by Vivek Shraya
There were also dozens of critical tweets and hashtags.
#fromSelfhoodToSellout
#RukminisReplacement
#FuckingHypocrite
Predictable. Eventually Sumi tweeted from her own account,
What if it’s just good money? #capitalism
Following her piece on Rukmini, Sumi had received a text from her, after months of infrequent communication, containing that single word: Why?
What an entitled, and even offensive, question to ask. “Why” suggested that there had to be a reason beyond the reason provided in the article, an ulterior motive, a more logical explanation.
But there was no logic beyond truth. In her piece about Rukmini, she had simply reported the facts. She was a journalist after all (at least for now), and she took her job seriously. She had said what needed to be said — and the proof was in the response.
What interested her more was that Hayley’s name seemed to have disappeared from the discussions on the upcoming show. The focus of this event was Neela Devaki. Hayley must have noticed this too because one week before the show, Sumi received a press release from Gold & Platinum Entertainment.
GLOBAL POPSTAR HAYLEY TRACE LAUNCHES M.I.C. INITIATIVE
New Malika Imani Camp for Girls of Colour
“No fucking way,” Sumi said aloud and continued to skim the rest of the press release.
“I was absolutely devastated reading the news about Malika Imani’s untimely death. I am a huge fan of her Subaltern Speaks project and I couldn’t stop thinking about all the music inside of her that we never got to hear. Because of systemic barriers in the music industry, I am told by my women of colour musician friends that they experience their own forms of silence and erasure. So in honour of Malika’s life and visionary music, and inspired by Girls Rock Camp, I’m launching M.I.C. — the Malika Imani Camp for girls of colour, where young female musicians of colour can be empowered and be offered mentorship and skill-building from industry experts.” — Hayley Trace
To support M.I.C., visit hayleymicproject.com or download/stream the new single “Calling In” now available on all platforms. All proceeds from the single will be going to M.I.C. development and programming.
“Oh, this is going to be good.” Sumi rapidly clicked on the link to listen to the single. Unlike Hayley’s previous hits, this one featured no beats or synths. Instead it was just her voice backed by a grand piano, string section and a gospel choir. Sumi grabbed a pen and scribbled down the opening lyrics on her notepad.
We were so hard on you (so hard)
We made a fool of you (so cruel)
You might have made some mistakes
But we are just as much to blame
We should have called you in (not out)
We should have given you the benefit of the doubt
We should have called you up not out online
If we could do it all again and go back in time
We would call, call, call, call you in.
Sumi cackled. “D2, you have to come hear this shit. It’s priceless,” she said, tearing out her earbuds and spinning around to see the deserted cubicle desk behind her.
No one else seemed to find Hayley’s desperate PR stunt as amusing and obnoxious as Sumi. Instead, Hayley’s initiative was unanimously praised. The single raised speculation about it being an apology song to Rukmini and spawned new think-pieces in defence of Rukmini, extolling Hayley for pointing out the broader societal complicity in what had transpired. And all of this activity successfully drowned out mentions of Neela.
Yet on the eve of the show, as Sumi walked into the SkyDome, she spotted teenagers carrying #TeamNeela signs and sporting versions of Neela’s short shaggy crop. She also noticed how few empty seats there were inside the stadium for an opener. One year ago, Neela Devaki could have barely filled a three-hundred capacity room.
When the background music stopped, all of the house lights came on. The audience lifted their phones. A small figure in a silver dress materialized, walked past the centre mic and stood at the edge of the stage. The crowd screamed. Sumi didn’t need to look at the oversized monitor above the stage to recognize the woman.
“Hi Neela,” Sumi said aloud.
She recalled the day she had found Neela’s self-titled debut album in the sale bin at HMV nine years ago. She’d been startled by seeing a brown woman on an album cover, let alone a brown woman who appeared to be so close to her age. Taking the CD to the listening booth, she had balanced on the blue stool and absorbed the album in its entirety. At first, hearing Neela’s bassy tone had felt hollowing, like a kind of death. Sumi felt herself unravelling. But the longer she listened, the more she felt as though Neela’s voice was refilling every crevice in her body. This had to be what love sounded like. She bought the album and, although she loathed the word fan, she bought every album that Neela put out on the day of its release.
When she had started her job at Toronto Tops, her first pitch had been a feature on Neela.
“Never heard of her,” her editor scoffed.
“That’s the point of a feature,” she replied.
“We aren’t in the business of featuring nobodies.”
Sumi’s memories were interrupted by a second wave of cheering. Another woman had walked on stage.
“Rukmini?” she whispered — along with others in the crowd.
Sumi could feel her throat start to close up. She remembered how Rukmini had abandoned her at The Turn Arounds’ show the first time she had seen Neela perform. Rukmini hadn’t texted Sumi to apologize until the following day, and then she had called her to gush about Neela as though she had discovered her.
