How Magical Realism Reflects the Queer Experience

Illustration by Malaika Astorga

As we continue to get sucked into sanitized versions of LGBTQ+ identities, one thing is becoming clear: I’m tired of mainstream queer media. The same sentiment could be expressed more succinctly with the words “I’m tired of mainstream media”, but it’s the queer ones that are a particular thorn in my side. The increasing sanitization of queer stories may make them more digestible for cishet audiences, but it inevitably comes at the cost of reducing the queer experience to what can be easily turned into Funko Pops and brand deals.

In the search for a more authentic experience, I—surprisingly enough—turned to a genre that isn’t necessarily known for its queer representation: magical realism. For someone with surface-level knowledge of magical realism, it might be more fitting to discuss the literary genre in its initial context: originating from Latin America in a period of significant political turmoil and using unimaginative language when describing imaginative events to convey messages of social and political critique. However, a closer look at traits unifying the works of the genre reveals parallels between the magical realist experience and the queer experience.

Magical realism employs a technique called authorial reticence, or the intentional withholding of information about the world from the audience. Authorial reticence, and the effect it has on the reader, wonderfully reflect the lack of preparedness to navigate a cishet world as a queer person. After all, don’t you—the queer person reading this—ever feel like your peers were given some kind of survival guide that got mysteriously lost in the mail in your case? Like you missed a life-altering memo?

Another point of comparison is that the underlying political aspect of magical realist works serves as a mirror for the inherently political lives of queer people. In a world where queer bodies and relationships are constantly exploited as discussion points in TV debates or potential vote-sways to garner a few votes in elections, the removal of political undertones from media can feel like a flattening of queer storylines. Even though magical realist works rarely discuss queer issues, the fundamental connection between a narrative and its underlying sociopolitical contexts offers comfort for those who feel that their lives, too, have an underlying context.

Perhaps most importantly, magical realism turns its eye on the reader; it is the relationship between the text and the audience that adds an extra layer of depth to magical realist works. Everyday life often marginalizes queer experiences and people, whether they’re characters in the story of life or an audience for cishet realities. Conversely, crafting a magical realist narrative requires thinking not only about the in-text world but also the world of those reading it: how much should the reader know about the character? How is the reader supposed to distinguish between what’s real and what’s fake – and within this world, is there even a meaningful difference?

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Julio Cortazar’s “Axolotl” is a story with a relatively simple premise – it’s about a man who turns into an axolotl. The story is a classic example of a magical realist text: the real-world setting of Paris is contrasted with the fantastical events, and the reader never really finds out how the transformation happens (in the original context, the story was meant as an extended metaphor for the political situation in Argentina).

“Axolotl” brings special attention to the process of transformation in a way that may be comforting for transgender audiences, even though there is no mention of gender in the story itself. The narrator’s recount of his transformation is parallel to the process of exploring one’s gender identity: the initial fascination (“I stayed watching them for an hour and left, unable to think of anything else”); the intrinsic feeling of connection with the unknown (“They and I knew.”); the feeling of removal from one’s old self (at the end of the story, now in the aquarium alongside the axolotls, the narrator starts to refer to his human version, which still visits, in third person) and that the transition was meant to happen all along. The narrator fully embraces being an axolotl, with all of its weirdness and with full awareness that it means at least partially breaking away from what it means to be a “regular” person. Ain’t that the representation you sometimes need in place of pretty protagonists on both big and small screens, desperately attempting to convince cishet audiences that “queer people are just like you, really”?

In contrast to “Axolotl”, Chavissa Woods’ short story collection Things to Do When You’re Goth in the Country focuses more on the queer than the magical realist. Although some stories in the collection are just plain and simple literary fiction, the story which leans into magical realism the most is “A New Mohawk”, a story of a young trans man who (how very topically) one day wakes up with the Gaza Strip attached to his head. “Take the Way Home that Leads Back to Sullivan Street” is a story of a lesbian and her partner who share hallucinations (or are they hallucinations?) after doing drugs at their in-laws’ Mensa party. Almost every story in the collection features queer characters, and none of them stray away from portraying the characters as disgustingly human, with all the ugliness it requires.

Woods seems to get something that many contemporary creators of queer storylines don’t get: that delving into the peculiarities of the queer experience isn’t a bad thing, and that creating art that fits cishet ideals of “normality” shouldn’t be the goal. I think the most vivid element of TTDWYGITC is its inability to be sterilized and turned into Shein merchandise: it’s queerness you cannot get out with bleach and capital.

