Not every Indigenous person takes advantage of the system. We’re not those people. So for me, at the time, that was eye-opening.
All the way back to elementary school, being Indigenous around that age is something that follows you all throughout the school system. Once you were in kindergarten, there’s a box that goes on your file and you mark down whether you are First Nations, Metis, Inuit, or Not Applicable. I’m not sure if this is just something that’s part of the Catholic Edmonton school board, but every year I had to fill it out and it continues until high school. And as I checked off First Nations, I thought, “I’m a good student. I’m not a liar. They just want to know.”
Every single day I was pulled from class and asked if I needed help or extra tutoring and I said no. I was a pretty bright kid, but it changed after I marked that box. They assumed that my home wasn’t a place where I could study; they even asked me that, outright. “I don’t understand why you are not accepting this extra help,” they would say, and that was an eye-opening moment for me too. I was about eight when I realized this is how [our] people are treated.
I tested out my theory and I wasn’t going to check that box in school after grade five. And then it stopped. It stopped immediately. That to me was ridiculous and crazy, and I could see why that was ridiculous and crazy even at that age.
Simone: While writing this, I am totally burnt out from the last three days of life. And so I think the story I will tell is the story of my hectic schedule. Yesterday, I modelled for my friend’s African clothing line at a fashion show. The clothing was made of beautiful, vibrant prints that were so bold you couldn’t look away. Then, in the evening, I went to a community event to do Métis social dances. I usually wear moccasins and a long skirt when I dance at these events, but I wore one of the gorgeous printed shirts from my friend’s line this time. This morning, I went to a photo shoot for burlesque photos and I was in six-inch heels and lingerie.
There was a time when I felt I couldn’t be all of my selves at the same time. I ended up compartmentalizing my cultures a lot. Now, I know that I can dance traditional styles as well as more sensual styles like burlesque. I can be Black in Indigenous spaces and Métis in African spaces. I can let all of my selves into the same room.
Wenzdae: Favouring my Bajan/Arawak features with virtually straight hair throws people off, a lot. For a long time I was seen as a ‘faker’ by those in the Toronto-based Indigenous community. With an absent father and immigrant grandparents, I didn’t have many ties to the inner-city Black community. I always felt a bit in-between, and never fully included. When I would dance at powwows in my full regalia, people no longer saw me as Black—but that’s not what I wanted a few years back. I was walking around the powwow grounds fully dressed with otter hair ties hanging from my braids. Two Black girls ran over to talk to me—which was common at powwows as many people had questions. She grabbed my hair tie, looked at me, back at the hair tie, and said, “Is this weave?” Surprisingly enough, years later, I haven’t forgotten that, because it was the only time I felt like I didn’t have to choose. I felt like she recognized who I was without me having to justify why I look the way I do.
Kaya: A story that feels especially true to me is the story of me comforting my dog as a toddler. When there was a thunderstorm, she went to go hide in the closet because she was so scared. I went and sat beside her, petting her and hugging her, making sure she was okay. I was about two, I think. My mom tells this story and notes it as being the first true sign of my intuitive empathic powers. This story makes me think of how, my whole life, I have been able to feel the emotions of other peoples as if they were my own. This is such an innate part of my being; it is my superpower. Though this is a gift, it also brings me a lot of pain. However, I cannot imagine living without this part of myself. It is what makes me such an effective artist, I think.
What does kinship mean to you?
Shammy: To me, when I think of the word kinship I immediately think of Game of Thrones [laughs], but I suppose, in my life, kinship means people who come together in one collective or a shared experience, cultural experience, personal experience, who share an adversity that you have.
I think kinship is the people you keep around you, who understand what your life means to you and they feel the same way.
Simone: I always say that community is the remedy for loneliness. Because we live in a capitalistic society that individualizes everybody and disconnect us from one another, it’s so important to have ties. To me, kinship isn’t necessarily about blood. It’s about relationships that you nurture; it’s about love. Kinship networks are some of the ways that we can hold each other up.
Through colonization, our intricate kinship ties have been scattered across continents and oceans. And a lot of people have small families or none at all. So the ability to re-create these kinship networks after being colonized is revolutionary. I have had many people in my life become like aunties, sisters, mothers, and grandparents to me, out of necessity and out of love.
Wenzdae: Kinship to me is the way we relate to one another; to choose to be family and not limit ourselves by nation or blood.
Kaya: Kinship to me is little strands of energy between people that glow and flow. Kinship is relationality. You can feel kinship; it is beyond blood. I felt a kinship to the ocean, even before I ever saw or submerged myself in it. The sun on my face through evergreens makes me feel a kinship to my ancestors. Kinship to me is connection, understanding, trust, compassion, and love. It fosters strength, solidarity, and resilience.
How do creativity and culture intersect for you in your life, if at all?
Shammy: Luckily, I am an artist, I am a dancer and an actor. For me, creativity and culture are always working together.
The writing I do—even if I don’t share it with anyone—shows that too. I’m constantly in conflict because I don’t want to be the person who creates art that represents my collective identities, but it often happens that way.
A good example of culture and creativity intersecting would be an art show that I was a part of this weekend [February 2018].
