications: the inauthentic attempts at inclusion by capitalist institutions that do not showcase the true variety of our cultures, ingredients and their combinations.

If immigrant communities were given the opportunity to present the richness of their traditions through food — a binding element of culture — I predict that the results both within those communities and on North American culture overall would be spectacular..

The immigrant dream is often to succeed, one where working hard and providing for your family can lead to a better life for your children. Much-needed reminders of where we come from prompted by bags of chips with Mandarin descriptors, along with the knowledge that our communities are successfully expanding. If we feed into white constructs of acceptable cultural authenticity, this dream is at risk of fading. With assimilation into North American society comes repression, therefore it is a point of pride when familiar ethnic foods are openly available to communities outside their homelands.

The adverse is found in instances like what occurred in April 2019: A white woman in New York City named Arielle Haspel opened a “health-forward” Chinese food restaurant called Lucky Lee’s, boasting a menu of “gluten-free, dairy-free, wheat-free, corn-free, peanut-free” foods like their “Rainbow Cauliflower ‘Fried Rice’ with organic rainbow carrots, kale, savoy cabbage, and red onions” and “Baked Sesame ‘pasture-raised’ Chicken bites served with a side of Organic Jasmine Rice.” By coining “Lucky Lee’s” as the name of their restaurant, the business implicitly mocks traditional Chinese beliefs in the power of luck. It also shrinks Chinese food and its rich cultural history into a lazy depiction at best and ignorantly racist by Haspel at worst. Haspel further perpetuates this when she responded to criticisms by saying to TIME Magazine: “We love the fact we have the freedom now to cook anything we want. I encourage any restauranteur to cook the food that they love to eat and to share it with others.”

When marginalized communities attempt to exercise this same “freedom,” we are often met with a barrage of thinly veiled racist sentiments that boils down to a decree of “stay in your lane:” assimilate

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“The sharing of knowledge to build a collective understanding of cultural authenticity takes time and consensus, not jumping to a profitable end by making money off false ideas about what qualifies as culturally acceptable.” and disappear with non-hegemonic cultures in tow. When privileged folks like Haspel, equipped with the financial and societal resources to build a restaurant in Manhattan, flout their willful ignorance by doubling down on the “clean food” mission of the restaurant, they admit their indifference to Chinese cultural origins in favour of pandering to people that buy into the same xenophobic immigrant stereotypes. The restaurant was quickly bashed for invoking racist stereotypes about “unhealthy” and “oily” Chinese foods. Despite this, I continue to wonder: if it had not publicly been called out on social media and forced to defend its operations, how far would the establishment have gone to share their supposed appreciation for Chinese cuisine? Would they have closed the store to mark the Lunar New Year? Would they hang red calligraphy banners with the letter 福 — coincidentally meaning luck or fortune — on their doors to celebrate and invite prosperity? Would they serve moon cakes during the Mid-Autumn Festival or 粽子 (glutinous rice dumplings wrapped in bamboo leaves) during the Dragon Boat Festival? How far would they have been willing to go to stretch “clean” ideas of authenticity that ultimately only serves to please a desensitized white audience? Had they done so; the proprietors would still not gain automatic authority over what constitutes a “legitimate” Chinese restaurant.

The restaurant’s blatant lack of historical understanding only replicates our country’s racist histories towards immigrant groups, evident through documents from Library & Archives Canada detailing the xenophobia within settler-colonialist pursuits. Chinese railway workers earned $1.00 a day building the Canadian Pacific Railway, and also had to pay for their own lodging and board while white workers

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were paid between $1.50 – $2.50 per day and had their room and board covered. By allowing profit without recognition or touting Lucky Lee’s menu as part of cultural development, we buy into the falsehoods of cultural authenticity created by the same historic oppressive institutions.

In order for ventures like Lucky Lee’s to be considered as part of the food diaspora, white leaders embedded in the racist histories of Turtle Island cannot be the ones at the helm. A commitment to cultural authenticity must be centred around those most affected by the output: members of the North American Chinese immigrant community whose memories of home will be triggered by familiar components of the sensorium. The sharing of knowledge to build a collective understanding of cultural authenticity takes time and consensus, not jumping to a profitable end by making money off false ideas about what qualifies as culturally acceptable.

One of the most memorable museum-going experiences I’ve had was at the Museum of Chinese in America in New York City’s Chinatown, where I felt a deep kinship with my immigrant roots and its resonance in the turbulent present after reading about the rampant racism and stereotyping Asian-Americans endured in the United States. In the background of violent “Great Anti-Chinese Mass Meetings” organized during the California gold rush that purged Chinese residents from their homes, Chinese-American and ChineseCanadian immigrants continued to serve white Americans their stir fry and build the railways in the face of being labelled an array of racist slurs and paying the Chinese Head Tax as the entry fee into an exclusionary white society. The intrinsic racist mechanisms of North American society have led to a broad acceptance of cultural distortion that makes the “exotic” more appealing.

When I am travelling abroad, I am always wary of trying out any Asian restaurants because I do not know if they will provide nostalgic reminders of home that I crave. Thankfully, I have been comforted many a time after entering an establishment and greeted with the sizzle of a wok full of stirring rice noodles and employees barking out orders in quick Mandarin to each other over the heat of the stovetops.

If one truly desires “authentic” food — one that comes with chattering grandmothers over steaming dim sum, service that won’t come and “check in on how it’s tasting” every ten minutes, and yes, oil — then you’re welcome to join me for a bowl of rice. Together we can bask in the joys of feeling at home — even if it’s only for a dinner — and share immigrant stories in spaces that welcome communities of all backgrounds over the collective experience of food.

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show and tell

SPOTLIGHT A short story by a Shameless youth writer on performing for social media BY VIVIAN ZHI

I am alone in my bedroom, yet I already feel the weight of the audience’s stares.

It’s nice knowing that for a moment in someone’s life, I will be in the spotlight.

People will pause to look at my picture and think, this girl looks amazing! And I’ll feel amazing. It’s my birthday Instagram post, after all. I fix my hair one last time before pointing my phone towards myself.

When I start snapping away, I don’t stop until my arm aches from holding the phone.

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Facetune appears on my screen in seconds, filled with a plethora of options. Using the brush feature, I carefully swipe it over my face. Just like that, all the pimples disappear. I stare at my new face, enchanted. Within minutes, I have crafted a selfie worthy of being displayed in an art gallery. With a dazzling white smile, a thin body and hair that glows under the artificial lighting I inserted, the picture is ready to face the world.

Dozens of selfies later, I scroll through my camera roll to select the best one. I zoom in on my body. Countless imperfections pop up like the pimples on my forehead. I swipe to the next photo, and it’s as unusable as the first. In dismay, I keep swiping until I’ve reached the end of my camera roll. Do I really look that bad on camera? Does everyone?

Scrolling through my feed, I analyze each photo, trying to pinpoint what was wrong with mine. It doesn’t help that Instagram models keep showing up. When I pass by a nature photographer’s post, a solution hits me right across the face. I move my fingers as fast as the human body allows to download a photo-editing app.

Facetune appears on my screen in seconds, filled with a plethora of options. Using the brush feature, I carefully swipe it over my face. Just like that, all the pimples disappear.

I stare at my new face, enchanted. Within minutes, I have crafted a selfie worthy of being displayed in an art gallery. With a dazzling white smile, a thin body and hair that glows under the artificial lighting I inserted, the picture is ready to face the world.

Before uploading it, I hesitate. What if people notice the ridiculous amounts of editing I did

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to my face? I can’t hide my real face from my friends. But simultaneously, I want the world to see. Even if people only like an edited version of me, at least it’s better than them not liking me at all. With one tap, I release the selfie into the wild. Refreshing my feed, I watch as the likes trickle in. No comments yet.

