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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Fictional Gender Expression: Social Media Film Critique and Womanhood on Camera

Illustration by Sierra McLean

My friends who talk about their boyfriends are failing the Bechdel test. A girl I know stops wearing red lipstick because she believes she’s dressing for the male gaze. “The female gaze is more the way Tom Holland looks at Zendaya”, says an innocent TikTok comment. Slowly yet surely, the woman is turning into a product.

In 2023, the Bechdel test doesn’t need an introduction. Originating in Alison Bechdel’s “Dykes to Watch Out For”, and originally meant to criticize the alienation of queer women in media, the test asks the audience to consider whether the movie they’re watching has at least two female characters who have a full conversation about something other than a man. Although Bechdel herself stated that her intention wasn’t for it to become a tool for analysis, the test quickly seeped into popular culture and became the staple for discussions on the intersections between gender and media. “It doesn’t even pass the Bechdel test” is a recurring anecdote within feminist movie critiques. 

While the Bechdel test was particularly popular in casual feminist movie analysis from the 2000s to 2010s, it has slowly been fading into obscurity within the context of actual analysis and has instead become a punchline on social media. Searching for “the Bechdel test” on TikTok will most likely result in seeing two types of videos: attempts to actually analyze movies using the Bechdel test, or jokes about how getting fired by your female boss or being verbally abused by your mother all technically pass the test. Although not completely obsolete, the Bechdel test is now treated much less seriously than it was in the early 2000s.

@merryfets 🥰🥰 (ib: @becca.lind) #bechdeltest #filmindustry #fyp ♬ s o m e w h e r e o n l y w e k n o w - ★SPED UP AUDIOS

With the Bechdel test’s tragic fall from grace, a new tool for determining a movie’s inherent feminist nature had to come into town. This time, the new it-girl of pop movie critique is the “female gaze”. The term “the male gaze”, from which the opposite “female gaze” has been coined, has been around for almost 50 years, coined by Laura Mulvey in her 1975 essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema”; in the essay, Mulvey defines “the male gaze” as the way in which womanhood in cinema is often reduced to a spectacle for the pleasure of the male audience, rather than actually contributing to the storyline. When the term started being thrown around on TikTok, the context of film analysis became less relevant and was instead replaced with creators (mostly young women) applying the rules of the male and female gaze to their lives. It’s no longer just characters that can appeal to the male or female gaze; now the way you look, dress and act can all appeal to whatever imaginary audience you have.

@annabellejordanjohnson the girlies who get it, get it #goingoutoutfits #nightoutincharlotte #nightlifeclt #nightoutoutfits #femalegazeexplained #dressingforthemalegaze ♬ original sound - Annabelle Shop Homewurk

Although I have thoughts about the validity of analyzing cinema through means such as the Bechdel test or the male vs. female gaze, that’s not what this piece is about. In the context of film analysis, any tool can be used efficiently and lead to interesting, productive discourse – and in a similar vein, those same tools can be reduced to their simplest interpretations and strip the work they’re meant to analyze of any nuance. What online creators seem to forget about, or not realize in the first place, is that humanity exists outside a screen, that screen being in the cinema or in your pocket.

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Thanks to TikTok’s intriguing interface, in which the algorithmically set “For You” page takes the stage to the detriment of the user’s “Following” feed, anyone posting content can easily show up on anyone else’s feed. This, in comparison to other social media (at least before they all followed TikTok’s model), drastically increases the chances of a complete stranger observing a slice of your life – a few years ago, the chances of anyone outside of your following seeing a mundane post with no hashtags on your small social media account were miniscule, and now that’s just a regular Tuesday afternoon on TikTok for many. Your social media account is no longer a photo album for you and your friends to enjoy – it’s a stage in the middle of the market square, with you performing tricks, condemned to the attention of the passers-by. In other words, it’s the perfect environment to grossly misunderstand a feminist theory and turn womanhood (and livelihood) into a product.

