The "Body" Special Issue Archives - The McGill Daily

Anorexia anonymous

Alexandra Yiannoutsos — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 05:48:12 +0000

[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”tw”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”issue_header”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_header”] Eating disorders are fairly misunderstood. By that, I do not mean there is not enough literature on them, or that they are completely removed from the mainstream. On the contrary, almost every day there seems to be someone famous speculated to be suffering from an eating disorder, or admitting that they suffer(ed) from one. What is seldom discussed is the actual experience. The question that follows when a person admits to have suffered from an eating disorder is usually, “why?”: why did you do this to yourself, why would you destroy your body like this, is somewhat abstract. We can speculate the reasons from clinical research, but those who suffer from an eating disorder are often ashamed, afraid, or simply cannot describe their experience in words – at least that is what it was like for me. People saw my body becoming frail and sick. What they did not see was my mind ravaging my being long before. Now I will confess, five years after my descent into a self-made hell. My environment very much influenced my plummet into the abyss of anorexia. If you remember yourself at fourteen, you will most likely agree that it was a very tumultuous age. During that time, I was exiting a state of innocence while also battling familial instability and personal insecurity. I had little control over my life. I thought that I was ready to be independent, but five years later, I realize just how naïve I was. Anxiety and depression have, for many generations, affected the women on my mother’s side of the family. That, along with the unusually high levels of stress created from familial turmoil, combined perfectly into an eating disorder. From summer to fall of my freshman year of high school, I felt happy. I started running. I had a group of supportive friends. My courses were intellectually challenging. Despite this, there were always two voices in my head: hatred and reason. I did not simply hate my appearance. My appearance was my worth. Looking in the mirror became an uncontrollable attack on my senses, a common symptom of anxiety, depression, and mental illness. After the homecoming dance, I remember going to the bathroom in a 24-hour Denny’s where the underage kids hung out, and crying at the sight of my face and body in a full size mirror. This was in October. It is difficult to describe anxiety’s despotism. My mind constantly spewed horrifically damaging thoughts, making me feel constantly irritated with people, yet simultaneously in need of a human connection. I wanted the changes in my body to be noticed, while also wanting it to be my own secret. I would internally comment on the flaws I saw in girls’ bodies, feeling superior to them as human beings, all the while criticizing myself. The frustratingly contradictory thoughts were mentally exhausting. The more weight shed, the stronger my ambitions became; the harsher I treated myself, the more I embraced isolation; the further entrenched and truly addicted I became, the closer I was to achieving perfection. The physical manifestation of anorexia came later. I experienced a type of exhaustion that made my eyes numb and limbs limp. After school, I would fall into bed and sleep until the middle of the night because I had such little sources of energy entering my body. I could not focus. I would experience periods of high energy then crash completely. I had trouble standing up from a sitting position because of drastic muscle loss. My hair fell out until it was unrecognizably thin. My nails became brittle. My facial appearance changed not only due to weight loss, but because my eyes and cheeks had sunk into my face, a common symptom of malnourishment. My arms became thin enough to reach your fingers around. The gap between my thighs was multiple inches wide. I was so cold. I shook constantly because I could not physically warm myself, even in the summer months. I remember sitting in class watching the hairs on my arms rise and fall with my goosebumps. Losing hunger’s sensation completely, I felt, was an accomplishment. I clearly remember a conversation with my father while during summer vacation where he told me we needed to make dinner. After I said that I was fine, that I was not really hungry, – insert any excuse to get out of the situation here – his eyes widened and he told me, “We haven’t eaten in nine hours.”

The more weight shed, the stronger my ambitions became; the harsher I treated myself, the more I embraced isolation; the further entrenched and truly addicted I became, the closer I was to achieving perfection.

A part of my experience with an eating disorder that I have not disclosed with anyone is the aspect of guilt and punishment. I would go to extremes to avoid hunger and rid my body of any sustenance that may have infiltrated its barriers with diet pills, painkillers, and laxatives. Despite all this, I would still ‘give in’ to the desire for food. Once the damage was done, I would denounce myself, my character, my worth as a human being and would hide in the secrecy of the shower to sit under scalding hot water for as long as I determined was appropriate. The outcome was often blistered and discolored skin. I was forced into recovery by my parents about nine months after my eating disorder had significantly accelerated. I was what they called a “Level 4” patient. Level 5 was hospitalization, which entailed constant supervision and a feeding tube. At Level 4, my parents had complete control over a strict meal plan. It took me hours to eat extremely small meals because my stomach had shrunk to a point where even amounts of food people considered ‘snack sized’ pained me and made me feel sick. I went to the recovery clinic three times per week to get weighed, have my vitals checked, and check in with the doctor and therapists. At the clinic I would have to strip down and wear only a hospital gown, so as not to hide any weights or scars from the doctor. There were no numbers on the scale. The medical information showed up on a screen hidden inside a cabinet that if opened would set off an alarm. I would scream, cry, and argue to get out of visiting the clinic. They were mean there, I would say. They think I’m a bad person. They don’t care about me. I can take care of myself. Nothing is wrong with me. I was in recovery for three years. The doctors called me the ‘rubber band’ because every time I would come in with a good report, the next appointment I had lost even more weight. I was still in school during this time. I was actively engaged in extra-curriculars like Model U.N.. I spent a summer abroad, two years after my recovery started. I applied for university. I met the man who would become my fiancé. All of this while visiting an eating disorder recovery center and battling mental illness. I still struggle with blaming myself for my descent into the illness, but I know that the woman I have become is not defined, but only scarred, by this sickness. I experience residual anorexia-induced thoughts every single day. There have been a few occasions where seeing people sick with anorexia has caused re-traumatization. When the pain reemerges I have very little defense against it. Despite all of this, I have learned many valuable lessons. I used to think that I could be the best advocate for anorexia survivors, that I could save everyone. I learned that just because I have experience with something does not mean I am equipped to help others. I do not have the resources, nor am I the person needed to help anyone suffering from the illness. I have also learned about coping, kindness, and understanding. Opening your world to people you can trust and leaning on them for support is currently one of the most important features of my life, as well as being a safe place to which others can reach out. I am better able to articulate my emotions and admit when I need to make changes to improve my life. Every day presents its own challenges and is a learning experience. Sometimes I do well in balancing my health, work, social life, and sleep, but when I do not, I try to be kind to myself and try again the next day. Whether or not I am successful is by my own design. Developing an eating disorder has not stopped me and many others. I’ve learned that my experiences do not determine my future – only I have that power.[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_footer”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”init”]