If you’re a queer reader, fatigued with the increasingly boring and sterilized portrayals of queer realities in media, go to a library and grab a book from the “magical realism” shelf. After all, the original rainbow flag included a stripe symbolizing magic.

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Magdalena Styś is a jack of all trades and a master of putting them all into their schedule. You can check out their work here or follow them on Instagram.

Malaika Astorga is the Co-Founder & Creative Director of Also Cool. She is a Mexican-Canadian visual artist, writer, and social media strategist currently based in Montreal.

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"Creating Space": A Conversation with Author Josie Teed

Josie Teed by Lauren Cozens

Josie Teed’s debut memoir British Columbiana, out now through Dundurn Press, explores a period of transition. After completing back-to-back degrees — a bachelor’s in art history and cultural studies at McGill and a master’s in archeology at the University of York  ​​— Teed accepts a job in the remote heritage town of Barkerville.  Located in the Cariboo region of British Columbia, Barkerville showcases the nineteenth-century gold rush which led to the industrialization of the province. Teed works as an archivist and later as a heritage interpreter — that is, an actor who portrays significant figures from this era. Barkerville and the adjacent village of Wells, where Teed takes up residence, are composed of a diverse array of people ​​— some of whom are settled there for good, and others who are just passing through. 

People tend to not feel very present during transitional phases like the one that Teed undergoes in this memoir. However, Teed shows that transitions are often times of great experimentation, in which we parse through our desires and discard those that no longer serve us. I meet up with Teed on a mild spring evening to discuss the pursuit of belonging, the instability of friendships, the relationship between history and storytelling, and the complications of the memoir form. 

We begin our conversation by talking about what motivated her decision to move to such a small, insular community after completing her master’s degree. Teed describes how she felt worn out by the pace of life in Montreal, where she did her undergrad, and was overwhelmed by having to encounter the same people every single day. After this period of her life, Teed really “just wanted to create space,” which is why she chose a school in York as opposed to a bigger city like London. 

At the same time, Teed’s move to Wells was not so much an intentional decision as it was a leap of faith. “After I was done with York, I really had no one trying to get me to stay anywhere,” says Teed, “so I applied to a bunch of places through the Young Canada Works program. The only job offer that I had was from Barkerville. They were the only people who were saying, ‘you should come here.’ I also think that, on some unconscious level, I believed that it was important for me to go somewhere weird — just to be able to say later in life that I had been there. This idea is something I’ve definitely moved away from as I’ve gotten older.” In this memoir, Teed seems to oscillate between two desires — one to simplify her life and the other to revitalize it.

British Columbiana revolves around Teed’s pursuit to find community in Wells — where many people have politics which depart from her own. “In a university social justice space like the one I found myself in at McGill, there was this expectation that every interaction you have will be informed by your politics and that disagreements were meant to be approached in a confrontational way,” Teed explains, ‘but I learned very quickly that this would not really work if I wanted to have a comfortable life in a small community where people don’t always think so consciously about their politics. So the only thing I could do while I was there was lead by example and engage in gentle conversation when issues arose. I don’t know if that is how I would deal with the same kinds of situations now, or if it would even be ethical to do so.” 

However, we also see that many of the people Teed connects with during this time prove to be inconsistent — and ultimately surprising — with their values. For instance, her friend Logan, who holds frustrating, retrograde ideas about gender roles, offers Teed valuable reassurance as she navigates her relationships with men. Meanwhile, Bobby, someone who Teed connects with on the basis of their shared political beliefs, cultural tastes, and educational background, becomes oblivious and — at times — unsympathetic towards Teed’s distress. “Logan was the greatest friend. She cared about me in a really active way that I hadn’t experienced in a long time,” Teed tells me. “But I felt so challenged by the differences in our beliefs and ways of conducting ourselves. Bobby and I felt relatively aligned, but she wasn’t available to offer me care  — but maybe this is okay because that’s not what she wanted ultimately.”

