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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"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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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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Olive Andrews Shares "I’m trying to tell you" From Three-Part Poetry Series

Artwork by Olivia Meek AKA Regularfantasy

I’ve been waking up earlier and earlier 

and boiling the kettle and forgetting the tea 

but the floor is warm and I have my lemon shampoo 

there was one day in the spring 

I poured the booze down the drain and put the bottle by the window in the light 

do you remember the night I was up sick 

and feeling very by myself and quiet 

afraid to text I thought you’d be sleeping 

and now you’re here 

and being alone doesn’t fill my brain like that 

as a child to relax I’d imagine 

taking each bone from my body and giving it a good scrub gently pushing it back into place 

but how impossible it is to do everything right 

creating space in my spine is a nice thought 

and really that’s all 

except there’s something right about trying to do better so I try to do better 

and boil the kettle 

Previously published in rock salt, baseline press 2020

Via Olive Andrews

Olive Andrews (they/them) is a poet living in Tiohtià:ke (Montréal). Instagram I Twitter

This is the third of three poems they have shared via Also Cool. Their work has been published in a number of magazines, including PRISM International and Plasma Dolphin. Their debut chapbook, rock salt, was published with Baseline press in 2020. They are currently interning at Canthius mag.

Artwork by Olivia Meek AKA Regularfantasy Instagram I Paintings I Design

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The Male Gaze and The Men In My Mentions

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Visual by Malaika Astorga

I’ve had my fair share of reply guys. 

The friend of a friend I’ve never met, the drummer of my ex-boyfriend’s favourite band, the married guy who had already hit up two of my friends… Many strangers have found their way into my comments and, ultimately, my DMs. Most of these interactions have been more or less pleasant – flattering, sometimes over-familiar or annoying chatter. Occasionally, a guy turns on you and it’s weird and aggravating but there are only so many times you can be called a bitch on the internet and truly care.

Reply guys (by which I mean flirtatious men who constantly comment on your posts and/or slide into DMs) are mostly harmless in their behaviour. It’s their presence – or lack thereof – that fills me with an irrational dread. The reply guy trend, a tangible example of the male gaze bleeding into the online world, fuels my anxieties and conflicting feelings on wanting to appeal to men. 

Over the past few years, I’ve been working on aspects of myself that previously sabotaged romantic relationships and, truthfully, my own well-being. Insecurity, impulsiveness, and a deep fear of not living up to expectations kept me in a constant rotation of partners, more projects than a single person could possibly stay on top of (I didn’t), and periods of overwhelming depression. 

I took on too much and then some. I skipped meals, stayed up too late, and woke up early enough to apply several layers of concealer to the dark rings around my eyes. Feeling tired and unappealing, I spent a chunk of my minimum-wage paycheque on makeup and coffee. When my boyfriend said he thought about cheating on me because I was “too frumpy”, I bought a bunch of flimsy shirts on sale. 

At that point, I was already regularly wearing a full face of makeup on my days off – not for fun (though that’s what I would have said if you asked) or to go out, but to cling to what I thought was a tiny sliver of beauty. In my mind, it was my lack of beauty that made me unloveable - or at least less loveable than other women. All other virtues I possessed felt useless without it.

After I cut ties with the aforementioned boyfriend, stuck in a haze as I adjusted to meds that I needed to keep going, I constantly fell asleep on the couch – and somehow still managed to wear lipstick to every lecture I attended. During this time, my mentions and messages were full of men, many of whom lived in my city. Men who were flattering and sweet, men who created a false sense of intimacy by starting very personal conversations, men who talked about my interests. All of them flirted, and all of them implied that we might form some sort of a relationship. Many of them were already in relationships (not that they offered this information). 

I enjoyed this attention and interacted with it, sometimes letting myself be tricked into believing that any of these men cared about me as a person. The validation was thrilling and new, as I had never really considered myself particularly attractive. I had rarely been offered a drink or approached at a party, and felt that I was usually overlooked. This attention pleasantly surprised me.