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Queer bodies behind bars

Marina Cupido — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 05:27:40 +0000

[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”tw”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”issue_header”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_header”] There is arguably no place wherein bodies are regulated quite as aggressively as a prison. Society sanctions, or even encourages, violence against bodies we deem to be ‘criminal’ or ‘dangerous’ – by virtue of their actions, or sometimes just their skin colour. In prison, this violence looks like isolation from friends and family, mandatory underpaid labour, physical brutality, and sexual assault. For many incarcerated LGBTQ+ people, it also looks like replacing one’s right to self-determination with a rigid gender binary, where one’s genitals are assumed to indicate one’s gender. Imprisoned LGBTQ+ people face a higher risk of social isolation, sexual violence, HIV/AIDS, and lack of access to medical care or hormones. The Prisoner Correspondence Project (PCP) is a non-profit initiative based out of QPIRG Concordia, which pairs imprisoned LGBTQ+ people with LGBTQ+ penpals outside the prison system, to exchange letters. The McGill Daily spoke to Parker Finley, a collective member of the PCP, about queer communities, policing bodies, and Trudeau’s record on prison justice. The McGill Daily (MD): Why is it important for queer people inside prisons to correspond with other queer people? Parker Finley (PF): Prisons work by taking people’s bodies out of communities and putting them in a separate space from the world that they were in before. So the point of the PCP was to try and connect people with a sense of community that they wouldn’t have otherwise. The reason that we specifically reach out to LGBTQ+ people is that those are people who are in prison and maybe don’t have a queer community or a gay community or a trans community inside prison. It’s important for all queer people to have other queer people in their lives that they’re in touch with, just for support and to have someone who ‘gets’ some of the stuff. MD: How could relatively privileged university students be a helpful support mechanism for imprisoned people? PF: This is the beautiful thing about the fact that we pair people up because they both identify as [queer]. And yes, often our penpals on the outside are privileged university students and often people on the inside are very much not that, but it is amazing that even that small sliver of some sort of commonality does give people enough to talk about, especially just in the beginning. For example, I started writing to my penpal, and then we spent two letters both talking about our coming out processes as teenagers, and our first few boyfriends. Almost everything else about us is very, very different, but that gave us enough to start, and once you start this conversation with this stranger you just talk about what’s going on in your lives.

“Jail forces people into smaller and smaller boxes – physically and in terms of identity categories.” – Parker Finley

