Athena Holmes (they/them) is a performing artist with two personas: Ms. Holmes, a roots, blues and jazz singer-songwriter, and BiG SiSSY, a drag performer from another planet. BiG SiSSY is from Black Star Planet, and her show is an Afrofuturist rock-opera. The McGill Daily sat down with Athena to chat about personas, performance, race, gender, black supremacy, and healing.

On Their Personas

The McGill Daily (MD): Were your projects born at the same time, or one after the other? Were there any events in your artistic career or life that inspired your personas?

Athena Holmes (AH): They were not born at the same time. Ms. Holmes is my singer-songwriter project which I’ve been doing since I started playing music. [Ms Holmes] is for my own songs and ideas, or if I get a commission to write, I’ll write under that name. BiG SiSSY… I’m not sure what the catalyst for that starting was. I had seen some performances where people were doing things that made me really uncomfortable. I had to ask myself, “why does this make you uncomfortable? Is there actually anything wrong with what this person is doing? Why do you think they should be doing it differently?” I had to question my own judgments about what I thought was permissible on stage, or what I thought was the right way to act. I wanted an outlet where I could push my own boundaries as a performer in terms of what I thought was “okay” or “going too far,” and push myself outside of my comfort zone. As an artist, I try to push myself outside of my boundaries in life in general, but [BiG SiSSY] is sort of a safe environment where I can experiment and see what comes out.

MD: So, would you say that BiG SiSSY is yourself or an alter ego?

AH: It is an alter ego, but it is definitely a lot of me. I asked my friends who have seen BiG SiSSY, “what astrological sign do you think BiG SiSSY is?” and they were like, “well, obviously a Scorpio,” and I’m a Scorpio, too.

MD: How would an encounter between BiG SiSSY and Ms. Holmes unfold? Would they ever meet? If so, how?

AH: They do meet! They’re both in me!

MD: What would they say to each other?

AH: I think they would write music together; they would probably write a song! It would probably be about smashing the patriarchy or destroying capitalism.

MD: Would Ms. Holmes feel uncomfortable?

AH: No! I’m still down to say the things that I say through BiG SiSSY in my other projects, but I would just say it in a more polite way.

“There is a bit of dissociation that happens when I look out into the crowd, looking specifically for black faces, and I don’t see them.” – Athena Holmes

On Race, Gender and Performance

MD: What is the relationship between your gender and your personas, or between identity and performance?

AH: As somebody who’s been raised or perceived as female and as being “pretty,” I’ve often felt like I was performing my gender. Equally, being a singer with a fairly clean-toned voice, I’ve been performing an idealized version of myself for mostly white audiences. Whenever people find out I’m a musician, they would remark, “oh, you sing jazz, right?” I know that’s what you want, I know you want me up on stage, in an evening gown, singing jazz… That’s how you want me. And I’ve never been interested in acting the way people wanted to perceive me.

I also wanted to perform as BiG SiSSY to understand gender better and to turn it into a source of freedom, as it didn’t use to be. I felt like society has told me, “you have these feminine traits that we find sexy, and you should show them off.” So, with BiG SiSSY, I just go at it at full force: my ass is hanging, and everything is on display – my hair is long, I’m hyper-feminized, and hypersexual. In a way, I do like to present my gender like that, but only when I want to. When I do it as BiG SiSSY, I’m in control and it also feels like a bit of a “fuck you, you want me to look pretty — well, how’s this?” But when I uphold these feminine stereotypes, it’s not for you; it’s not for the male gaze, because usually by the end of it people are slightly grossed out, which is nice.

MD: Do you recall any performance where you felt like your message was perceived the wrong way, or people weren’t understanding what you were trying to convey?

AH: As BiG SiSSY, I always feel great after the shows. I did do a show recently where I performed ‘Black Supremacist’ [a segment in BiG SiSSY’s performance], and I looked around and there were no Black people. The audience was very supportive of the performance, but I was kind of like, “what? What is this now?” Black folks have long been considered or used as entertainment for white folks. When I perform for mostly white audiences, it’s challenging, because I can’t help but feel the weight of that. Even though I’m doing the work for me, it’s a complicated dynamic.

“I like to present my gender [the way people expect me to], but only when I want to. When I do it as BiG SiSSY, I’m in control and it also feels like a bit of a “fuck you, you want me to look pretty — well, how’s this?” But when I uphold these feminine stereotypes, it’s not for you; it’s not for the male gaze, because usually by the end of it people are slightly grossed out, which is nice.” – Athena Holmes

I also remember doing one performance where I had this video playing in the background of a Black preacher exorcizing a white woman. The sound of their voices was quite violent — she was speaking in tongues and everything. I wanted it to be representing an exorcism of the white devil specifically. Then, it cut to a song by Sister Souljah, and I went down on my knee with my fist up and I had somebody pass a hat, so that everybody could give me money.

On Black Supremacy

MD: BiG SiSSY is a self-proclaimed Black supremacist. What’s the first thing you would do after a Black supremacist revolution?

AH: A Black supremacist revolution? That sounds like heaven. I would want to have a party or celebrate in whatever way we would celebrate. If there was a Black supremacist revolution, it would bring a lot of people with similar ideas and compassionate hearts, energy and creativity together, and I would just want to be with them.

MD: What would a Black supremacist society look like?

AH: I wouldn’t want it to look anything like a white supremacist society. In my utopic vision, it wouldn’t be a system of domination, even though Blackness would be ‘reigning supreme,’ so to speak. I feel like it would be more like an acknowledgement and a celebration of Blackness, and people not being afraid of it and instead actually embracing it and putting themselves outside of their comfort zone as a means of learning. There would be so much warmth and community, and more respect for children and elders. I feel like there would be a lot of laughing too, a lot of laughing at white people if they were mad about something, because then their power would’ve been stripped.

“I’ve often felt like I was performing my gender and performing an idealized version of myself for mostly white audiences for a long time.” – Athena Holmes

On Healing

MD: What do you dream of?

AH: I think I dream of healing a lot. Because I think, again, under the white supremacist capitalist society that we live in, there is so much suffering, and a lot of it is unnecessary. As the oldest child in my family, I always wanted to bring people together to have real conversations and to initiate healing. I’m sure that to some extent, this bleeds into my performances too, in the way that I engage with audiences and how I invoke certain emotions that I think should be brought up. Hopefully, it’s a step towards healing. With BiG SiSSY, I don’t necessarily try to say anything in any kind of pretty, flowery way. I think it can be really cathartic to not have to be eloquent and to say exactly what you’re feeling, and especially to be able to do so in a public space.

The interview has been edited for clarity.

Catch BiG SiSSY performing at Hyper Real: Black History Kick-Off Party at the VAV Gallery on November 15 at 9 p.m.!

The post Destination: Black Starr Planet appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Legendary speeches like Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream,” Sojourner Truth’s “Ain’t I a Woman?” and Booker T. Washington’s “Cast Down Your Buckets,” inspired many groups of artists and musicians to develop and refine spoken word in the 1960s. One of these groups, The Last Poets, played a crucial role in popularizing the art form and inscribing it at the heart of Black culture. Spoken word has since played a vital role in shaping Black music, and is considered to have given birth to rap, hip-hop and many other musical genres.

Today, spoken word and slam poetry are both thriving and effective art forms drawing on diverse subject matters and musical trends. This is especially true in Montreal’s art scene, which has produced some of the genre’s most talented artists, such as Fabrice Koffy and Kym Domique-Ferguson, who will be the featured in Le Balcon’s Les Séries Spoken’Jazz # 1.

Meet the Artists

Fabrice, one of the artists of Le Balcon’s upcoming event, grew up in the Ivory Coast, and began writing poetry in French as a teenager. Over the past five years, he has been working with the Kalmunity Vibe Collective (www.kalmunity.com) and has participated in a variety of collaborations and shows. This includes shows at the FrancoFolies de Montréal and the Montreal International Jazz Festival. In 2016, he won a Vitrine des Musiques Locales Métissées award (an award highlighting Montreal artists who blend their inspirations of cultures and traditions from all around the world), and was invited to MASA (Marché des Arts et du Spectacle Africain) and performed onstage with Salif Keita (Afro-pop singer and songwritter from Mali known as “The Golden Voice of Africa”). Fabrice is also active in community organizations and schools, where he frequently gives slam and poetry workshops. He also regularly takes part in slam events organized by the Ligue Québécoise de Slam (LIQS). Onstage, Fabrice brings elements of theatre and music to his distinctly modern and urban poetry.