In retrospect, I realize that this is because the guys in your DMs are in many, many other women’s mentions. Unlike real life, I simply didn’t see the ‘competition’ around me. In real life, a lot of these men wouldn’t approach me. This is especially true for those reply guys who are married or partnered – something I would often find out later, when deciding whether or not to meet in person. In my preparations, it became a habit to check tagged photos and talk to women I knew from similar circles. The downfall of cheaters is that they don’t seem to realize that women talk to one another. But regardless of a man’s intentions, I enjoyed the attention. If I noticed someone was partnered, I would keep my responses to a minimum and shrug off the vague discomfort. 

Something else to consider is that, when you’re sourcing validation from straight men, other women automatically become competition. I’m ashamed of feeling that way, and I knew that it was wrong. In my day-to-day life, I didn’t feel the need to put other women down or beat them in any way. But I was obsessed with matching their beauty and charm, and the thought of being labeled ‘the ugly friend’ terrified me. My interactions online were showing me that, if I showed myself in a certain way, I could be ‘attractive’ enough to keep up.

This seems particularly absurd, weighed against my preference for feminist literature and discussions. To make these conflicting narratives work, I spun my politics to match my actions. If the feminism of the 2000s allowed women to wear makeup and be promiscuous, I thought, I could push the argument to a point where the things I did for the male gaze would be the actions of a ‘liberated woman’ having fun.

In reality, few of the things I did were really ‘for me’, they were for the people around me to consider me attractive. And when real life, with its stress and rejection, didn’t provide the validation I needed, there were always the reply guys.

I got stuck in a loop. I was constantly fighting the feeling that I was failing and social media provided a quick confidence boost. But I was also afraid of losing my appeal, on- and off-line, and the sense of competition with myself and other women weighed me down. Of course, this was unsustainable. 

What made me take a break from interacting with comments and DMs was actually a non-event. A man who had messaged me a dozen times asked me out, and I agreed. Then, I found out from a friend that he was recently married. I was annoyed and confronted him, and in response he backpedaled and told me it was crazy for me to consider his invitation a date. (Interesting tactic, as it’s hard to gaslight someone when all the messages are right there in your inbox.)

I was tired of feeling tired. A few years after moving to Canada, I finally had a stable and supportive group of friends who loved each other. People were interested in my projects, my studies had become more satisfying, and I got a part-time job I really loved. In short: I found validation elsewhere.  It would be facetious to claim that I’ve achieved my goal of a perfectly well-adjusted life, but I’ve learned how to cope, to let go a little. 

At some point during this shift, my reply guys dwindled. It wasn’t noticeable at first, as they tended to come and go – but one day, I realized a shift. You could blame this on any number of reasons: the fact that I appear in pictures with little makeup these days, my ever-fluctuating weight, my posting about “boring” interests, or the fact I’m in a relationship. This last point is interesting to consider, as relationship status – theirs or mine – has never made a difference in reply guy activity. I have begun to wonder if, in exchange for health and greater comfort in my skin, I have suddenly lost my appeal to men.

Intellectually, I know this is ridiculous. This fear doesn’t stem from insecurity in my relationship, but rather my own fear of losing appeal, and the nagging sensation that you’re in constant competition. It’s upsetting to think that what makes me feel better and more myself could actively lessen my appeal. As the number of reply guys drops, I catch myself worrying whether I’m becoming less attractive to people in real life too. The idea that you have to restrict and change yourself to be attractive remains in the back of my mind, ready to pop up on a bad day.

I realize that it’s not the reply guys themselves, but rather the way they appeal to my insecurities that makes me feel queasy about our interactions. Or maybe it’s the idealization and commodification of myself, something that I participate in, that scares me the most. Becoming a product that men want to consume, one that I have actively helped to create, can be thrilling. It can also be confusing. Shedding that persona and noticing, in some quantifiable way, how this lessens my appeal is terrifying. 

But everyday it feels better to be me. Every day, I care less.

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Poppy Fitzgerald-Clark (she/they) is a writer and podcaster based in Ottawa, ON and Ludwigslust, Germany. When she’s not talking about hockey culture, politics, and social media, she’s listening to ghost stories and going for walks.

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Malaika Astorga is a Mexican Canadian visual artist, and is the co-founder of Also Cool Mag. She lives in Montreal with her two cats, working as an artist, writer, and event producer for the last six years.