I look up from my phone. The washroom is littered with bottles of makeup and a handful of brushes. I hadn’t realized how much effort I put into making my face look nice, only to edit out the flaws that cosmetics couldn’t. Well, no need for makeup now. With a few wipes of my makeup remover, the last barrier protecting my real face is removed. I barely recognize the girl in the mirror. She doesn’t have the “ideal” body shape. Her hair is dull under the bathroom lights. She certainly isn’t smiling now.

I check my post again, and there are dozens of likes. People’s comments tell me how gorgeous I look. I expect to feel warm from all the validation. Isn’t this what I wanted? To be liked? To be seen as beautiful?

Instead, I feel like an imposter. I am pretending to be the girl in the photo. No matter how well social media claims to connect people, I am alone again in my bedroom, feeling the weight of the audience’s stares.

diy

HOW TO DEAL WITH STAGE FRIGHT Some tips on managing anxieties around public speaking and performance BY ARIEL KRAVITZ

1. Know the highlights.

When preparing for a speech, be it scripted or not, take a sheet of loose-leaf and write down the highlights. I follow the structure of an academic paper: introduction and thesis, three (or more) topics with bullet points and conclusion. Then, if you freeze, just remember the outline and figure out where you’re supposed to go next. Leaving out a few sentences in the middle is much better than quitting mid-speech.

2. Figure out what’s comfortable for you.

It’s the final performance of my school’s winter production. The microphones failed in the first act, so we’re scrapping them for the second act. No big deal, I tell myself.

My microphone failed the previous night, and I spoke loudly enough to be heard by the latecomers standing in the back of the auditorium. I’m not worried. I’m loud, I’m funny; I can do this.

Then, my director gets up from her seat and walks to the back of the auditorium. Is she leaving? Is something wrong? What is she doing? Is it my fault? What am I doing wrong?

And I freeze.

Stage fright happens to everyone: to people performing in their 100th production and to people who have never volunteered to read in front of the class. Stage fright happens everywhere: presenting in group project meetings, retelling a story to your friends and even asking out your crush. Stage fright happens in many ways — whether you freeze altogether or simply blush every time the attention is turned on you — but it always happens because of one reason: insecurity.

As long as it’s balanced with a healthy dose of confidence, there’s nothing wrong with being

ILLUSTRATION: IDA HENRICH

insecure. A little insecurity once in a while means you’re reflecting on yourself, contemplating aspects of your identity and questioning whether you could do something differently.

Insecurity can mean confronting your flaws or limitations and recognizing you have space to grow. Knowing how to manage insecurity, especially when it manifests as stage fright, is a much more practical skill than learning how to squelch all insecurity completely.

I’ve experienced stage fright in various forms, but it has always been a result of insecurity. When my director walked to the back of the auditorium, I froze because I felt inexperienced compared to my peers.

When I gave extemporaneous speeches on the Speech and Debate team, I stumbled whenever I was competing against a reputable opponent. And in day-to-day life with my peers, I rush through stories when I fear people don’t want to listen to me. Freezing, stumbling and rushing are all versions of stage fright, and can all be addressed by tackling the root of the problem.

Since insecurity is natural, normal and inevitable for most people (including me), I’ve developed these habits that help me in spite of insecurity:

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Everyone has a way of approaching problems or tasks that’s most natural for them. For me, I like telling stories. Any time I give a presentation, I treat it like a story, even when the information doesn’t make sense as a story. I remember information better when it’s in story form. Learning the ways atoms and ions exchange electrons doesn’t lend itself to a story form, but I read my notes like they are characters in a piece of fiction. How do you best retain information? Equations?

Music? Colours? Whatever your comfort style is, find it and use it when practicing and presenting.

3. Expression is key.

In any speaking scenario where you’ll be front and centre, appropriate body language is necessary. Shifts in body language — whether moving or changing a facial expression — signify to the watcher a change in topic or tone. Use that to your advantage!

When we practice a speech and make gestures or expressions at specific points in our speech, our brains connect the content with the physical action. So, when you get stuck during the speech, remember your next expression or motion, make it, and it’ll be easier to remember what you want to say.

Maybe you’ll find that you get less stage fright as you speak in public more, maybe not. Stage fright is not something to overcome. Just like insecurity, you likely won’t be able to master it overnight. However, with enough practice, it will get easier. You’ll feel more confident in your speaking ability so that even when insecurity bubbles in your stomach as the metaphorical or literal spotlight shines down on you, you’ll know what to do.

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BEST OF THE BLOG Check out the great debates on the Shameless blog.

Here are some highlights.

Join the conversation at shamelessmag.com.

TO THOSE WHO HAVE PAINTED MY WORLD ORANGE

by Ruby Condon Originally published on October 12th, 2020

To those who have painted my world orange: I remember in like, fifth or sixth grade, my “aesthetic” (if you could call it that) was all pastel – as were most of the middle-schoolers with a Tumblr and a “donut talk to me” shirt (I know you know which one I’m talking about). I painted my nails with dull violets and yellows, and chose a light periwinkle for my walls.

Looking back, the pale tones seem like a symptom of settling for a pale way of life.

Maybe I was. Actually, I know I was. Those I chose to be around back then spoke to me in muted tones, persistently painting me as grey until I saw it, too. Like when you’re in a museum, and the self-proclaimed “art connoisseur” next to you drones on about how the contrasts between the shapes on the canvas represent the endless war between mankind, or something like that, and you know it’s pretentious, but accept it anyway because why would you know any better than this person who clearly has credibility? It was like that. But now I do know better. Because now I know You. You, who pulled my chin up and righted my posture, even when I rolled my eyes (shoulders in your back pockets, Ruby!).

You, who let me take up space with laughs and anger and tears and dance parties, who spoon-fed me comfort until my figure filled.

You, who used Your hands to guide my arms around my own body until I learned how to embrace on my own. You, who French braided strength into my hair, over and over, until it seeped into the roots and thickened the strands. You, who sang trust into me as

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we sailed down the freeway at speeds far past the legal limit with an inattentiveness that I should definitely not make a habit. You, who has gifted me poetry and essays and rambling letters like this one. Now, because of You, my world is glaringly vibrant, so vibrant that, sometimes, I fear for my sight.

Sometimes, I want to retreat back into my old faded bubble; there’s less risk when everything has already lost its colour.

I have made a habit of this: when it feels like the world is rotating a bit too fast or when I am stuck, spinning in the whirlpool that is my brain (or, less poetically, when nothing goes how I had planned due to a pandemic), I grab my black pen and I draw myself a box, like Harold and his Purple Crayon but with less adventure. And I don’t let You in, because I’m scared to lose and because I crave control – an equation that will always result in a negative. But You remind me: that’s not a sustainable way to live. You take my hand (maybe sometimes begrudgingly) and bring me outside. You say, look how beautiful it all is! You say, look at the different shades of the sky and the trees and the flowers and all that cliché shit that is cliché because it really is true. I think about You a lot. And in month seven of this “new normal” (ugh), I miss You. Sometimes it feels like the six feet between us holds every bit of our old life: evenings full of guests crowded into our living room, singing an out-of-tune harmony, weekends spent defiantly sipping from a shared can of beer and feigning adulthood, the late night prospect of spontaneity, early mornings at school – and if I could just put my head on your shoulder we could get that fairytale back.

Maybe if I could just take off my mask and whisper something into Your ear, without the fear of contaminated words, everything

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would be fixed. But I know that isn’t how the virus works.

If there is anything that this forced separation has taught me, it’s that I am lucky to hurt, because it means I have someone to miss. As pervasive as that familiar fear of loss is, I am grateful to have something to lose.