Kym Dominique-Ferguson, another of Le Balcon’s upcoming artists event, is a poet by birth, a theater artist by training, and a producer by nature. For over a decade, he has wowed Montrealers with his theatrical poetry and open mic nights. In August 2015, he successfully produced and performed his first one-man show, The Born Jamhaitianadian, to a sold-out audience.  From 2015 to 2016, he participated in  the Black Theatre Workshop’s Artist Mentorship Program ensemble and, soon after, was accepted into the renowned Spoken Word Program at the Banff Centre for the Arts in Alberta.  In September 2017, he made his directorial debut with the Phenomenal 5IVE, an acclaimed production that ran for five days at the MAI (Montréal Arts Interculturels). Phenomenal 5IVE was a production mixing poetry, music, theatre and dance featuring 5 phenomenal women (Sar El Bey, Manouchka Elinor, Stella Jetté, Majiza Philip, and Elena Stoodley). The poet is currently working on his first play, titled #DearBlackMan.

The McGill Daily met with Kym Dominique-Ferguson and asked him a few questions.

The McGill Daily (MD): How long have you been doing Spoken word?

Kym Dominique-Ferguson (KDF): I have been writing poetry since I could put my pen on paper, but the actual practice of performing spoken word/poetry I began when I was 18 years old at the Edna Manley College School of Drama in Kingston, Jamaica.

MD: Do you think Spoken Word still as  powerful a protest tool like it was in the past?

KDF: Definitely. The expressions “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me” are the words of a fool. Words have been the most powerful tool used to control people, to move them to take action, to create revolutions, to cause an uprising. Very few people can hear the words “I have a Dream” and not associate them with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s most famous speech. “By any means necessary” is one of the most controversial expressions Malcolm X was notorious for using. “Fight the Power” was synonymous with the Black Panther party of the late 60s-early 70s, but associated to the rap group Public Enemy. President Obama’s acceptance speech from his first inauguration was pure poetry, meant to bring change and hope to the nation. The spoken word artist has the job of telling the truth of their time to the people who will listen. By retelling the news in metaphors, rhymes, iambic pentameter and more. To make you laugh, cry, think, and to make you wonder and question. To make you want to read, read, read, and write, write, write. We are the singers and rappers, the storytellers and the revealers of truth.

MD: How important do you think the spoken word movement is today?

KDF: Very much. In a time of fake news it is the responsibility of the spoken word artist to show the reality we and the people around us experience. At the end of the day, our words will go down in history, right alongside Langston Hughes, Walt Whitman, and more. Without the spoken word movement, people lose their voice. Without their voice, there is no push-back against a system that is set-up against the people who live in it.

MD: How is the Montreal Spoken Word scene, and what should we expect on April 26?

KDF: Montreal’s spoken word scene is as diverse as it is vibrant. You should expect to see fireworks, slow burning flames, soft caresses and hard hitting wake-up calls. Be prepared to see artists open up their hearts and speak their lived truths through their souls.

Find out more about Le Balcon’s event here, and buy your tickets at  https://www.admission.com/event/les-series-spokenjazz-avec-fabrice-koffy-et-kym-dominique-ferguson-billets/907911.

This interview was edited for clarity.

The post Spoken word too, fights the power appeared first on The McGill Daily.

What is performative allyship?

According to the Anti-Oppression Network, allyship is “an active, consistent, and arduous practice of unlearning and re-evaluating, in which a person of privilege seeks to operate in solidarity with a marginalized group of people.” In other words, allyship is the constant use of one’s privilege as a tool to help marginalized groups resist oppression. Importantly, using one’s privilege as a tool should always be informed by the goals of the marginalized group one is in allyship with. Allies are people who are able to act, engage, and listen. Allyship is not an identity, and it is not a stable category. It is an action, and an action that must be repeated over and over again.

I’ve been noticing, however, that “being an ally” has become a way to accrue tremendous social capital. What I mean is that claiming to be an ally to Black, Indigenous, and people of colour (BIPOC), queer and trans folks, the working class, and other marginalized groups, is seen as “cool” and “trendy.” Often this form of allyship comes from feelings of guilt one may have about their privileges. White guilt, straight guilt, and settler guilt can all transform themselves into a sort of “saviour complex” whereby acting out allyship becomes a way to rid oneself of guilt.  

This form of allyship can be considered “performative allyship.” Performative allyship is empty activism driven by the conscious or unconscious desire to gain social capital and to rid oneself of guilt. This diluted form of allyship consists of benefitting from the struggles of marginalized groups’ in order to boost one’s social capital and alleviate feelings of discomfort surrounding one’s privilege.

Performative allyship is an important issue for numerous reasons. The fact that it is confused with actual allyship is concerning. Indeed, this confusion leads people to believe that allyship is all about following trending hashtags related to social movements and wearing pins with “political messages,” while it should be about actively taking part in movements by engaging and listening to marginalized communities, and taking concrete steps to change one’s own internalized beliefs and practices. This problematic phenomenon ties back to the social capital marginalized identities have acquired over the past few years. Indeed, “being into” Black and/or Queer and/or Indigenous culture has become “trendy,,” just like allyship. Having entered the mainstream culture, many cultural and linguistic elements associated with marginalized communities are now perceived as trendy and cool when used by white folks, while marginalized people are still discriminated against for simply following customs which are part of their own culture. There’s this liberal idea that it’s a good thing that marginalized communities’ cultural and linguistic customs are now exposed in mainstream media. However, the process by which these customs are allowed to enter mainstream media is problematic because it is carried out by privileged folk, who benefit from the very same things for which marginalized folks are discriminated against. The rise in the use of AAVE (African American Vernacular English) in the mainstream media is one of the various examples which demonstrates this problem. Indeed, terms such as “boi,” “on fleek,” “shade,” and many more originate from AAVE. These terms are now considered cool because they’re being used by white people. However, Black folks have been and are still facing discrimination for their usage of AAVE. When Black folks use AAVE it’s often associated with a lack of formal education, an assumption that is never made when white people do so.

To illustrate the way “allyship” and “performative allyship” are complete opposites, imagine the following scenario: there is a person with a microphone. The microphone represents this person’s privilege, the fact that they have a platform with which they can speak and be heard. Next to them is a person without a microphone, a person who is marginalized in this instance, who has no way to speak and be heard. A true practice of allyship would be for the person with the microphone to pass their microphone to the person without one, sharing their resources in order to give them a wider platform to advocate for what they need. However, performative allyship would look like the privileged person using their microphone to speak for the person without one, or using it while speaking to the person without. In this way, the performative ally receives the spotlight and their activism becomes a spectacle, a performance, and they are really the only person who stands to gain from the situation.

Performative allyship isn’t exclusive to white liberal folks. E V E R Y O N E can be a performative ally. Things such as access to education, being cisgender, having easy access to health care, and much more, are all privileges that can be shared by members of marginalized communities, and therefore used as tools of allyship. I’ve decided to focus on the ways performative allyship impacts BIPOC communities, but its harms reach well beyond these bounds.

Decolonization is still not a metaphor

In their article “Decolonization is not a Metaphor,” Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang explain what decolonization really entails, and therefore what active allyship with Indigenous communities demands. As the authors explain, decolonization is about the repatriation of Indigenous lands and ways of life. It is not about “decolonizing our ways of thinking” or “decolonizing our schools.” This way of framing decolonization is recurrent and renders the act of decolonization a mere figure of speech, rather than the very real action of giving back land. This is one of the ways in which performative allyship expresses itself. Twisting the act of decolonization into a metaphor enables settlers to escape the real issue: their occupation of Indigenous lands. This can be understood as a “settler move to innocence,” to use Tuck and Yang’s term. A settler move to innocence is a move by which a settler attempts to reconcile their settler guilt. Another example that Tuck and Yang give of such a move to innocence is the insistence of many settlers that they have a great-grandparent who is Indigenous. By claiming some Indigenous heritage, settlers attempt to rid themselves of the guilt that they are settlers. As it can be hard to grasp this issue just by reading about it, let me give you various institutional and individual examples of “settler moves to innocence.”