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NGL Flounce Shares "Womb" from Poetry Series "When Mom Is Gone"

Illustration by Reilly Webster

”Womb” is the first poem from the collection When Mom Is Gone by Montreal-based multimedia artist NGL Flounce. In the author’s words, the series focuses on themes of “craving, losing, and then finding motherhood.” Read the piece “Womb,” and keep an eye out for her following works to be released as a short series in the coming weeks.

Illustration by Reilly Webster

- - -

Womb

Eyes close, Head tilts

Backwards, Weight lifts,

Water calmly

Lifts my body.

Sensations numbed,

Protection all

Around my shape,

My mind is blank.

Safety cared for,

Almost Love with

No condition:

Wishful thinking...

The bath is cold,

I fear the truth,

I stand and look:

Illusion gone.

Lost and scared of

Giant setting,

Gasps for breath when

Coming panic.

I wish she would

Be here with me

And hold, embrace,

Relieve my cries,

Eat me full and

Pull me back in

Haste, in fear of

Death, Her only,

Her child, alone,

And only her

Is strong enough,

Can love enough.

Save me mother!

Take me home to

Peace and warmth,

Let me fill your

Womb.

NGL Flounce is a multimedia artist from France and Madagascar based in Montreal, Canada. Her main interests are poetry, spoken word, music production, and DJing under the name NGL Flounce. Her narrative and lyrical poems form nuanced sketches of self-reflection, loss, sexuality, culture, cycles of life and earth, and the critique of Eco-Fascism.

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Illustration by Reilly Webster

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I Wanna Get Better: Conversations on Therapy, and Where They Fall Short

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Illustration by Nina Slykhuis-Landry

The start of this decade will be one to remember, and certainly not through rose-tinted glasses. COVID-19 shows no signs of slowing down, and Canadians are facing the virus’ second wave. Aside from the virus, citizens around the world are mobilizing against the systemic racism that continues to pervade society.  There is also the question of the impending American election, which has become a centerpiece of discussion (and anxiety) in recent weeks. To survive is to thrive under these conditions, but we need more than a motto to carry us through - especially when experts are identifying an unprecedented mental health crisis that is directly related to this suffering. What is to become of us all as the winter approaches? How are we expected to cope?

Years before this escalation, therapy (also known as psychotherapy) was breaking into the mainstream unlike any other technique. The world has continued to open itself up to conversations around mental health. Many of those who cope with mental health issues now have a stronger inclination to share the techniques that get them by. Celebrities that we recognize as beacons of confidence have admitted to their experiences attending therapy, normalizing this process for their doting fans. This shift in dialogue has made our authentic feelings easier to share - which is especially welcome as physical connections continue to strain under quarantine. Day by day, we have moved towards a sense of collective vulnerability. 

The overarching goal of therapy is to improve an individual’s mental health. By extension, this contributes to an overall sense of self-improvement. Through this commitment, you are guided through understanding more about yourself and your experiences, and you strategize for a brighter future. Activities that may fall under this web of self-improvement are defined by several aspects, including commitment, an action plan, and an evidence-based approach. 

What we understand as psychotherapy can take many forms; there are common talk therapies such as cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) and dialectical behavioural therapy (DBT), there are creative therapies, and more. Other forms of self-improvement are similarly diverse - the Depression Center at the University of Michigan suggests many activities that do not adhere to a traditional structure of psychotherapy. 

Regardless of the treatment you choose, what is clear once you go through these motions is that the journey is a marathon, not a sprint. The progress may not be linear, but what matters is that you’re working on yourself in the first place. Working on ourselves is the greatest project we’ll never fully complete.

And we are meant to do just that - work on ourselves. Being mindful that different experiences will warrant different approaches to the work involved. Yet there is a growing pocket of self-help discourse that reduces the conversation to an idealized vision of therapy. Social media is hardly the place to go for nuanced perspective, but the “go to therapy” argument has made itself unavoidable in these spheres.