Both the Bechdel test and the male gaze theory have gone through a sort of “Tiktokfication” – that is, they have both been watered down and applied to the context of real life, effectively stripping them from the reason they were useful in the first place. In a contemporary twist on Theatrum Mundi, the terms being used in the context of real people and their lives effectively equate the way regular people live their lives to performance. Coming-of-age under the observant lens of social media gives young people—especially young women—the sense that there is someone watching your every move, judging your every choice of dress and deciding what they think about your performance the same way they would when they’re watching a movie.

A quote often thrown around in the context of the male vs. female gaze is one by Margaret Atwood from The Robber Bride: 

“Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it's all a male fantasy: that you're strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren't catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you're unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.” 

Atwood’s metaphor continues to be relevant even 30 years after The Robber Bride has been published; in the eyes of TikTok creators, dressing and acting in a way that would appeal to “the female gaze” is the solution to that problem. However, doesn’t any gaze, regardless of its presumed gender affiliation, turn you into a character – something to be enjoyed and consumed, rather than someone with a life that waits to be experienced?

That’s exactly where the main issue with “the gazes” is rooted. Similarly to what Atwood hinted at in The Robber Bride, the past views on how women should dress, look and live were mostly meant to appeal to patriarchal standards of “what a woman should be”. Those standards changed over time, with the housewives of the 50s and 60s turning into the hot and exciting manic pixie dream girls, with Maria von Trapp turning into Ramona Flowers; nevertheless, their existence was tied to their Captains and Scott Pilgrims and their worth was judged by how well they served their narratives.

The TikTok trendsetters understand the issue with that; however, their solution isn’t much better. The “female gaze” trend calls to subvert the patriarchal expectations of womanhood, but it doesn’t ask the [person] to stop viewing their lives through the lens of someone else’s gaze completely — it merely asks the actors on the stage of life to watch themselves from the opposite perspective. It’s not a revolutionary act of freedom from catering to fantasies; it’s simply being moved to a prettier cage.

Fortunately for influencers, it’s easier to market and sell accessories to decorate your cage than keys and a map to navigate the road outside of it, and TikTok users are already used to being sold something immediately upon entering the app. As a result, everyone is satisfied — TikTok viewers who want someone to tell them how to dress, TikTok creators who want to tell others how to dress, companies who want an easy roadmap on how to cater to young audiences. 

@pixiaamusic dressing for the female gaze > 🎀✨🩰 #coquetteaesthetic #girlythings #barbiecore #girlpov ♬ Say Yes To Heaven - Sped Up - Lana Del Rey

A switch from dressing “for the male gaze” to “for the female gaze” or analyzing whether your conversations pass the Bechdel test still equates womanhood to performance. Even if you are no longer a woman with a man inside watching a woman, you haven’t gotten rid of the watching – you’ve just gotten rid of the man.

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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.

Sierra McLean is a surreal-ish artist based in Canada, You can follow them on Instagram and order their prints here.

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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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Featured Articles

Also Cool Mag Turns Four!

Graphic by Malaika Astorga

Also Cool Mag celebrated our fourth birthday on October 29th, marking another amazing chapter for this project. Every passing year we reflect on how this passion project has expanded into all of our different communities, and how it connects us, and holds space for all kinds of different self expression. 

Minou at our Drink&Draw event at Système

This year, we welcomed Minou to our core team. Minou radiates with creative ambition: she has sparked a continuing residency at Montreal’s Système, offering free beading workshops with her at the helm. We firmly believe in creating accessible creative spaces wherever we can, which is why we teamed up with long-time Also Cool champion Mags to host free monthly Drink & Draw nights. Both of these events offer free art supplies, as well as a space for unwinding and making new friends. 

