They Said This Would Be Fun

by Eternity Martis

  But there is a price to pay for standing up for what’s right: harassment, doxing, loss of opportunities, threats, violence. There are whispered concerns from others, sometimes even our own families, to stay quiet, to not make a scene. There are dismissive comments: that we’re exaggerating, crazy, too sensitive. Others firmly remind us to know our place—they tell us that we must respect authority, that we deserve harm if we don’t.

  I opened this book with a quote that is often attributed to author Zora Neale Hurston. “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.”

  It is not surprising that powerful institutions aim to silence the voices of the marginalized and twist their truths to benefit their own narrative. Neither is it surprising how stereotypes are reproduced and maintained to justify discrimination and violence against queer and trans people, and against bodies of colour. How misogyny turns us against women to maintain gender inequality. Those oppressed under systems of oppression are always at the expense of the oppressor’s narrative. But the status quo knows the power our stories have to make these systems crumble.

  But this death that Neale Hurston talks about is also metaphorical. If we don’t speak up, our silence will kill every one of us. If we let ourselves be told our experiences don’t matter—that we are too young, too old, too unworthy, too angry—we will internalize our pain and it will eat us alive. Sharing stories is an evolutionary action: oral storytelling has been practised around the world since ancient times, a way to pass on values, narratives, and culture to future generations.

  Storytelling today often comes in the form of writing, putting pen to paper or fingers to a keyboard, a way to mark our permanent place in the public record. Writing in itself is radical resistance, a triumph—people can try to stop you from speaking your truth, but no one can take your words from you.

  Personal writing by marginalized groups has often been treated as lazy and self-indulgent by the same critics who praise white male memoirists. Yet writing about oneself has long been a means of survival for the most marginalized groups: survivors of slavery, residential schools, neo-segregation, conversion therapy, and abuse. There’s a reason these memoirs continue to be popular: they braid together our common threads of pain, trauma, joy, and healing. They remind us that, though much has changed for the better, some things have stayed the same. That all struggles and victories are tied to past history, and that history will repeat itself if we don’t start to rewrite it. Our voices can join a legacy of stories that have changed the world, that create quiet revelations and roaring revolutions.

  We did not put ourselves in this current cultural climate, but we are responsible for getting each other out. I have complete faith that we can: we are glowing with rage, the kind that can shatter glass ceilings and scorch the earth. We are emotional with grief, with tears that can flood oceans and put out blazing fires. We are soft with compassion, yet powerful enough to dissolve borders. Our words are cutting, deep enough to slash through the pages of history and write it anew.

  So, write and live your truth. Speak up. Rage. Because the time for silence has passed.

  acknowledgements

  This book has been a ten-year journey with many people to thank.

  Thank you, thank you, thank you from the depths of my heart to every single person who knew there was a book inside me or helped me along the way. Thanks for sharing your knowledge, for checking in on me, for encouraging me, or just listening to me panic, stress, or worry—sometimes for hours on end. You all reminded me about the end goal, and my own power to carry this book through.

  Thank you to the editors who’ve helped shape some of the ideas in this book through past articles I’ve written. Josh Visser: thanks for letting me write about London for Vice Canada back in 2015—it turns out there was even more to say.

  To my agent, Stephanie Sinclair: thanks for believing in this book and its concept as ferociously as I did. Your support and voice of reason means everything to me.

  To my editor, Haley Cullingham: as a Black woman, I worried that I would lose the essence of this book in the editing process, and along with it, my voice; instead, you made my words shine even brighter. You brought nuance and depth to this book with such thoughtfulness, compassion, and sensitivity. Thank you for pushing me when I needed to be pushed, and making sure that I was putting out a book I was proud of.

  To Jared Bland, and the M&S team: thank you so much for believing in me and the power of this book. Your enthusiasm, from the very beginning, made this whole process even more special.

  Ally: thank you so much for making sure I put out the best version of this book—and on such short notice!

  Davide: thanks for reading my cringy first draft and being kind enough to frame your feedback in a way that maintained our friendship. I’m glad you did cause this version is soooooo much better.