Let’s first address our dear Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. As the Prime Minister of this country, Trudeau has the power to instigate a lot of changes in its structure. Even though Trudeau has condemned and expressed shame at Canada’s treatment of Indigenous communities more often than any other Prime minister has, the only thing differentiating him from previous Canadian political leaders is the amount of tears he has shed while denouncing the issues Indigenous communities have been facing and denouncing for years, not to say centuries. The problem here doesn’t lie in Trudeau’s tears but rather in the way he consciously or unconsciously benefits from Indigenous communities’ trauma, gaining social capital and ridding himself of settler guilt. By repeatedly stating that he, or we settlers, are sorry for what has been done in the past Trudeau is building his reputation as a progressive and socially engaged leader. However, these words are not backed up by material actions that Indigenous leaders are demanding from the Canadian government, such as a nation-to-nation relationship. Government apologies are only as important as the concrete measures towards reparations that are being taken alongside them; the same can be said of true allyship.

Montreal also has its share of gestures that fall under performative allyship. From changing the name of a street called “Amherst” because the decorated British general wanted “to extirpate this execrable race [Indigenous communities]” to adding a white pine to the Montreal flag to “highlight First Nations contribution to the foundation of the city,” the city of Montreal’s “decolonial actions” are clearly just symbolic. Clearly these actions actually do little — if anything — to help Indigenous communities, just like all actions arising from performative allyship. They allow settlers to hold on to their microphones, rather than passing them on to Indigenous communities.

Now that we’ve covered the issues, let’s talk about solutions. In the face of rising performative allyship, many Indigenous people have taken it upon themselves to write lists of actions settlers can do in order to concretely help them in their fight towards the repatriation of their lands. Since this article focuses on Indigenous communities in Canada, here are some websites in which Indigenous folks enumerate ways in which Canadian and Montreal settlers can help:

Across Canada

https://fncaringsociety.com/7-free-ways-make-difference

https://www.truenorthaid.ca/how-to-help-first-nations.html

https://www.truenorthaid.ca/first-nations-charities.html

In Montreal

http://nfcm.org/who-are-we/

http://www.nwsm.info/volunteer/

http://www.nativemontreal.com/en/get-involved/volunteering.html

Still not woke

Allyship with Black communities goes beyond putting a #BlackLivesMatter here and there in social medias bios. It also exceeds quoting some lyrics from Kendrick Lamar or Solange Knowles, or quoting excerpts of Martin Luther King’s “I Have A Dream” on February 1. Allyship within Black communities means confronting and challenging white supremacy on an ongoing basis. In other words, calling out your racist uncle during the family dinner is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to confronting white supremacy and anti-Black racism (but it is a good start!).

In this particular context, performative allyship is pretty easy to recognize; thousands of articles written by Black individuals defining the practice are circulating online. On a scale of “local woke Becky” to Rachel Dolezal, the range of performative allyship seems deceptively large. While woke Becky may seem like a much better ally than the woman who pretends to be Black in order to gain social capital, the actual difference in their actions is small. Both local woke Becky and Rachel Dolezal gain social capital from their proximity to Black communities, but do nothing to materially combat anti-Blackness. In order to grasp what allyship looks like in this context, analyzing the faux pas is the best thing to do. I analyze five such faux pas.

1. Your allyship/solidarity with Black folks is driven by the need for validation. As an ally, N O B O D Y is entitled to recognition. Using privilege to give space to marginalized folks isn’t an arduous act, so why should writing #BlackLivesMatter online or sharing a petition against police brutality be met with a “thank you” from members of the Black community? Performative allies also tend to expect favours from the Black community in exchange for their allyship. Indeed, some truly believe (consciously or not) that advocating for Black communities online or in real-world settings entitles them to make insensitive anti-Black jokes or to use the N-word whenever they want. Too often, allyship is performed as  if it’s a favour privileged individuals do for the Black community, when it should be seen as duty.
2. You do not listen. How can someone be an ally if they consistently speak to issues that do not affect them, and do not listen to those they want to be allies to? This ties back to the scenario of the microphone. Instead of listening and giving the microphone to Black folks to share their experiences, performative allies keep the microphone to themselves and ramble for hours about how racism affects Black folks on a daily basis. It is so clear that this type of allyship is empty because if it were motivated by a true desire to support anti-racist activism, the first step would be to listen: in order to help people, you need to know what help they want.
3. You take up too much space in places that aren’t meant for you. This ties back to the notion of safe spaces. Way too often I’ve read, seen, and noticed Black exclusive spaces invaded by non-Black individuals claiming to be there as “allies.” Unfortunately, this act is a textbook example of performative allyship. By doing this, performative allies forcefully snatch the microphone out of Black folks’ hands in order to put the spotlight back onto themselves.
4. You make it all about you (“not all____”). Being an ally isn’t about distancing yourself from your own privilege. Many people claiming to be allies to Black communities spend more time justifying themselves and claiming that they’re not like these Beckys than concretely helping Black people obtain what they’re fighting for. Being an ally is about acknowledging the privilege you have and using it to support Black communities. It is not about distancing yourself from others who share your privilege in order to obtain some kind of pity or recognition from Black folks.
5. You ignore intersectionality. People who claim to be allies to Black communities often forget that anti-black sentiment and actions play out in many different ways. Indeed, anti-blackness can be perceived in many movements that supposedly advocate for equality, as illustrated by the movement often referred to as “white feminism.” Mainstream movements advocating for equality tend to exclude Black folks from their pursuit, which contributes to the reinforcement of white supremacy. By being passive when Black folks are excluded from conversations concerning equality, performative allies are complicit in the perpetration of anti-black actions and are therefore supporting the white supremacy they’re supposedly against.

From: Racialized students To: Allies

Once you know how performative allyship and true allyship interact in institutional and personal settings, it is interesting to think about how these dynamics work when being considered as a whole. Knowing how institutional powers and individuals use performative allyship is one thing, but knowing how individuals within institutions live out these interactions is even more interesting. As I study at an educational institution, I decided to take this chance to ask students from marginalized groups how they think the dynamic between performative allyship and allyship plays out in a university setting.

What do you think performative allyship looks like? 

Harshita: Performative allyship looks like centring yourself in an issue that not only has nothing to do with you, but is a result of an oppression you contribute to and benefit from. To me, performative allyship looks like the co-opting of activist movements and marginalized labour to enhance your image. This particular iteration of “activism” looks like public behaviours that occupy space while simultaneously silencing those who are actually affected by the issues on hand. Justin Trudeau has got a hot list running. Statements and displays of emotion only serve to enhance his brand, rather than provide meaningful change for the groups he continually speaks for.

Kyra: Performative allyship pisses me off because I think, in liberal circles, people view being “socially aware” as a way to gain popularity or influence. In races for likes and shares, tangible ways to help affected communities are often ignored or left behind. To me, performative allyship is both disappointing and exhausting, as it breeds suspicion in spaces that are supposed to be “safe” and demands the work of marginalized peoples to either make up for empty gestures or actually fix damage done.

Rasha: Performative allyship is the labeling of oneself as an ally after having learned a tiny amount about a marginalized identities and/or an introduction to anti-oppression. Calling themselves “allies” is often done with good intentions, wanting to show a desire to be friendly and open towards people who are different from them. However, how can they know whether they are actually doing anything to change the circumstances of those they want to be an “ally” to? I believe performative allyship is often self-serving; people dub themselves as allies, partake in activist circles or organizing, often without ever meaningfully contributing to social change in pursuit of the social capital of being “woke” or good. Performative allyship is something I have encountered often as a woman of colour. Most notably, I recall how during the debates over the Quebec charter of values (which targeted Muslim women disproportionately), women of colour were put in a precarious position in the feminist organizing against it. The central voices of this organizing were white francophone women who only invited women of colour to these discussions, or listened to their voices, if it were to repeat or validate a predetermined agenda.

Why does performative allyship piss you off? How is performative allyship affecting you as a member of a marginalized group?

Harshita: It puts me in a position of having to having to forgive or reassure the people who benefit from the systems that continually disadvantage people of colour. White people need to learn to process their guilt in a way that doesn’t demand racialized people to turn their focus to them. In many ways, performative allyship is a silencing tactic that invalidates POC anger. Additionally, I’d have to say it really gets to me when white people get credit for simply repeating what racialized activists have been saying for years.