Photo by Ming Wu

Speaking of forging new relationships, this past year has been marked by a handful of special collaborations. We rang in the New Year with Palingenesis thanks to our friends at Congrego and Debaser, which saw an eclectic lineup of live acts paired with installations at All Saints Church in Ottawa. This ignited momentum for February, where we covered an inaugural Taverne Tour and co-presented Frankie Rose and Chiara Savasta at Montreal’s Casa del Popolo (thank you Mothland for always supporting us!). Later in the season, we linked up with pals at Side By Side Weekend to thaw the lulls of Ottawa Winter™ with Alpen Glow, Crisis Party, and Preloved at LIVE! On Elgin. 

Photo by Bradley Golding

The Also Cool team has been thrilled to not only program, but attend and profile high-level festivals and events. We co-presented with two of our favourite partners in our respective cities, KickDrum and Side By Side Weekend, attended our first Osheaga, and covered existing favourites Taverne Tour, POP Montreal, PIQUE, Festival de musique émergente (FME), and Psyched Fest in San Francisco. 

Also Cool tshirt collab with Garden Party

We also had the pleasure of collaborating with local clothing brand, Garden Party, on a limited run of tshirts. We’re big fans of the GP and Beamskii, the DJ behind the bunny-themed brand, and couldn’t be more stoked to have an official collab. There are still a few shirts left on the site, so make sure to get ‘em before they’re gone.

Podcast art by ohvasco

Moving into the realm of sound, our podcast Also Cool Sounds Like was well into season three. This latest chapter of the project has been incredibly redefining. Many wave-making musicians have sat behind the mic (and camera!) with our hosts Aviva and Gwen, and videographer George. The podcast has earned recognition from Apple Podcasts, Canadaland, Pod the North, and Edit Audio for its approachable yet insightful examination of the creative process amongst artists. This year’s interviewees include Gloin, Frankie Rose, NO WAVES, Magi Merlin, PACKS, OMBIIGIZI, Sasha Cay, Mags, and others to-be-revealed in the upcoming season finale. 

Photo by Bradley Golding

Our podcasts are premiered on our N10.AS radio show every second Sunday of the month at 5PM EST. Listen here, and to our second radio show on Frozen Section Radio (every second Thursday of the month at 7PM EST), to keep up with the artists and cool happenings on our radar in both AC capital cities.  

Also Cool on N10.as with Late Nite Laundry

The publication end of Also Cool equally traversed new frontiers in 2023. The writings and musings from contributors Aishwarya Singh, Valerie Boucher, Laura Mota, Uma Nardone, Marie Marchandise and Vero Denis were introduced to the Also Cool universe, and we look forward to spotlighting them (and hopefully others!) going forward. 

Our podcast team interviewing the moths at Mothland

We’re already starting to make major moves heading into year five of Also Cool. This past week, we entered the eve of our birthday in true AC fashion with a Halloween dance & costume party at Lounge 164 with DJs Jas Nasty, digital polyglot and Destiny. Next on the docket: M For Montreal. Between zipping around Montreal covering shows left, right and centre, we’re partnering with the festival again this year as an official media sponsor. We can’t say much right now, but we can confirm that you’ll be hearing from some major artists on N10.AS and our podcast…  

We also had the honour of making Cult MTL’s Top Magazines list for the fourth year in a row, this time coming in second place. Our team is constantly amazed that we’ve made the list (our group chat screams every time we get the notification). 

Overall we’ve had an absolutely killer year, and are so grateful that we have a community who cares about supporting indie creatives locally and around the world. It’s hard for us to grasp that our volunteer-run project has been running this long, but here we are, just as thrilled about indie arts projects as we’ve ever been.

Malaika being DJ Also Cool at Système

If you’re looking to get involved with Also Cool, don’t be shy to shoot us a DM or an email (alsocoolmagazine@gmail.com). This project serves as a platform to allow creatives to get their work out there, and we’re always happy to help you grow.

Until we see you next time on the Internet, catch us at one of our IRL events in Montreal (see the schedule below).