MD: What are the effects of removing queer folks from communities of other queer people? PF: A lot of times, trans women get placed in men’s prisons, which puts them [at risk of] much more danger and abuse from fellow prisoners and also guards. And in those instances where trans women are in men’s prisons and they are in danger, they often put them in what’s called “administrative segregation,” which is the same practice as solitary confinement. It’s the same size of cell, and it’s the same regimen of 23 hours in there a day, with one hour of outside time. But in this case it’s for safety, it’s not as a punishment. But it’s the same box, so it’s punishing people for being placed in the wrong place – for their identity to not fit in the box that they’ve been placed in. That’s what makes prison, often, an even more evil and torturous thing for people to go through. Because once you enter that space, they take away this part of you that you have been identifying with, in the outside world and your own community. They separate you from all your friends and all your people, and then tell you that your name isn’t your name, and your pronoun isn’t your pronoun, and you can’t wear what you want to wear. The prison system not only separates bodies from their communities, but separates people’s understandings of their own bodies from themselves. Jail forces people into smaller and smaller boxes – physically and in terms of identity categories. There has been a movement to push back against the policies around the placement of trans prisoners, but it’s always been within an unacknowledged framework of a binary. Usually the change in policies make it sound like “trans women can now go to women’s prisons and trans men can go to men’s prisons” but where does that leave people who are more fluidly in between those two things? There are no prisons in Canada that have a mixed population. MD: There’s this moral panic about men infiltrating women’s prisons, which echoes the bathroom debate – about whether trans women should be allowed to use women’s bathrooms. Can you speak to the parallels between these sorts of public/private spaces that regulate bodies and have this particularly intense worry about the wrong genitals being in the wrong space? PF: Yes – it’s bathrooms, prisons, shelters. There is just something about there being certain places in the world where there is a separation between the two groups of people we [supposedly] have, and something about mixing those two groups terrifies people. And it also happens in places of intense vulnerability for people – perceived or real. So people feel vulnerable, so they want that space to be kept safe, and the thing they think keeps it safe is keeping it segregated. MD: Can you speak to the intersections of race and LGBTQ+ prisoners? Does racism heighten the existing problems we’ve talked about, or does it introduce a new set of problems? PF: Both. In the Canadian context, the over-incarceration of Indigenous peoples is outrageously awful. In Manitoba, [over] 70 per cent of prisoners in Manitoba prisons are Indigenous, whereas [Indigenous people are] only [15] per cent of the provincial population. There’s also a huge over-incarceration of Black bodies in Canadian and especially [U.S.] prisons […] and then obviously, there’s a lot of racialized LGBTQ+ people in prison as well. The reason I say it does add to existing problem is people might find it even harder to find community, because maybe the only other LGBTQ+ people are white, and there’s that gap in understanding between each other. Also for two-spirit people, maybe they aren’t able to find community with other trans prisoners. MD: PCP encourages people to send porn or erotica – especially queer porn or erotica – to prisoners. Where did that idea come from? PF: Along with other things that prison tries to regulate in people’s lives, people’s sexualities is definitely one of them. Like, often prisoners aren’t allowed to have sex with each other. There was actually this law that got passed in the States over the past decade, that was called the Prison Rape Elimination Act, it’s a very famous piece of legislation that was aimed at reducing sexual assault rates in prison, but what it actually did was make prisoners having sex with each other illegal. The argument that we’re putting forth is that people really need access to sexuality, in order to have a healthy life. Especially in a time of being in prison, having access to your own sexuality and having access to sexual materials that are in line with your sexuality is so important, and something the prison really tries to keep away from you. And that’s why we’re trying to fill that in. We have a lot of written smut, because you often can’t send naked pictures, and we have some softcore stuff. It is a really important thing, people find it therapeutic. It’s one of the thigs that people on the outside would take for granted – that once you go inside it becomes much harder to masturbate and have access to things that help you do that, that are in line with your sexuality.

“The prison system not only separates bodies from their communities, but separates people’s understandings of their own bodies from themselves.” – Parker Finley

MD: What is Trudeau’s record on prison justice, and does that signal a change in how imprisoned people will be allowed to express their gender identity? PF: [Trudeau] has been recognized as this ally to the gay and trans community because he’s so open and friendly and whatever. But on the other hand, we’ve had one of the biggest cuts to frontline HIV/AIDS gay organizations and trans organizations in a long time, under the Liberal government. That’s what’s really frustrating – it’s so classic, people always make fun of the Liberals for “campaigning left, leading right.” But this is what they do – [Trudeau’s] such a photo-opper that he chooses these things that aren’t that controversial to push through to happen, but then on the other hand, cutting the resources to help people on the ground. The good thing out of all that, though, is that with the addition of gender identity and expression to the hate crime legislation, that does give people a legal grounds to be able to sue the government on certain policies around placement of trans prisoners in prison. Like, in the federal system – which is everyone who has a sentence of over two years – people get placed based on their birth sex, but also taking into consideration whether they have a diagnosis of dysphoria. If they have a diagnosis and a couple letters, then a trans woman can be placed in a woman’s prison. But otherwise they’d get placed in a man’s prison. Which, under the new hate crime legislation, is actually illegal. But it takes someone to do the suing and take it up to the court. Or, for that to happen and the government to change the policy. So it doesn’t just happen over night with adding that to the hate crime legislation – it just gives people the grounds to actually file a case.

Those wishing to get involved locally can contact the Prisoner Correspondence Project at info@prisonercorrespondenceproject.com, Open Door Books, and Solidarity Across Borders. This interview has been edited for length and clarity.[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_footer”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”init”]

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Walking through rooms

Coco Zhou — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 05:11:13 +0000

[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”tw”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”issue_header”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_header”]During one of my visits to the emergency room this summer, I met a doctor who wore a checkered shirt and spoke in a gentle voice. He was young, about to complete his residency at that particular hospital. We chatted about my studies (“So contemporary art is, like, paintings with colourful stripes?”) while he gave me stitches. “What happened?” he asked. I told him. “Oh,” he said, “I’m so sorry. That must’ve been hard.” Another had asked me, “is it because of school?” (Sure.) “Do you live with anyone?” (No.) “Are you serious about…?” (No, it was merely a gesture.) “Do you have a plan?” (No, I don’t. I promise.) There were nurses who checked in on me constantly. “Do you feel like you might hurt yourself?” (No, but if you keep asking, I swear I will.) I woke up one morning to a breakfast plate on my lap. My neighbour peered over. “If you aren’t going to eat the cheese, can I have it?” We complained about the guy who had screamed through the night. “Probably fucked in the head,” my new friend said. (Me too.) I know this is all very alarming. But the alternative is always worse.

Coco Zhou

The word “recovery” signals progression. The path of recovery, they say. A path is linear and designates a certain chronology. Like a piece of prose, it proceeds. Trauma time is written in verse, line upon line, ledge on ledge. Verse reverses. Your body remembers each and every time you have been hurt. Sudden anger, fear, a twitch, phantom pain, “I’m sorry I’m so sorry please don’t leave me.” A flashback doesn’t always involve vision. In my experience it often does not. The body speaks pre-human tongues, a language not yet codified. If you don’t believe in what your body tells you, no one will.

Coco Zhou

Like a supernova, my dreams are hot and loud and threatening. In these dreams, I am constantly running, blood pumping behind my eyes, my legs heavy and full of lead. These sensations dissipate as soon as I open my eyes, blue bedroom buzzing with aftershock. The rest of the day is blank. The rest is white noise. Hours creep. Each day an iteration of the previous, channeled into static. In the Studio Ghibli film Spirited Away, the child protagonist and her parents are trapped in a ghost world. Forced to adopt a new name, she is told to always remember her original name. If she forgets it, she cannot go home. I’ve cried many times watching this scene. I’ve forgotten so many things, my memories sounds and images from another life. My most buried thoughts bear the fruit of screaming. Can I still go home if it ceased to exist a long time ago? If I were never meant to have a home? If I forget who I am? One day, you walk through a room and realize what you were holding is gone. You can’t find it, even when you get down on your knees.

Coco Zhou

Trying to locate a piece of memory is like walking through rooms full of strangers. One day, I may find a child in one of those rooms. The child that used to be me lived across the ocean in another country, which I no longer recognize. I suspect it doesn’t recognize me, either. There is nothing inherently bad about losing attachment. Your body does this to survive. It doesn’t always succeed, but it works hard to forget. Over time your body learns to deal with bad things by itself. My memory is full of intentional blanks. The more I become aware of these blanks, however, the more I try to excavate meaning out of them. My psychiatrist insists that dwelling on awful feelings is not useful. I want to tell her that the decision to linger inside trauma is not arrived at logically. I feel myself summoned to the task, the same way I am called upon to confront the world’s injustices. The child that used to be me was brought across the ocean through a current of blood and money, a system of labour build upon bodies and bodies of knowledge. I could not have existed without this relationship to other bodies. I have a responsibility toward them. I cannot possibly heal without them. “It must’ve been hard.” This kind of response is good for ticking off a point on an empathy checklist. Meanwhile, your wounds keep bleeding because stitches won’t keep them closed, because trauma has no boundaries, because no space is a safe space when the world wants you dead at every turn. There is so much your doctor doesn’t ask you, may not care to ask you, doesn’t want to hear you say. Friend, you were built to survive. You have always known this. Trauma has no discrete edges, and neither do our bodies. No matter how many times I’ve beaten it, cut it open, burnt it, starved it, tried to get rid of it, my body finds a way back. It bleeds and writhes in pain, and this is proof that I am still alive, isn’t it? [special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_footer”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”init”]

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Self-portraits

Anonymous — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 05:09:20 +0000

All self-portraits have been submitted anonymously.

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Portraits

Sonia Ionescu — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 04:36:14 +0000

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Sonia Ionescu

Rahma Wiryomartono

Molly Lu

Anonymous

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Poetry and artwork

Chantelle Schultz — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 04:22:46 +0000

[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”issue_header”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_header”]summer in shanghai | Chantelle Schultz i showered at my friend’s (my friend who would later grab my chest, without my consent (it’s okay because he’s gay)) and across from the shower was a mirror, full and wide. i did not recognize the body i saw. this body was not mine. i felt sick. and then i remembered, in the night, someone had crept into my room and changed my body with surgical tools, cutting into my flesh adding things i did not recognize and sewing me up again who was it? i try to remember i try so hard i forget myself and eventually, when i come back i realize that person was me. or was it you? my hands | Chantelle Schultz sometimes i forget that for more than a year my hands would shake, a cup would clatter in my hands, the foam spilling over. my hands keep shaking and i cannot make them stop. maybe i shouldn’t be trying to make them maybe i should coax them soothe them hold them love them these flower petals swaying, dancing in the wind. erythro | Chantelle Schultz i’m in the shower. this is where i feel safest. i’ve been here for a very long time, the water is burning my skin off and my feet are red red red burning hot like my father’s. his feet carried him for decades before they betrayed him. i look down at his feet on my legs. if i could cut mine off and give them to him, i would.

Cat Maya Schade

My Heartbeat to Yours Sinthusha Kandiah

Chantelle Schultz

inverted | Anonymous The lines on my body reflect the stories of my soul: A cry for self certainty of my physicality’s permanence. It must be that my ribcage that binds my heart and lungs, And the Body that binds my spirit, Harmonize for why fight against what is fighting for me?

Study of hands Jennifer Guan

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Yellow skin, white masks

Ki-eun Peck — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 03:20:57 +0000

[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”issue_header”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_header”] I have a phrase I use to describe myself: proudly Korean, fiercely Canadian. It’s accurate. It’s also telling. Growing up, I was given two choices for how I should approach my identity: pride or shame. For me, the choice was obvious. I’m proud to be Korean – why shouldn’t I be? My grandparents lived in a nation that was first torn apart by Japanese colonialism, and then by internal division.They lived, first-hand, through a country that went from having one of the lowest GDPs in the world to one of the highest; from a time when hunger, not designer brands, described the average Korean’s appearance. I’m proud to be Korean, because we, as a people, have overcome so much and continue to always strive towards excellence. This pride is by choice. But, in another sense – I have to be proud. Other people – mainly white people – define me primarily by difference. I am Asian, I am Korean, and that makes me different. When difference becomes your distinct and defining characteristic, I think your personal relationship with your difference can manifest in one of two ways – pride to be different, or shame. Nothing has defined my identity more than my appearance: my flat face and my feminine, delicate body. This isn’t by choice – certainly, not mine. This is how other people have categorized, labeled, and treated me– by judging what I look like and determining my identity based on those judgments. No two words have been used to identify me as much as “Asian girl.” Over the years, the preceding adjectives have changed. Ugly, hot, bitchy, smart, stupid – the list is endless in its cyclic continuity, but fairly short with original content. If I were not proud, I would be ashamed. I would be ashamed to be seen as the “Other”: the girl with slit eyes, a low-set nose, dark-brown hair. However, when society tries to define me, they often do so by contrasting what they think an “Asian girl” should look like, and what they judge my appearance to be. My physicality either falls within their expectations – or it doesn’t. Compliments are never simple, or truly flattering. “You’re really hot – for an Asian. You have big tits – for an Asian. You have big eyes – for an Asian.” There’s also the flip side, when my appearance falls in line with their preconceived ideas: “I love your beautiful Asian eyes. You’re one of those cute Asian girls. You’re a smart Asian girl.” I’m not saying it’s inherently wrong to point out aspects of me that are inconsistent (or consistent) with some general trend. But it’s wrong when part of my actual identity is reduced to stereotypical social constructs that are contrasted by expectations of my physical appearance and body. It baffles me that I have to say this, but twenty one years of bewildered lived experience have taught me that I do: My race is not the singular causal determinant for my intelligence. I’m not smart because I’m Asian. I’m smart because I inherited my parents’ intelligence, because they raised me with care, because I grew up loving to read, because I’m curious, because I like learning, because I AM smart – me, Ki-eun Peck, not “That Asian Girl.” The thing about being “Other” is that the preconceived ideas of supposed exotic mystique create room for fantasy. I am the voyeur’s favoured genie, ready to grant personalized wishes from a customized lamp. For those who have a fetish for Asian girls, my physical features represent their Orientalist fantasy. For those that want to see someone ‘unique’ and unconventional, they see me as the Canadianized Asian. Some aspects of the way people see me have become internalized, and I have struggled against letting this affect the way I view myself. I’ve gone through periods of wishing I looked more like Lucy Liu, the solitary Western pinnacle of Asian feminine beauty, with her high cheekbones and trademark almond eyes. I’ve also spent hours staring at the mirror, wishing my nose was higher, my eyes were larger, and my skin had red undertones instead of yellow. However, I will say I’ve escaped relatively unscathed. Like anyone else, I have my insecurities – but this hasn’t resulted in internalized self-hatred or shame. For a long time now, whenever I look at my reflection I’ve seen “Ki-eun” more than stereotypes and (failed) expectations. At the same time, it concerns me when I wonder whether this is because enough of my appearance is relatively consistent with societal expectations of beauty, whether they be from the “East” or the “West”. What do I define myself as? Proudly Korean – fiercely Canadian. Fiercely, because my Canadianness is doubted. Challenged. Scoffed at. Even if I didn’t embrace my Asianness, my Koreanness, my femininity, that wouldn’t stop people from using it to define me every day. But it’s rare that people define me as Canadian. I’m fiercely Canadian because that is the part of my identity I need to defend. Throughout my life, I’ve been asked the eternal question: “where are you from?” To be frank, it’s usually asked by men – at parties, masking ignorance with alcohol; in cafes, masking interference with interest; on the street, jeering, masking harassment with ‘flattery.’ I am from Port Moody, British Columbia. It’s a quaint little city in metro-Vancouver, notable for its scenic nature and saltwater surroundings. I was born and raised in Canada; my passport says, with clinical certainty, “CANADIAN.” My portrait, next to this word, should be more than enough proof, rather than a cause of doubt. This isn’t an essay about what it means to be Canadian – that’s a whole other can of worms and documents cramped with words. But I will say this: for myself, there is no necessary or inherent mutual exclusion between ‘Canadian’ and ‘Korean’. What do I define myself as? As a child, English was my strongest subject. Cabinets are filled with report cards, scattered with compliments and phrases like “Ki-eun is a writer!” I was constantly writing, and constantly excelling. English was my strongest subject, and English is still my strongest language. I don’t remember learning English, in the same way I don’t remember learning how to breathe. I don’t remember learning Korean. Nor do I remember losing it – but I know I have. The longer I am away from home – away from people who can call me 기은, who can switch seamlessly between Korean and English, tongue embracing lips and sounds with the same easy grace as water touching sand at the edge of a beach – the longer I am away from this, the heavier my own tongue grows, and my voice shakes not with excitement but fear. Language is my most intimate identification. A large part of how I define my Koreanness, my connection to a Korean community and culture, is through language. I do not exaggerate when I say one of my greatest fears is losing my language – because, for me, I would be losing my connection to an important half of me. This connection is rare, and it is precious, because it is one that I conceptualize as internal to myself and untouched by my body and society’s external expectations. This is my personal passport – proof that I am still “authentic,” that I am not a ‘banana,’ that I have not stumbled under the heavy weight of assimilation. I know these conceptions are not right. I know, rationally, that I am Korean as firmly as I know my favourite colour is blue and mint makes me sneeze. I know I will be just as Korean even if my preference switches to red in the next 5 minutes. I have faith that I will never truly lose Korean, that my mind will read my world with 한글 as much as English. But every time I stutter or wait a beat too long when responding in Korean – I am struck by fear. I simply pray that the fear will never overtake my faith. [special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_footer”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”init”]

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On being caramel and queer

Anne-Cécile Favory — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 02:59:05 +0000