British Columbiana by Josie Teed

The memoir also dissects Teed’s fraught relationship with men during this period.  “I think living in Wells was the first time when I really felt like an object of desire in a continuous way,” says Teed. While Teed sometimes longs for the intimacy she witnesses between couples, she also seems to struggle when finding herself to be the recipient of romantic attention. She intermittently sets the intention of only cultivating friendships with men. She says to me: “When I was young, I think there was a big intimidation factor that kept me from being friends with men. I couldn’t help feeling that they were a cut above me. So I really wanted to lift the veil of mystification by actually spending time with men, but a lot of my experiences with men that I wrote about are really horrible! I just kept having these encounters where they really demonstrated a lack of character — at least in how they interact with women.” 

I propose to Teed that perhaps men have a tendency to pigeon-hole women as sexual conquests or, if they do not see them that way, to display an almost cruel level of inattention. “Now I’m much more critical of them,” responds Teed, “but I don’t want to see people as incapable of showing me kindness. I also want to believe in people’s capacity to grow.” 

While many millennial memoirs are rooted in the author’s interiority, British Columbiana conveys a distinctive sense of place. Teed represents not only the rugged geography of the region but also the way in which heritage sites like Barkerville function. In our interview, she notes that the town is “...owned by the government and perpetuates the state’s narrative of Canadian history.” 

“A lot of people who worked there had a very different agenda from myself,” she remarks. “Barkerville was originally a mining town and they basically destroyed the area to build it. Something that I felt conflicted about was the minimization of this environmental destruction — the interpretation never really tapped into that stuff. It is also just a reality that a lot of funds are funneled into the upkeep of the heritage site and very few resources are left for anything else. I will say, however, that the summer I was working there was the first summer that they had Indigenous interpretation, and it was really interesting to witness the negotiations between the longstanding interpreters and the new Indigenous interpreters. I have my criticisms, but I also feel like Barkerville and its workers need support.” 

Teed’s time at Barkerville ultimately challenges her passion for history, prompting her to realize that she is much more interested in how history is narrativized: “I really loved history, but sometimes you love a discipline, you enter it, and then you’re just there. With some space from academic work and research, I’ve realized that I’m much more of a storyteller.”

The memoir form tends to receive criticism for flattening out the people surrounding the speaker. Likewise, Teed felt the ethical complications of writing about real people. “In the beginning, I felt super guilty about writing this story. But one thing I tried to do was leave a lot of space for the audience to have their own judgements. I also tried to balance things out by truly exposing myself.” It is true that Teed is just as transparent about her own emotional hang-ups as she is about others’ and foregrounds the impact they have on her relationships. 

This memoir also creates some of this ambiguity by representing the dialogue between Teed and her therapist Barb. Barb helps her approach problems from different angles but also brings a lot of texture to the narrative. “I think that the therapy sessions help create some distance from my initial impressions of some of my experiences,” Teed notes. “Through Barb’s interventions, these sessions function to prevent the reader from seeing my perspective as so definite. And I think they definitely soften some of my interactions.” 

A recurring feeling that Teed experiences throughout the memoir is the sense that she is on the outside of other people’s stories: that life is happening to them and not to herself. As a result, Teed often finds herself wondering what kind of narrative her experiences will amount to — or fall short of. This can be a dissociative experience which increases the stakes of every moment and, I think, cuts you off from your desires. However, writing this memoir allowed Teed to revisit her desires from this time in her life and to feel “...less ashamed for having them in the first place.” 

“I made a lot of decisions based on the kind of person I thought I was,” she states, “and a lot of my time at Wells was marked by thinking things and not expressing them. I realized writing the book that there are things I could have gotten if I asked for them. Expressing yourself is actually healthy and often yields results.” 

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Josie Teed

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Aishwarya Singh is a culture writer based in Montreal. 

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Book Review Roundup: July 2022

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Artwork by Malaika Astorga

Book Review Roundup is a seasonal column where writer Alanna Why shares the best books she’s read in the past few months, with an emphasis on highlighting recent works, small press releases and Canadian writers. 

Trigger Warning: The following reviews discuss topics that readers may find distressing, including racism, sexual violence and gender-based violence.

Monarch by Candice Wuehle (Soft Skull, 2022)

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This debut novel from American poet Candice Wuehle is bold, strange and unlike anything I’ve ever read before. Set in the ‘90s, the novel centres on Jessica, a teenage beauty queen who realizes she’s been programmed as a sleeper agent by a secret government program called MONARCH. 

The first half is an experiment in language and style, with Jessica pondering the fragmented nature of her identity and reality through the lens of philosophy and religion. The second half is more plot-oriented, finding Jessica seeking revenge on those who programmed her. With ‘90s references galore, it’s perfect for culture fans, as well as readers who crave existential and experimental novels in the style of Thomas Pynchon or Don DeLillo.

Disorientation by Elaine Hsieh Chou (Penguin Press, 2022) 

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Another novel about a young woman waking up to the realities of the world around her is Elaine Hsieh Chou’s Disorientation. Narrated from the perspective of Ingrid Yang, a 29-year-old Ph.D. student, the book explores her awakening to the nuances of internalized racism and microaggressions that have followed her entire life.

The campus satire also takes on cultural appropriation, even featuring a professor who seems to be based on Jordan Peterson. Although the breadth of subjects explored are serious, Hsieh Chou approaches them with humour and Ingrid’s deadpan narration is often laugh-out-loud funny. Disorientation is filled with plot twists and turns, with an ending that few could predict.

Despite the serious subject matter, the memoir is extremely difficult to put down, with the flow of Healey’s prose sweeping the reader in immediately. It’s very rare to see a writer discuss the financial details of their career with such honesty, making Best Young Woman Job Book a welcome example in the genre of literary memoir.

Best Young Woman Job Book by Emma Healey (Random House Canada, 2022) 

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Best Young Woman Job Book is the first long work of nonfiction from Toronto-based poet and writer Emma Healey. Written like an extended prose poem, in the memoir Healey explores her journey of becoming a working writer under late-stage capitalism, as well as her experience with sexual assault faced at the hands of a creative writing professor.

Despite the serious subject matter, the memoir is extremely difficult to put down, with the flow of Healey’s prose sweeping the reader in immediately. It’s very rare to see a writer discuss the financial details fo their career with such honesty, making Best Young Woman Job Book a welcome example in the genre of literary memoir.

Son of Elsewhere: A Memoir in Pieces by Elamin Abdelmahmoud (Ballantine Books, 2022)

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Another “just-one-more-page” memoir is Son of Elsewhere by Buzzfeed writer Elamin Abdelmahmoud. Drawing on his experience of immigrating to Kingston, Ontario from Khartoum, Sudan at age 12, this essay collection explores family, culture, language and identity. 

Abdelmahmoud’s writing is sincere and often bittersweet, a prose style that’s tempered with a healthy dose of pop culture obsession. The essays that spoke to the latter element were standouts: I particularly enjoyed his writing about Linkin Park, wrestling and The O.C. Still, it’s the fragmented essay “Roads,” a breathtakingly beautiful ode to the 401, that shined the brightest out of the entire collection.

Manhunt by Gretchen Felker-Martin (Nightfire, 2022) 

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From horror writer Gretchen Felker-Martin, Manhunt is a trans take on the gender-apocalypse story. The novel is set in the near future in a dystopia where most men have transformed into feral, violent monsters due to a virus. It’s told from the perspective of two trans women, Beth and Fran, as they try to avoid an army of TERFs who’ve gained political control and kill anyone who isn’t a “real” woman.

If that sounds brutal, it is! Manhunt is one of the most terrifying books I’ve read in a while. Still, it’s written in such a scene-focused and cinematic way that it feels like you’re watching a dystopian horror action movie instead of reading a book. It’s a compelling and original story, although it’s definitely a LOT to stomach at times, so it’s certainly not for the faint of heart.

Acts of Service by Lillian Fishman (Hogarth Press, 2022) 

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Acts of Service is the debut novel from young queer writer Lillian Fishman. Bringing to mind the style and themes of Sally Rooney, this novel is told from the point-of-view of Eve, a 28-year-old New Yorker who becomes entangled in a sexual relationship with another couple, Olivia and Nathan, over the course of a year.

While the set up is interesting and the sex scenes are definitely alluring, Acts of Service’s most unique quality is the way it deconstructs power dynamics, patriarchy and bisexuality. It’s a philosophical read, with the narrator’s thoughts about what she’s involved in working out on the page in what feels like real time. Although it might strike some readers as too subtle or introspective, fans of contemporary literary fiction will certainly find it fascinating.

Alanna Why is a culture and fiction writer living in Montreal. To read more of her book reviews, subscribe to her newsletter Why’s World and follow her on Instagram.

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Book Review Roundup: April 2022

Illustration by Malaika Astorga

Welcome to our latest column, Book Review Roundup. Every season, writer Alanna Why will share the best books she’s read in the past few months, with an emphasis on highlighting recent works, small press releases and Canadian writers. 

Personal Attention Roleplay by Helen Chau Bradley (Metonymy Press, 2021) 

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Published last fall, Personal Attention Roleplay is the debut short story collection from Montreal-based writer Helen Chau Bradley. The stories are narrated almost exclusively by LGBTQ+, mixed-race protagonists, who contemplate unreciprocated crushes, political solidarity and existential dread. Set predominantly in Toronto and Montreal, readers can easily recognize the streets, buses and bike routes as they take in Chau Bradley’s urban malaise. 

While all the stories feel fresh, I was especially struck by those that played with a surreal element. The title story —featuring a narrator becoming obsessed with AMSR videos on YouTube after a falling out with their roommate— is a collection standout. Likewise, the last piece “Soft Shoulder,” about a band touring on the road who finds out unexpected information about their manager, features a plot-twist ending that made me gasp out loud. Overall, the collection is yet another strong work from Montreal-based small publisher Metonymy Press.

Made-Up: A True Story of Beauty Culture Under Late Capitalism by Daphné B., translated by Alex Manley (Coach House Books, 2021)

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Originally published in 2020 as Maquillée by francophone publisher Marchand des feuilles, this slim non-fiction work was recently translated into English. Made-Up takes on the beauty industry, feminist ethics and late capitalism in a style that combines non-fiction facts with a poetic prose style similar to books by American writers Maggie Nelson and Anne Boyer. Both B. and Manley are poets, making the translation beautiful to read.

I really enjoyed the particular emphasis on B.’s analysis of YouTube beauty influencers like Jeffree Star, Shane Dawson, Tati Westbrook and Jaclyn Hill. I haven’t seen a lot of critical writing about these beauty gurus, so it was refreshing to read a young perspective that truly understands their cultural importance to an entire generation of people who grew up on the Internet. Throughout the whole book, B. grapples with what it means to desire beauty and ethics at the same time. Even though it’s a short, quick read, there’s a lot to chew on, long after you’ve finished reading.

Margaret and the Mystery of the Missing Body by Megan Milks (Feminist Press, 2021)

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New York City writer Megan Milks published four (!) books last year, including Margaret and the Mystery of the Missing Body, their debut novel. The novel is set in South Chesterfield, Virginia in 1998 and narrated by Margaret, a teenager in treatment for an eating disorder. 

This hybrid work mixes and matches genre styles to experimental delight, incorporating everything from YA fiction to crime to video games into a work of literary fiction. As one can expect from that description, it’s definitely a wild ride! But the undercurrent of the importance of friendship and navigating queerness as a young person made all the genre shifts come together for what is ultimately a moving and true-to-life ending. 

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel (Knopf, 2014)

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Although this fourth novel by Canadian writer Emily St. John Mandel was released in 2014, it’s recently gained a wider audience due to its 2021 adaptation into a miniseries for HBO. This sci-fi novel follows a group of characters in Toronto as they survive the Georgia Flu, a viral disease that kills 99% of the world’s population in a matter of days. 

Much of the book takes on the Travelling Symphony, a group of actors and musicians who tour around the GTA twenty years after the flu’s outbreak. While I can understand that many people don’t want to read about a pandemic while we’re currently still in one, I found Station Eleven to be oddly comforting, reminding me of the strength of human resilience and the power of art in difficult times. I especially love the interconnectedness of the characters, which reminded me a lot of Lost.

The Death of Vivek Oji by Akwaeke Emezi (Riverhead Books, 2020) 

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Released two years ago, The Death of Vivek Oji is the third novel from Nigerian writer Akwaeke Emezi. The novel blends the genre conventions of murder mystery with the stunning prose of literary fiction to showcase a queer story filled with equal parts tragedy and beauty. The Death of Vivek Oji begins with just that: the death of Vivek, who’s body is placed on the doorsteps of their parents. 

The novel switches between perspectives of Vivek, their childhood friend and cousin Osita and various family members to explore the grief of the loss and its effect on the whole community. But greater than that is the story of LGBTQ+ desire, community and chosen family. It reminded me strongly of Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin, which is also a tragedy. It’s heartbreaking, but overall an incredible read with the final twenty pages making the entire novel soar (and sending any reader into major tears).

Alanna Why is a culture and fiction writer living in Montreal. To read more of her book reviews, subscribe to her newsletter Why’s World and follow her on Instagram.

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