Rasha: In my previous example, I mentioned how the identity of women of colour are often tokenized. I think this highlights how white people receive the biggest platform to disseminate their performative allyship in mainstream media, while marginalized women are given a platform to speak only on the condition that it fits the ideal representation constructed. Not only does this demonstrate how women of colour are invisibilized as a result of performative allyship, but also how the foundational labour, organizing, and activism of women of colour are exploited while they are simultaneously silenced.

What tips would you give to allies? What does actual allyship look like?

Harshita: A simple rule of thumb — would I be doing/saying this if I couldn’t post it on social media? Would I still feel this way if no one were to see? Is my outrage/shock/confusion taking up marginalized space? Am I conscious of the labour I demand?

Kyra: Actual allyship looks like supporting the marginalized people in your life, even at the risk of your reputation or discomfort. What does your “allyship” actually mean if you choose to stay friends with those exhibiting harmful ideals or actions? What does your “allyship” mean when you’re silent around bigotry at the dinner table? In my opinion, complacency in your day-to-day life negates any “allyship” you may perform. I have three tips for true allies:

1. Be conscious of how you display your solidarity, particularly online. While it’s important to show your support, think about your audience when you share or retweet posts that may serve as constant reminders of trauma and violence for members of the marginalized group it relates to. If the post is graphic or detailed, remember to give warning. Although so many issues deserve more attention, spread awareness the right way; some people are just looking for a simple scroll down their timeline rather than unavoidable, harsh images of their own oppression and endangerment.
2. Know when to be quiet/stay in your lane! Is your voice too loud – are you speaking too much on issues that you don’t have any lived experience or knowledge of? Are you fighting battles that are distracting, unproductive, or ones that the people affected simply wouldn’t want you to fight? Your silence in the right moments allows more opportunity for others to speak about what they actually need and care about.
3. Learn (at least the basics) about the issues you’re fighting, or the movements you’re supporting. There are so many free resources around you (Google, for one)! It’s really no marginalized person’s responsibility to give you a crash course on their oppression. And if someone does take the time out of their day to educate you? Please…say thank you.

Rasha: Move away from “I’m an ally” discourse and towards a discourse of demonstrating your solidarity. It is an active stance; not a passive one — it’s constant, ongoing work. There’s no end to the learning process. Anti-oppression is an attitude, an ongoing process, an approach, and something that needs to be actively and consistently worked on. It is not a passive state, and it will never be done. You don’t get to do one “good thing” and then earn your ally badge; even if one person considers you an ally, it doesn’t mean you are to other people. Moreover, privilege shifts based on context. It’s not enough to check your privilege, or even to acknowledge the privilege that you have in a given situation. Just being aware of your privilege isn’t going to change anything. In areas where we experience privilege, it’s our responsibility to actively resist the systems of oppression that we benefit from

Why is allyship important?

Harshita: Unfortunately, marginalization isn’t naturally occurring. Current social hierarchies are the result of people in power holding groups to subordinate positions on the basis of identity. But there’s this belief in activist and leftist spaces that any support is better than no support at all. In reality, bad allyship very much exists. At its best, it’s annoying, and at its worst, it’s dangerous, as the same toxic dynamics are simply repurposed in “leftist language,” making them equally damning, but more insidious and therefore difficult to identify.

Rasha: Working in sexual violence prevention, I stand by the stance that bad support is worse than no support in undertaking the work that I do. The same can definitely be said about bad allyship; it offers no concrete methods of solidarity and can often be toxic, frustrating, or even dangerous. It is therefore important to be conscious of the quality of care we are trying to provide as support for marginalized identities. I believe there is strength in solidarity. Allyship can serve as an important tool of support, from advancing social change alongside groups to providing/sharing resources, allies can play a necessary role in furthering critical dialogue and mobilizing towards dismantling anti-oppressive structures. This, however, cannot be done under the pretense of performative allyship.

Any other thoughts on performative allyship and actual allyship?

Harshita: When in doubt, defer. Statements are great, but so are tangible actions. Learn to separate activism from your image. When you demand credit for doing the barest minimum, what you’re basically saying is that POCs should expect to face blatant violence, and should be grateful (to you specifically) when they don’t. Do your reading. Do not center your ignorance in a way that demands free education from those you’re seeking to support. Your good intentions cannot be used to evade accountability for the ways you fuck up. Be conscious of the space you take up. Avoid labelling people as “good” or “bad,” but rather, recognize the ongoing process of learning, and keep yourself a part of it.

Rasha: I think taking it upon yourself to do the work of learning and un-learning is critical — the time and emotional energy that goes into POCs explaining facets of social justice/anti-oppression work can be taxing. Instead, read texts by those directly affected, attend workshops/panels, have conversations (again, be careful how you do this). Demanding credit for being an ally does not serve to dismantle oppression or support marginalized groups. And most importantly, being an ally is active work, never passive.

Stop performative allyship!

Allyship is an important tool in social justice movements. In every sphere of life, allies using their privilege to support marginalized communities can greatly contribute to obtaining what they’re fighting for. When allyship becomes “performative allyship,” allies do not use their privilege to support marginalized folks but rather to gain social capital. Because performative allyship is pervasive today, it is incredibly important that we refocus by examining the way we are allies and ensuring that allyship retrieves its original purpose. In this article there are many examples of what allyship and performative allyship look like, and more importantly, many solutions and ideas on how to be an ally to marginalized folks in order to help performative allies understand how their allyship is problematic and how to solve it. Now that you have various tools and pieces of information about how to not fall in the trap of performative allyship, the mic is in your hands. All that’s left to see is whether you’ll keep it to yourself or give it up to the people who truly need it.

This article was edited on March 16, 2017 to better reflect the views of one of the students who was interviewed.

The post Pass the mic appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Kai Cheng Thom is a writer, spoken word artist, therapist, wicked witch, and lasagna lover who divides her time between Montreal and Toronto, unceded Indigenous territories. Her poems and essays have been published widely in print and online, and she has performed in venues across the country, including Verses International Poetry Festival and the Banff Centre for the Arts. Her first novel, Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl’s Confabulous Memoir was released by Metonymy Press in 2016, and her debut poetry collection, a place called No Homeland, was released by Arsenal Pulp Press in 2017. Her book for children, From the Stars in the Sky to the Fish in the Sea, was published in October of the same year. Kai Cheng was also a featured columnist for The McGill Daily from 2012-2014, writing about race, sexuality, and gender. She sat down with us on a sunny Saturday morning to talk about queer community, #MeToo, sinning, living in diaspora, dreams, love, and radical healing. This interview will make you laugh, cry, and really want to sit down and talk with Kai Cheng.

The truth of the heart

Arno Pedram (AP): Hello.

Kai Cheng Thom (KCT): Hiiiii.

AP: So my name is Arno.

Tai Jacob (TJ): I’m Tai.

KCT: I’m Kai Cheng Thom. I wrote some books that all came out at the same time. I didn’t mean for that to happen, but they all came out last year. I also write for the internet sometimes. I used to be very much involved in, like, Montreal activism and queer activism culture, and now I’m not so much, partly because I moved to Toronto, and partly because I am getting older, and I’m like, I don’t know what I’m doing with my life! Also, I’m visiting Montreal right now because my wife Kama La Mackerel lives in Montreal.

TJ: That’s a name drop! (everyone laughs)

KCT: Giant name drop. I’m married to someone famous! And yeah, Montreal is always going to be the city where my heart came into being and where I found myself and also was destroyed, and found myself again.

TJ: That sounds a lot like the story of Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars, which was one of the three books that all came out at the same time. I was wondering, in what ways is this book an allegory for your actual life experience?

KCT: Oh, not at all.

TJ: Really?

