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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Building and Re-Building Community: Conversations at the Read Quebec Book Fair

The Read Quebec Book Fair, photo via AELAQ

On November 3rd and 4th, the 8th annual Read Quebec Book Fair transformed Concordia’s McConnell Atrium into a warmly lit, buzzing market for English-language books, magazines, and translations. The event series is organized by the Association of English-language Publishers of Quebec (AELAQ) in partnership with the Quebec Writers’ Federation (QWF).  Publishers with a stall at the book fair included Maisonneuve, Drawn and Quarterly, Metonymy Press, Vehicule Press, Concordia University Press, and many more. The book fair represented the diversity of the anglophone literary scene in Quebec, showcasing a multitude of voices, styles, and genres as well as making space for emerging writers and publishers. The attendees were not only able to peruse titles and make purchases, but also to form connections with local writers, publishers, and translators in an intimate setting. The space was alive with conversations about old favourites and new discoveries. 

In addition to the market, the book fair also offered a series of public literary events. On the first afternoon, the eight finalists for the Quebec Writers’ Federation Spoken Word Prize did live performances of their work. Nour Abi-Nakhoul from Maisonneuve, Leigh Nash from Assembly Press, and journalist Adam Leith Gollner spoke about how to “Perfect Your Pitch” for those interested in non-fiction and magazine writing. Billy Mavreas gave a workshop to children on how to create their own comic strips and write postcards to their future selves. Catherine Hernandez—Toronto-based author of Scarborough, Crosshairs, and The Story of Us—also participated in the book fair this year. She took part in a conversation with Linda M. Morra and author Eva Crocker for the live podcast recording of Getting Lit with Linda. She also attended the screening of the film adaptation of her novel Scarborough, an event co-sponsored by Image+Nation Queer Culture, Montreal’s queer film festival, and the queer reading series Violet Hour. 

It is clear that the Read Quebec Book Fair emerges from a web of collaborations and seeks to create and maintain ties within Montreal’s anglophone literary community. I had the pleasure of speaking with Rebecca West, executive director of AELAQ, as well as Catherine Hernandez. We discussed the significance of public literary festivals, the opportunities and challenges of various storytelling mediums, and issues around representation. 

West remarked that the Read Quebec Book Fair started as a holiday book fair: “The initial thinking was to offer publishers a way to connect with their readers ahead of the holiday gift-giving season, which is the biggest book-buying time of the year across the country.” However, attendees started to value the book fair for how it helps them navigate the Quebec English-language literary landscape and, accordingly, the organizers’ objectives have transformed since its inception. The timing of the book fair has also shifted further back from the holiday season, landing on what is for many a rather challenging time of year with the fall semester in full swing and the people of Montreal adjusting to the loss of daylight, colour, and warmth outside. However, it is during these periods that occasions for community building offer the most solace. “It’s still a nice opportunity to get gifts a bit earlier.” said West, “but mostly, it’s a really beautiful opportunity for publishers and authors to connect directly with their readers and have conversations with them. We do have such a nice English-language literary community in Montreal. That’s my favourite thing about the fair.” 

Linda M.. Morra and Catherine Hernandez recording Getting Lit with Linda, photo via AELAQ

The book fair also responds to the challenges faced by the local literary community. Local publishers and booksellers have a limited reach compared to larger presses and corporate distributors and are often squeezed out by the latter. Long-form cultural magazines are shuttering left and right, or otherwise struggling to survive because of limited—and, sometimes precarious—funds. The increased cost of living makes it more difficult for writers to devote time to their creative practice, let alone to engage with their audiences, and our cultural habits are also increasingly algorithmically siloed and directed away from local writing. Visibility alone is not a solution to these problems, but it is nonetheless important for maintaining the relevance of local publishing.

West also points out more specific challenges to the English-language literary community in Quebec: “There’s something to be said about maintaining and strengthening ties in the English-language literary community, especially when we’re seeing what feel like threats to the strength of the community – whether it’s tuition hikes for out-of-province students that have just been announced, or new language laws that are limiting access to services for English-language folks. Our mission, at its core, is always about promoting books but, as part of that, we’re strengthening ties within the community.”