Beading Night at Système - Nov 22nd

Drink & Draw at Système (with Mags, & DJs Robocat & Flleur) - Nov 8th

P.S. Also Cool rebrand is coming soon… keep an eye out on socials for our new look created by local design wiz Heather Lynn.

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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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For Pleasure: An Essay

Illustration by Malaika Astorga

« Pâtes ou poulet? »

« Pâtes, s'il vous plaît. »

The stewardess rapidly picked a combination of little containers and handed over the grey tray. While I waited for the moment when I could take off my mask, I analyzed the food and its disposable packagings: pasta in the aluminum cuboid, a transparent plastic pot with indistinguishable veggies, plastic cutlery, tiny paper packs of salt and pepper, plastically -contained vinegar, a chewy piece of bread, a butter stick, hand wipes, napkins, cookies. I opened the pasta container to find overcooked red sauce. There is something about the aesthetics of airplane food that makes it more believable that we're travelling amongst clouds at hundreds of kilometres per hour.

I was feeling heavy. I had just finished the book O Peso do Pássaro Morto by Aline Bei. The romance asks the question, "How much loss fits in a woman's life?" Chapter by chapter, new layers of pain were revealed for the character. Each chapter recounts a year of life, of abuse, of an obligation of performance, of loneliness. It was the mix of the plane's constant buzz and my rage against how women are expected to endure struggles that made me look at the butter stick and desire its melting decadence to moisten the stale pasta. When this thought first crossed my mind, I smiled. What if my partner sees that? Health, other than the events of disease, is a performance. Sitting in the middle chair of the corridor line, I imagine my neighbours watching me dissolve the cholesterol stick into my meal.

Tired of other people's expectations of her, Cléo from Agnes Varda's Cléo de 5 a 7 takes control of her own narrative, proclaiming: "Damn Tuesday! I'll do as I like." She dresses in a stupid winter hat and goes for a summer walk. Bei's protagonist never told off the legislators who postulated how she should live her life. She embodied silence, and silently she died, choked on her own puke.

Thinking of both women, I decided I'd prefer wearing more stupid winter hats.

I first took one-quarter of the mini butter stick. The saltiness and fat of the butter smoothened the texture of the tomato sauce. I checked my surroundings and melted the rest of the butter into my aluminum container. By the end of the meal, I was overcome by the adrenaline of rebelling against public eating norms. I was victorious over shame. I giggled to myself. It was probably confirmation bias, but instantaneously my face felt greasier. There was a silly intensity of joy. A joy that is based on not giving in to the Panopticon. I proposed to myself an experiment. I wanted to try the opposite of Bei's character. I decided to go on a one-month journey searching for the answer to “How much pleasure fits in a woman's life?”

---

We arrived from the airport, dropped my luggage off at my house, did groceries, and started cooking vegan burgers. My partner's roommates arrived all together. One of them had said they would welcome us with cake and beer. Instead, they came in time for my partner to cook them dinner. I listened to their discussion of domestic issues in French. I questioned if I was already failing in the search for pleasure. Exhausted from the jet lag, we went to bed. Before the light was turned off, I looked at my partner and said I wouldn't go on the canoeing trip with his friends anymore. He opened his eyes wide and asked why.

I had explained the idea of a hedonistic month earlier when the airplane landed. So I replied, “I don't think I will have fun.”

In the dim room, I contained my smile. For once, I didn't re-explain that my French is not agile enough to participate in conversations, and his friends—although bilingual Montrealers—weren't quite welcoming to anglophones. Anglophone… as if Portuguese wasn't my first language, as if English always came to me smoothly. For all I didn't say, I allowed the smile to cover my face in its grease.

My partner was clearly disappointed with me for backing off less than a week before the trip. I hardly ever cancel plans with anyone. I felt guilty, but then he asked if this pleasure thing was serious. Yes, it is! I felt empowered by my research. I was ready to focus on making my own plans.