So wherever You are, I hope that you feel my hands on your shoulders – pulling them into your back pockets – so You can colour someone else’s world just like You have coloured mine. I know my paintbrush is small, and the tones are a little paler than I’d like, but I’ll keep practicing, and I hope I can make Your day (and maybe Your month? Your year?) just a little more colourful.

PASSING THE TEST: GIRLS, AUTISM, AND STEREOTYPES (EXCERPT)

by Lucinda Thee Originally posted on November 23rd, 2020

Autistic girls are on average diagnosed 1.5 years later than boys, according to a recent study published in the journal, Autism Research.

I myself was diagnosed with autism when I was four. Looking at the report for the test I took, I am surprised at the amount of emphasis on eye contact and play, omitting other factors such as sensory issues and masking, and putting less emphasis on stimming and special interests…I was only diagnosed because I displayed symptoms the test was looking for, rather than symptoms most autistic girls and women actually display.

Many girls are not diagnosed early because the people around them fail to recognize these little-known symptoms, many of which could be dismissed as “typical” for girls. Many people picture an autistic person as a young boy who dislikes social interaction and has frequent meltdowns, and think this applies to all autistic people. This stereotype can result in backhanded compliments, like “you don’t look autistic” or “you look really normal,” which erases autistic girls’ and wom-

prejudice causes them to be ignored, or worse. Black autistic girls and women may face added pressure to “disguise” their autism due to the common stereotype that Black girls and women are always stronger and tougher than white girls and women. This can cause extreme stress and anxiety, and they may be fearful of disclosing their autism to the people around them for fear of being shunned.

This also applies to other people of colour.

Latina or Hispanic autistic girls and women may come from low-income families, too, resulting in a lack of access to health services in countries without affordable healthcare, like the United States. Additionally, Hispanic autistic people are less likely to be properly diagnosed in the U.S. because of language and cultural barriers.

In Asian communities, autism isn’t a frequently discussed topic. The idea of “saving face”, or avoiding shame, is prominent in most Asian cultures and it is viewed as “disgraceful” to openly discuss disability in public. Many Asian families have high expectations for their daughters and dismiss autism as “bad parenting”, or regard the subject as “taboo”. One Asian-American parent

of an autistic child recounted how she was criticized, ridiculed and shunned by other Asian-American parents for candidly bringing up autism. She was surprised that many Asians from Generation X — and even Millennials — knew little about the condition, and had never encountered an Asian autistic child. Misdiagnosis, stereotypes, and discrimination can have negative effects on autistic girls’ and women’s mental health. Due to social anxiety and the frustrating inability to express their feelings accurately, autistic people may find it difficult to confide in anyone…

Autistic girls’ and women’s poor mental and physical health can also be exacerbated by abuse.

It’s important that we spread awareness about these issues faced by autistic girls and women. It is estimated that about one in one hundred people are autistic; you may be autistic, or it’s likely that someone close to you, such as a family member or friend, is autistic. We need to advocate for more accurate diagnosis, combat stereotypes, increase access to resources, and call out racism so that autistic girls and women can shine.

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en’s experiences and identity. Further, some people will distance themselves from autistic girls and women, because stereotypes tell them that we are “robots” who cannot feel empathy, let alone understand our own feelings…Beyond misdiagnosis and stereotyping, autistic girls and women can face additional challenges due to economic barriers, racism, and more.

Autistic people from low-income families are less likely to be able to afford diagnosis tests or therapy. While applied behaviour analysis (ABA) has earned criticism from the autistic community for being misguided and even cruel, it is the most widely approved and, therefore, the most widely covered by insurance autism therapy in the U.S..

Many other therapies have been developed in recent years, but are not covered by most insurance plans, leaving many families with few options…Other social inequalities also impact autistic girls and women. Because of systemic racism, Black autistic girls are more likely to come from low-income backgrounds and have a lack of access to health services. Plus, when public service providers interact with Black autistic people, subconscious racism and

NEW CANADIAN PLAYS ON IMPORTANT FEMINIST ISSUES

Organizing communities and battling institutions. Trying to survive solitary confinement. Being forced to self-administer an abortion. Find these powerful stories at playwrightscanada.com.

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arts profile

MICHELLE RAJNI PERERA THRUSH

Shameless chats with Rajni Perera about dreamworlds, technology and identity BY ZAHRA HAIDER On performance, humour and healing

BY CAROLINE KLIMEK

Michelle Thrush is a Cree actor, artist and activist. Shameless sits down with Thrush to talk about her work and practice.

CK: You have an extensive resume in TV and theatre with more than 40 credits including Jimmy P., Deadman, North of 60 and Arctic Air. You won a Gemini in 2011 for your portrait of Gail Stoney, an Indigenous woman who is dealing with her daughter’s suicide and her own personal shame, guilt and alcoholism on Blackstone. Could you talk a bit about your artistic practice working in TV, film and theatre?

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MT: I believe in telling the truth of each character I portray. Portrayal of Indigenous characters on screen or on stage comes from a place of humanity before anything else. I LOVE creating characters. I am a character actor and I start from the ground up, with their walk. All of my characters have a certain walk and once I find their walk everything else just falls in place. As an artist I feel we are all trying to truthfully tell a story from a place of honesty.

CK: Congratulations on Inner Elder!

It had a sold-out run at the Aki Studio in

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Toronto. Can you tell me a bit more about the inspiration behind this one-woman show you wrote? Who is your inner elder? Where else will this play take you?

MT: Inner Elder began as a show that I wrote 10 years ago to bring to communities across the country. I do a lot of work with youth using theatre and acting. This show was easy to mount and was about my childhood and the influence of my own grandmother to help get through some difficult times. It ended with this stand-up comedy routine of an old Kookum (grandmother) character. I was asked

PHOTO: CORY VANDERPLOEG

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IN THIS ISSUE: GARY KINSMAN ON QUEER REMEMBERING AND ANTI69 ORGANIZING • GORD HILL ON THE ART OF RESISTANCE • ZACHARY DARK ON THE ROOSTER TOWN BLOCKADE • MELISSA HARRISON ON RADICAL COMMONING IN BERLIN • MERLE DAVIS ON RESISTANCE TO MINING • ROUNDTABLES ON THE 2018 CUPE 3903 STRIKE & 20 YEARS OF ORGANIZING • BOOK REVIEWS AND MORE...

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in 2018 by the High Performance Rodeo to create a new show with the same concept, but more theatrical. I asked Karen Hines, a friend, director, actor and master clown to direct this process of creating a new show. We spent five weeks in rehearsals, then it premiered at the Rodeo to sold-out shows and has been well received since.

CK: You said to Avenue Calgary, “I want to be a small part of contributing to that collective healing of our families. If I can do that, I will feel complete in my life.” I am interested in your use of humour and laughter as a healing and also as an artistic practice. You have performed as Majica, a Therapeutic Healing Clown, and travelled to Indigenous communities and shelters across Canada. Who is Majica? How do you see humour as a means to heal?

MT: Majica came to me in a profound and spiritual way. That is a deep conversation for another time but she came to me 16 years ago. Since then I have travelled to over 200 visits with little ones and with parents. The work I do with these visits is about awakening imagination and emotional identity and stopping cycles of disconnection between parent and child due to generations of residential schools. There is nothing in my career that feels better than the work I do with the children. I work with three- to seven-year-olds and just seeing their little brown eyes looking up to this character with so much love is beyond words.

CK: Do you have any favourite theatre shows?

MT: My all-time favourite stage experience has to be Hot Brown Honey! It is amazing!

An all-woman Indigenous cast of storytellers, dancers, satirical humour and absolute power!

CK: You are currently working on something new with your daughter. How is it working together? And what are you currently working on?

MT: I am currently making the move from acting into directing in film and television.