[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”issue_header”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_header”]Statistically, we’re headed toward an age where everybody’s going to be, like, caramel and queer.” We’ve all heard versions of this sentiment in recent years – this one comes from Ilana, the Jewish and white protagonist of Broad City , the seminal text on the millennial psyche. Being mixed-race is increasingly commonplace, and there’s an assumption that within a few years it will represent the ‘face of the human race.’ Mixed-race people are often fetishized and are inaccurately presented as harbingers of a ‘post-racial’ utopia. While mixed-race people are thought to be a ‘modern innovation,’ the evidence of a post-racial society, people forget that there already exist countries and regions where the so-called ‘general population’ is entirely composed of ‘mixed-race’ people called Creoles. Creole is a complex and debated term encompassing race, culture, language, ethnicity, and diverse colonial legacies. You can find Creole people in Haiti, the Caribbean, in the United States and on islands in the Indian Ocean. All of us have diverse histories and cultures, and can’t be grouped in one category. However, our existence stems from the same source: the slave trade and colonialism. We are descendants of European colonial settlers and/or the slaves and indentured workers they uprooted and relocated to the colonies. I identify as Mauritian Creole, a subset of the population of Mauritius Island that is often homogenized and dubbed the ‘general population’ – those who don’t fit the official categories of Chinese Mauritian, Indian Mauritian, and Muslim Mauritian. However, Mauritian Creoles are an incredibly diverse group of people, divided within themselves, despite claims to the contrary by the government and national history. Colourism plays an important role in creating those divisions. In part due to colonial legacy, Creoles with lighter skin, such as myself, have the privilege to access higher social and economic status than those with darker skin. Specific ‘mixes’ of races are also valued more than others; for instance, Creoles who are direct descendants of French colonizers still occupy a dominant position in Mauritian society. While these divisions are blatant and commonly known by most Mauritian Creoles, we continue to be homogenized, by non-Creoles and Creoles alike, as the ‘general population’ for convenience and a lack of understanding. This homogenization is a constant source of anxiety for Creoles who are unable to place their bodies in the greater context of the world. We are lumped together as a rootless people to either be ignored, because we don’t fit neatly into boxes of ethnicity or nationality, or romanticized as evidence of a successful colonial experiment; one that produced an ideal and seemingly ‘harmonious’ society composed of people belonging to no nation. The lack of clear connection to a greater historical context and our ethnic ambiguity is what ties us together. Often considered ‘rootless hybrids,’ we serve as bodies on which to project myths and identities for nationalist purposes. Our bodies are submitted as evidence of the possibility of a harmonious, multiracial, ‘post-racial’ society. However, it is often forgotten that these bodies were born from colonial violence. My ancestors were forcibly uprooted and any ties to their original homeland, culture, and community were purposefully destroyed to disempower them. Without the violent history of slavery, and the exploitative nature of the colonial project, we would not exist. The idea of a utopic Creole society erases the very root of our existence. My culture is a collection of reconstructed traditions from Northern India, Eastern Africa, Madagascar, Southeastern China, and France; the supposed – it was only transmitted through word of mouth – birthplaces of my ancestors. When placed in the communities of my ancestors, such as when attending weddings, New Year’s celebrations or dinners, I’ve learn to mirror them and perform these cultures. These communities are welcoming, and feel comfortable, but something is always off. I do not look like them, I do not speak the language, I do not share the same historical context, and I have no ties to a homeland. To the best of my abilities, I mirror the practices and norms of these communities, but I am, and always will be an outsider. I have no substantial claims to any of these cultures, because I stand at the periphery of all of them. My combined ancestry is not enough for me to be considered part of those communities. My physical features – my brown skin with yellow undertones, my black curly hair, and my dark brown eyes – often undermine any claims I have to be part of some of them. Instead, identities are projected onto my body. I am used to hearing: “You don’t speak [insert language historically spoken by brown people]!” No, I don’t. I speak the languages of my colonizers, French and English. My parents never taught me my island’s local Creole dialect, not finding much value in doing so, because it is not spoken outside of the island or the diaspora. My ‘culture’ is one where my family celebrates Chinese New Year, Diwali, Easter, and Christmas. After I’m told I don’t speak the language I’m ‘supposed to’, the next thing I usually hear is, “You look like [insert nationality here], but not quite!” Right, my features aren’t quite right to fit anywhere. “Something is off.” You’ll spend the next twenty minutes trying to figure what it is exactly. Don’t worry, I’ll wait. When you can’t figure it out, you’ll shrug. I’ll shrug. We’ll move on. My body comes close to fitting in, but never quite does. I was talking to my mom, who was born and grew up in Mauritius, about this recent identity crisis. She reassured me that this was normal, that I came from a long line of Mauritian Creoles who have felt the angst of being rootless and living at the periphery of cultural communities. She said that even now, in her forties, she still feels that emptiness of broken ties to pre-colonial communities, families, and homeland passed on from one generation to the other. However, she also acknowledges that my siblings and I face a new set of challenges as immigrants to Canada. Here, our bodies are perceived differently than they would in Mauritius, and finding community here is even more difficult. She gave me three choices: I could choose to embrace one particular community of our ancestors and perform that culture; I could recognize the richness in me and choose to align with the national stance of the “rainbow people;” or I could continue to live in that ambiguous “something is off” space – the space created by forced assimilation and intermixing to advance the colonial project, and that now stands between me and a coherent collective identity. After consideration, I have chosen to place my body and its histories in that “off” space. For me, it is the only space that doesn’t excuse or ignore the violent colonial history of the Creole people in Mauritius. If I were to embrace one community over another, it would erase the trauma of my ancestors, and if I conformed to the national slogan of the “rainbow people,” I would ignore the continued impact of colonial structures that are still in place, and validate the results of the colonial project. Idealizing or denying my multi-racial, multi-cultural, and so-called ‘post-race’ body would erase colonial violence felt by the generations before me and the legacy that still stands. Instead, I choose to acknowledge that it exist in all its multiplicities and sit in the discomfort that it brings.[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_footer”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”init”]