---

I imagine some activities as reserved for my elderly self. Having chickens, trail running, naked live modelling. In search of stuffing my life with as much pleasure as possible, I took inspiration from the bucket list I have prepared for when I'm very wrinkled. A big part of the list involved me being fitter, wiser or the owner of a backward, but being bare is ageless. I proceeded to make the arrangements for naked live modelling. I messaged a friend of a friend who organized the event. I rehearsed poses and balancing. I wanted the pleasure of feeling that the body is no other than a still-life composition.

On a Wednesday, looking at the evening lights of Place des Arts, I felt like Dorothée. In Varda's movie, Cléo asks if Dorothée didn't feel too exposed when live modelling. Dorothée replied: “Nonsense! My body makes me happy, not proud. They're looking at more than just me. A shape, an idea. It's as if I wasn't there."

Standing. Sitting. Laying. My body received attention but without being a target. For once, it was only marked by its stillness.

I maximized pleasure whenever possible while maintaining my functional adult duties. I said more NOs in that week-and-a-half than I had done in the past couple of months. I was overjoyed by committing to finishing my poetry manuscript. And when I wasn't writing, I spent time with my beloved community. I was unaware at the time, but I practiced part of Epicurus’ ethics: the priority of friendships. I searched for ataraxia, the lack of suffering and the feeling of calm and enjoyment. I asked myself constantly: “Will this bring me joy?”

I only saw my partner twice or thrice in the first two weeks, and he wasn't ever quite spiritually present. Once I stopped going to his friends' events just because I wanted to see him, we hardly ever saw each other. And he had always been too busy to spend time with my friends.

After a weekend with friends, foraging mushrooms, dancing and meeting new people, I missed him. On Monday morning, I proposed dinner at 7:30 PM at my place. He agreed, until at 4 PM when he texted me: "Actually, I think I am gonna go climb. But see you around 9."

I read the message, defeated. There was the same amount of disconnection with him as all the connection I felt with my friends. Earlier on that day, in therapy, I asked: “How do I know when it is a hard phase, and when it is over?” It had never quite been an easy relationship, but the struggles had solidified in the past two months. Instead of replying, my therapist exchanged questions. "Did you find the answer?" I am always afraid that I know too well what my therapist wants to say when she doesn't reply directly.

Still holding my phone after reading the text, I started crying on the sofa. My roommate came to check what was happening. “It needs to be over today,” I told her, and she knew exactly what I was referring to.

I cleaned the tears from my face. “I'm tired of being sad about this. I'm gonna go on a run.” Angry, I left the apartment. I mentally screamed at myself that I had let this go on for too long, that I had tried, but that love doesn't work by itself.

It was a ridiculous idea to run while my breathing system was busy with hiccups. I sat down. Angry. Crying. No endorphins were created.

I should be focusing on my pleasure, goddamn it!

---

He arrived at my place at 8:40 PM. I was slightly high from a friend's joint. He asked about my weekend, and I described the events, clearly overwhelmed by joy.

"How about me? Where am I in your amazing life?"

“Yeah, you are never really around in these moments.” The words left my mouth easily. The anxiety that this topic had always brought me was brushed away by the weed.

"What should we do about it?"

I knew he expected me to ask him to be there. But I felt so neglected asking, it would be naïve to ask for presence. I was tired, and my head was clear. “I think we should break up.”

He stopped for a couple of seconds, realizing I was serious. In the next hour, I calmly explained my reasons: I didn't want to feel like I was the only one trying, I felt invisible, like his desires were always bigger than mine. I wanted someone that wanted to be in my life. Actively. 

He said he loved me. He said it made sense. He said he felt like shit while climbing. He said it was true that he took me for granted. He approached me for a hug.

In my head, I narrated the event: This is our last hug. Now, we'll never have sex, we'll never wake up together, and we'll never be partners again. The hug ended.

"So, how do we fix this?"