  Carly Lewis: you sat with me at Aroma when I was a baby journalist and listened to me despair about whether I could fit into this industry and write this book—and you did everything you could to make me feel that I could do both. Thank you!

  Alicia: you’ve been ride or die for me for so many years, and I can’t ever thank you enough. Many parts of this book and earlier drafts were inspired by you and our conversations.

  Dwayne: I couldn’t have made it through without you. You kept me cackling and hopeful. I hear your voice every day, even though we are miles apart. Thanks for your Black Excellence, it’s most certainly rubbed off on me.

  Catherine: for 10 years, there hasn’t been a single text message, card or conversation between us where you haven’t told me how proud you are of me. You saw me when I couldn’t see myself, and you kept me writing when I couldn’t write anymore. I couldn’t ask for a better friend. I love you.

  Tanya, Tony, Chantelle, and Anahla: you became a part of my life as I was writing my story, then a part of this book. In the little time we’ve spent together, you’ve been incredibly supportive and encouraging, even through the parts that can hurt. Having you in my life drives me to do better every day. I hope I made you all proud.

  Francesca: I met you late in the process, but you’ve saved the day more than once. Thanks for always being there for my biggest meltdowns, and for all the times you cured my writer’s block just by taking me outside for air and letting me vent.

  Arvin: thanks for being my light when things feel dark, and for helping me make tough and exciting decisions about this book. You keep me sane and smiling. Clowns forever.

  Thanks to all the professors at Western and Ryerson who invested in me both inside and outside the classroom. Michael Arntfield: It was in your class that my kernel of an idea for this book came together, and you were the first person to believe that it could be something great. Lisa Taylor: Your diligence and care as my MRP advisor helped me form an integral part of this book.

  Thanks to Barbara Perry, Gaye Warthe, and all the other experts who took the time to speak to me over the years for both this book and past articles that became a part of this project.

  Thanks to all the scholars, theorists, activists, and writers who inspired my own writing and kept me afloat in my darkest times: bell hooks, Laura Mulvey, Audre Lorde, Sojourner Truth, Dionne Brand, Brittney C. Cooper, Patricia Hill Collins, Toni Morrison, Ntozake Shange, Sara Ahmed, Frantz Fanon, Roxane Gay, Gloria Anzaldúa, Judith Butler, Alicia Elliott, Kiese Laymon, Hélène Cixous, Kimberlé Crenshaw, Angela Davis, James Baldwin, Barbara Smith, the Combahee River Collective, Deborah Gray White, and so many more.

  To my grandmother: you read to me every night and your love had no limits. You shaped my future, and even though we only had a few years together, they were the greatest a child could wish for. I miss you every single day.

  To my mother: you drove from home to London in snow storms, sometimes just to surprise me with spoils from home. You still do it when I’m sad, sick or while I was working on this book, whi
ch has felt like an eternity for you. That is a testament to your love. You’ve been my best friend and partner-in-crime. You are a force of a woman, and you’ve taught me how to harness my own winds.

  To my grandfather: there are not enough words in the universe to describe how grateful I am for your love, support, and presence in my life. You’ve been a parent, a grandparent, a mentor and a role model. You’ve never once doubted me or my path. Then, just when I thought this book would be the one thing you wouldn’t be able to support, you surprised me once again. You’re the reason I was able to even go to university, so this book is just as much yours. It would take lifetimes for me to thank you; I hope this book can be a start. (Sorry it’s not a PG as you’d like.)

  And finally, thanks to everyone who shared their stories and fears and made it safe to share mine. To those who spoke to me about their harrowing (and beautiful) experiences in London, at Western, and in cities and universities around the country. It’s not an easy thing to go through, nor an easy thing to talk about. This book is yours too.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Contents

  Introduction

  All I Wanted Was to Be Wonder Woman

  Token

  Go Back to Your Country

  Visible Bruises

  Party Gastritis

  Anthony, My Italian Greek Tragedy

  Relationshit

  At All Costs

  The End of the Rainbow

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements