Black Writers Matter

by Whitney French

  It took me by surprise. I was talking about my journalism career, which is mainly composed of race and gender issues, when this statement, disguised as an innocent question, shot out into the air, wounding me with the same dangerous language that I reserved for far-right and conservative white folks. Except, it came from the mouth of a family member.

  It was an action I had spent the summer vigorously defending in my work and social interactions. And it was an emotional issue I felt invested in at a time when people were becoming increasingly vocal about race relations in Canada. Now, I was trying to defend this against a blood relative who used to play with me as a baby.

  I am an anomaly in my family. I’m an only child, born out of wedlock to a single Pakistani mother and an absent Jamaican father, raised in a loving South Asian family.

  Though I resemble my mother and grandmother, I have Black Caribbean features; while they spend hundreds of dollars perming their hair, mine is naturally thick and curly. They were so confused by its unruliness that all they could do was compress it into braids saturated with Dippity Doo and Infusium 23 detangler. For almost twenty years, I was the only Black biracial person in my family.

  High school was a time when I realized that being biracial was incredibly complicated. I had trouble making Black or South Asian friends, both too puzzled by my ethnicities to know how to approach me. It was then that I noticed I looked different from the rest of my family, much to the surprise of my mother and grandfather, who were oblivious to the stark difference in our physical traits. The rest of my family never seemed to notice my difference either.

  However, the way I was perceived and subsequently treated by strangers reeked of anti-black racism, which became more evident when I moved to the predominantly white city of London, Ontario, to attend Western University at the age of eighteen. The impact of anti-black racism—and racism in general—from individuals and societal structures was so profound for me and my identity, a sheltered girl from the multicultural city of Toronto, that I dedicated all my academic papers, then my writing, then my journalism career, to unearthing race relations.

  But writing about anti-black racism baffled my South Asian family. Anti-black racism, police brutality, carding, Black history in Canada—all the things I wrote and cared about were never brought up in conversation. For a while I misread their silence as acceptance of the subjects I covered; but instead, they were confused. Finally, at a party, I got the answer I feared.

  “But you’re not one of them,” a distant cousin once scoffed. “You’re one of us.”

  It wouldn’t be the first time I heard this, but it didn’t make it any easier to understand. My existence is bound to a group they turn up their noses at. It suggests that I shouldn’t worry; that one part of me is still morally superior, even though the other part may be inherently degenerate. Though it took several years for my immediate family to finally understand how my experience differs from theirs, my extended family still cannot understand that I share very different experiences than their own. I cannot be one of them when I am constantly asked if I (the friend) need a separate bill when we’re out for dinner. Not when we travel to Karachi and family friends think I’m adopted. Nor when I am doubled over in agony each month by endometriosis, a condition that overwhelmingly affects Black women. Or when white men tell me I’m cute for a Black girl, or call me a nigger. Explaining this is exhausting and fruitless. They don’t get that I am not them, but by nature something quite different.

  Mixed-race people are one of Canada’s fastest growing demographics, with more than 360,000 mixed-race couples reported by Statistics Canada in 2011, more than double the total from twenty years ago. Though Canada is a multicultural country, things get messy when sex, love, marriage, or children are involved. For bi- or multiracial people, having the support of your family about the racism you experience is a complicated situation, especially when one side is not just considered a visible minority group, but defamed by social and historical stereotypes. You may feel the love of a family who shares one part of your heritage, but you also may feel their hatred or disdain for the other ethnicity within your dna. Time and again, the parents of bi- and multiracial children face difficulty and tension when trying to understand their offsprings’ differing experiences.

  For my family, namely my extended family, the tension is not in the way I identify, but in the subjects I choose to write about. However, I don’t think some members of my extended family are intentionally malicious, because they are quite taken aback when I call out their problematic behaviour or launch into a verbal essay refuting their beliefs. But part of being a more supportive loved one is knowing when your assumptions are out of whack. In my case, it’s getting my family to realize that I don’t experience the same discrimination they did when they first arrived in Canada in the 1970s, but a very different kind of oppression as a result of belonging to a second marginalized group—and that writing about anti-black racism doesn’t mean I’m choosing a side or turning my back on the family I grew up in.

  Anti-black racism in South Asian communities is alarming, but rarely outwardly discussed. Though a minority group, they are often considered superior to Black people’s status, skin colour, and morality, which they then use against Black groups. Some use the derogatory term kala to refer to Black people, and harass, physically attack, and discriminate against them when they visit South Asian countries (a Nigerian master’s student experienced heartbreaking racism while studying in Noida, New Delhi, and African students have been physically attacked in south Delhi). Indigenous African populations in India and Pakistan who have been there for centuries—Siddis and Sheedis—are pushed to the margins of society, often living in poverty, never given the chance to be a part of the larger community.