“Do you know who she is?” Rukmini had asked Sumi audaciously. “I kind of want to ask her out for coffee or something.”
“You should.” Sumi had encouraged her partly because they were friends, and she wanted to seem supportive. Realistically, she couldn’t imagine rock star Neela Devaki saying yes. If she had imagined that was a possibility, she would have asked Neela out herself, instead of working for years to create a more professional way to establish a connection.
But Neela did say yes to Rukmini. And then Neela and Rukmini became friends, went to shows, talked about music. When Sumi ran into the two of them together at the AGO, she wasn’t sure which of them she envied more. But Rukmini’s cover of Neela’s song, draining it of its artistry and monopolizing the acclaim, was not a grey area to Sumi.
When the woman onstage sat down at the piano behind Neela, Sumi realized her mistake. It was Kasi. While Neela continued to look out at the crowd in silence, Sumi wondered how she felt now, being watched by thousands. Was she missing the intimacy of the smaller clubs she typically played? Or was this her way of seeing what Rukmini had seen every night before Hayley had thrown her off the tour? Because she had seen Neela perform live several times before, she knew that this silent prolonged gaze was a standard part of Neela’s show, but tonight she wasn’t just looking at the audience — she was searching. Was she hoping to see Rukmini?
Following Neela’s lead, Sumi scanned the faces around her. She paused when she spotted a grey-haired brown woman sporting a striped collared shirt and maroon glasses. She looked like she had come directly from work. Why did this woman look so familiar? Had she sat next to her on the subway? Or was she the relative of a friend? Or someone connected to Toronto Tops?
These questions made Sumi’s hand instinctively wave at the woman. Then she recognized her from her profile on the university website — Dr. Imani. Of course, she had flown in for this show. Of course, she was a Neela fan too.
Embarrassed that Dr. Imani likely didn’t know what Sumi looked like since their interview had been conducted by phone, she quickly turned around, just in time to see Neela walk to the mic and nod at Kasi. Sumi watched them smile at each other in the monitors. Then Neela’s voice, in all its grandeur, filled the arena.
Nobody can see my isolation
Nobody can see how much I want to be friends
It took a moment for the crowd, and for Sumi, to recognize the song. When they did, there was a collective gasp.
“Which theorist wrote the lyrics of the last song?” Sumi had asked Rukmini when she had seen her in the office the week after the Subaltern Speaks album had leaked.
“‘Wanting’? Malika wrote them,” Rukmini said quietly. “She figured we could use a break from the class material. We put it on Hegemony as a bonus track.”
“It’s the best song on the album,” Sumi declared.
“You’re just saying that.” Rukmini rolled her chair into Sumi’s.
“Have you ever known me to just say anything?”
“You’re just trying to cheer me up because of what I told you about my falling-out with Malika.”
“Nope. It’s a rare and genuine compliment. Just accept it, D2,” Sumi said, spinning Rukmini’s chair around.
Nobody can see my wanting
Don’t want to be wanting
As Sumi listened to Neela covering this Subaltern Speaks song, she thought about Malika. She pictured all the arenas Malika’s songs had been performed in and the crowds they had been played to — arenas Malika would never see, and applause she would never hear.
She thought about Rukmini too, about seeing her close her Detroit set with this same song. Although Sumi’s confidence in the validity of her criticisms was unwavering, she had never intended to silence Rukmini.
Because wanting is dangerous
Wanting is dangerous
She wished Rukmini could see and hear this tribute. How Neela delivered every word and note with careful precision, cutting through layer after layer of human tissue. How still and grateful the stadium was, as though the audience had waited eons to be sliced open and have their hearts revealed. Maybe Rukmini’s heart would feel restored. Maybe she would reemerge.
I’ll suppress the beast, I’ll be my best for now
As Neela’s final notes crescendoed, the live video in the monitor cut to a still image — two open mouths laughing. Rukmini’s and Malika’s mouths. The Hegemony artwork.
The crowd released their screams at last. After the song ended, Neela stepped to the front of the stage again and bowed majestically.
“Neela! Neela!” the crowd chanted. Sumi thought she could also hear some people yelling, “Rukmini! Rukmini!”
Then Neela and Kasi exited the stage, hand in hand. The screen cut to black.
The audience’s cheers turned into another collective gasp and then into boos when it became clear that Neela and Kasi weren’t returning.
Sumi thought about brown women who become ghosts.
Then her body rose on its own, hands applauding, and her legs carried her out of the stadium.
References
Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks. Translated by Richard Filcox. New York: Grove, 1952.
Jordan, June. “A New Politics of Sexuality.” In Technical Difficulties, 187–193. New York: Pantheon, 1992.
Kameir, Rawiya (@rawiya). “listen it’s ok to not write a book.” Twitter. January 30, 2018. https://twitter.com/rawiya/status/958369607852716032.