It was called the Chinook Series, in Edmonton, and I was in a piece that was made up entirely of Black artists from different places, titled “What Black Life Requires.” It was a beautiful piece, fusing the experiences of [people of] African descent in Canada. Mostly poetry, but also dance through a narrative. It was a big ol’ fun time and the most important piece that I’ve been involved in.
Culture, creativity, and art go hand in hand for me.
Simone: I believe that in many cultures, art doesn’t simply exist for the purpose of art. There is usually a story to be told. I do a style of dance that’s called Métis jigging. I’ve been taught that it’s a cultural dance because the steps come from European styles with a Celtic influence, but it became popular in First Nation communities where they incorporated Indigenous steps from Turtle Island. So every time I dance, it’s Métis culture brought alive. Every step has a certain place that it came from and a story to go with it, if you can find the right person to tell you.
So I believe that art is a part of culture and they’re never really separate. For example, the beadwork that I wear wasn’t meant to sit in a museum. It was meant to be worn day-to-day and become a part of life.
Wenzdae: My life revolves around culture and art. At fourteen, I started my own home-grown traditional Indigenous beadwork business, which fuelled my passion for design, business, and knowledge. Now, at eighteen, I’ve decided to use my knowledge passed down by my grandmothers to open my own African/Indigenous beauty business, mixing traditions with modern fashion and making a feeling of ‘belonging’ accessible to people like me.
Kaya: I feel as though I live and breathe creativity, and that my creativity is fed by all the cultures that I draw from. All the cultures that I participate in. Cultures that enrich my being. I am mixed Indigenous, Afro-Caribbean, and settler
. I feel that I have many stories and secrets to uncover and explore that my ancestors have gifted to me. I feel myself unpacking, through art, all these facets that make up my identity. I understand the world through creativity, as I interpret things through writing, drawing, making music, painting—making in general. I reflect upon my creations constantly in terms of what they can reveal about my understanding of my cultures and ultimately myself. I constantly think about the history of creation in my cultures as well. Creation stories, foods, garments, baskets, hairstyles, music. I think about how these integral forms of creating were such a natural part of life, how these forms of creating are rooted in philosophies of relationality and reciprocity. How does the way in which I create honour and practice these ways of making? How can I carry on the legacies of my ancestors through my art? These are considerations I take very seriously when creating.
What are some things in this universe that bring you joy?
Shammy: Sweatpants that fit properly. My sister, she brings me a lot of joy. Home brings me joy. Whatever that means to me at the time, it changes always. Being understood, that brings me a lot of joy. Cheese pizza. Those are all the important ones, I think.
Simone: Because I live such a busy and chaotic life, I’m all over the place doing something different every day. So when I can follow a routine, that brings me joy. When I’ve soaked in the bath, cooked dinner, cleaned my room, washed the dishes and e-transferred the rent to my landlord, I feel happy and satisfied. When I can talk with my sister on the phone for three hours, that brings me joy. Oh, and sipping from a big mug of chai tea in sweatpants after a long day. That is perfection.
Wenzdae: One thing that brings me joy in this universe is knowing that I am the product of my ancestors’ wildest dreams.
Kaya: What brings me joy? The smell of rain, big clouds in an evening summer sky, my cats, citronella, fresh peaches, my family’s support of my art endeavours, my boyfriend’s laugh, hearing a really good song for the first time, elders in fabulous outfits, spoken word, making a fire…there are countless things that bring me joy. I could fill a book with lists of things that bring me joy. When I remember all these things, it is like I am lighting candles inside myself. All these candles bring light to me and help me to avoid all of the deep, dark spaces within myself. Although these are necessary spaces to navigate, even to dwell in for a little while, I am so grateful to have so many different candles that I can light. I feel grateful to have so much joy in my life. To be able to see, touch, feel, smell, taste, hear, and transmit all of the joy that exists in the universe. This is one of the greatest gifts I have been given.
Black Writers Matter
Sister Vision
Black Women and Women of Colour Press
Lecture from Writing in Dangerous Times: Survival, Resistance, Joy, Conference (October 28, 2017, Toronto)
— Makeda Silvera —
It’s great to be here and to share the company of you all. I thank the organizers for their hard work in pulling this conference together and for inviting me to this much anticipated community-based conference with such an important theme: “Writing in Dangerous Times: Survival, Resistance, Joy.” It is an important, appropriate, and engaging theme, particularly in the times we live in. It reminds me of the lyrics of the late Jamaican singer Bob Marley: “Dem belly full, but we hungry.” And that feeling is even physical. We’re still hungry to be heard, hungry to be counted in, hungry to be heeded. Since Sister Vision shut down, our portion has been very small indeed. That portion is miniscule for first-time writers, particular those of working-class backgrounds and from the lgbtq of colour communities.
I have been asked to speak about Sister Vision: Black Women and Women of Colour Press—its beginnings in 1985, its contributions to Canadian literature and culture, its sixteen years in the trenches.