Whether this reductive attitude is for Internet attention or because the greater point of therapy has been lost among us remains to be known. What we do know is that the use of memes and humour has completely changed the way we talk about therapy. The popularity of both self-deprecation and transparency in mental health have skewed this conversation. But there is nothing to laugh at, nothing to be won from turning collective sadness into a pointing game. Whether or not there is serious intent; this act of prescription can end up hurting the conversation and is not always productive for everyone.

What feels especially cruel about this bias is how often it comes from a place of privilege, and how it pits people against each other. There are those who can afford the cost of psychotherapy, whether paying through an insurance plan or out-of-pocket, and there are those who cannot. Free and sliding-scale services have continued to pop up, but these services are often underfunded and overwhelmed. Being 15th on a waiting list does nothing for an individual who is struggling right now. Effective therapy will also require cultural competency, and the lack thereof has been widely observed across mental health care. Compare this lack of cultural competency with the dire need for it presently, when our social climate is bringing systemic racism to the forefront. This makes the decision to pursue treatment that much more complicated for marginalized populations.

Another major problem that emerges from the therapy-driven discourse is that in its rigidity lies the assumption that therapy is always working. A false dichotomy is established, as if therapy presents the ultimate cure. Regardless of a client’s treatment, they are supposed to be in the driver’s seat and take these steps for their own life. Much like any other treatment, there are those who commit themselves to therapy and put in the work, and those who do not or cannot. When in therapy, the client may have unrealistic expectations or a fear of commitment. Clients are not always receptive to their therapist. 

Likewise, the therapist may not be a right match for the client - and a good match is needed if progress is to be made. Mental health care as an institution has long presented its own systemic problems - it is not wrong to want to avoid this. In some instances, therapists can contribute to the issues their clients are facing. This was my situation. 

As a teenager, I attended psychotherapy for three years, and the experience was unfulfilling. Looking back, I can recognize that a few therapists pushed boundaries and seemed to feed me answers. I chose to keep coming back because it felt like where I was supposed to go. I wanted to believe the solution was there. 

But the solution can be anywhere if you try new things and follow what feels right. Over the past four years, I have moved away from the structure of psychotherapy. When my insurance coverage changes, it may no longer be an option. Right now, my toolkit includes setting boundaries and making room for creative expression. Both of these strategies have made a world of difference to me, and I plan on making them a priority. 

Science tells us that mental health may also be improved by taking better care of our bodies. Research suggests that regular physical activity appears as effective as psychotherapy for treating mild to moderate depression. Endorphins can be released from a variety of other techniques, such as meditation or acupuncture. Diet and mental wellness are inextricably linked - though certain ‘junk foods’ will provide short-term joy, regular consumption has been linked to a worsening of mood disorders. These are complementary strategies, but their potential has been proven. They can help to achieve the same goals as psychotherapy.

What we can probably all agree on is that therapy should be more accessible for everyone to try. Healthcare is a human right - this should include mental health care.  In a better world with stronger systems, diversified therapies would be available to all because mental wellness is in everybody’s best interest. We have evidence to prove that when our society invests in mental wellness, productivity is maximized and our economy saves big. 

But this is not the system we are working with, and until it is, we need to speak with humanity and be mindful of experiences outside our own. This mental health crisis will surely get worse before it gets better, and we cannot afford to fight each other. More than ever, it is integral for us to build community in conversations on mental health. We have nothing to gain from this discouragement, and everything to lose.

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Resources

Mental health is incredibly important to preserve, especially in the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, the following resources are great places for immediate support:

• Crisis Services Canada is a resource available to all Canadians in need of mental health support. They can be contacted toll free (24/7) at 1-833-456-4566. They also provide text support (4pm-12am ET daily): 45645

• BetterHelp is a resource that provides direct-to-consumer options for mental health support. BetterHelp is available around the world, and can be accessed from a computer, tablet or smartphone. Get started at betterhelp.com. 

• The LifeLine app offers a wide variety of mental health resources to Canadians, all for free. Providing direct access to a wide variety of crisis support services, resources for suicide prevention & awareness, and more. Get started by visiting their website.

