Bearing Witness: Domestic Violence and Working Class Women on TV

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Recreation of a still from Can You Hear Me?, visual by Olivia Meek

Editor’s note: The following essay explores several themes that readers may find distressing, including domestic violence, sexual assault and police violence. Reader discretion is advised. Supplementary resources are provided at the bottom of the essay.

It isn’t revolutionary to see domestic violence on television. Quite the opposite — violence against women is too often an easy plot device to further a narrative, brushing over the real impacts of violence in a relationship. To see a series deal head-on not only with the dynamics of abuse, but their ripple effects in a community, is truly rare. 

I had no idea what I was in for when I stumbled onto French-Canadian dramatic comedy Can You Hear Me? (M’entends tu?). Based on the description and the image, I thought, Oh, here’s another series about young people surviving in a big city. That’s a genre I like.

But Can You Hear Me? is hardly a new Girls or Insecure. The story of Ada (Florence Longpré), Fabiola (Mélissa Bédard), and Carolanne (Eve Landry) is an honest – and sometimes hard to watch – portrayal of the everyday negotiations involved in surviving when you’re young and poor. 

When we meet the girls, Fabiola is working at a restaurant, caring for her mother and young niece. Ada is attending mandatory anger management sessions and occasionally trading sex for cash and cigarettes. Caro is living with a cousin and dealing with boyfriend problems. 

As the first season progresses, we learn more about what has happened between Caro and her boyfriend, Kevan. There’s a rape at a party. Kevan blames Caro for her assault, and is physically violent towards her. The season culminates in Ada attempting to take revenge on Caro’s behalf. 

On the big screen, portrayals of domestic violence are usually limited to thrillers about women’s revenge. Sleeping with the Enemy, Enough – these films typically end with the abused woman murdering her abuser. This trope not only perpetuates violent narratives, but it ignores the cyclical nature of violence. Normally in media, the act of violence a woman uses to get back at an abuser is celebrated, or at least plotted with her friends. “Can You Hear Me?” doesn’t let Ada off the hook so easily. 

Season two picks up with Ada in jail and Caro back with Kevan. Once released, we follow Ada as she tries to win back her friend’s trust, and do the challenging work of supporting a friend in a violent relationship. That labour is complicated by the fact that each of the girls must also do the work of surviving. 

Following her release, Ada is struggling to find her footing. Fab is now employed as a personal healthcare aide and is caring for her niece full time, navigating a complicated relationship with her sister, who is trying to stay sober. Caro finds a job in a bookstore, allowing her time away from her abusive boyfriend. 

Other series have covered the topic of domestic violence. “Big Little Lies” is notable for its veracity and nuance in exploring the subject. But, as much in the media does, it focuses on wealthy white women’s experiences. The trope of domestic violence secretly occurring behind the doors of beautiful suburban homes is more about undoing our notions of the perfect family, or the American dream, than about the realities of violence. Rarely do we see a compassionate and complex portrayal of poor women experiencing violence. The vulnerability of poor and racialized women in the face of violence is either too invisible or too horrible to face. 

While it doesn’t shy from the reality of violence and poverty, “Can You Hear Me?” finds pockets of joy in daily life. The excruciating scenes of trauma and pain are balanced with moments of levity. Outside their favourite dive bar, the girls smoke cigarettes and sing along to a song from a passing car. They laugh at the absurdity of life. Laughter is one way the women survive. 

Most representations of working class experiences of domestic violence are delivered to our screens by the reality-documentary series COPS. The police ride-along mainly covers crime in poor neighbourhoods, focusing primarily on Black and Latinx men. “Domestic dispute” segments often involve police arriving at an apartment or trailer park, ridiculing both parties for causing a disturbance, and driving away. The aberration is not the violence, but the noise complaint. 

Can You Hear Me? isn’t anti-carceral or pro-cop – rather, it acknowledges how dangerous it is for the abused person to call the police, and the way police escalate violence. When a neighbour calls the cops, Caro and Kevan both deny any violence. Later on when Caro calls the cops herself, Kevan is arrested, but the violence doesn’t stop — it gets worse. It’s a story about the failing of police as much as it is about domestic violence. 

Without veering into didacticism, the series shows us the abuser’s playbook: isolating the victim from friends; groveling and using gifts to get their partner back; moments where things seem calm; lashing out violently when she finally feels ready to leave. 

The moment someone tries to leave an abusive relationship is often the most dangerous. After Kevan is arrested, Caro eats dinner with her friends and her mother. A moment of joy. The history of violence is just below the surface of their conversation, bubbling up when Caro feels she can speak about her experience, but the women are laughing. For a minute, it seems like Caro is finally free. 