---

I started falling behind on pleasure. Academically, I felt drowned. After spending September doing the bare minimum and spending most of my time finishing the manuscript, I was burned out. Months before, I had decided to engage in the Honours program. I had enrolled in classes that I would have never taken if I had seriously considered the enjoyment factor. I thought of it as a pain necessary for the pleasure of a future self. 

Every week I was assigned to read English texts from the Renaissance and the 18th century. I had always avoided European period literature courses because their title describes all the readings well: stories of white men for white men. That is required if you want to be "honoured." Complaining about the required courses was a useless complaint summarized by a good friend: "Well, Laura, it was you who decided to do gringo studies. Hold the bomb."

Trying, or in a Brazilian Portuguese direct translation: "holding the bomb," felt contrary to my pleasure search. I found myself incapable of prioritizing my own present pleasure. The difficulty wasn't gendered. Joy was withheld by my distaste for what I had decided to take in university and the complexities of trying to discover how to make love work. I tried choosing pleasure, failed, and found myself miserable by not guaranteeing a minimal level of hedonism.

---

My pleasure notes became a food diary. While I felt emotionally exhausted, I indulged in every possibility of savouring delight. Natural wine, double chocolate ice cream, Brazilian coffee. On September 30th, I wrote: A night of decadence with new friends. Asking for a shameless amount of dessert to take home. The capability to not worry about how my request is perceived by others.

Good meals create space for other pleasures. It was the first time my partner and I explored social occasions that were new for both of us simultaneously. Until then, "new" was always one-sided. COVID couples and their assigned bubbles! In our new friendship with C., we found mid-ways. She was French; knowledgeable about wine like him, full of emotions and with a musical taste like mine. 

We took the bus back home, giggling at the lovely night. Holding my container with five huge slices of vegan tiramisu, I discovered a new capability of our relationship: to build together in the world.

---

The next day, my partner and I shared the experience of a horrible hangover.

"We shouldn't have drank five bottles of wine."

He had forgotten the existence of the last bottle, a type of sweet apple wine.

I went home. Sick, I realized that the pleasure experiment was supposed to end on that day. I felt defeated. The pleasure was unattainable amidst the anxiety I felt for half of the experiment. I refused the conclusion that my complete pleasure was short-lived, a two-week enjoyment followed by the struggle with reality for the rest of the month. I extended the experiment for a month.

At this point, I pressured myself into finding ways to feel pleasure. My university time was filled with imposter syndrome and anxiety, and to balance, I would go hard on the weekends. A party wasn't a party anymore. It was a way not to fail at pleasure.

My search started as a refusal to believe that there is always more space for pain in a woman's life. I wanted to explore how women tend to compromise more than men. And in part, the instinct of thinking about the lack of pleasure as gendered was fruitful. By refusing to push aside my priorities, my relationship improved and found new ways of being. Yet, as for the rest of my life, the difficulties were based on what I projected as expected of me and the things my self-critic identified as failures.

For the second month, I needed to do better, and YouTube had lots of theories on how to achieve "better." I didn't fall into a pyramid scheme by trendy coaches. Instead, I went on a rabbit hole of Epicurean hedonism. Focus on friends, no romantic relationships, no decadent eating, and no big ambitions. Clearly, I had been doing it all wrong. For the philosopher that inspired the first hippie communes, less is more; just go live in the mountains with some friends, reading the most and working as little as possible. Entirely unfeasible, in my opinion. If I had followed Epicurus, I would have dropped out, broken up and not eaten five slices of vegan tiramisu.

---

I wasn't searching for symmetry, but I found the closure of the experiment in a book.

There are a dozen and a half marks in my copy of Made-Up by Daphné B. Most of them highlight exciting ways of thinking about make-up and capitalism. Close to the end, B. remembers Anne Carson's vision of desire: the movement to pick the fruit on the highest branch of a tree. The book then proposes a new question: "Why not write biographies from the point of view of what a person desired, rather than what they achieved?" I marked on the page a huge arrow and wrote: "EXERCISE IT!!!"