  It’s a shocking revelation, considering South Asian and Black people have worked together in the battle for freedom for decades, especially through writing. When the mainstream American newspapers presented stories about civil disobedience during India’s fight for independence in 1942, the Black press covered the independence movements as resistance movements and Black activists supported the country’s independence. It was the United States Civil Rights movement of action, activism, and words that helped secure the rights and freedoms that South Asian people were also able to enjoy, and in Canada both groups struggled against the words printed in Canada’s immigration policy that caused obstacles to immigrating to the country.

  Younger South Asians continue to come out and condemn anti-black racism in their communities through writing, including Arti Patel, a Toronto-based journalist, who wrote a piece for Huffington Post Canada called “South Asians really need to stop saying the n-word.” Patel says she’s lost track of the number of times she has observed South Asian people using the term. “South Asians can agree how anti-black many other South Asians in our communities and families can be,” she writes. “Continuing to use this word—even if you’re not doing it in a racist way—makes it seem like we’ve moved beyond the issue. We haven’t.”

  Following the criticism after Black Lives Matter Toronto staged a sit-in during Pride 2016 until nine demands were met (which included support for Black and South Asian groups at Pride), Asian Canadians launched a letter-writing campaign to address anti-black racism in their communities and families. The letter, translated into over a dozen languages, details the unique experiences with discrimination, slavery, and racism that Black people face, and how they have helped secure rights for Asian Canadians. “Part of that means speaking up when I see people in my community—or my own family—say or do things that diminish the humanity of Black people,” part of the letter reads. “I am telling you out of love, because I don’t want this issue to divide us.”

  Writing that is honest and powerful is needed, now more than ever, given the current state of anti-black racism in Canada. It has the power to expose the truth, help people understand, and learn a little about the lives of people un
like them. At a time where our rights are being restricted and we are wholly changed by violence and discrimination, sharing our stories and the experiences of others is fundamental, as is calling out other racialized, oppressed groups for internalizing and using Whiteness against one another—even when it’s by our loved ones.

  Family never equates to immediate allyship, and no biracial child can fix decades of a loved one’s uncorrected bias.

  And it’s not our job. Our Canadian multicultural landscape likens bi- and multiracial children to the future; it romanticizes us—our beauty, our mystery, our possibility—without acknowledging our struggles. While our physical presence can make our families and societies re-evaluate their views, it is ultimately up to them to actively confront themselves.

  I won’t stop writing about anti-black racism, but I also won’t stop sharing it with my South Asian family. As a Black biracial woman, I not only use writing to teach and inform my family of the horrors of anti-black racism that the mainstream media often ignores, but it’s a way for them to learn more about me and how I fit into the world. In the several years that I have been writing about race, my immediate family has started to engage in the conversations I write about, paying more attention to anti-black racism, acknowledging that I also identify as Black, supporting me, and feeling my fear and rage when I encounter racism. They know that we are not unchained from the same bloodline because I experience the world differently. They’re starting to accept that not writing about South Asian issues doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate where I’m from. With some persistence and patience, I hope other members of my family will understand that their love for me also must include playing an active role in erasing racism, even if it means confronting themselves.

  A funny thing happened not very long ago. At a dinner party, I was talking about my journalism career with a cousin, when the words shot out into the air: “So what do you think about Black Lives Matter hijacking the Pride parade?”

  So I told him what I thought—the problematic language used by media, the reason for the sit-in, the things he didn’t know from reading the paper, why I was in defense of their tactics. He knew none of it. After an apology to me, he wanted to know more. And then more about everything I write about. At that same table, a family member interrupted by saying that I wasn’t one of “them,” so she didn’t get why I was always writing about Black issues. I tried to explain how my identity was tied to Blackness. She kept at it.

  In a moment I wasn’t expecting, my cousin put out his hand towards me, his voice silencing the growing, bitter tension, just in time, before embarrassing tears fell from my eyes. “Your experiences are your own, and you identify how you want to,” he said. “You be who you are.”

  It was a small gesture that caused a mountain of relief. The next day, my Pakistani cousin sent me an email.

  He asked if I could send him more of my work.

  My Ancestors’ Wildest Dreams

  Interviews of Identity, Selfhood, and Joy with Afro-Indigenous Youth

  The following is a compilation of interviews via email and phone correspondence conducted roundtable-style with four young people: Shammy Belmore, Simone Blais, Wenzdae Brewster, and Kaya Joan. Too often the experiences of folks with both African and Indigenous ancestry are omitted from the conversation about Black Canadian experience. This conversation seeks to centre these voices amidst Canada celebrating 150 years of Confederation, amidst anti-Indigenous sentiment throughout the country, amidst the tragedy of all Missing and Murdered Indigenous women, girls, and two-spirit people, amidst the verdicts of the Boushie and Fontaine cases. Acknowledgement, solidarity, and joy are in short supply.

  Please describe your location in as much detail as you are comfortable with. This can be your physical location on Turtle Island, your ethnic and cultural location, as well as your political location and other ways you wish to identify yourself.