But Kevan, as always, returns with flowers and a fist. It’s the kind of emotional blow one comes to expect from the series, which never lets its heroines (or its audience) off easy. As Ada’s counsellor tells her, “If Carolanne chooses to stay in a toxic relationship, you can’t leave it for her.” 

Even when they disappoint each other, friendships are survival. Caro, Fab, and Ada are all trying and failing at breaking the cycles of violence in their lives. Chosen families break the abusive patterns passed down through bloodlines. 

Caro’s mother, herself a victim of domestic violence at the hands of Caro’s father, seeks help at a women's shelter. This is perhaps the most novel of the portrayals of violence and its impacts on the series. The thriller’s focus on vengeance, the procedural’s focus on police intervention, and the drama’s focus on upper class women mean that domestic violence shelters are almost never shown on TV. 

For a woman with money or connections, it can be much easier to escape to a hotel or friend’s house. By demystifying the shelter, the writers offer a new narrative and option for women, one that involves empowerment without perpetuating more violence. 

It would be easy to make a preachy show about domestic violence, its causes, and the options available to those experiencing abuse. Can You Hear Me? chooses instead to tell compelling and true stories about the lives of working class women. In telling the truth, it exposes the narratives we are afraid to tell, opening up a world of storytelling we don’t get to hear.

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Editor’s note: Below are several supplementary resources that pertain to the subject matter of the essay. We encourage all of our readers to explore these options, and to seek whichever form of help that they may need. Please exercise caution in using these resources on shared computers and devices.

• ShelterSafe is a website that provides information to connect women and children across Canada with the nearest shelter for safety and support.

• myPlan Canada is a free app to help those impacted by abuse with their safety and well-being. It customizes resources for a wide range of relationship abuse concerns in order to develop a safe and sensitive plan.

• SOS violence conjugale is a Québec-based non-profit organization whose mission is to help ensure the safety of victims of intimate partner violence. SOS offers resources in over 25 languages.

  • For those outside of Québec or Canada, SOS offers a comprehensive directory of international resources. This directory can be found here.

• Crisis Services Canada is a collaboration of non-profit distress and crisis service centres from across Canada. Their goal is to assist Canadians struggling with mental health and suicide.

• The Canadian Resource Centre for Victims of Crime is a charity that ensures the equitable treatment of victims of crime across Canada. They have a directory of resources for those who have experienced sexual violence, domestic violence, and other crimes.

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Caitlin Hart (she/her) is a cultural critic and writer from Edmonton, Alberta. She is the co-host of the forthcoming podcast The Simpsons: Not a Simpsons Podcast.

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Olivia Meek is a graphic designer, DJ and music producer based out of Montreal.

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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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Multi-Level Marketing and the Boss Babes Left Behind

Visual by Amery Sandford

Now more than ever, the pressure is on to find your “side-hustle.” The COVID-19 pandemic continues to flourish around the world, affecting many industries and – consequently – prospects for employment. Under these conditions, working for YOU is a form of survival. If you can dream it, you can do it – and if you can do it, you can probably make money off of it. 

Entrepreneurship is everywhere you look – free time has turned into hobbies, and hobbies turned into small businesses. That is not to say that every small business is thriving. On the contrary, government support has developed for the businesses facing diminished revenues with ongoing costs of rent and labour. But if your hustle speaks to the right niche and employs a strong digital strategy, the possibilities are endless.

When it comes to small business, multi-level marketing (MLM) companies are not an obvious example. The business itself is not inherently “small,” but rather the distributors that find their way into personal networks. They are friends, mothers, and high school classmates you haven’t talked to in six years. They are working people looking to supplement their income, and those unemployed or between jobs who want to be their own boss.

A direct message sent to the author last month

And that’s what everyone wants at a time like this, right? To do business and profit on our own terms, in such a way that’s compatible with our lifestyles. There is nothing wrong with wanting to pay rent and feed your family. There is nothing wrong with supporting small businesses and creators when they are most vulnerable. It is not the “side-hustle” as a concept that presents the problem, but the craftiness and deceit of multi-level marketing companies. 

The truth is, multi-level marketing is an incredibly predatory practice. These businesses perpetuate false narratives of prosperity and exploit the boom of girl-bossery when, in reality, both the distributor and the customer are sold a vision they cannot realize. This is especially important to remember in the context of the COVID-19 pandemic: people have lost work and need solutions, making the current climate a perfect opportunity for the MLM to strike.