• Hope for Wellness is a resource available to Indigenous Canadians in need of immediate crisis support. Telephone and online support are available in English and French, with telephone support also available in Cree, Ojibway, and Inuktitut. Call toll-free at 1-855-242-3310 or connect to the online Hope for Wellness chat.

• CheckPoint’s website provides a large directory of mental health resources for Canadians, Americans, and more. Resources are listed by country, and there are also several services available for folks around the world. Visit this directory at the link.

Please note that for longer-term supports (such as therapy), one of the best steps is to contact your general practitioner and discuss the available options. The resources disclosed provide immediate support, but may not be a good stand-in for other strategies.

Rebecca Judd is the features editor of Also Cool Mag.

Nina Slykhuis-Landry is a Montreal-based illustrator, cartoonist and mural artist. 

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Body Journals: Maycie-Ann St. Louis

Illustration by Gabor Beta

This is the first of hopefully many Body Journals - interviews with creatives, performers, artists, and/or anyone with a body on what it’s like to move through the world in their vessel and the many lessons they’ve embodied along the way.

Maycie-Ann St. Louis is a dancer and freelance model, and she expresses herself in both roles with self-awareness and authenticity. We have worked and moved in the same spaces for a couple of years now.

In the pre-COVID world, Maycie and I used to host an “all styles” open space at Disstorsion Studios. Although we were often the only two to show up, we would spend hours flowing around the studio together. I have always admired Maycie’s movement quality and her ability to tell stories through her dancing through her dancing, which only became strengthened after she joined the Contemporary Dance program at Concordia University in 2018.

Who better than Maycie, who is constantly and purposefully expressing and communicating through her body and broadening her movement practice, to interview for this body series?

Maycie by Andy Voss

For this first Body Journal, our conversation began with a check-in about how Maycie’s relationship to her body has changed in our mid-pandemic world. 

Maycie: “[I’ve been] trying to stretch and really push my body to a different level of self-discovery. I ended up taking some [online] classes, which have made me feel really introspective.

One thing I unlocked was being able to pinpoint the origin of my dance practice. I would [tell people] I started when I was sixteen because that’s when I started at the studios. However, I realized that doing dance battles in my basement with my siblings, listening to BET, was also part of my dance journey when it comes to street dance or hip-hop culture. 

Even further than that, when I was growing up and going to church, I used to do praise dance, which is a dance that you do to Gospel music and hymns. It’s very spiritual and very lyrical. It’s a form of worshipping God in a sense. It’s also very telling of the contemporary vocabulary that I have in my body. So understanding the origin of my dance imprint, I asked myself, ‘How can I keep being true to it?’ I feel like it’s the most authentic and most genuine version of my dance identity.”

When asked about how she first became aware of her body, considering her personal experience with dance and movement, Maycie recalled when she first started taking her identity into account.

Maycie: “Honestly, it’s been about a year... It’s funny because I feel like I just had the epiphany of, ‘Wow, I have a body. And it’s Black.’ Which is a new notion for me to accept. I’ve always just tried to be a body… My Blackness, it’s part of my identity. So, to not own it is to not own myself. But being in school and having this reality of being a Black body onstage, the narrative being created for me based on my skin colour was an epiphany that I had never had before.”

Around the time of that epiphany on her Blackness and her body, Maycie decided to take a year off school to reassess her dance practice and her direction. At the time, she was concerned with whether she was making the right decision. “Now that I look back, I did have to stop school because I was having an identity crisis.”

The epiphany and ownership of her Blackness has presented itself in Maycie’s dance career as well.

Maycie: “I don’t see myself [in the commercial dance scene]… I don’t see a tall, lanky body or Black girls up there that don’t have to emulate this ghetto stigma that they always want to impose on me. When I’m in it, I’m doing what I love. I’m moving, I’m performing. But, once I step back and I think about all the political themes that involve me being involved in that project or taking that gig, I’m like, ‘Ok, I gotta dissect this and I need to be instilled in who I am.’ 

I feel like I have a responsibility to stand in my identity as a person and as a dancer, so I don’t become a victim of whatever they want me to be. That’s why doing the work over quarantine [was so important], and being like, ‘Ok, this is your dance identity. This is how you started. You feel best when you dance like this and you feel best when you speak like this.’ I’m just trying to hold onto that as tightly as I can.”