I have been shadowing on a new APTN drama show here in Calgary called Tribal as a director. I also have a character in the series and my daughter has a small role in it too. She is very creative and eventually wants to get more into filmmaking. I really enjoy anything I can do with her. We have travelled together a lot through the years

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and are always thinking of ways to create more together. I truly feel honoured to just be around her. She is a kind, funny but very old soul and I feel like I won the blessings lotto with both my daughters. I am constantly learning something from them both.

CK: You are a strong activist for your community and do a lot of work with the Dreamcatcher Foundation. What advice do you give to Indigenous youth who want to share their stories and work in this industry?

MT: When I was growing up, I had two alcoholic parents who weren’t really sure how to parent because of their own wounds and trauma. I did not have many role models to look up to that looked like me, a little brown girl living in the city. I knew inside that children should be a priority for parents and I knew that when I grew up I would do things differently.

I had a saying: “If you are not a part of the solution, then you must be part of the problem.” This stuck with me and it was always something I was hyper-aware of. It took a few hundred years to get to this place of recognizing the trauma and it’s going to take some time to untangle it. I felt, for me, acting could contribute to the solutions.

I could create empathy by portraying a character for others to identify with. I can bring a character to life, and hopefully someone watching can feel the heart, struggles, laughter and pain of this character.

This breaks down division and creates humility and compassion. This, to me, is what we do as artists. We channel the story and we are all artists. The challenges I faced as a child allowed me to become resilient, using my experiences to help others know they are not alone in theirs.

MICHELLE’S 5 FAVOURITE ARTISTS Tara Beagan Dana Claxton Pura Fé Jennifer Podemski Carol Burnett

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stir it up

#FOODPORN How does social media affect how we prepare, present and consume food? BY WREN PRAGG

From our #OOTD to #ThrowbackThursdays, social media allows us all to catch a glimpse of how other people live, or how they’d like us to think they live. The food we eat is no exception; along with #FoodPorn, #Foodgasm, #Foodie, #HealthyFood and #InstaFood are some of the most popular hashtags on Instagram. #FoodPorn can be joyful, full of pleasure and a true celebration of life. However, its performativity can also be shallow, exploitative and fleeting.

One of the harmful ways that these food threads can play out is when people centre their posts on the cost of the food they’re eating. Not everyone can afford to eat at trendy restaurants, try the latest dessert craze, or get that organic smoothie. Not

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everyone can cook at home regularly either.

Some people share their kitchen space with many other residents, and some simply don’t have the time to cook from scratch because of competing needs like work, childcare or mental health. It’s also harder for some folks to access fresh food ingredients. Many working-class neighbourhoods have fewer grocery stores, and many of them don’t carry a wide array of ethnic foods that might be needed to cook people’s cultural dishes.

Another problem with the performativity of #FoodPorn is that generally, only certain foods are seen as beautiful or desirable.

Oftentimes these foods can be presented in ways that are celebrated on cooking shows and in magazines, and most often these

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are dishes with European influences. Even foods that don’t originate in Europe seem more desirable when they’re “elevated” with European cooking techniques. An example of this from my Caribbean heritage is chicken or pig feet. These are common ingredients in cooking that have ties back to the days of the European slave trade, when enslaved African people used the cuts of meat that weren’t valued by white colonizers.

In today’s aesthetically-driven food culture, these ingredients wouldn’t be “post-worthy.”

The shame surrounding eating fast food can also taint food posts on social media.

People should be allowed to choose what they eat, without judgment. But with #CleanEating and #Keto being two more hugely-popular hashtags, there is an undeniable pressure towards eating within a very narrow understanding of health. For example, people whose bodies are seen as “healthy” can post “junk food” without judgment. It can even make them seem more down-to-earth; like celebrities who post themselves eating fast food. But if a fat person posts the same content, they may face criticism or judgment.

These are all examples of the harmful nature of social media in general. However, social media also has unifying possibilities.

For example, it can also help to make food more accessible. People can see how to make food, ask questions about ingredients and substitutions and learn the history of dishes.

I have learned a lot about new recipes and cooking techniques from social media. I also get ideas about meal prep that help me manage my food budget and time.

I’ve shared pictures of my favourite meals, when I’ve baked a cake using a new recipe or tried a local restaurant that just opened up.

I will continue capturing these experiences.

I think an important thing to remember is to try and make your posts about creativity, share a variety of dishes that have different looks and different stories and to never make judgments about other people’s posts or food choices, on or offline.

Below, I share one of my all-time favourite dishes: Trinidadian doubles. While it’s a national favourite, it’s not the most stereotypically “beautiful” food if you’re not familiar with it; it can seem monotone, dull and texturally unappealing. But nothing, no one and no hashtag could ever erase the sheer joy and pleasure I feel biting into a hot doubles and tasting the familiar spices that take me back home.

ILLUSTRATION: BEENA MISTRY

Bara (fried dough): • 2 cups all-purpose flour • 1/2 teaspoon baking powder (preferably aluminum-free) • 1 teaspoon salt • 1 teaspoon instant yeast

stir it up

TRINIDADIAN DOUBLES • Turmeric (a pinch – 1/4 teaspoon) • 2 teaspoons sugar • 1 cup lukewarm water, less about three tablespoons • 1 tablespoon oil (for rubbing on dough)

1. In a medium bowl, add flour, salt, yeast, turmeric and sugar.

2 . Add water gradually and mix to form a soft but not sticky dough. Do not over knead.

3. Rub with oil, cover and set aside to rest 1 hour (min) or until doubled (max 6 hours or overnight).

4. Make into little balls. Cover and allow to raise another hour or until doubled.

5. Rub oil on a flat surface. Place dough on oil and flatten to a 4-inch round. Make to your desired thickness – keeping in mind it puffs up as it cooks!

6. Meanwhile heat oil in a small pot over medium-high heat. Gently place dough in hot oil and fry on each side until cooked, about 1 minute. Drain on the side of the pot, using the spoon.

7. Wrap immediately in paper towel and then a dish towel.

8. Repeat with the remaining dough.

9 Place the wrapped Bara in a tightly sealed container to allow it to soften and flatten.

10 Serve hot with curried channa (recipe below).

Channa: • 1 can chickpeas • 2 tablespoons curry powder (madras) • 1/4 teaspoon salt (add more to your taste) • dash black pepper • 1/2 medium onion, sliced thin • 1/4 scotch bonnet pepper • 3 cloves garlic, crushed and minced • 3 leaves of shado beni (or 2 tablespoons cilantro)

• 2 yellow potatoes, peeled and cubed • 2 tablespoons water for the curry paste • 4 tablespoons water to add to the cooked curry • 2 1/2 cups water • 2 tablespoons vegetable or olive oil

1. Empty the can of channa into a strainer and rinse it under running water.

2. Slice and mince up the onion, pepper, garlic and shado beni. Set aside.

3. In a fairly deep saucepan, heat the oil on medium to high heat and get ready to cook the curry a bit.

4. Put the curry powder in a small bowl and pour in the 2 tablespoons of water, then stir to a thick paste.

5. Pour this into the heated oil and allow to cook for a few minutes. As it dries down a bit, add the minced onion, garlic, pepper and shado beni and stir around. To give this a bit of time to cook, add about 4 tablespoons of water (you’ll cook the curry mixture for 4-8 minutes in total).

6. When the onion and garlic is soft and the liquid is all cooked off, add the potato and stir around to coat every piece with the curry mixture you just made. Immediately after add the channa and stir.

7. Pour in the 2 and 1/2 cups of water, add the salt and a dash of black pepper, then bring to a boil and reduce to a gentle simmer with the lid on. Allow this to cook for about 20 minutes or until tender. If you notice that after the 20 minutes cooking time you have little or no liquid in the pot, feel free to add some more and bring it to a boil.