Hernandez also foregrounded the value of having real-life encounters with writers at a time when many of our engagements with literature take place online. She suggested that online forums can, at times, encourage impulsive, rigid reviews of literary works rather than thoughtful discussions of how these texts function and connect with the wider world.  “[I love the way] that a festival allows people to be in the same space and see each other’s humanity,” she says, “It also gives me the opportunity to read the book [out loud] because there is always this oral aspect to my work that comes from having worked in theater and now in film.”

In our discussion and throughout the book fair, Hernandez gestured to what is distinctive about different kinds of storytelling—literature, theater, film—as well as how one can experiment with their boundaries. “I think a major thing you’ll see from Crosshairs onwards is that I always try to name the audience,” she tells me. “In theater, that’s really a common practice… In Crosshairs, the reader is addressed as the long-lost lover of a character named Kay. In The Story of Us, they are spoken to as Liz, the elderly client of the protagonist MG… In naming the audience, you are almost saying ‘you’re part of this journey’… It also just helps you understand why you are being told this story now. It doesn’t take the reader for granted. I love the immediacy of it. I don’t know if I’m going to use this technique in all of my books but, for me, it’s really a call back to my theater roots.” 

The Read Quebec Book Fair, photo via AELAQ

Hernandez also described adapting her novel to film as a way of revising and reimagining the text, with members of the cast and crew bringing in their own interpretations of the story. “What is so beautiful about filmmaking is that it’s not just you. You’re collaborating with a whole bunch of different energies. There were 300 people who touched this film to make it a success. That means that they are bringing their artistry into the work and bringing it to life in a way I never believed was possible.” At the same time, she describes learning to account for the financial expense of making creative decisions in film and television: “If I make a change in my book—a location change, a character change—it doesn’t cost anything. Whereas in film and television, when you make creative choices, it could cost thousands. Something I didn’t truly understand right away when I was writing the screenplay was how my decisions were going to impact the budget.” While financial limits are particularly decisive in film and television, Hernandez reminds us to examine the material conditions (money, resources, space) that enable and limit art. 

Hernandez also spoke about her reckoning with performative inclusion within literary institutions. In recent years, there has been a trend of many of these institutions using their publicly stated commitment to diversity merely as window dressing. “I don’t think people who considered themselves allies really understood that when you give QTBIPOC a space at the table, you actually have to listen to what they are saying and maybe change the DNA of your organization in a progressive direction. A lot of organizations were not willing to do that.” In particular, Hernandez takes issue with the way that racialized people who are included in the fold are implicitly and, sometimes explicitly, asked to be understated about their politics. However, she believes herself to be surrounded by writers who do not acquiesce to these demands: “I definitely am part of a beautiful, burgeoning community of QTBIPOC authors who are not afraid to be a bit more brazen with their politics and to tell undertold or untold stories of Canada. When we’re in a world where storytellers are being silenced when they speak about genocide and [advised] instead to appear neutral in situations [of injustice].” Hernandez was a crucial voice at the Read Quebec Book Fair; she sees the importance of not only celebrating the literary community but also critically (and bravely) responding to the institutional challenges encountered by storytellers. 

Oftentimes our engagement with literature tends to be solitary; we read alone at home, at a cafe, or in our offices. The Read Quebec Book Fair represents an occasion to engage with books collectively. Moreover, through talks, panels, and workshops, it offers much-needed space for reflection about reading and writing: what are the lenses through which we can understand a work of literature? How do literary works resonate with ongoing issues in our world? How can we present our work to publishers so that we can reach our audiences? How can we utilize different modes of storytelling? What is standing in the way of meaningful representation? These sorts of conversations are essential in facilitating in-depth engagements with literature, and for ensuring that our literary communities are viable and constantly evolving. 

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AELAQ

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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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