Multi-level marketing companies are related to the pyramid scheme, insofar as distributor recruitment makes up a good deal of operations – often more than the sales themselves. Daryl Koehn, a professor of business ethics at DePaul University, makes a careful distinction between MLMs and pyramid schemes, for at least MLMs actually have a product to sell. But when distributors must purchase inventory that they cannot sell, the line between pyramid scheme and MLM is easily blurred.

Across multi-level marketing, the most popular companies tend to specialize in beauty, health and wellness. Companies like Avon and Mary Kay have built international reputations off of their cosmetics. Monat promises to give you the hair of your dreams. Arbonne and It Works! sell smoothie mixes and serums to make your body beautiful, inside and out.

These brands have gained notoriety across social media, relying on mommy groups and message requests to push products that will totally change your life. The distributor role is promoted in a similar fashion, as an emancipatory experience that will provide for your family and work with your lifestyle. The Avon lady of yesteryear who showed up at your door is now the momtrepreneur living her best life and letting you know via Instagram. These companies have also grown as the concept of self-care becomes more important to society. Taking care of your body and self-image has become a way to cope with external anxieties. 

And so, with the pandemic forcing many women to stay home and many others out of work, the largest MLMs have only continued to grow. In their recruitment, these companies and their networks play off of pandemic-related fears, offering a safe and sanitary working experience. One Arbonne distributor posted that, while others were freaking out over unemployment, “... [she was] just over here hanging out, building [her] germ free multi-million dollar global business from home." When the $600 stimulus cheque was released, Monat distributors complained that they’ve been ghosted for showing women how to make $600 “every month.” But is it really that simple? Is the MLM entrepreneur lifestyle some golden ticket that we are seemingly dodging out of ignorance?

A sample from the “work with me!” forms that MLM distributors will advertise.

This offer sounds too good to be true mainly because it is. Positive experiences with multi-level marketing networks are highly individualized and promoted as universally attainable in order to maintain a steady flow of further distributors. When you successfully recruit someone, you are then entitled to a portion of their proceeds as commission or a bonus. The most successful distributors have the most distributors under them, which makes the endless search for others an essential aspect of the business. Not everyone can be the “regional vice president” with a free company car (that is not actually free at all) – in these cases, either everyone they know is using MLM products, or everyone they know has been sold the #bossbabe fantasy.

So unsuspecting women believe that the anomaly is accessible, and are sold a promising vision. To facilitate the recruitment process, many MLMs have milked the growth of pop feminism in their marketing. Given that 75% of MLM distributors around the world are women, their empowerment is used as a tool of coercion. This works as a determining factor for others to join the cohort and make profit for the initial recruiter, typically at the expense of their own economic security. For example, MLM inspo accounts routinely use hashtags like #bossbabe, #girlboss, and #momtrepreneur, and the companies themselves extend similar mottos into branding. 

This strategy targets more specific groups as well. With the pandemic continuing to put women out of work, this “boss babe” messaging specifically targets lower-income women. Did you just get fired, with hungry mouths to feed and a mortgage to pay? There is a way to “get rich” right in front of you … What are you waiting for? Consider the distancing measures and women’s feelings of isolation from social opportunities. For women who live alone, or stay-at-home mothers helping their children through virtual school, this side-hustle is also poised as a network of genuine female friendship. 

Looking at the numbers, these endeavours hardly pan out, and end up creating further problems for the women they supposedly uplift. One study conducted by the Consumer Awareness Institute found that 99% of MLM distributors end up losing money. This makes sense when you consider the cost of entering the business – starter kits and monthly stock can cost hundreds of dollars, which will come out of the distributor’s pocket. What’s more, many like-minded social circles have exhausted their options for further recruitment. You cannot recruit someone who is already part of the business, so the first friend to recruit will be making better profits than those in their downline. In these circumstances, “female friendship” has some serious limitations.

Inspiring slogans like this one are often used to connect the MLM to women’s empowerment. Merchandise via Mom Life Gear

Given the over-saturation of these markets, distributors must deceive in order to actually turn a profit. If they have run through their personal networks – which is a common situation – they must rely on the other side of profit-making: the product sales. Across many different companies, there are products that have kept customers coming back. But when distributors feel the pinch, they will jump on trends to boost their sales. 

This has become a huge problem during the pandemic, as many wellness distributors are exploiting public fears and deliberately promoting misinformation in order to keep afloat. The Federal Trade Commission (FTC), an independent agency of the United States government, has sent at least 10 warning letters to different MLMs (including Arbonne and doTERRA) since the beginning of the pandemic for their false claims about health benefits. 