8 Serve in between two bara and toppings of your choice such as pickled cucumber or tamarind chutney. Enjoy!

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get up

THE ART OF CLOWN How the performance and playfulness of clowning can be transgressive BY ELENA SENECHAL-BECKER Few pop culture archetypes are as controversial as that of the clown. From being the life of the party (think “class clown”) to a terrifying villain figure (the Joker, or It) or a mysterious phenomenon-turned-meme (remember those 2016 clown sightings?), “clowning” can take on many forms beyond the archetypal red-nosed character at children’s parties.

Though the word “clown” evokes many different iterations, what these clown personas seem to have in common is the desire to put oneself on display while simultaneously concealing a “real” self in disguise. Historically, clowns have mostly been designed to entertain audiences through intentionally clumsy routines.

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Call it what you want: playing dress-up, impersonation or physical comedy, “clowning” necessarily contains an element of self-marginalization. If clowns were made to exist for our entertainment, what happens when “clown” aesthetics become a mode of self-expression, rather than self-deprecation?

Twenty-year-old pop artist King Princess is an example of clownery’s particular ability to subvert expectations through performance. Like many artists who came of age in the digitally fluent generation, King Princess uses social media as an outlet for self-expression. On Instagram, she often posts pictures of actual clowns as part of an ongoing “moodboard.” Her personal reference library is filled with

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an array of queer cultural icons; on her feed, a screengrab from John Waters’ Pink Flamingos accompanies a no-context photo of Barbra Streisand.

One of her tweets reads, “gender amorphous clown porn family funhouse,” a caption she accompanies with photos of herself and friends. They sport blonde Dolly Parton wigs with bright bodysuits and pose on a giant couch reminiscent of The Big Comfy Couch TV show. Their outfits and demeanors are theatrical, worn with a healthy dose of irony; King Princess is playing into camp, or maybe playing with it.

A large part of King Princess’ stylistic inspiration comes from the drag tradition, which itself is a subversive form of performance art that shares some characteristics with the art of clown. Drag uses costume and makeup in what is most often a direct rejection of conventional gender norms. The cover art for her most recent single, “Cheap Queen,” shows her wearing nothing but a full face of drag makeup. In an interview with Harper’s Bazaar, she explains: “When I do makeup, it’s performative. I don’t really wear makeup, but I use it as a tool to talk about gender and sexuality.” This idea rings true to a lot of us who view gender as an imposition; we feel most at home when wearing makeup as “play.” This is how we “clown” our way out of restrictive binaries.

The idea of a “clown costume” might seem outdated, but looking a little closer, we may find that much of how we interact with the juxtaposition between appearance and performance is related to clowning. Dressing up in ways that conceal while simultaneously revealing or exaggerating part of ourselves is a way to carefully curate how we appear to the world. For some of us, the art of clown is a form of survival.

ILLUSTRATION: ZUZA TOKARSKA

The joys of having a secret Instagram account

BY QUINCY YEE

Content warning: mentions of sexual trauma “Should I post this?” “What should my caption be?”

These are thoughts that occasionally run through my mind on my main Instagram account. They can make social media not so enjoyable — almost as if it’s an assignment I’ve given myself and my final grade depends on my followers.

However much time I’m spending on Instagram, I always like to have an idea of what it means to me and does for me. Who am I on here? Is this an accurate reflection of who I am offscreen? Am I (generally) enjoying myself?

After having my main Instagram account

ILLUSTRATION: OLIVIA SEMENTSOVA

for a year, I heard about the concept of a “finsta” (shortened from “fake insta”) or a “spam account.” A finsta is a secondary, often private account. Here, people can post whatever they want, with fewer eyes watching them. The follower count is often small and consists solely of close friends approved by the user themselves.

I hopped on the finsta bandwagon immediately. At first I thought, “What exactly do I post on here?” I realized shortly after that if I’m asking that question, I’m doing it wrong.

My finsta is for me! I can post multiple times in one day. I can post about good and bad days. I can post memes that are too silly or risky for my main account. I can post thirst traps that I was originally going to send to

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geek chic

FINSTAGRAM

my crush but needed a little push first. I can post outfit inspirations and makeup looks.

But most importantly... I can post!

This is not to say that I cannot post on my main account. But I prefer to maintain a more polished, presentable version of myself there that posts once in a while. I choose to put up these boundaries for a larger audience. It’s still me, and I love it, but it’s limited.

What’s refreshing about my finsta is being able to be vulnerable with an audience I trust, without always having to have a conversation. As much as I value conversations, sometimes I just want to express how I’m feeling. I can simply say, “I’m having quite a week!” in a selfie caption, instead of feeling like I’m burdening my friends by venting all this information in a text.

A few years ago, I struggled with alopecia (hair loss) after surviving sexually violent traumas. This was one of the hardest times in my life, but I had no idea how to tell people.

It felt strange to individually text my friends, “hey, I’m shaving my head because of all this trauma that I never told you about!” I simply wasn’t ready to talk about it with most of my friends face-to-face. I still don’t think I am.

When my hair grew back a year later, I posted on my finsta. I wrote a long caption about the past year and how much I’d grown since then. I was in control, telling my story as a survivor in the way that I wanted to. I didn’t want to have to put my friends in the position of holding all my feelings. Instead, by posting, they could “like” it, comment their love and support on the post itself, or shoot me a text. However my friends interacted with it, I felt comfort knowing they now knew this important part of my life and could acknowledge it on their terms, while I shared it on my terms.

Sentimental reasons aside, it’s simply liberating for me to have a space on the internet where I feel like I can freely be myself. If you feel like you’re often wishing you could post something but feel uncomfortable with a wide audience viewing it, I would say creating a finsta could be for you. Performing for a small audience is still a performance nonetheless; but when that audience is carefully curated, there’s less room for pressure and more room for fun! Finstas allow me to feel a simple-yet-meaningful acknowledgment and validation. It’s finally not about the numbers, but about the relationships you have with those interacting with you. And did I mention memes?!

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reviews DEATH THREAT Vivek Shraya, illustrations by Ness Lee Arsenal Pulp Press

Death Threat is the result of a collaboration between writer Vivek Shraya (I’m Afraid of Men, Even This Page is White, She of the Mountains) and Toronto-based artist Ness Lee. This beautiful and vulnerable graphic novel is a window into an experience that publicly queer people are constantly faced with: harassment by strangers on the internet.

The reality of being a queer person who remains visible and unabashed in their queerness is not always glamorous. Queerness that is unashamed of itself is perceived as an affront to the oppressive societal order, which ordains binary gender expressions and prude heterosexuality. The consequences of this can often be violent, and even dangerous, especially for transfeminine people of colour, whose intersections of identity render us particularly vulnerable to harassment and violence.

The manifestations of this are everywhere, especially on the internet. But for those whose day-to-day lives aren’t saturated with such consistent hatred, it can be difficult to understand exactly how alienating, anxiety-inducing and disenfranchising such an experience is. It can be easy to forget one’s privilege in not inviting vitriol while simply existing as oneself.

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In Death Threat, Shraya shows the zeal and persistency with which an absolute stranger can feel entitled to degrade, insult and threaten a transgender woman, and the paranoia, self-doubt and emotional pain this can bring to the victim. Death Threat is a real-life story that follows the trajectory of a series of emails Shraya received from an online stranger. This particular instance of harassment is peculiar in how it projects an odd blend of anger and debasement with something akin to misplaced sympathy. Shraya describes how at first the emails amused her, but as they continued, her sense of dread began to mount, as did her confusion over how to address the threats.