Maycie by Jefferey Rosenberg

Maycie’s advocacy for herself also extends to advocating for other Black creatives.

Maycie: “With the movement going on, obviously there are a lot of people now who want to involve Black bodies in their projects. 

I can discern when things are done with performative intent. When that isn’t the case, I also have the responsibility to hold those people accountable. I have to be like, ‘Ok, so I’m your first Black model… you have to keep this going.’ It’s a sacrifice. But I’ve noticed that this is nothing new to me, quite honestly. I’ve always just been in situations where I was the only Black person there. 

It was so normal to me that I just did my thing. Now, with all the conversations going on, I notice it more. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, this is actually an issue.’ I don’t want to be tokenized. 

I’ve started a platform with my two other partners, Black Montreal Creatives, putting forth other creatives here in the city to show that, for example, there’s not only one Black freelance model, there are a whole lot.”

This understanding of her Blackness and her body prompted Maycie to reflect on the importance of learning more about our bodies, in order to learn more about ourselves: “It’s kind of frustrating that like I went my whole lifetime without knowing what was going on in my body. I had an anatomy class in university… It was definitely a revelation. It made me more comfortable with the idea that I can control my body in a sense.” 

Maycie expanded on the ideal of body awareness and control.

Maycie: “It goes further than the physical, it seeps through to the spiritual and mental as well. If we were taught the basics of the mechanism of the body in high school, it could create more introspective and responsible beings.

My body has taught me that I am entirely in control of my destiny and what is meant to be mine. Even though there might be people and systems in place that make me feel I need to do one thing, the fact that I am my own organism, that I have these properties in my body that can make decisions and that I can decide to walk left instead of going right… My legs will bring me to the side that's most true to me. That is one truth that my body has been able to guide me to.”

I’m very grateful for Maycie’s honesty and willingness to share her journey and wisdom with me. In the future, she aims to found a dance company of her own, and pursue a career as a dance therapist. 

Maycie

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Black Montreal Creatives

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Simone is a Montreal-based dancer, educator, and writer. 

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Weed and Me: Redefining Self-Care in Coronavirus

Illustration by Nina Slykhuis-Landry

The coronavirus has bulldozed us into realities we never wanted to imagine, and the vice industries welcomed us with open arms. This is especially true of cannabis; though its Canadian legalization is going on two years this fall, the market has experienced a resounding boom under Q. Since the beginning of March, online cannabis sales in Ontario have risen as much as 600 percent. In America, the states where cannabis is legal are reporting drastic spikes of their own. If you were previously curious about trying cannabis, the world standing still grants you an arena for exploration; ‘the new normal’ has taken on different meanings for different people, and processing it all under a hazy cloud seems attractive. 

Some experts attribute rapid sales to concerns over the supply chain, but for Jordan Sinclair, vice president of communications for Canopy Growth, cannabis and alcohol help consumers that are looking to “...make being at home for a long period of time as tolerable as possible”. Whether the stressor is your family, your work situation, or the virus itself, our vices become easier to justify. It makes sense.

I’ve been smoking pretty regularly for about two years now; for me, the evening toke is a welcome nightcap before drifting off to sleep on a pile of cookies or last month’s laundry. It’s a sign that the day is done and that whatever else the universe wants can be answered tomorrow. When schoolwork or work-work or something in between rears an ugly head, my tiny bong with iridescent sheen (her name is Astrid) knows exactly what I am feeling and exactly how to make it better. On nights out, as a non-drinker, cannabis has eased the social interactions that never quite got easier with time. Recalling these instances, you can see a pattern - this was supposed to be a nighttime habit, and was treated as such in order to establish boundaries and reduce excuses.

As someone who regularly struggles with executive dysfunction as a complication of mental illness, “self-starting” is not in my vocabulary. It is a skill that has been shaken into me for the sake of life’s progression. Abstention from the wake-and-bake-type grift is a necessity that has kept me in check, as getting high for the day-to-day renders me absolutely useless in the hours that follow. Motivation is hard enough to come by, so with some kind of daily schedule or responsibility there’s a reason to self-regulate. Before quarantine, this felt like enough.