Lorde, Audre. “The Transformation of Silence into Language and Action.” Sister Outsider. New York: Publisher Crossing Press/Penguin Random House, 1984, 2007.
McLeod, Melvin. “‘There’s No Place to Go but Up’: bell hooks and Maya Angelou in Conversation.” Lion’s Roar. January 1, 1998.
Munday, Evan (@idontlikemunday). “You’re so vain, I bet you think this novel’s about you.” Twitter. August 13, 2019. https://twitter.com/idontlikemunday/status/1161309900011638784.
Roy, Arundhati, and Avni Sejpal. “How to Think About Empire.” Boston Review. January 3, 2019.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “Can the Subaltern Speak?” In Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, edited by Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg, 24–28. London: Macmillan, 1988.
Acknowledgements
In a story that is in many ways about ideas and ownership, it is imperative for me to honour and credit the many unseen hours of idea generating that friends and peers have invested in this book — in the form of generous and challenging feedback in Word documents and Google Docs, late-night brainstorming sessions on the phone about defying tropes, meals spent reconstructing plot lines and countless text exchanges encouraging me to just keep writing.
More succinctly, this book would not exist without the ideas generated by and gifted to me from Adam Holman, Trisha Yeo, Shemeena Shraya and Amber Dawn — or without your immeasurable care. Thank you for loving me (and these characters), for standing by my side and for reminding me to stand by my vision.
Nor would this book exist without Jen Knoch and ECW Press. Thank you for being a believer.
Thank you Crissy Calhoun (and Jen, again) for giving me the space to write the book I had to write and your thoughtful edits. Isn’t it beautiful that we all got to do this together, after all?
Thank you Rachel Letofsky, for your persistence, patience and “cautious optimism.”
Thank you to early readers and cheerleaders: Sara Quin, Erin Wunker, Andrea Warner, Daniel Zomparelli, Jonny Sun, Paige Sisley, Ron Eckel and Léonicka Valcius. I needed your wise feedback and kind enthusiasm more than I can express.
Thank you to the soundtrack dream team, James Bunton, Shamik Bilgi and Rachael Cantu for bringing these fictional songs to life.
Thank you, Suzette Mayr, whose sublime writing pushed me to make judicious word choices.
Thank you, Caleb Nault, for the job intel.
Thank you, Simon Underwood for once pointing out that my work seldom reflects my sense of humour — an excellent and difficult challenge.
Thank you, Manjit Thapp, for granting us permission to use your striking artwork as the cover, which helped me fall back in love again, and Jessica Albert for bringing it all together perfectly.
Thank you to all of the artists and academics mentioned in this book. I am ever inspired by and grateful for your words, images, sounds and ideas.
Lastly, thank you to the Canada Council for the Arts for your generous support — and more specifically to the members of the jury. Your decision gave me a vital boost and has changed my life.
About the Author
Vivek Shraya is an artist whose body of work crosses the boundaries of music, literature, visual art, theater, and film. Her bestselling book I’m Afraid of Men was heralded by Vanity Fair as “cultural rocket fuel,” and her album with Queer Songbook Orchestra, Part-Time Woman, was nominated for the Polaris Music Prize. She is one half of the music duo Too Attached and the founder of the publishing imprint VS. Books. A five-time Lambda Literary Award finalist, Vivek has also received honors from the Writers’ Trust of Canada and the Publishing Triangle. She is a director on the board of the Tegan and Sara Foundation and an assistant professor of creative writing at the University of Calgary.
Copyright
Copyright © Vivek Shraya, 2020
Published by ECW Press
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Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4M 1Y2
416-694-3348 / [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Editor for the Press: Jennifer Knoch
Cover design: Jessica Albert
Cover artwork © Manjit Thapp/manjitthapp.co.uk
Author photo: © Vanessa Heins
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
“Sadness Is a Blessing”
Words and Music by Lykke Li Zachrisson, Bjorn Yttling and Rick Nowels Copyright (c) 2011 EMI Music Publishing Scandinavia AB and R-Rated Music
All Rights on behalf of EMI Music Publishing Scandinavia AB Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219
All Rights on behalf of R-Rated Music Administered by Universal Music Works International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: The subtweet : a novel / Vivek Shraya.
Names: Shraya, Vivek, 1981– author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190201517 Canadiana (ebook) 20190201592
ISBN 978-1-77041-583-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-77041-525-6 (softcover)
ISBN 978-1-77305-516-9 (pdf)
ISBN 978-1-77305-515-2 (epub)
Classification: LCC PS8637.H73 S83 2020 DDC C813/.6—DC23
The publication of The Subtweet has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country and is funded in part by the Government of Canada. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. Ce livre est financé en partie par le gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,737 individual artists and 1,095 organizations in 223 communities across Ontario for a total of $52.1 million. We also acknowledge the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit, and through Ontario Creates for the marketing of this book.