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How spaces embody trauma

Sydney Lang — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 02:47:19 +0000

[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”issue_header”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_header”]I hold my trauma in my body. It manifests itself in mental triggers and physical reactions, in winces and tightened muscles; it is the weight in my chest and on my shoulders. It’s brought on by flashbacks and loud noises, men who interrupt me, walking down a street alone at night, talking about sexual assault and “justice” in class, alcohol. It looks like bags under my eyes, anxiety, distraction, bailing on plans, staying in bed. I’ve been struggling to understand it: how my trauma (or rather, my struggles with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)) impacts the ways that I navigate the world and how I interact with other people and different spaces. At first, I tried to see it as something outside of myself – I refused to let it define me and refused to let it become a part of my identity. It was easier if I saw it as something I could carry; it was just another weight or burden I had to hold. Sure, I’d tell myself, it made simple tasks a little bit harder, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. I’d ensure myself that this was not the real me and that soon enough I’d be back to my old self. Because if it wasn’t a part of me, then I would eventually be able to let it go. I’ve spoken to others who negotiate and understand their trauma in different ways. Some repress their traumatic memories and force themselves (whether consciously or subconsciously) to forget. Others identify with their trauma personally and deeply; they seem to have a strong grasp on the ways that their own subjectivity has been informed by their trauma. They speak openly about mental health and identify as someone with PTSD, anxiety, depression; they identify as a survivor. And of course, the ways that we experience our trauma are deeply informed and framed by our gender identity, race, sexual identity, nationality, citizenship, ability, class, and sense of identity in the society in which we live and the spaces that we occupy. In fact, trauma is often a product of events and processes that are enabled and perpetuated by these same structures and systems, namely: racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, poverty, war, occupation, colonization, nationalism. I was recently talking to a friend about a book he read for class. He told me that in the book – an ethnography – the author describes the ways that ruins in postwar Cyprus hold the trauma of the community. I then began to question the ways that trauma and affect might exist outside of ourselves. It was not until this conversation that I realized how much my own understanding of trauma was based on myself: a self-reflexive, human-centric, interior understanding. Affect – a non-conscious experience of intensity, distinguishable from emotion and feeling – has been understood in the social sciences as consisting of subjectivity, the self, and the energy that emerges from within. As per this analysis (often one founded on psychoanalysis), we come to see affect as something inherently personal and individual, something that is held within us. This analysis also extends to the ways that our own subjectivities are informed by the environments around us. For example, the ways that my PTSD is triggered when I’m walking home alone at night. In this sense, I was aware of the transmission of affect within particular spaces, and the ways that our own sense of self, trauma, and emotion are influenced by interactions with others, but I always saw them as two distinct concepts: My mind vs. other people. My body vs. the environment. But what would happen if we were willing to imagine that these distinct categories were not as concrete as we once thought them to be? Wouldn’t it be possible that trauma and affect could exist in non-human, objective spaces? What would happen if we stopped privileging our own subjectivities as humans? Anthropologists (cultural constructionists) view affect as contingent and contextual; it is understood and managed within a particular cultural context. Yael Navaro-Yashin extends this anthropological analysis to suggest that affect is not a singularly human phenomenon. She suggests that we must understand affect as it is created from interactions with space and materiality. Contrary to the psychoanalytic analysis, Navaro-Yashin proposes that places emanate energy as well. In her book, the one my friend was talking about, she describes the ways that the ruins in Cyprus hold the trauma of the community. The ruins hold an energy that is felt by the community and tourists alike. The ruins, and the energy they hold, are also used by the community, through abjective interpretations (understanding yourself in relation to the undesirable or grotesque “other,” being able to say “I am not that”), to help them understand their own subjectivities, their own trauma; they come to understand themselves as they exist “in relation.” I think we can feel an energy in other spaces as well. For example, the feeling of walking down a quiet street on a sunny day; there’s an energy that emanates from the sidewalk. Or entering a boardroom full of businessmen wearing suits in a corporate office made of glass; Or standing in Times Square at midnight on a Saturday night; Or the place on campus where it happened, where violence turned into trauma. I know that the place where it happened has an energy to it now, one that does not solely live inside of me and is not purely informed by my own affect. And I can imagine that there exists a phantasm, or even a haunting, that permeates these spaces, holding the stories and experiences of violence, whether it be sexual, structural, or institutional violence, that these institutions have attempted to suppress within themselves, within the spaces we negotiate every day. As such, I would like to offer the idea that maybe our trauma also exists outside of ourselves. Maybe our trauma lives in other places and our interactions with these places can help us better understand and engage with our trauma. Maybe our emotions aren’t always our own and don’t always come from a place within. I’m still not sure if I believe this, but maybe this way of thinking and understanding has a radical potential. Maybe it means that we don’t have to carry the weight of our trauma alone as it flows within and without us; Maybe this means that our stories and our trauma are trapped within these spaces and eventually others will feel them too; Maybe this means that we aren’t as alone as we thought we were.[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_footer”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”init”]