Epicurus was wrong. A big part of pleasure is ambition. And it is not about the lack of pain, it is the will to search for joy even when a person is exhausted and defeated. Through the mix of Carson and B.'s thoughts, the answer to “How much pleasure fits in a woman's life?” is always as many times as I go up the ladder to reach for the furthest fruit.

My “stupid winter hat” is a run while I am sobbing, and hangovers of wonderful nights. Pleasure is searching.

---

Laura Mota is a Brazilian writer, portrait photographer, and shameless experimentalist in other mediums based in Tiohtiá:ke/Montreal. Her poetry has been published by PRISM International, carte blanche, High Shelf, and elsewhere. Laura's creative nonfiction was included in the issue "Generations" of Held Magazine.

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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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The Significance of a Balaclava

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Artwork by the author, Alison Margaret B. Moule

A meme that has been circulating recently illustrates a person lying on the ground, presumably unconscious, and a distressed-looking crouched figure crying out “HELP!!! Is any one of you a doctor?” One in a crowd of unalarmed onlookers replies “I can crochet a balaclava.” This occurs under the title, “Year 2030.” Many of us who have been confined to our homes throughout this 2 year-long (and still ongoing) pandemic have taken up hobbies like knitting and crochet, and this meme pokes fun at the growing winter trend of hand-made balaclavas. No, we are not doctors. We wake up feeling perilously stuck in the cycle of lockdown and gradual-reopening, unprecedented and uncharacteristic weather, minimum-wage jobs and the knowledge that even if we were doctors, we could never afford a house in this economy. So what’s the point? We are shifting away from careers that make money and towards creativity.

In pursuit of coziness

 I made my first balaclava in early January of 2021, after seeing one posted on Instagram by knitwear designer and photographer, Harry Were, for sale for over $200. Unable to afford the beautiful and aptly priced hand-knit head-warmer, I set my mind to knitting my own. Although I do not know how to follow patterns, I am proficient in the binary code of knitting and purling. By trial and error, I cast on a blue merino-wool balaclava, making up the pattern as I went along.

Since that first bala (as I affectionately call them), I have knit and sold enough to cover about three months of rent. Not wanting to charge a price that I myself could not afford, while still trying to value my time that goes into hand-knitting, I sell by sliding-scale. Most people who buy my balaclavas are also students or work low-paying jobs, but are graciously willing to give up $90-130 to get their heads in a soft, hand-knit wool bala. I am curious about the popularity of balaclavas that has allowed me to make a small income by doing something that I love.

Some attribute the trend to the pandemic, as masking has been mandatory for nearly two years, and balaclavas seem to mimic the effect of a semi-obscured face. However, balaclavas were first reappearing in fashion in the pre-pandemic winter of 2018-2019. Still, I imagine there is some connection between masking to prevent the spread of COVID-19 and everyone wearing a balaclava this winter. Perhaps we appreciate the warmth that masks provide to the lower half of our faces in sub-zero temperatures, but require a more fashionable, comfortable, outdoor version of this warmth we are now accustomed to. I surmise that the trend has to do, most of all, with coziness. Winter fashion has not always been as practical. In most recent winters, we have seen more emphasis on keeping warm, with puffer jackets and wide-leg pants (with lots of room for long johns underneath). Balaclavas reject the cold ears of excessively rolled-up beanies. 

Balaclavas in and against power 

Balaclavas first appeared under this name in the 1880s. During the 1854 Crimean War battle —dubbed the Battle of Balaclava, after the nearby town of Balaclava, Crimea— British soldiers were sent hand-knit head and face coverings, then called Uhlan caps, to keep warm in the frigid Russian October (Richard Rutt, A History of Hand Knitting, 1987, pg. 135-138). These were no doubt knitted by women and girls, who often aided in war efforts by providing hand-knits to soldiers. 