When quarantine was imposed, the schedule faded away. I found myself alone in my apartment, with six weeks to process whatever life would become before an internship started, and regulation once again became necessary. In these six weeks, I could get so much done, I reasoned with myself: there would be books to read, poems to write, floors to clean… or, of course, I could get ridiculously stoned and take naps through the daylight. With a sense of self-discipline left weakened under abnormal conditions (conditions which required limited exposure to the outside world), you can imagine which choice I made.

It is completely valid that, in these times, self-care is essential and productivity will be subjective, but this did not feel like any version of self-care. Productivity was nowhere to be found in any sense or definition. I was justifying a lack of control, scared and seemingly alone, and cannabis never made me feel the way I wanted it to. 

The truth is, I wasn’t listening to my body. I thought I would use all this time to do something on my own terms, and take productivity into my own hands. What happened instead was that the uncertainties of the virus and my existing mental health problems teamed up. Even when I was doing nothing, it felt awful, but there was no reason to stop. Cannabis became more than a way for me to pass time. It allowed for stillness, to shut things out and wait until tomorrow - only tomorrow looked the same.

Though quarantine has soured my relationship with cannabis, it has also granted time for introspection. I am fortunate enough to have recognized this problem before it grew further beyond my control, and to have an amazing network of loved ones and resources that help to forge the pathway towards responsible use. In many ways, I love what cannabis has done for me, the peace it brings and the anxiety it has curbed, but dealing with these circumstances has now shown me that regulation is something I should never turn off. What that means is recognizing how health issues and environmental circumstances will both compound my cannabis dependence, and acting accordingly. If I want to continue enjoying cannabis without sacrificing other goals and priorities, I need to make it work for me. Something has to change.

When the realities of my situation became apparent, coping mechanisms and behavioural changes became necessary undertakings. One change that stuck was creating a physical distance between myself and my devices, so that at moments of temptation, I would have to walk across the apartment. Doing this gives me time to think about the purpose of the activity and whether I need it; this removes the greater ease with which I can reach into my bedside drawer.

A second observation is that, by consuming cannabis in different ways (that is to say, giving Astrid a break), there has been a lesser weight put onto my body. Infused cooking oils and butters were a great place to start. (If taken with caution and a proper understanding of dosage, turning to oils while in Q might be your best bet. Many experts suggest that refraining from bong use is a better idea - smoking cannabis is not directly linked to COVID-19 symptoms, but it may exacerbate respiratory illness.) What has also helped is to keep channels of communication open with people I trust; though physical distancing remains, my loved ones keep me in check and understand my goals.

As the world opens back up and quarantine subsides, I wonder if this destructive behaviour will subside as well. Something of a routine has come back to me, but I am still at home and alone, left mainly to my own devices. Fall classes will most likely be online. There is room for my new commitments to falter. Even so, after deliberate reflection and a commitment to different strategies, I remain optimistic about the potential for my relationship with cannabis to improve - both in quarantine and the long-term. Listening to your body is a difficult skill to master, but it is one that I am starting to take much more seriously. This journey has not been easy. Committing to moderation at this moment in time feels completely backwards when an altered state-of-mind used to make everything feel okay. But ignoring unhealthy patterns at such a time of vulnerability feels backwards, too. By working towards clarity, a new sense of control is within my reach. I hope that I’m getting back to me.

A disclaimer/note from the author: Please note that dependence and addiction are recognized as separate conditions. The strategies employed in the article are rooted in lived experience - what has worked for the author of the article may not work for you.

If you are concerned about your own cannabis use, you can assess your cannabis use using the E-Toke Cannabis Use Self-Assessment. For additional support for addiction, visit Health Canada's website for a comprehensive list of addiction support lines & resources.

Please also consider using the CSSDP's Cannabis Education Toolkit available in both English and French

Rebecca Judd is a writer and student currently based in Ottawa. When not stuck in a daydream, she can be found writing, collaging, and talking about The Sopranos to anyone who will listen.

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Nina Slykhuis-Landry is a Montreal-based illustrator, cartoonist and mural artist. 

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