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Liminal

J. Laraqi — Mon, 21 Nov 2016 02:20:37 +0000

[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”issue_header”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_header”]You always felt you grew up fighting an invisible war. Sometimes, you look into the faces of friends and acquaintances and see strangers looking back at you. This war is you against everyone: friends, family, strangers. With your back to the wall, you can only rely on yourself. Your friends are for fairer weather, there to share only the good times – and even those can turn sour. Even the best of their intentions can cause harm, and no one knows which words and actions bite into you and hurt. You never feel comfortable enough to tell them where the tripwires are. As a woman in your culture, you are expected to be subservient above all: obedient to your father, and eventually your husband. In your immediate family, you’ve been punished countless times for ‘backtalk’ – for trying to have a conversation, reaching out to say, I can’t do this, I need someone to understand me. Today, you rarely express clear anger and frustration at anyone because you are so afraid of the consequences. All you ever wanted was for your parents to understand you, but every attempt was read as insubordination and ill manners, because you are just a girl. You don’t even belong to your family; you belong to your future husband’s family. After all, you are the only one able to eat the offerings when your family celebrates the dead– you do not belong. When you were eight years old and the new student again, you wanted to fit in and be like everyone else, but you were far too timid and aware of your otherness. You were quiet and hesitant–a good student simply because you couldn’t afford to be subpar. There were too many expectations laid on you. Every joke made about smart Asians and Indian nerds rubbed you raw. Every time you heard the phrase ‘under God’ in their pledge, you clenched your teeth – their God does not belong to you. You were excruciatingly polite, wellspoken and well-behaved, because if you were anything else, there would be consequences. Perhaps it is easier for others in similar situations, but for you it has always been a struggle. Your classmates turned their noses up at your ethnic food, colourful, flavourful, completely vegetarian, nothing like their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, pizzas, burgers. They stared at you when you wouldn’t change with them in the locker rooms. They sounded out your name and mangled all the syllables, took a beautiful name and made it rough and ugly. You didn’t celebrate Christmas or Thanksgiving or Easter, and you worshipped multiple gods all quite unlike the omniscient Christian God most of your classmates believed in. You went to temple instead of church. To the fury of your parents, by high school, you refused to wear a kumkum bindi on your forehead. After all, the red dye stained, and it was such a pain to explain the next day when someone inevitably asked. When they found out why, your parents said so what, said let them stare, said why do you concern yourself with their opinions? Your skin has never been quite that tough; you have always been aware of scrutiny. It would have been one thing too many. You grew up needing to ask your parents for everything: spending money, permission to go out with a friend, to pursue extracurriculars, to do anything that involved leaving the house. This is worlds away from how they treat your brother. He never fears punishment as severe as yours; he has never had as many restrictions placed on him. He is coddled, he grows wild. Neither your mother nor your father can control him, young, impetuous teenager that he is, and this is okay. You cannot even imagine what it would be like were you even half as rebellious as he. He still has some rules to obey, but they are tethers rather than chains.He is not held to the same standards in anything – you have to work twice as hard to earn half the praise, and all praise you earn is faintly damning. You will never be enough, while he is enough simply by virtue of his being. Your parents are not known for being fair, and when you lash out under the weight of injustice, they turn it back on you and make it your fault. Let the weight of blame be yours as well. Once, you used to fight them for being overly authoritative. They claimed you only thought that because you compared yourself to Westerners, whose parents do not care about what their children do. You were not allowed to go out with friends near exams or tests. You were rarely allowed to go to sleepovers, and then only with friends you’d known for years. Your father spat out the word ‘love marriage’ like it was a curse. You know without ever explicitly talking about it that you aren’t allowed to date, let alone anything further. You aren’t allowed to pick your husband or your job or your classes. However much you don’t really belong to your family, you still belong to them enough that they feel justified in controlling the greater portion of your life. It makes a difference when everyone you know is free to make their own choices, and you must always consider what your parents will say. Your life must be one of quiet rebellion, nothing so obvious that they can pick up on it. And now your tan is ‘exotic’, people keep asking you about your food, and celebrities appropriate your traditions and make them something desirable, but not for you. The ‘true’ Indians shun you, subtly, because they think you are too Westernized. As for the Westerners, they don’t shun you, but there’s always a sense, after some time, that you’ve misstepped. You’ve done something that they don’t consider normal, and you remember, again, that there is a huge gulf separating the two of you. And always, always, there will come a time when some of the people around you will treat you as an example, as their opportunity to learn. They will consider you the foremost authority on everything about Indians. They will ask you about your culture, but they don’t really want to learn. They just want to feel good about themselves for asking, for seeming ‘multicultural’ and accepting. There is always a thin veneer of distaste and disgust; they will not say it to your face, but they think you barbaric as you try to make them understand even a fraction of where and what you came from. All you want is to be left alone. All you want is to be just another face in the crowd. You do not want to be who you are, a damn good actress and a liar; someone who bends to the point of breaking and still does not break. You want to wash the other off your skin. Even here, in a place filled with all sorts of people, you spend a lot of time unbalanced, unsure of how you fit. There is no helping the disparate, and the road to acceptance is littered with pitfalls. You may be able to cast off your family one day– but you cannot cast away the past, so you must resign yourself to it. Accept yourself, and don’t. You will only ever exist in contradiction.[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_footer”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”init”]

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