KCT: I don’t know, it’s really funny. People ask this question in different ways a lot and I love answering it. So Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars, the subtitle of this novel is “A Dangerous Trans Girl’s Confabulous Memoir,” and when you put the word memoir in the title of your novel, people are always like, “Hey, oh my god, I’m excited to read your memoir!” And I’m like, “It’s not my memoir, it’s the memoir of the character who is fictional.” But of course, people notice certain superficial similarities, like this character being an Asian trans woman growing up in a city where it’s always raining on the west coat, and moving to a city where everyone is speaking French and smoking cigarettes. I used to be an English major in theatre, and my favourite play that we studied was Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, a classic play about an aging Southern belle who’s also, like, a deep racist and you know, a horrible person. But Blanche DuBois, that aging Southern belle, has a line where she’s being accused of being a pathological liar, which she is, right, she’s lied to everyone in her life and kind of tried to trick everyone into seeing her as something that she’s not. And she says, “I never lied in my heart.”

AP: “Never inside, I didn’t lie in my heart.”

KCT: Yes, oh my god! (Laughter)

AP: It’s my favourite line.

KCT: I love it, I love it. And that’s what Fierce Femmes is about. You know, it’s the truth of the heart. And so, nothing that really happens in the novel “happened” — and I have to also say that for plausible deniability, which is the joke I always make — but that novel is the truth of what happened to me in my heart.

Sin and punishment

AP: Okay, so let’s get into activism and queer spaces.

KC: Sure!

AP: Having read your article “Righteous Callings,” I was wondering: how do we manage accountability in social spaces, activist space in particular, in the context of a call-out culture, and how does shame fit into that?

KCT: Mhmm, just like a nice, light question. Oh god, I don’t fucking know, but I’m gonna take a try, because you asked me the question. Whenever this question comes up in any kind of interview context, I’m like, let us set the stage, why am I being asked. And I think people are asking the question because I write about it a lot, and I just want to make it really clear that because I write a lot about accountability does not mean that I am an expert in accountability. It just means that I think about it a lot and, also, that I put these thoughts on the internet. All that to say, I think we live in a culture, in addition to call-out culture, of celebrity culture, in activist space. And we do this thing where we’re like, oh my god Kai Cheng Thom, Kim Katrin Milan, Mia Mingus, all the big names, and some names are bigger than others obviously. And we’re like, “Those people are perfect and the example of how we should live our lives.” And that is terrifyingly similar to certain religious communities, where beautiful ideas around accountability and goodness are then pinned to people who are actually very fallible. Because, I mean, scratch the surface of any celebrity and you will find a sinner. All this to say, I have done bad things. I’ve been called out for some things that I think are fair, others that I don’t think are fair. So take everything I say with a grain of salt! Coming back to accountability in social space, the truth is, I think we’re obviously going through a crisis of accountability in all space right now. In so many countries, in so many places, with the #MeToo movement. And I think the powerful and amazing thing is that the veil is being ripped off of the shame of survivors, and, like, the shame of people who have experienced violence, who have been silenced for such a long time. Maybe this is the first time in history that this particular kind of movement is happening. But I think we are conflating the conversation of punishment with the conversation around accountability and justice.

TJ: I have questions about this actually. Specifically, about that really good article you wrote for GUTS, called “#NotYet,” in response to #MeToo. How do you work at the intersections of the work surrounding sexual violence and work surrounding prison abolition?

KCT: So I think we have a really powerful and beautiful statement, a beautiful activist truism, now blowing up in the mainstream, which is: “I believe women, I believe survivors.” This is a really important statement, in that survivors and women have not been believed for a long time. And that statement, I think, finds its greatest use in situations of support. Whether you’re providing a social service in an institution, or you’re providing support for your friends, the thing you don’t want to do when your friend is like, “I’ve been hurt,” is to say, “Really? Can you tell me exactly how? Does it fit into a legal standard?” And this comes from a history of women’s shelters operating in the United States and Canada where, by law, the definition of sexual assault excluded sexual assault and violence between married partners. But believing survivors has taken on, I think, and maybe I’m wrong about this, but I think it’s taken on a different kind of meaning when we talk about justice and accountability. I think in the mainstream there is a move to conflate, “I believe survivors,” with, “And that means the person who is the perpetrator should go to jail, or go through some kind of punishment.” And we really have not figured out how to separate the idea of punishment from the idea of justice. So like, if I have been harmed, that means the only way for me to feel like that harm has been seen and addressed is that the person who hurt me is being punished. And that is really hard to let go of. To be honest, like I really wish that some of the people that have hurt me would be punished. But from a place of values, when I really think about that, then I’m like, okay, that doesn’t solve the problem of violence. Carceral solutions to violence only displace violence into the prison system and also disproportionately affect vulnerable people, because the truth is that punishment doesn’t happen to the powerful. Punishment only happens to people who can’t stop it, who don’t have the power to stop it. And the activist response to that, which is shunning, or to remove people from social circles, only displaces violent people into other communities, and those people are then angry and traumatized by the loss of their community and so the cycle just spins and spins. And then the secret truth, I think, about activist communities, in the same way the secret truth about religious communities is, is that all of us are sinners. And the extent of the sin varies, it obviously does. But I think all of us, if we were to look into our past, would find something bad that we have done. And it’s so important to talk about this. I’m actually really happy, in a weird way, that the Aziz Ansari story is unfolding the way it does, because the reason there has been so much pushback around that story is that Aziz Ansari, who in his own way is sort of like a figure for liberal and leftist communities, what he did is actually normal — not good, but normal. And when we start to understand that violence is normalised and normative, and happens all the time, we can realise that, actually, most of us are participating in it in some way, from either colluding with the perpetrator to being the perpetrator. Then, I think we can start having a discussion about shame: shame is a normal and healthy response to having done something bad, but it cannot stop there, and we cannot let shame silence us. The most important truth that we need to come to terms with, as believers of justice, is the truth of the harm that we, ourselves, have caused, and not the harm that we think other people have caused — because the truth is, the place where we will have the most impact is in our own hearts and relationships. And I say that as someone who has, you know, a trail of shattered relationships behind me. So there you go.

Being bad

KCT: As a therapist I have the privilege of speaking to people in an intimate way about things that they’ve done that are abusive, that they know are abusive, and the pattern that always comes up is, “Look what you made me do!” The desire to shift blame onto another for one’s own personal pain, trauma, behavior, taken into its extreme, is an abusive pattern. The best part of the movement/moment we’re in is the part that says, “Look at yourself, and also love yourself.”

TJ: Something that I value so much about your work, specifically the article “Righteous Callings” is the way that you incorporate yourself into your analysis, and you start off “Righteous Callings” with this line, “I have always believed that I’m a bad person,” and that’s also been a theme in this interview, the idea of sinning, being bad, and religion. It keeps coming back! But I wonder if perhaps this is the wrong framework, if perhaps we could move beyond sinning and badness to just, “This is who we are.” Because sinning still implies that it is wrong, what if it isn’t wrong? What if it is just who we are and we’re constantly working towards something… ?

KCT: What I’m terrified of about this thought, what I struggle with in moving towards this thought is this: “What if I’m just trying to let myself off the hook for being bad?”

TJ: I know, that’s exactly why I stopped my question halfway, because I thought, “We’re actually bad.”

KCT: So much of the righteousness, self-righteous part of social justice is like, “See how you’re bad! See how you’re racist!” and the right response is, “You’re right. I am a racist,” and that’s of course true in some ways but also, there is this desire in me to be like, “But also, this is a human being human and growing up surrounded by a giant fucking terrifying system of trauma and systemic oppression, and this is all of us!” Does that mean I’m not being accountable? I guess we could question the framework of accountability itself, that, you know, we should do at some point. But also I’m like, “If I said that, what would happen next?”

TJ: I’m wondering what the motivation is? I guess the desire to be good, constantly, actually is a utopic desire — a place that is actually no place. What if we can think of goodness as always inaccessible, and that being okay?

KCT: That would be amazing! And you see people trying to create homelands that are free of sin: like with the Islamic State, a perfect caliphate, similarly with the cultural revolution in China, creating a communist land free of the sin of bourgeoisie. Whoever is doing that is creating this trap of desperately trying to be good, never getting there, blaming everyone else, hurting everyone else. I would love that to be able to say, “It’s okay…not to be good,” but then how do you respond to things that are violent? That need to be changed? But I think those two things are not incompatible!

Kill your heroes?

AP: I feel like a lot of queer culture has built itself around guides, and the history of queer communities often is: in your life you meet certain people who allow you to get further and further into your exploration of queer identity. Should we seek to have no more guides? Or should we try to keep it in a spiritual, social, kinship way?