In the end, Shraya dealt with the influx of harassment by turning the communications into art. In doing so, she not only achieved some sense of creative catharsis, but also altered the playing field by stealing some power back from her assailant. Because when it comes down to it, power is at the foundation of all these insulting interactions.

Queer women, especially trans women of colour, have very limited power in this particular societal zeitgeist, making us easy targets for a person who wants to, at least momentarily, feel like they have power.

Death Threat is an attempt not only to educate the public about some of the awful experiences that transfeminine people of colour undergo, but also to reclaim some power from those that are determined to hunt us down.

Artist Ness Lee illustrates each page with brilliant, bright colours and soft, beautiful linework, illustrating the violence in a way that dulls its edges, responds to its sharpness with a vulnerability that it is incapable of penetrating. Lee responds to the surrealism of this particular online interaction by illustrating in an almost magical-realist style. Since these messages were relayed from behind the anonymity of a computer screen, much of the interaction was shrouded in obscurity, granting Lee the liberty to play around with how to depict them. The result is illustrations that are imaginative and extravagant, happily ridiculous and dream-like.

Shraya’s friendship with Lee, as well as her relationships with friends and family, end up featuring prominently in the book, demonstrating to readers that though the experience of being publicly queer may be wrought with violence, our communities can be substantive and supportive. With these support systems in place, we are capable of speaking back to and conquering the cruelty the world throws at us. NOUR ABI NAKHOUL

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THE COURAGE OF ELFINA André Jacob (text); Christine Delezenne (art); Susan Ouriou (translation) Lorimer

“Being invisible hurt like a red hot iron scorching my skin.” Elfina, the young narrator of the graphic novel The Courage of Elfina, weaves a compelling account of invisibility as a forced labourer in an unfamiliar country.

An aunt she has never met invites her to travel from her village to the city to attend school. Elfina takes the opportunity, only to be taken from Paraguay to Canada under a false identity and forced into servitude. Left with no allies, Elfina struggles to survive and find a way to escape her captors and return to Paraguay. Her story is told simply yet evocatively, supported by Christine Delezenne’s monochromatic, stylized illustrations.

The book’s epilogue calls attention to the fact that Elfina’s ordeal is far from fiction: according to statistics from the International Labour Organization, there are nearly 21 million young people in forced labour globally. Jacob provides a short appendix with resources to raise further awareness on this devastating issue.

Additional content warnings: Sexual abuse; parental death DENISE REICH

HUM Natalia Hero Metatron Press

It’s rare that fiction tackles sexual assault in a way that doesn’t feel harmful or retraumatizing. Before reading Hum, I’d never seen a story similar to mine that showed the ugly and uncomfortable parts of the healing process. Heart-breaking and honest, Natalie Hero’s novella is the story of a young woman grappling with the after-effects of sexual trauma. After her assault, the narrator gives birth to a hummingbird, which acts as the physical manifestation of the all-too-present trauma she is forced to deal with.

Hero’s expert use of magical realism brings compassion to the often isolating parts of the healing process: the spells of depression, the anxiety surrounding asking for support and the tentative nature of learning to accept help. Hum understands that healing from trauma is not a magical or linear process, and demonstrates that by weaving tender and enchanting moments (like your friend buying a Slurpee for the bird who comes with you everywhere) into a harsh reality. You should buy one copy for yourself and another to lend to friends; Hum is beyond worth it. KENN ENNS (THEY/THEM) SWAN DIVE Brenda Hasiuk Groundwood Books

In the early 1990s, Cris and his family escape the Bosnian War and make their way to Winnipeg. Once in school, Cris makes friends with the lively and unique Elle and the two become inseparable, even start-

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BOOKS

ing a musical duo with dreams of making it big. It seems Cris is just starting to settle into his new life in Canada when one impulsive lie causes it to begin to come undone.

Swan Dive is told mainly through Cris’s journal entries, which he writes as part of his therapy to process and reflect on what happened. In his telling, what came before and what happened after collide to reveal the lie he told that changed everything. After a slow, almost “slice of life”-style start, this book draws you into a touching story with a surprisingly philosophical take on friendship, change and growing up that will sit with you long after you’ve finished reading.

KATIE UNGARD

BLACK BEACH Glynis Guevara Inanna Publications

Black Beach follows a year in the life of Tamera Woods, a 16-year-old girl living on La Cresta Beach on an unnamed Caribbean island. Through vivid descriptions of leatherback turtles and oil-soaked beaches, Glynis Guevara’s novel reads as a love letter to the beauties and trials of youth and island living. The story’s pace slows to relish each time Tamera embarks on an adventure. Whether it’s fishing off her dad’s boat in rocky water, exploring a cave in absolute darkness, or hunting manicous with a Labrador retriever, the narrative lingers in these moments and overflows with colour and exuberance.

Despite satisfying attention to detail in Tamera’s adventures, the novel lacks that same depth and complexity in the main plot. Tamera experiences a number of unrelated traumas — including her mother’s mental illness and untimely death, an environmental catastrophe and disappearance of a friend — that aren’t explored beyond brief mention. The author introduces new challenges to the young woman, but these challenges fail to affect the development of Tamera or her progression in the novel. In Guevara’s attempt to create a multifaceted and nuanced protagonist, she falls short with a character overwhelmed by too many plot lines that don’t ultimately materialize into meaningful insights. ARIEL KRAVITZ YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN FAT Virgie Tovar Feminist Press

In You Have the Right to Remain Fat, Virgie Tovar seamlessly uses theory to speak embodiment. Being both a fat scholar and fatshionista/activist, Tovar has written a short, fierce book that reads like it was written by your wildly passionate friend and feels like drinking a much-needed glass of water. This friend happens to have an intellect sharp as nails, not to mention a sharp carnation-coloured manicure. Tovar’s writing dissolves any walls between author and reader with an unapologetic spirit, linking lived experience with wider social structures in a manner that is deeply accessible. As a fat woman myself, chapters in the book helped me

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to connect some major dots in my own life. Refreshingly candid, You Have the Right to Remain Fat is a fat liberation primer for everyone, a resource to read and discuss with friends, and a work to be returned to again and again. FIORELLA MORZI TONGUEBREAKER Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha Arsenal Pulp Press

Tonguebreaker by Leah Lakshmi PiepznaSamarasinha is an achingly beautiful amalgam of poetry, performance art and memoir. In it, Piepzna-Samarasinha reveals, and revels in, the political act of taking up space as a queer, femme, disabled brown person. Whether she is laying down serious truths about living in an ableist world or how even the names of people of colour take up too much real estate on others’ tongues, Piepzna-Samarasinha delivers every harsh reality with a comforting strength and transforms Tonguebreaker from something like a manifesto into pure magic.

Each piece addresses a different audience, and yet the collection manages to pull every reader close. Tounguebreaker is a nesting doll made up of a whole community of brilliant femme, brown and Black disabled voices. You can’t always see every doll in every piece, but you know they are present; as surely as you know that Piepzna-Samarasinha’s words are the very opposite of hollow. YASH

POETRY

KESANAKURTHY

ALL DAY I DREAM OF SIRENS Domenica Martinello

THIS WOMAN’S WORK Julie Delporte

Coach House Books

An autobiographical meditation on what it means to be a woman, a feminist and an artist; This Woman’s Work is told through notebook-sketch-style coloured pencil drawings and handwritten text that frame the illustrations. Julie Delporte opens the book with her father’s joke, an epigraph of sorts that sets the tone for the graphic novel; “must be a woman’s handiwork,” he’d say, whenever something was poorly done. Delporte draws inspiration — and is sometimes frustrated that she is unable to channel the inspiration, as she suffers from imposter syndrome — from other women artists, whose works she references and pays homage to throughout the book.

A main figure is Tove Jansson, the Finnish author of the Moomins series, who lived an art-driven life, chose to not have children and whose studio didn’t have a kitchen because she didn’t like to cook.