When Sister Vision was founded in 1985, it was in part because of the near invisibility of women of colour in the Canadian literary landscape—it was as if we were a blur. Our stories weren’t being printed, our voices remained unheard, never mind being acknowledged or celebrated. But although this was challenging, it was not so forceful as to make the dream of the press impossible. Still, we were always reminded of the limits that circumscribed our work, not the least of which were the biases within the industry and lingering racism.
Although alternative presses and white women’s presses had sprung up in the early 1980s, those presses were not particularly interested in publishing us: our voices didn’t sound like theirs. And, for the most part, questions of class and colour were not important parts of white women’s feminist analysis.
In 1984 we could count on one hand the number of Black women in Canada who had single-authored books or were featured in anthologies. Disgraceful, when we look back at Black people’s early arrival in Canada and at our contributions in all manner of work, including publishing. I am speaking here specifically of Mary Ann Shadd, an American-born anti-slavery activist, who came to Canada in 1852, where she edited The Provincial Freeman. She later became a teacher, then a lawyer, and a campaigner for women’s suffrage. Shadd was the first Black woman publisher in all of North America.
When Sister Vision Press was founded, there was a growing community of Black women and women of colour who were feminist and also lgbtq, women who wanted to write, to illustrate books, and to learn the ropes of publishing in a safe and encouraging environment.
The first book Sister Vision published in 1985 was Speshal Rikwes, a book of poetry by Ahdri Zhina Mandiela. Its significance was that its language was ‘experimental,’ in that it was written in the Jamaican language, Patois, which is often mistakenly called a ‘dialect.’ We began as we meant to go on: the phrase “Speshal Rikwes” is a call for appreciation and respect. Not only would this first book by Sister Vision Press be groundbreaking, it signalled that we were about taking risks.
Between 1985 and 2001, Sister Vision—a small press by and for women of colour—had published over 75 first-time writers in book-length works and over 200 women in anthologies. Many of these, too, were first-time writers. Not an easy feat. With only three staff at any one time, we worked twelve-hour days at times, particularly during production. We also had to contend with an unstable fiscal base, juggling many debts. We did a lot of fundraising. In those days there was no such thing as social media. We walked and walked and walked, posting flyers on street poles, used word of mouth and telephone trees, mailed out flyers, attended events and handed out flyers there too. We could rely on a steady stream of volunteers who were eager to give of their time. It was also an exciting time, very in-the-moment, building a community with people and words. Sister Vision opened up spaces and offered writing workshops.
One of my fondest memories is getting the first box of books from the printer, cracking it open, and smelling that newness. Over those years we forged alliances with Black women, Indigenous women, Caribbean and Asian women, both in Canada and internationally, and our books bear testimony to that. Sister Vision published a wide range of books—novels, short stories, essays, anthologies, plays, academic works, and children’s books.
I particularly remember Lenore Keeshig-Tobias’s children’s book, Bineshiinh Diabajimovin: Bird Talk. As managing editor I immediately said yes to its gentle strength. Bineshiinh Diabajimovin: Bird Talk was published in Ojibway—or, to be current, in Anishinaabe—and English. The book deals with an incident where school children are playing cowboys and Indians. When the young Indigenous character says that it’s not a good game to play, her friends immediately question in a curious fashion her identity as an Indigenous person. The book’s clean, simple, black-and-white illustrations were done by the author’s daughter, Polly Keeshig-Tobias. Bineshiinh Diabajimovin: Bird Talk won the Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream Award at a school in Manhattan.
Another of my favourite children’s books is Crabs for Dinner by Ghanaian-Canadian writer Adwoa Badoe. A young girl, first-generatio
n Canadian, hates the very idea of eating crab, wonders how her grandmother and mother can possibly love it, but eventually tastes it, after her family describes its wonderful flavour. Althea Prince’s How the Starfish Got to the Sea is another delightful tale.
For me the books that best represent Sister Vision Press were our anthologies because they gave voice to many women, and these were women from a wide range of backgrounds. The anthologies let Sister Vision introduce many first-time writers, writers I knew very few publishers would take the time to encourage, to nurture. For example, Piece of My Heart, published in 1991, was a first: a groundbreaking anthology charting the experiences of women of colour through poetry and prose testimonies. The voices of Caribbean women living in Canada rang out loud and strong. Creation Fire brought together the poetry of both English-speaking and non-English-speaking Caribbean women in Canada and internationally. Lionheart Gal revealed the life stories of Jamaican women and, like Speshal Rikwes, was written entirely in the Jamaican language, Patois. The women of Lionheart Gal were at the time all part of the Sistren Theatre Collective and all came from working-class roots.
Black Girl Talk, a collection of writings by young Black women, was also the first of its kind and spoke with raw, sincere honesty of the challenges young Black women of all sexual orientations and backgrounds faced. Another very significant anthology was The Colour of Resistance: A Contemporary Collection of Writing by Aboriginal Women, published in 1993. In the book’s foreword, editor Connie Fife declares, “Within the pages of this anthology are words that carry their own life, having been birthed through the voices of Aboriginal women who have chosen to re-invent how we resist, how we refuse to be silenced.” The anthology’s contributors were drawn from Canada and the United States and defy the limitations of borders.
Black Writers Matter Page 15