Young Living’s Thieves line of essential oils has also been promoted for “antiviral properties.” When contacted about these claims, a spokesperson for YL asserted that this was misinformation, and that this form of marketing is prohibited. But because MLMs operate with a highly decentralized structure, those who spread lies will likely go undisciplined.

This distributor – and many others – have taken to sweeping claims about product capabilities in order to turn a profit. Retrieved from r/antiMLM

Although many of us purchase products from other sources, or are well-informed on the dangers of multi-level marketing, the fact of the matter is that these companies continue to grow. Even if this is an avenue you’d never consider for yourself, MLM distribution may be something that impacts your unsuspecting relative or friend. 

Fortunately, platforms are taking action – a recent update to TikTok’s community guidelines included new policy against content related to multi-level marketing and pyramid schemes. But new strategies will emerge, and this problem is far from over. MLM companies will only get bigger as major crises and their accompanying recessions develop over time. They will only get bigger as the virtue of girl-bossery becomes further manipulated for capitalist gain, as something to aspire to with no room for critique.

Entrepreneurship is admirable and side-hustle businesses may hold potential for financial support, but only when they are built off of solid foundations. Multi-level marketing has the power to create further amounts of debt and destroy personal relationships. Nobody is immune to these damages.

Rebecca L. Judd is a writer and student 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.

Amery Sandford is an illustrator and musician based in Montreal.

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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

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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.

Instagram | Soundcloud | Mixcloud

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: Dana El Masri on Senses and Sense of Self

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Dana El Masri is an Arab-Canadian perfumer & interdisciplinary artist. She is the owner and creator of Jazmin Saraï, a perfume brand exploring scent, sound, and culture. I was introduced to her perfumes through a friend a couple of years ago, and have been amazed by both the scent and concept of her creations. She uses a synesthetic approach to creating her perfumes and scent-related projects, tying together music and perfume. I was so excited to interview her for this Body Journal given her unique relationship to her senses - especially scent and hearing - and the ways her senses, and subsequently her body, are embedded within her work. Delve into our conversation below to learn more about her work and her embodied understanding of scent, self-expression, and identity. 

Simone: I would love to start with a little about how you define yourself, who you are. How would you introduce yourself?

D: I’m in an ever state of trying to define myself, or unlearning and removing how other people define me. I’m a creative. I’m an artist. I’m an emotional, sensitive being. By trade, I’m a perfumer. I like to connect different mediums and senses within my work. Essentially I’m a blender. It’s really finding the connections between things, which is also how perfumery works in a lot of ways. The more I explore perfumery, I realize how everything is connected and how perfumery covers all of these different industries and modalities. 

S: You said connecting the senses. I think that’s really relevant to this conversation about the body. How does that come up for you in your interdisciplinary work, in perfumery.

D: Scent is intimidating for a lot of people to describe or to even experience, because it’s quite invasive. You feel it right away, it’s primal. Historically, all the philosophers thought it was a tertiary sense, an animal sense. Nothing to do with intellectualism, nothing to do with emotion, which, to me, is the complete opposite of what it is. The only way you can process scent is through the memory and emotion banks in your brain. 

I see a lot of similarities between scent and sound. They’re both time-based, they’re both emotion-based, they’re both invisible. We have a lot of musical language in perfumery. Top, middle, base notes. A perfumer’s workspace is an organ. And I have a musical background, so I already had that in my head - and that’s really where the scent and sound developed together. I went into the synesthetic aspect of it and I was like, “What if I break down a song and then make an olfactory reinterpretation of that song?”

Simone: Tell me more about your musical background! Your value and understanding of interdisciplinarity is so clear through your experiences & interests.

D: I always wanted to be a singer. I actually moved to Canada to pursue a singing career and to study. I was also a ballerina when I was a kid. And I wanted to dance forever. That’s really what I wanted to do [when I grew up]. But I was also surrounded by many friends my age whose parents were very religious and that trickled down through them. And [my friend] basically said that my dancing was haram. It felt like she was telling me about [what to do with] my body - and how I shouldn’t put my body out there. I stopped dancing because I couldn’t get it out of my head. In the beginning, it was just about the love of dancing, and expressing myself, and being in the moment. There was no shame ever related to it. And now that there was this idea of being observed by someone and being judged - it changed my whole relationship with it - because it was no longer free.

S: I know sometimes when we internalize that shame at a young age it stays with us for a long time. Was there a point when you realized that the shame had dissipated? Or did you actively work on dissipating it to feel free? Are you still working through it?