  Shammy: For me physically, I am located in Alberta, the capital city, a fast-paced place. I am located culturally within the First Nations community here in Edmonton and I am ethnically Somali. They both play a big role in my life. I have lived here forever. I haven’t lived anywhere else.

  I’m also located within the Edmonton artist community. I identify as a gender non-binary person within the queer community. I do not have a terribly strong political stance, although Alberta is more to the left.

  Simone: I am a young, queer, brown woman. My dad is from Trinidad and my mom is Métis, born in Winnipeg. I was raised in downtown Toronto, which shaped my ability to see different cultures as normal. Growing up, my friends were Jamaican, Jewish, Chilean, Polish, Chinese, so I’ve always valued where I grew up. For the past four years, I’ve been living on Vancouver Island in Lekwungen and WSÁNEĆ territories. I’m a doula, a dancer, a writer, and a student.

  Wenzdae: I am a city kid born of the Original Peoples of the Americas and the slaves brought on ships to die. I am a walking rebellion.

  Kaya: I position myself differently depending on the day—and I am not always in control of everywhere I am existing. I find myself clocking my location constantly. Where is my mind? Where are my feet? Who walked before me here, and who will walk here after me? I feel myself lost in this colonial, imperial, patriarchal, suffocating mess. I ground myself by reminding my feet they are on Turtle Island, Tkaronto, Dish With One Spoon treaty territory. I feel far away from this land sometimes when I see only concrete around me. More and more I have been noticing all the old, beautiful trees in this city, which relocate my mind to a good place. I am a femme, a radical maker, and an empath. I am a cedar sapling, my roots running deep, stretching far and wide, my branches hungry for growth, always.

  What are some moments when people challenge your lived experience, and what do you do to maintain those relationships?

  Shammy: Immediately when I hear that, the first thing that comes to mind is being in the back seat of an Uber. The drivers are usually of East African heritage and they will automatically speak to me in a language that I do not know. They resolve that I am not deep into that part of my background. One driver in particular, who I ended up having a really good conversation with, this gentleman driving me, he kind of, he didn’t scold me, but sort of did—this is why African women born in Canada are not a good thing, he implied; they lose themselves. But I have two parts to me.

  Another instance, back when I was in elementary school, I frequently was not accepted by anybody. The other children of colour, they said, “You are white, you know that, right? You have basically light skin colour.” But the Caucasian children were like, “You have darker skin.”

  I feel like [elementary school bullying] is sort of a right of passage. But I am stronger for it and I don’t know who I’d be without that experience.

  As far as maintaining those relations, I find that I don’t. I know there’s resolution and strength in knowing who I am, and at the end of the day—I’ve been told that it is dangerous mindset, but—I believe that all I need is me.

  I’m not the most culturally accepted First Nations person, or the blackest Black person, or the queerest of queer people, but I have my own culture. My own Shammy-culture.

  Wenzdae: Being a ‘halfbreed’ I am constantly challenged by my communities to prove that (1) I am ‘one of them,’ and (2) I understand the struggle to its fullest. People definitely push to find loopholes in my halfbreed-ness, to other me even further. Because I’m half Indigenous and half Black, I experience the struggles of both minorities daily. With community being a huge part of my life, I’ve had to learn how to distinguish people from the community. I’ve had many groups of people my age physically attack me on a basis of my skin; I’m still learning how to separate those people from a bigger and more loving community.

  Kaya: When people challenge my lived experience, my automatic response is to get defensive. I am always shocked when people attempt to de-validate my truth, and I can think of countless
moments throughout my life where this has happened. I seek to understand where that person is coming from. Ultimately, I hope to have a conversation where we both come out with a deeper understanding of one another.

  Sometimes these situations stem from places of hurt or trauma. If the relationship is worth maintaining, I will put in effort to understand and empathize. But I do not always have the energy to have these conversations. It definitely depends on who is challenging me. People are not always open to listening. So sometimes the relationship is lost.

  Share a story that feels true to you in the fullest way, or even a story in which you challenge stereotypes about you and your identities.

  Shammy: I am going to tell the story about my mother. I was there [when it happened]. This is something that I think about a lot. She is the First Nations side of me. I do not know my father, which is a whole other story.

  There is a thing called the Indian Affairs that determines if you are ‘Native’ enough. And back when I was thirteen, I needed braces. It was a nightmare of a situation, trying to get benefits. Services called—I heard the whole conversation because the volume was up very loud—and as soon as my mother was redirected to the Indian Affairs line, she was instantly accused of being on welfare. They assumed I did not have a second parent, and they questioned her about addictions, implying she would do something else with the money. This lady eventually looked my mother up and realized that my mother has been working hard her entire life. And the woman never apologized to my mother. Her tone flipped. My mother dealt with discrimination her entire life. Afterwards, she told me that that’s how things are and it might be better some day, but having an Indigenous background is more of a curse than a blessing. My thirteen-year-old self wanted to pay for everything on my own from that day on. It’s so interesting that that was my thought process and I saw how hard it was for my mom to deal with that.