TJ: That’s really interesting when looking at the similarity between religious communities and queer activist circles.

AP: And also in relation to fame.

KCT: I think it’s always most illustrative and interesting to talk about how I’m actually impacted by this. I often talk about the hypocrisy of celebrity culture and how much I hate it, which is, you know, kind of burning the ship that you’re sailing in, because, obviously, hello?! So much of what I have in my life is because I’m a micro-celebrity. I became a micro-celebrity, basically, as an alternative to becoming a sex worker. I’ve never said that out loud before, but that is true. The options that I felt were open to me in my life, as a trans woman of colour, were sex work or doing the queer celebrity gig. And I chose queer celebrity because, honestly, I found sex work too difficult to get into; I didn’t have the skills. I also found a different career path in social services, but that too is really tied to my queer celebrity. Part of the problem with queer celebrity is that it’s a neoliberal culture — it’s a brand! I’m sorry to pick on fellow micro-celebrities, but most of us are making anywhere from a tiny amount of money, to a moderate size amount of money from speaking, running, touring, modeling, all these other things. And so many of the queer youths that I work with have this in mind: “Oh I could be a YouTube celebrity, I could be a speaker/ writer/ artist/ whatever lifted by the activist community into the realm of fame.” Because it’s neoliberal, and we have to make money, so we’re always trying to be the next critical thing. And I just want to be suspicious of that as someone who is also, supposedly, anti-capitalist, and also, this is how I pay most of my rent guys! When it comes to guides: who doesn’t look up to someone and say, “I wish that were me/ could be me?” That’s so powerful! I don’t want to take that away from people! And I couldn’t!

TJ: And it’s more than that too, that person is helping you survive.

KCT: Yeah! This person is helping you maybe not harming yourself, or ending your life. What I do want to speak against is the concept of infallibility. Because that is so scary both for the people who have idols and for the idols. “Kill your heroes.” The thing queer communities love is celebrities, but the community also loves to hate celebrities. What if we set up a system where we don’t kill, or eat, or burn anyone? Inherently, the idea of having a hero that you then kill, or burn, or eat is disposable, disposability culture. So I’m wondering if we could allow for there to be guides, celebrities, with an understanding that people are humans and actually do some terrible things in life to survive, and also humans do some shitty stuff in life all the time, because they’re human.

No homeland

AP: I’m wondering how identities of queerness, being in a diaspora, not being able to speak your language as you would like to, intersect. I found this in a place called No Homeland, and I particularly resonated with the part where you have this recognition of someone that you see as part of your (diasporic) family, and you feel the need to bond because diasporic identities are so lonely and unique. But even then, we come to feel a tension between our diasporic identity and queer identity, we could ask ourselves: is queer identity a Western identity, a white thing?

KCT: a place called No Homeland is my favorite piece; I wrote it over ten years! That topic is the primary theme of the book, as the title indicates: feeling connection to different places, but also massive disconnection from those same places, and language and identity is so much a part of that. I do not really speak Chinese very well, even though I’ve taken some courses, but there are many different kinds of Chinese that vary between generations, even within my family. What we’re trying to access is a homeland that is frozen in time, a fantasy, that actually doesn’t exist anymore: you can never really go back. But there are different ways of accessing homeland. In some ways the homeland that is really yours is your immediate family: parents, siblings, uncles, which can also be full of trauma for some people. And there are different things we do, like making different foods, trying to access different pieces of culture. The truth is, living in diaspora and being queer means we are so many shades removed, and that can be a terrible and painful thing. It also is, I think, an amazing and powerful gift, when you realise that what is happening to you is the result of your family’s resilience, and a breaking of the narrative of nationalism and homonationalism that entrap most people and most queer culture. When you walk into a queer community, you immediately disrupt it as a person of colour, and when you walk into queer cultures in “the homeland,” you bring this Westernness. I think something interesting is that contemporary Western identity politics are actually very based on essentialism, which feminism and post-modernism tried to break out of for a while. People now are really hammering down, “Are you a POC? Are you a BIPOC? What kind of person of colour are you? How much do you pass? What is your white skin privilege? What is your adjacent-ness to whiteness?” All these terms are coming up, right? I think if you just take a second, it’s easy to realise that everything is fluid and that your experience is your experience, the story you carry is the story you carry, and there is something very freeing about that. When I run into queer Chinese people from the mainland, Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong: it’s always different, and there is always a point of connection. What you get to have is a memory, the ghost that your parents gave you, and you get to let the past go, and I think that’s really important actually — to embrace living in this “place called no homeland” is to be able to let go of the past.

TJ: Also living in diaspora is constantly living in a liminal space.

KCT: Exactly. I am of the opinion that all things are happening at the same time — that all traumas are happening past and future, and I love that — when we are talking about diasporic people, the past is always going to be with us but the future is with us too! And we’ll always be a part of that.

AP: I have a hard time writing in my first language, French, or my second, English, in relation to what I am discovering now about this whole part of my Iranian heritage. It doesn’t have to be, but it’s like English allows at the same times that it limits diasporic creativity. How do you feel about English, what do you think English has allowed you and what do you think it is pushing away?

KCT: Another hard hitting question. I love it! Yeah, I have a complicated relationship with English, like most diasporic writers. And English is so much my first language and my best language. So I was raised speaking Chinese and English, and then, you know, more and more English, and then I really stopped speaking Chinese at all, and then I learned French when I moved to Montreal. But yeah, language is so complicated and does have its limitations, and is such a form of colonization, right? And I think the truth is, I might not be a writer if English were not my best language, because I feel like with English I’m always trying to figure out how to say things that don’t exist yet. And maybe they would exist for me if I spoke my mother tongue more fluently. So I think English pushes me, to find more ways of expressing meaning, and to find new ways of saying things. Also, most of my literary exposure has been through English, some through French also, but like, all of my major references are to English writing, even if the English writing is diasporic or post-colonial. I’m so shaped by that. And I actually do sometimes wonder how limited my politics are because so much of them are in English, and therefore also from the American canon.

Dreams and nightmares

TJ: What are your dreams?

KCT: So, I’m not gonna lie to you! I have a really strong dream that keeps coming up. Literally, when I’m sleeping, but also its a fantasy life. So I am currently married to Kama, but I am also dating a white guy, whom I love, who is definitely the dude who has treated me the best in all the world of all the dudes I’ve ever met, and he’s in tech. And I have this fantasy that he’s going to become a tech millionaire, that we’re going to live in Silicon Valley, and that I’m going to be like a tech millionaire’s trophy wife, and host parties and be disconnected from the world and just float in this billionaire’s palace for the rest of my life.

TJ: Wooow. Wait, I’m sorry, but this happens for a moment in Fierce Femmes.

KCT: It does.

AP: It does.

KCT: It does. And sometimes life is very fascinating because I didn’t meet this boy until right after Fierce Femmes was published. And like, the names are also very similar. Anyway! So, I have this fantasy dream of being lifted into wealth and into heterosexuality and into safety, out of queer community, out of activism, into like the 1 per cent, living a life of safe luxury. That’s a fantasy. It’s also kind of a nightmare, obviously. Because what happens in the book, Fierce Femmes — oh, I guess I can’t spoil what happens in the book — but you know, the character in the book who has that for a moment, doesn’t really enjoy it. And I don’t think I would enjoy it if I had it, either. But I think this says a lot about what I fear right now. And to be really honest, what I fear is queer community and I fear this political moment. At the same time, all of my loves are in queer community, and all of my strengths and all of my gifts come from queer community. And all the potential to change the world in a positive way comes from this political time. But it’s terrifying. Let’s be honest, I think we’re all fricking fucking terrified!

TJ/AP: Yeah, yeah, yeah.

KCT: Because, you know, a despot, like a nationalist despot, is in control of the most powerful nation in the world. All of our idols are falling from the stars, for good reasons maybe, but are still falling, and I think we’re all kind of falling with that. And the longing for safety is ingrained in us, and I think it’s an essential thread in white, queer American community, this idea of safety also being tied to economics and if you can just be wealthy enough and married enough and heterosexual enough, then you can be safe. When of course, everything that Fierce Femmes is about is releasing these ideas of safety to seek out transformation, to seek out justice, to seek out connection, to seek out magic. So I guess the shadow dream to my dream of becoming a tech millionaire’s trophy wife is the dream of continuing this life and finding more freedom in that. The dream of being a tech billionaire’s wife is embracing the unknown, and I think that’s what we all grapple with, right? And we have the choice of being assimilative or upwardly mobile, in the same way that my parents really, really tried to fit in — this is like the dream of a different kind of world.

Forgiving and being forgiven

TJ: What is the role of relationships and friendships in healing in social justice movements? We kind of touched on it before, but could you expand? I’ve been thinking about friendship as the root of freedom and the communities that we form being alternative universes.

KCT: If we can return to a cliché for a moment, it’s been said that love is the answer, that our relationships are the answer, that within the microcosm of our intimate partnerships and chosen families we create these spaces of not constantly having to experience otherness, of not having to experience non-consent. But we know the truth about a lot of our friendships and family relationships, especially at this age, is that of course violence is replicated in queer family, how could it not be? We are traumatised creatures trying to build, and when we are doing that we are going to fuck it up, a lot. So I think the revolutionary potential in relationships is the potential for honesty, for saying, “Wow you really fucked up and hurt me badly,” and for forgiveness. And this is what trauma takes away from us: the potential to be forgiving and forgiven. When we live in traumatic environments with parents or caregivers, we are taught to believe that making a mistake will erase us from the possibility of having love. There’s this horrible, beautiful quote in the God of Small Things where this child is being chastised by her mother, and her mother says, “Do you know what careless words do? They make people love you less.” And there’s this terror in queer communities of being loved less because of careless words. You say something that’s a microaggression, or you do something that is politically incorrect, or is problematic — that’s the word, right — then we will be loved less and less and less, we live in terror of this, right? And one thing I wish was more present in queer community, that actually was present in a weird way in the Christian community I grew up in, is this idea that you could be forgiven if you were honest about your mistake. I mean, it didn’t work out for the Christian community that I grew up in, but it was an idea that was around, and I feel like it is actually not that much around in queer community right now. But now as a therapist, what I know is important for recovery from trauma is the ability to break a relationship and to repair it again, and to have faith that we won’t lose each other.

Returning to the body

KCT: It’s so human that we fuck up and people leave us and it SUCKS, right? And then there’s just that moment of totally being lost in the pain, and there’s something about how pains returns us to the body that is so important. And I think we have to listen to that, the body tells us things, that people are important and that it’s bad we fucked up, for one thing, and also that relationships are changing. You know, as we’re talking about this experience of getting into these close relationships, and you hurt each other and you love each other again, I think sometimes people resist that idea for the good reason, because I think a key factor of abuse in intimate violence is someone saying you have to forgive me, and things have to be the way they were again. Like, if I said “I’m sorry, now we have to be friends exactly the way it was,” and that’s actually not possible. When you hurt someone you do change the relationship forever, and sometimes we change it in a way that is better and more close, and sometimes we change it in a way where it’s time for it to be over. And forgiving and being forgiven, or having forgiveness as a value, does not mean someone has to still be your partner after you’ve hurt them or still be your friend, or even that you have to like each other. It just means that you’re allowed to exist together, right? And that grief and that pain is what transformation feels like, but also is what allows us to change. Pain is what tells us, “Okay, I really have to change my patterns,” or “Oh, that person was really important to me, and I grieve that loss.” I think we spend so much time trying to avoid that pain that we end up sometimes locking ourselves into really difficult and sometimes violent patterns.

This interview has been significantly edited for clarity and length.

The post The stories we carry appeared first on The McGill Daily.

For Colored Girls is a piece that was originally written by Ntozake Shange in 1976. This piece consists of poetic monologues accompanied by music and choreographies (known as choreopoem). Each poem tells the stories of seven women who have suffered some form of oppression at different points in their lives.

The McGill Daily: You talked about intimate subjects and displayed a lot of personal things. How did you feel doing all of this in front of an audience? What were the highlights of the piece, and the main challenges faced?

Benita Bailey (Lady in Red): Because these women [on the cast] are amazing on and off stage, as you can see, it was not difficult to be vulnerable. Presenting the last monologue was the hardest for me, and everyone knows that here! I was really terrified to get my shit together till the end. [My trust in all] the girls [made it] possible for me to just give it my all. I found it hard to keep my emotions contained when scenes such as the abortion one were being played [editor’s note: the Abortion scene is when the Lady in Blue, too ashamed to have people look at her getting an abortion, proceeds to execute an abortion on herself, alone]. Like, you want to feel the emotions but at the same time you can’t let them overwhelm you. The Pyramid scene blew me away because every time I felt like [the Lady in Purple] were telling us sisters [her] story, so [she] must have been doing something right! [editor’s note: the Pyramid is a monologue where the lady in Purple reminisces on when she found herself in love with a man two of her friends were also in love with].

My biggest challenge was obviously my last monologue. What I struggled with is that I didn’t believe I could do it, because I had never done such a long monologue before. I did not tell Munya because I thought she would freak out. It was especially a challenge because being a Black actress coming from Europe, I [usually] don’t get main roles… I get certain [type-casted] roles. So, all of a sudden I have this amazing monologue that I’ve never had the chance to do before. Every day I came to the girls and told them I couldn’t do it. The last week, everybody knew their lines and I was freaking out because I didn’t. I stayed up until 2 a.m. because I was freaking out. I was waiting for the girls to tell me something that would crush me, but they always encouraged me and helped me!

Munyaradzi Guramatunhu (Director) (MG): I told her she could do it. (laughs)

Being a Black actress coming from Europe, I [usually] don’t get main roles… I get certain [type-casted] roles. –Benita Bailey

Lorna Kidjo (Lady in Yellow) (LK): I feel the same way. The fact that we’ve become so close, that I know that I’m with the girls, is what allows me to put so much out there. Because yeah, I feel exactly like [Bailey] said, safe.

Nelly Zarfi (Lady in Brown): Personally, this choreopoem helped me because I am still going through a heartbreak, and so many poems resonate with me. Sometimes you want to be loved and you want it so much that you put yourself out there. But there’s a point when you’re like “I gave you everything, please love me.” This kind of begging thing is something that has happened to me and I love the fact that there are other poems that are like “no, you need to love yourself first,” and those are the answers and emotions you’re going through in relationships. Those poems give me great answers, so this was a great thing because it built a sisterhood, and I also think we learned a lot about womanhood.

The fact that we’ve become so close, that I know that I’m with the girls, is what allows me to put so much out there. Because yeah, I feel exactly like you [Bailey] said, safe. –Lorna Kidjo

Jamila Joseph (Lady in Purple) (JJ): Doing this play felt full-circle for me. I felt like meeting [the cast], being able to play Lady in Purple, being part of this production was all written in the stars. I feel like they were all missing from my sisterhood. This is my first acting gig, and I was extremely nervous. Speaking and having to do scenes then go into feelings I don’t really want to talk about and revisit was really hard for me. I had to face a lot of insecurities and fears and traumas and things I did not want to deal with. But having a group of women that were doing the same thing as me — telling the honest story of Black women — made me feel like I had women backing me up. There was a moment when we were doing the Abortion scene and I got really emotional, and I didn’t feel like I could be part of it. And I had all these women just come to me and be like “Are you ok? I’m here for you.” I know that it exists and that I have sisterhood in my life, but these are all women I didn’t know, I [had] just met them, and it just reaffirmed what Black female sisterhood meant [to me]. I didn’t have to actually know you to know that we love and care about each other. It wasn’t only about me, it was about all of us. This sisterhood made me feel very grounded and secure even though we are all very different and similar at the same time. And it’s ok! Sisterhood isn’t only about namaste and kumbaya, you know what I mean? We’re not going to agree on everything, we’re gonna have different feelings about things and want to express ourselves in certain ways, and still all do that and have respect for each other. And that makes me love them even more because I’m like, “Wow, you’re such a strong woman and we’re all different, and we can still see the bigger picture and work together.”

I had all these women just come to me and be like “Are you ok? I’m here for you.” –Jamila Joseph

For me, the hardest part of being Lady in Purple was telling the Pyramid story. If I ever had a boyfriend and found out my friend was sleeping with him, it’s deuces both ways, and goodbye, you know what I mean? Or a talk with my sister like “What the hell? What’s going on?” It was hard for me to be sad and to do the begging kind of thing because that’s not me anymore. I’ve been in that situation before in my life. I feel like there’s always that one person that will make you do things you never thought you would do. I did not want to revisit that part of my life, and knowing I had to resurface that emotion more than once was like “Urgh, I don’t wanna do that! I don’t want to give it tears.” But I had to face those things and to realize that it is not because I’m bringing these emotions back that I’m here again, that that person is still around, that I still think the same. It is okay to act in this moment, especially when you’re not there anymore.

LK: I agree with you. I feel like we’ve gotten so close so fast because of every rehearsal that we had and the piece we’re working on. I usually take a long time to get close to people and this has happened so fast. I feel that it was made possible only because of everything [Guramatunhu’s] done for us.

Inès Vieux Francoeur (Lady in Green): When I first read the script, I felt so many emotions. Even though some of the experiences in the texts did not happen to me, I was still able to relate to them by thinking about certain moments of my life. The fact that this play was written in the seventies and is still relevant today was honestly breathtaking. And to perform that in front of people, and bring out things that I wanted to stay buried, and putting that out in front of an audience is definitely an interesting and necessary experience. Honestly, a real sisterhood blossomed between us, and this is really amazing because it is what the play is all about. Being able to live this experience with [the cast] is just amazing. Personally, I did not have any problem with performing in front of strangers. It’s more when people I know are in the audience that I get really anxious because sometimes I feel like they know what and who I am talking about.

The part I had a lot of difficulty with was “There’s No More Love Poems,” where I talk about giving yourself to people, and not wanting to deal with emotions, while denying yourself the right to express sorrow and to be sad because you think that being a women of color gives you no right to be sad. That definitely hit home. There was also the piece about graduation night where myself and Lady in Blue report [to] people that something bad happened at graduation night. Sexual violence is always hard to talk about in any circles, so it was hard to deal with it while containing my emotions.

Keren Roberts (Lady in Blue): This play was something new for me. I kind of heard about it but did not really know what it was until I saw it a few months ago. I was blown away by the honest stories. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen such sisterhood in my life. To see it on stage, and to see it be performed by these beautiful women was like—oh god, there’s beautiful theatre out there which lets us be human. [And altogether], you know, sassy and sad and in all our shapes. So when I heard about this I was like, “Okay, I don’t know how it’s gonna go, but imma try.” And I found we’re all sisters; we’re all from different continents, so that’s new to me. I feel like I’m easier to get to know through acting because you’ll see my extremes and my less-extreme habits. I have very little in common with Blue, [since her story was way more tragic than mine]. I had to really use my imagination, to put trust in the words so that even if I [couldn’t] picture it, the words [were] still there. So finding a way to make the words work was my main challenge.

To see it on stage, and to see it be performed by these beautiful women was like—oh god, there’s beautiful theatre out there which lets us be human. [And altogether], you know, sassy and sad and in all our shapes. –Keren Roberts

My biggest challenge [was] the Abortion scene. It is so tricky because it was actually the shortest monologue, but you have to tell [an incredibly tragic and painful story]. [The Lady in Blue has] horrible flashbacks, and she’s still going through traumatic events. “I didn’t tell anybody. Nobody helped, nobody came.” [This put me] into a very vulnerable position, which [has been] really hard for me. I don’t know how I’m going to do it every night.

JJ: The best part was Sechita because I got to dance, which is something that I love to do [Sechita is a folkloric Creole dancer, and is the name of the scene where Lady in Purple describes and embodies by dancing Sechita’s life]. And every group scene was incredible for me because I knew that I wasn’t alone, that my girls were here with me.

MG: I could see the progress over time with these girls. You see, in certain situations, people perform a piece well once and then continue to perform it on cruise control, but these girls never did it. The magic happened every time they performed the piece.

For Colored Girls is a beautiful piece which was created, produced and realized by Black women for Black women. Depicting the rainbow of emotions we are allowed to express, this deserves significantly more recognition than it is getting at the moment.

Such an important and historic play should not limit itself to the basement of Morrice Hall—it deserves a bigger platform and audience than simply McGill. Black women are rising and shining more than ever today. Let’s give them a chance to be known, and to be acclaimed for their amazingly strong will.

This interview was edited for the purpose of clarity.

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Founded by the renowned Chadian guitarist Caleb Rimtobaye, AfrotroniX first performed during last year’s edition of AFROPUNK Paris, which is a festival centered around afro-punk music. AfrotroniX’s art, including music and dance, consists of an exquisite fusion between the traditional and the modern. The group’s goal is to redefine the meaning of Afrobeat while presenting “a new Africa,” which they accomplish by mixing African rhythms, Tuareg blues from Sahara, and Mandingo music from West Africa with electronic music.

L.Teez., based in Tio’tia:ke (also known as Montreal), is a young rapper who opened the set. His performance was dynamic, textually brilliant and filled with emotions; his musicality and rapping skills blew the audience away.

The group’s goal is to redefine the meaning of Afrobeat while presenting “a new Africa.”

After this introduction, AfrotroniX started its set in front of approximately 150 amazed people. I was taken by surprise by the ingenuity with which the musical formation blended tradition and modernity by utilizing various artistic mediums. In their song “Sinon le pays va tomber” (Otherwise the country will fall), traditional chants were smoothly mixed with the furious rhythms of Afrobeat, creating groovy music that made the audience dance furiously.

Throughout AfrotroniX’s entire set, three dancers performed traditional dances on the furious and captivating rhythms of a renewed Afrobeat. Staring down at the audience, the dancers hypnotized the attendees with their sharp and smooth movements. Occasionally, a third AfrotroniX member would join the two others on stage with his djembe, and set fire to the scene by performing beats that I did not think were humanly possible. The visual spectacle was equally stunning. Various images and mini-clips we’re projected—some showed people dancing, and others showed stylized sequences of sound wave patterns.

Toward the end of their set, AfrotroniX invited Senegalese singer and songwriter Seydina to perform various songs he wrote for his soon-to-be-released debut album. During this part of the performance, Seydina made the attendees sing, charming them with his impressive stage presence and voice. Seydina contributed to AfrotroniX’s project of representing the strong cultural bond linking countries of the African continent while giving place for its diverse voices to speak up.

Seydina [one of Afrotronix’ guest singers] contributed to AfrotroniX’s project of representing the strong cultural bond linking countries of the African continent while giving place for its diverse voices to speak up.

AfrotroniX used art in order to make a strong statement and to present a “new Africa” while demystifying its current misrepresentations. Between the two parts of their set, the musicians played an instrumental while creator Caleb Rimtobaye addressed the audience and discussed the distorted ways in which the African continent is perceived in Western societies. Rimtobaye ridiculed popular stereotypes such as that all Africans allegedly look at pieces of wood and worship them. After showing the absurdity of such a belief, Rimtobaye continued by stating that it was time for the African continent to be given its rightful image, and proposed his afro-futurist project in the visual and musical clashing of past and present. Caleb Rimtobaye’s speech was warmly received, and on the cheers of the audience, AfrotroniX proceeded to realize Rimtobaye’s words and afro-futuristic promise.

Rimtobaye [stated] that it was time for the African continent to be given its rightful image,  and proposed his afro-futurist project in the visual and musical clashing of past and present.

AfrotroniX’s performance resonated with Afro-Canadians in the room while educating people who were not aware of how distorted their views surrounding the African continent were. As a Canadian born to Haitian parents, I particularly related to AfrotroniX’s message. Western perceptions of Africa and Haiti are similarly distorted. When I was younger, I remember being told by several of my teachers and peers that Haiti was and had always been a poor country. However, as I started doing some research and frequently asking my parents what their motherland was like, I realized how disconnected though prevailing this perception of Haiti was. In fact, as explained by Roger Annis in a letter to The Daily, Haiti’s present state is the result of centuries of imperialism, enslavement, coups, uprisings, liberations and neo-colonial indebting, caused by Western powers, including Canada. Haiti, like many other colonised countries, was and has been culturally and historically vibrant, but has been misconstrued through colonial violence and erasure In debunking myths surrounding Africa, AfrotroniX managed to relate to every people whose motherlands and/or parents’ motherland are similarly othered and misrepresented.

Afrotronix managed to give the African continent its rightful image in the space of three hours using various art forms, and it was simply wonderful.

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