Instead, it had a third-floor addition that allowed her to look out at the sea. MARTA BALCEWICZ

In her beguiling new book of poems, Domenica Martinello plumbs an unassuming object — the siren on a Starbucks takeout cup — for poems that explore femininity, capitalism and mythology.

The book reads like a fantastical travelogue as it changes locations, perspectives and time periods. The perspectives that Martinello’s narrator inhabits — from Greek goddesses Demeter and Circe, to a barista toiling behind the Starbucks counter, to a chorus of the overlooked sisters in The Little Mermaid — are infused with a living, breathing immediacy. These exhumations are often funny (“... mermaids in sequined push up bras, really into burlesque...”) and occasionally heartbreaking — like “Unlettered,” which is from the perspective of a disappointed grandparent.

But the book isn’t simply about the past; it actually declares that all of this human history should end (“no more erecting/ no mass/ no amassing”) in the hopes that something better can be reborn in its wake. GABRIELLE MARCEAU

JOURNAL

ALBUMS

LOOSELEAF MAGAZINE Various Artists LooseLeaf Magazine is a publication that seeks to encourage artists of Asian descent by providing a platform where they may voice their ideas and inspire those who seek a similar path, in a culture that does

TANYA TAGAQ Toothsayer

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not consider creative pursuits to be worthwhile. Its seventh volume is a chaotic blend of performance art, interviews and photography.

The absence of an underlying theme accompanied by its inconsistent, if not questionable judgment of merit gives the reader an overall impression of the publication as a pamphlet for publicity.

The conversation with artist Khanh Tudo, for instance, is merely a copy and paste of dialogue, which makes it hard for the reader to grasp the essence of the creator’s work (which in itself seems quite interesting). Similarly, the journal’s presentation of Mike Tijoe’s photography would benefit from providing more context beyond the artist’s statement. While one may have an inkling of the underlying idea of Tijoe’s creations, there isn’t enough information to provide context and as such, encourage further interest in the reader.

Ultimately, despite falling short in execution, the ideas that underlie the desires surrounding the seventh volume remain of a commendable nature. Y.J ZHENG

Six Shooter

Tanya Tagaq’s Toothsayer is a collection of five recordings originally designed to accompany the “Polar Worlds” exhibit at the UK’s

shameless

AKUA Them Spirits

SHEA DIAMOND Seen It All

LAL Dark Beings

Asylum Worldwide LLC

COAX Records

Throughout her life, Shea Diamond has seen plenty, both good and bad. In her debut EP, she opens up about her experiences as a Black trans woman who has spent 10 years in the men’s prison system for committing armed robbery in order to finance her sex reassignment surgery. Her songs are a mix of genres — ranging from R&B to gospel — that fit well together, and the themes of her songs are as varied as the styles of music. “Keisha Complexion” and “American Pie” address colourism, while “I Am Her” is an anthem for transgender people. It’s hard not to be swept away by her powerful voice and meaningful lyrics. This is a beautifully written and produced EP that reminds listeners, especially those who are marginalized, that they are not alone in their struggles. VIVIAN ZHI

“We have always destroyed what we love, to create something new.” In their new album, Dark Beings, Toronto-based artists LAL highlight the necessity for loss and destruction in the process of creation.

Despite Kazi’s many years behind the mic, the artist admits that she remains plagued with doubt and uncertainty as to the life she ought to lead. The confession is not surprising. The wounds she shares are of a surface-level, ornamental nature; a romanticized narrative of decline and rise, a pain defined through our preconceptions of tragedy and the virtue associated with overcoming it. In the end, no amount of technique can make up for the lack of feeling in the use of generic metaphors: strength posited as goddesses and scars, hope aligning itself with prayer and stars.

Perhaps it is best that we remain in the dark and give the album a pass, unless we seek to wallow for a moment in the confirmation that, yes, we are broken, if only to try again. Y.J ZHENG

GIRLPOOL What Chaos is Imaginary Anti-

What Chaos is Imaginary is the third fulllength album from LA duo Girlpool. They pride themselves on dodging categorization, changing up their sound between albums so that every offer feels fresh to fans and expresses their growth as artists and people. Its main members, Cleo Tucker and Harmony Tividad, now maintain solo projects as well, yet Girlpool remains an important creative outlet for these friends. Where their music started out quite raw and stripped down, it has evolved into a polished, folk-pop sound that relies on more layered instrumentation. Many of the songs on this album were written while the artists were temporarily living on the East Coast, in different states. It was a time of personal upheaval that required the pair to approach their partnership differently than with previous records, developing songs independently, so they bear the fingerprints of their creators more distinctly. The title track, for instance, is one of Harmony Tividad’s contributions, an intensely personal song about connection and forgiveness, one she describes as the stream-ofconsciousness when self-consciousness is shed. TAN LIGHT

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National Maritime Museum. In it, Tagaq explores new partnerships with musicians Jean Martin and Ash Koosha. Each piece is ambient, with piano riffs and electronic elements layered under Tagaq’s throat singing, which creates a haunting and ethereal sound experience. It is quite different from her past throat singing contributions to tracks by Buffy Sainte-Marie, Fucked Up, or A Tribe Called Red, where the other musicians’ styles were at the forefront.

Throat singing is a unique Inuit vocal technique, usually practiced in pairs. Tagaq has crafted a solo version of this technique, and her mainstream success (she has won a number of Indigenous music awards, the Polaris Prize and a Juno) has encouraged other young Inuit performers, like Silla + Rise, to mix throat singing with contemporary genres. I recently experienced Tagaq’s throat singing in person as part of a reading from her 2018 novel, Split Tooth; and I can confirm: it was an utterly enthralling experience. TAN LIGHT

Independent

The Ontario-born artist AKUA explores the depths of grief and empowerment in her incredible debut album Them Spirits. AKUA has toured the world as a backup singer for Solange, but she broke away in 2016 to concentrate on her own music.

The product of AKUA’s songwriting, production and vocals is an intimate album that weaves lyrics about relationship violence and grief over her father’s death.

Them Spirits is an incredibly self-aware attempt at healing old wounds and finding empowerment and forgiveness in their place.

AKUA uses slowly paced songs and strategic key choices (such as using a large percentage of minor notes) to create a cohesive, yet unsettling feeling throughout the album, taking listeners with her on an emotional journey. This is conscious music at its best, a blend of indie, R&B and soul. CHERYL HARRELL

FILM JINN Ajmal Zaheer Ahmad Exxodus Pictures

If you’re as fascinated and enamored by jinns (the mystical creatures created from a smokeless fire who have free will) as I am but also want a quick and accurate glimpse into the lives of Black converts to Islam in a time of rampant Islamophobia: Jinn will be right up your alley. In just an hour and a half, Jinn allows us to see the simplicity of Islam and how quickly the words of the Qur’an can get lost when culture — rather than spirituality — becomes centralized.

The film tells the coming-of-age story of 17-year-old Summer, whose

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mother’s conversion to Islam leads both of them to learn to accept the differences of others — and the differences of each other — instead of reprimanding or shunning them. Jinn helps normalize what Islam really is: a very private faith that, ideally, relies on the concept of peacefully living and letting live. It also provides a new perspective on jinns, who have a bad reputation in Islamic culture for being inherently evil, when in truth they are just like humans in that they, too, are given the choice to have faith in Allah or not, to do good deeds or bad ones, to live, love, create and to change and morph as they grow.

SARAH KHAN

MOUTHPIECE Patricia Rozema First Generation Films

Mouthpiece explores the complex inner conflict of 30-year-old Cassandra, who struggles to write a eulogy for her mother after she has passed away suddenly. Played by two actresses, the Cassandras either move in sync or fight each other both physically and verbally.