D: I never got back to fully expressing myself as a dancer. I’m definitely still working through it. My friend is doing a project about shame - I just spoke to her about this. There were so many experiences I could have shared [with her], but this was the thing that popped up. I thought, “Wow, this must be something that I’m still trying to resolve within myself.” And [I want to] just hold the little Dana inside and be like, “Hey, it was okay. Fuck her. What does she know? You are so good.” And that’s a lesson for adult life. Why do you let someone else’s opinions affect you? 

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S: I think that your reaction as a young girl was normal. Especially people that we trust - they tell us something about ourselves and we listen. It sounds like you pulled an important lesson from that experience.

D: I think it’s something to do with freedom. When you have space to move and dance and jump - there’s something about that movement that literally frees you. And it’s funny because now I actually have a lot of structural problems. I have scoliosis - I was diagnosed as a teenager - and I have four rib humps that stick out of my chest. I feel constricted a lot. I always associated dance with freedom of movement - and now I feel almost caged in my own body. 

I believe in meta-medicine - what is happening in your brain will also manifest in your body. When I saw someone about [the scoliosis] she was like, “Scoliosis is the idea of being afraid to be seen, and of hiding yourself,” and I thought, “Woah, could that be related?” 

S: I definitely believe that there’s a connection there. I’m glad you’re healing from it. You shared that you grew up in Dubai and I know that your parents are Egyptian and Lebanese. I’ve noticed in your scents that you draw on a lot of Middle Eastern scents and music.

D: I try because there’s a lot of appropriation in my industry and a lot of misrepresentation. There are very few Arab perfumers on an artisan level, or who have control over the narrative that they’re sharing. 

Arabic music is set up differently than Western music, so already it’s a totally different form of creation, which I thought was really interesting to explore. But I also grew up with that kind of music. Senses are, almost in their essence, nostalgic. So, it’s even harder to forget where you come from because sense is what connects you [to your identity]. Food and smells connect you to home. And that’s something I never want to forget. 

I also just really wanted to have the narrative in my hands. In North America, there’s also so much propaganda. A lot of the images that you are being fed [of the Middle East] are often of violence, and anger, and war, and sadness, and blood. I didn’t want that. I just wanted to create new narratives of beautiful stories that do also exist. No Orientalism, no over-fantasy or exoticism, just purity and genuineness.

S: I sense that a lot when I smell your perfumes. Having all these roots and clear connections to the places you call home, how do you experience the connection between body and community? Is there a way you forge a connection between the body and culture?

D: I don’t know if there’s a word for it in English - I guess the closest word for it would be ‘yearning’. Yearning is a physical experience for me.

S: Where do you feel it?

D: In my heart. In my chest, in my shoulders. Everywhere where I’m actually crouched [from scoliosis]. It’s really weird. When I miss home, or when I’m trying to connect to that part of me, there is a physical yearning for being in that place. All the things that remind me of home are still very sensory. The plants, the colours, the feeling, the scent of the air, the gasoline - I almost feel a responsibility to translate it. 

S: That’s really a beautiful sentiment - to physically feel love and connection to home with your whole body. What lessons or gifts has your body given you?

D: It’s given me a lot of lessons in the way that I’ve learned to appreciate myself. I had a really complicated relationship with my nose. I found it big. Growing up in the Middle East, where a lot of girls get their noses done, I just always felt ugly. I was always really afraid to show myself. And it’s the same theme of being seen, of showing my entire true self. It’s also now my biggest asset. My biggest gift. It’s about reconciling the dark and the light within me. And that’s always been the battle, which I reconcile through my body and through scent.

This insightful interview was everything I had hoped it to be and more. Dana is truly connected to her sensory and embodied experience. She has an exciting project on the way called The EP, which is a diffuser scent collaboration with four local musicians: Meryem Saci, Kallitechnis, Lunice, and Hanorah. It will be released in October, and you can find more information on the release of this project at her social links below. My thanks to Dana for sharing her story and her gifts with me. 

You can follow Dana’s perfume releases and art on her brand’s Instagram

You can check out her offerings on her website

And, you can also check out her multisensory work here

Listen to an sensorially inspiring playlist by Jazmin Saraï here

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Lessons From 4 Months in Quarantine With My Hair

Article illustration by Studio Baby Cupid

Prior to April 2020, I had never washed my own locs. Up until the beginning of the COVID-19 lockdown, I had dutifully maintained a standing appointment at Artizans 4/22 every four weeks for exactly a year. My loctician, Lovely, washed my hair with a kind of love that is, truthfully, indescribable. 