Balaclavas have this military history, and are still very much associated with violence. When I mention to a person of an older generation that I knit balaclavas, the common response is “You mean like bank robbers?” Balaclavas are commonly worn to conceal the identity of individuals committing crimes, including police and military forces. Of course, there is a difference between military-style black balaclavas, that conceal everything but the wearer’s eyes, and brightly coloured, hand-knit wool balas that encircle the wearer’s face in a way that reminds me of a well-swaddled baby. That said, it is hard to separate the garment from connotations of violence. I post selfies in my knitted balaclavas on social media with the hashtag #balaclava, and I receive messages like “Hey beautiful,” from military-fetishizing men in tight, black balaclavas. I block them with a feeling of uneasiness about my most beloved winter accessory.

Balaclavas show up also in contexts of political resistance. Balaclavas were worn by Indigenous activists in Chiapas, Mexico, during the Zapatista uprising, beginning in 1994. Face masks are not just a way for the Zapatistas to conceal their identities from an oppressive government: a Zapatista balaclava is a symbol of non-hierarchical collectivity, and a statement about the invisibility of Indigenous peoples in a colonial empire.

Band and performance art group, Pussy Riot, put a spin on the balaclava's Russian roots. Wearing bright-coloured, ski-mask style balaclavas, they retain anonymity while making a strong visual statement, in their fight for feminism and LGBTQIA+ rights in Russia and worldwide.

In Wes Anderson’s Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), the animals wear balaclavas they call “bandit hats” when confronting antagonistic farmers who are destroying their homes. The animated comedy tells a story about land rights and habitat conservation, while using balaclavas as a symbol of resistance. 

Who can cover their heads and get away with it?

Many of the folks who bought my balaclavas live in Montreal, where the cold winters welcome the warmth of the accessory, and the Quebec Bill 21 bans workers “in positions of authority” from wearing religious symbols including hijabs while at work. While a balaclava is generally knit and worn outside as a winter hat, and a hijab is generally a woven-scarf wrapped around the head and worn daily by Muslim women who choose to wear one. The visual similarities between the trendy headwear and the traditional head covering is striking to many Muslim women. Head and face coverings are politicized, and wearing a garment that conceals the head is not a choice that everyone can make safely. A balaclava worn by a white woman may be cute and unique, while a Muslim woman wearing a hijab —which covers the same features as a balaclava— may lose her job. Nuanced connections between race, religion, and our favourite winter accessory raise questions about who has the privilege to participate in this trend.

What is hand-made and what is made by hands?

The balaclava trend highlights a renewed appreciation for hand-made. In a time when many people’s main hobby is watching Netflix, we are reclaiming hobbies. We are learning how to value the work that goes into creating, when the time we put in at our day jobs is usually valued at less than $15.00/hour. Hand-knitting is anti-capitalist. Supporting friends and local makers is anti-capitalist. We understand the detrimental effects that fast-fashion has on the environment and on human rights, and we refuse to support it. While fast-fashion prices have taught us to expect cheapness (in price and quality), by hand-making, we are learning to appreciate the work that goes into making anything that we wear. In my opinion, even a shirt made in a factory in China is “hand-made,” as I don’t yet know of a sewing machine that can operate without hands controlling it. 

In a global situation that feels quite apocalyptic, I fear the culmination of this winter trend that will send balaclavas to thrift stores and landfills. My hope is that we will hang on to our balas and our making-skills for a future where resistance and self-sufficiency may be more valuable than financial capital.

Alison Margaret B. Moule (they/she/elle) is a maker and lover of textiles. They graduated from Concordia University in 2020, with a BFA in Art History and Studio Art and a minor in Classical Archaeology. Their work has been published by the Concordia Undergraduate Journal of Art History (CUJAH), Yiara Magazine, Hoplon (Journal of the Concordia Classics Student Association) and the Fine Arts Reading Room (FARR). They are a current graduate student in Cultural Heritage Conservation at Fleming College in Peterborough, Ontario.

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