The film explores the notion of what it means to be a woman in today’s society; whether it’s receiving catcalls from older men or wondering if women waste their lives by giving up their careers to raise children. What truly steals the spotlight is the relationship between the protagonist and her mother. It shows how difficult it is to define a person by what they did or didn’t do, and that we should define a person by what they meant to us. The movie is an emotional tug-ofwar, and it is only when the two Cassandras unite back into one that we feel a cathartic sense of peace. VIVIAN ZHI

VIDEO GAMES

passing train that brought her so much nostalgic comfort rattles the windows of a new friend’s apartment as she tries to sleep. LAUREN PERRUZZA

PODCASTS INNERVATION (FORMERLY SCI(L) ENCE): A PODCAST ABOUT WOMEN IN STEM Hosted by Dr. Shini Somara Women in STEM (science, technology, engineering and mathematics) will not be silent in this girl power, brain power podcast.

Dr. Shini Somara, a mechanical engineer, interviews women working in STEM to give them “a chance to be honest and open about what it’s really like surviving and thriving in what often feels like a maledominated world.” This isn’t your typical interview podcast though; each guest is anonymized so that she can share her unique experiences without having to tout her titles or wave her accomplishments.

Innervation launched in June 2018 and has included scientists and engineers with a wide range of specialties. In this series, Dr. Somara asks insightful questions and handles hard topics with care, such as the paralysis of imposter syndrome and not diminishing yourself to fit under someone else’s ego. This binge-worthy podcast delivers on information and entertainment. CHERYL HARRELL

WEBSITE

NIGHT IN THE WOODS Finji Infinite Fall

Night in the Woods is a narrative-based game where you play as Mae, a 20-year old cat who has returned to her hometown of zoomorphic citizens, Possum Springs, after dropping out of college.

In the game, you explore the drastically-changing Possum Springs, speaking with Mae’s family, townspeople and friends who have grown distant after her two years away. The gorgeous colours of the scenery and cute, stylized animals belie the encroaching decrepitude of the town; “for lease” signs and crumbling architecture stand alongside statues and murals that reflect Possum Springs’ bygone industrial past. Mae’s personal life is also crumbling. After witnessing an abduction, her own mental illness and the horrifying reality of what’s really going on in the nearby woods come to light.

Even a beginner player won’t find the running, jumping and selection controls of Night in the Woods difficult. What’s challenging is the heavy feeling that grows in your chest as Mae encounters poverty and despair in the town’s working class. The game masterfully captures the declining city at its best and worst; from a gleeful night at the all-but-abandoned Fort Lucenne Mall, to Mae’s recognition that the

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YOUNG ADULTING Edited by Emily Pohl-Weary and Elizabeth Leung University of British Columbia

The Young Adulting website is a menagerie of thoughtful reviews about carefully-chosen teen fiction. The reviewed books lend themselves toward important societal issues, such as social stigmas and isolation in Confessions of a Teenage Leper and queer love and sexual-abuse recovery in All of Us with Wings. The site includes a diverse range of authors, and many featured titles subvert familiar tropes and challenge the status quo. The reviews are insightful and not always positive; the reviewers don’t shy away from calling out stereotypes, poor plotting and other issues.

Young Adulting makes it easy to find reviews by age (Middle Grade, Young Adult and New Adult) or by genre (poetry, science fiction, romance, etc). The site maintains a nice mix of fiction, dating back to 2014 with I’ll Give You the Sun to brand-spanking new titles like The Mystery of Black Hollow Lane and Like a Love Story. CHERYL HARRELL

shameless

counterculture classic

ALL-AMERICAN GIRL All-American Girl premiered as the first primetime sitcom featuring an all Asian-American cast in September 1994 on ABC. The sitcom was loosely based on Margaret Cho’s stand-up comedy material, and starred the comedian as the 21-year-old Margaret Kim. All-American Girl was cancelled after one season in March 1995, having disappointed critics and audiences alike. Many AsianAmerican viewers found that the show played to the performance of cultural stereotypes, as the Kim family encapsulated every Orientalist caricature: the unassimilated grandmother who speaks in “broken English,” the controlling “tiger mom,” the pragmatic dad, the obedient older-brother-cum-doctor and the hyper-“Americanized” younger brother. None of the show’s producers, directors or writers were Korean-American, and — besides Margaret — none of the characters had depth beyond these stereotypes.

The pilot opens with the premise that Margaret Kim is subversive in her performance of gender roles, despite her mother’s insistence that she act and look like a “traditional Korean girl.” In the first scene of the show, Margaret comes down the stairs to join her family wearing a denim jacket over a slip dress, and sheer pantyhose and pumps. Margaret’s mother Katherine (Jodi Long) asks, “what are you wearing?” Her grandmother Yung-Hee (Amy Hill) adds, “your uncle in Minnesota has a concubine that has a dress just like that.” Margaret brushes off the matriarchs’ slut-shaming and responds that she is going out on a date with her boyfriend, Kyle (Christopher Burgard).

As independent as the character Margaret Kim is, Margaret Cho herself could not escape Hollywood’s prescription of what it meant to be an Asian-American woman. ABC’s non-Asian network executives thought she was “too fat to play herself.” The execs “pointed at her

‘problem’ areas and said that her face filmed too wide for the camera.”

For several weeks leading up to the pilot and during the show’s filming, Margaret Cho crash-dieted and took Fen-phen, a drug prescribed for weight loss, which the FDA banned in 1997 after it was linked to heart valve problems. She ended up losing 30 pounds in two weeks.

Drawing from her experience in stand-up, Margaret Cho would sometimes go off-script. In retrospect, while these improvisations were always witty, certain scenes have a haunting nature. After Margaret Kim starts dating Dr. Raymond (Garrett Wang), her mother Katherine’s choice, she goes to lunch with her two coworkers and best friends, Ruthie (Maddie Corman) and Gloria (Judy Gold). There, she tells Ruthie and Gloria that she is on a diet because of her new relationship. Gloria says, “you do not need to lose weight,” and Margaret responds: “maybe you’re right. I don’t have a fat body. I just have a big head,” and begins snorting like a pig. The episode ends with Margaret breaking up with Raymond, partly so that she can be free to eat whatever she wants. To the innocent eye, the episode is body positive.

Knowing what we know, it makes a point to stress the stereotype that Asian mothers and men are controlling of Asian women’s bodies; all while erasing the fact that throughout filming, Margaret Cho’s health was compromised to the point where she was urinating blood and ended up hospitalized for renal failure.

After All-American Girl was cancelled, it took a long time for Margaret Cho to learn how to love her body again. So, while the show rightfully received a lot of backlash for the performance of cultural stereotypes through its writing and characters, critics and audiences believed that Margaret Kim was a fleshed-out character. In fact, she was a tool that helped encourage these stereotypes to persist. While they focused on the other Kim family members, American viewers did not see how Hollywood afflicted great violence upon an AsianAmerican woman’s body. JEZ NGUYEN

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“I believe in encouraging young people to be shameless. A huge thanks to our 2021 lineup: MOST VALUABLE PLAYER When I was younger, I was a card-carrying member of Ann M. Douglas The Good Girl Club. It took me 42 years to give up my SHAMELESS PRO Da Dalt membership — to realize that it’s better to be outspoken Alexandra Allison Martell Painter than to be bullied into silence; better to be part of a group Amy Fiorella Morzi Heather Cross of passionate people who are working for change than Jo Snyder Laura Brady to be alone and scared. Investing in Shameless means Linda Marleny Dow Fine investing in the next generation. I am proud to take my Lo Nicole Cohen Popper place in the Hall of Shameless because speaking out for a Nicole Tan Light better world is nothing to be ashamed about.”

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