Lovely knows nearly everything about me. She has stood behind me, both figuratively and literally, through heartbreak, career crisis, and a few of my darkest hangovers. She has fielded all my late night DMs about how I've been thinking about dyeing my locs purple, or how I want box braids down to my knees. She was patient with me that time I went swimming before my locs had even begun maturing and nearly ruined all her hard work. She listened to me bemoan the harem of DJs I was sleeping with in the summer of 2019 and didn’t judge me when I sat in her chair, still half-drunk from the night before, smelling like the Durocher basement. Lovely is a saint, and there was no one else who I’d let wash my hair but her.

And then, in an instant, I was alone. There was no one to massage my scalp but myself and I had no clue what I was doing. Suddenly it was just my hair and I, staring at ourselves in the mirror, with no clue when we were going to be rescued. And so, I tried to adapt. I bought hair products off the Internet with CERB money. I watched YouTube videos until I could recite them from memory. I sat on my couch with a mirror propped up on my dining room chair and tried to wrangle my locs into twists while watching an entire season of Too Hot to Handle. At some moments, I felt like I was at the rock-bottom of my hair journey, constantly afraid my locs were going to shed themselves from my scalp in my sleep as an act of protest.

Though my mom is white, I grew up surrounded by Black women who tried to teach me how to manage my hair after years of chemical relaxing and emotional turmoil. The first Black woman I remember touching my hair was a student at the beauty school in the strip mall near my house. I went to her, faithfully, until I showed up for an appointment one day and she wasn’t there. Instead, a man sat me in a chair surrounded by several white women who gnashed and pulled at my hair until I was sobbing. I remember being so small, and in so much pain, and the salon kicked me and my mother out for causing a disturbance. God bless my mother, she tried, but my hair has always had a mind of its own. It took many years and the nimble hands of several African women to teach me how to love it. Now, the only people I let touch my hair on a regular basis are my loctician and my barber, Mike Chacko (a true legend), in addition to some (but few) close friends.

And though I am of course, in theory, capable of caring for my own hair, I have grown to depend on the guidance of those trusted individuals who maintain my mane. After a few years of paying an exorbitant amount of money to have other people make sure my hair is healthy, I almost forgot that my hair is mine. Before COVID-19, I had only scratched the surface of Black Girl YouTube. Aside from oiling my scalp and making sure my locs were moisturized, I never really thought about my role in the life of my hair. In some ways, I felt like my hair belonged to other people, and it was on loan to me, to take care of and not fuck up between appointments. 

Like when I went on a trip a few months after starting my locs and swam even though I definitely was not supposed to. (When I sat down in Lovely’s chair, she was horrified by what she saw. My locs were falling apart, unravelling, frizzy and dry. I felt so guilty, as if my hair was not even my hair and it was her money that had been spent over the preceding 3 months, not mine.) Or that time, in a pinch, I went to see a barber who wasn’t Mike Chacko (Sorry, Mike, I love you!) I felt like I was committing adultery against a long-term partner (which, as the post-quarantine TikToks suggest, is an actual breach of the Barber Commandments). 

In under a week in March, I went from having my appointments booked for three months in advance to having them cancelled indefinitely. It was terrifying. I was like a child left to my own devices. I was Kevin in Home Alone, setting elaborate traps in order to create a system that protected me from my own ability to cause irreparable harm to my scalp. 

Truthfully, I cried. I cried often. My arms grew tired from installing twists with cheap Kanekalon bought off the Internet. I spent most of my waking hours scouring Black Girl YouTube trying to figure out how the fuck to keep my hair moisturized. I genuinely considered spending $500 I didn’t have on a wig. I don’t even wear wigs! I couldn’t have installed a wig if my life depended on it!

But there’s one lesson we have all been forced to learn over the past six months. Humans must evolve. We have to figure our shit out. We have to grow. We have to do what terrifies us, what we think is impossible, or else we won’t survive.

I would never have imagined it possible in April, but my hair and I have built the kind of love that lasts a lifetime. We are two scorned lovers, reconciling and committing to extensive couples therapy in order to heal our relationship. I love my locs. I’ve washed them on my own a few times now. None of them have fallen out, and after touching them just now to verify, they are healthy and strong.

I’ve been thinking about that little girl, sitting in a chair like an animal at a petting zoo, having inexperienced stylists beat her hair into submission. That little girl felt so lonely, so scared. She was confused and angry. It’s cheesy, please forgive me, but if I could go back in time, I would tell her it’s going to be okay. 

I would tell her about the friends who’ve stayed up late with me to install my braids. I would tell her about the friends who’ve stayed up late with me to take out my braids. I’d tell her about the women on YouTube who showed what Cantu products to use when I felt stranded in the aisles of the beauty supply store. I would tell her about Mike and Lovely. I would tell her that there are people out there who will take the time to treat her with respect. I would tell her that she herself will become her own hero. She will learn, she will adapt. She will be scared. She will figure it out. Her hair will grow and she will feel beautiful.

Willow Cioppa is an interdisciplinary writer based in Montreal, QC. Their work focuses on the nuances of sexuality, trauma, self-reflection, femininity, Blackness, and their undying love for rap music. In addition to working in the tech industry as a UX writer, their life’s work is the search for the perfect rep wine to drink while writing about ex lovers who have wronged them.

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LSD: Montreal's Intersectional Lesbian Speed Dating Event

Poster by Char Bataille

Carmen Colas (they/them) is the founder of LSD, Montreal's Lesbian Speed Dating event series. LSD is in its third year now, and while previous events have been held at NDQ, this edition will be held online on August 28th.

Carmen is a 30-year-old, mixed-race (White/Black/Indigenous), DJ, musician, event promoter, radio host, and writer. They are a self-described, "Chronically ill, trauma baby, and quintuple Cancer/Leo cusp." Carmen strives to promote healing and space for the people who have struggled to exist within the lesbian community. We caught up with them to chat about lesbian and queer culture, and connecting with community.

CW: Trauma related to homophobia

Poster by Char Bataille

Malaika for Also Cool: How did LSD start? What inspired you, and what do you hope the event offers the community?

Carmen: Lesbian Speed Dating came from a very charged momentum, which is more relevant than ever in these current pandemic times and social justice evolution climate.

How does one respect the legacy of history and individual identity while welcoming change, struggle, fluidity and room for exploration? How does one expand on the narrative that has been very one-dimensional and reductive for many, without erasing a very valid and singular experience? How do you create a lesbian space that goes beyond the white cis golden star narrative? How do you create a lesbian space with room for those who have no experience, or who have been confused/rejected/unsafe to come out or insecure and struggling to embody their truth?

How do you create space for trans women attempting to exist in lesbian spaces for the first time, and who come accompanied by a myriad of valid and complex fears? How do you create a lesbian space that acknowledges that many trans men have held a deep connection to lesbian spaces for many years, but who no longer feel relevant or welcome in these spaces now? How do you create a lesbian space that acknowledges that lesbians from previous generations don’t have anywhere to go to meet people and feel too old and too dated to exist in current lesbian spaces? How do you create a space for older lesbians who spent many years existing in lesbian bars and now struggle to find platforms to exist in, now that lesbian bars have become obsolete? Especially since some don’t necessarily have the knowledge and tools to comprehend the concept of trans and non-binary identity.

How do you create a lesbian space while acknowledging the disposability culture and compulsory hyper-sexualization of our community? How do you create a lesbian space while acknowledging fatphobia, ableism without having experienced these issues yourself?

These were all important questions that existed within me for many years. My experience with coming to terms with my identity was very non-linear. It was laced with racial, gender, sexual, emotional, and physical traumas.

Being able to fully embody your identity comes with a lot of barriers and challenges. Whether there are cultural barriers, like coming from a culture that does not accept homosexuality and remaining closeted to save your own life. It can be societal where you are born into a society that does not teach you that being gay, non-binary, and/or trans are real options for you. Or when your gender and sexuality are not yours to have, that an agenda is expected from you.

Rejecting people who have been through some heavy stuff to get to a point where they can be their best / full / honest selves — is violent. The whole purpose of this event is to make room for this journey that most of us go through as queers. The gruelling moment when you realize that society was not made for you and does not think about you when it embodies its structures. The feeling that certain labels don’t serve you and instead conditioning you to feeling inadequate, ostracized and imperfect.

I fought very hard to say the word lesbian out loud while talking about myself. I’ve been attacked, rejected from my family, have suffered gay interventions at school or via my parents, ridiculed, shamed for my compulsory heterosexuality, sexually assaulted by cis men and called a tease. I've been very depressed from not satisfying my true needs and identities. I've been punished by lesbian spaces for not having had the luxury of being a lesbian at a very young age, and for not having the experiences that many lesbians have until much later in life.

If we’re going to grow as a community, we need to acknowledge the global lesbian experience. We need to acknowledge heteronormativity, the patriarchy, violence, transphobia, homophobia, and cisnormativity. We need to acknowledge white supremacy, xenophobia, white privilege. We need to acknowledge fatphobia, ableism, ageism and this permeating fear of fluidity and non-linear experience.

LESBIAN is a valid identity, and I do not wish to take this away from its history and general interpretation. I just think that a lot of us have suffered trying to exist within this community without feeling like a failure. This is where my motivation came from. If I had the opportunity to exist in a platform like this one, I could have thrived as a teenager. I might even be a gold star lesbian, who knows. But circumstance is a thing. Privilege is a thing. Timing is a thing. Fear for your life and wellbeing is a thing, and so are non-binary and trans lesbians!

As a human and a host, I have struggled with imposter syndrome due to my experiences and realities. This event has been healing for me in a big way. It hasn't always been a perfect journey, but I think there should be room for mistakes, growth, healing and coming to terms with a peculiar form of grief. Grief that comes from all those years you spent struggling and denying yourself from being your fullest, truest and best self.

Also Cool: What have your events been like in the past, and how are you adapting to this new age of digital event production? What can we expect from this online edition of LSD?

Carmen: In the past, the platform was in physical form, so it was very different indeed! Not for the faint of heart, people would have up to 20-50 dates in one night, of about 3-4 minutes long each. Sometimes the event was so crowded that we couldn’t get everyone to meet everyone, but it was a great excuse to fill up the queer bar with the right kinda people.

It has been an absolute chaotic joy to witness the variety of people coming through, and the variety of social skills, flirting approaches and styles. It has also been an immense pleasure to help out the shy lesbians who are terrified of existing in lesbian spaces. It has been one of my most rewarding experiences. Since the beginning of this event, there have been three weddings and proposals, which is also amazing to witness.

The adjustment to transitioning online has been weird and labour intensive. Trying to figure out and adjust to what people’s needs are in a pandemic setting, while trying to unpack our community’s traumas. I decided to use Facebook as a platform because it was the most “accessible,” in my mind. (As far as visually being able to adjust font sizes, being familiar with the format, being able to use it on a computer or phone, and preserving anonymity.)

My take was trying to offer ambiguous results without the shallow scope of disposability/vapidity and projections. What happens when you can’t judge a book by its cover, and can’t project what someone looks like because all you have is their mind? An interesting concept to attempt, in my opinion. We’ll just have to wait and see what it creates.

Poster by Sultana Bambino

AC: What would your advice be to the baby queers, who are too shy to go to LSD for the first time, but really want to try?

Carmen: This particular event is PERFECT for shy people since you are anonymous and hidden. The online messaging format is great for going over your words, thinking about your answers, taking in all the emotions in privacy without the pressure of immediacy or someone staring at you. You can experiment with your desires and feelings without the anxiety of bumping into them IRL, having mutual friends, or projecting insecurities about yourself onto someone else because you’re nervous.

This is your chance to just be yourself and pick brains with someone else in an anonymous, ambiguous and no-pressure way. Revealing yourself is your own choice, at your own pace, and within the realms of your consent.

AC: How is LSD breaking down negative stereotypes and behaviours within the lesbian community?

Carmen: Honestly, I’m just trying to offer a lesbian space that acknowledges non-linear journeys, struggles, and barriers. I want to promote the notion that you can be a lesbian with no experience at any age. That you can struggle to reach a point where you feel safe and good about being a lesbian. That you can be non-binary and be a lesbian, you can be trans and be a lesbian. That European standards of beauty do not define what being a lesbian looks like, and that being a lesbian is more than just being “femme” or “butch” That being a lesbian can mean being aromantic/asexual. That being a lesbian can be difficult as much as it can be easy. That lesbians can be disabled, fat, chronically ill, neurodivergent, immunocompromised, healing from trauma, grieving…

There are so many different types of people with different realities, perspectives, backgrounds, and journeys, who can be and are lesbians. There needs to be room for that. There needs to be dialogue around this as a community, so that we stop policing each other into shame and ostracizing each other. It's a very touchy, messy, complicated and layered work to do. I’ve learned a lot over these past three years. It hasn't always been perfect, but it's been extremely eye-opening and rewarding.

ALSO it would be RUDE and messed up to not acknowledge the work being done by so many platforms, festivals, and event series in Montreal alongside this event. Many people are doing this work as well, and I am not the first, last or only one doing it.

AC: What’s the best way to support LSD right now?

Carmen: The only support this event needs is community presence. I’ve always maintained this project with the hopes that it helps people connect. Whether that's falling in love, exploring their sexuality, making friends, finding community, or healing from their individual journeys that led them to take up space here and now.

An important step to upholding the values I seek to instil in this event, is to donate money to the LSD Night Blind Date Bonanza Fundraiser. The fundraiser will be redirected to Taking What We Need about a week after the event is over. You can make a personal donation or participate in this event, and your cover charge will be used as a donation. You can also purchase some pre-sale LSD Night Blind Date Bonanza tote bags and t-shirts (sizes small to XXXL)

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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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