Dear Precious

Dear Precious,

I mourn your untimely death. 

PHOTO BY SI

Missing from the pages of our city's popular press are unapologetic hard-hitting critical commentaries and calls to action to effectively end violence against women and violence against racialized women; and what has to be done now to protect women and prevent similar acts of violence against the women and girls in our city; what has to be done now to honour their stories, and dignify their loss, not through sensationalist recaps of how they died, but through dedications and memorials, art and music, demonstrations and taking to the streets; transformative policies that make our politicians and the institutions of justice represent the needs and concerns of survivors; and much more funding for services that give survivors safer options to help rebuild their lives. 

The world needs to know how you lived, how you resisted, how you fought to hold your ground. I want to see your name and life applauded, your suffering and your struggles acknowledged. Yet, the coverage so far has beared witness to so little of you. Let me say to the world now that it is a huge, profound, and tragic loss to our societies and communities that yet another strong, remarkable woman was cheated out of a life, a life that had meaning, hope, potential, beauty, and belief. I hope someday the world will know your story. 

May your spirit-force find peace and freedom in the new paths to follow. May you never know such betrayal and pain again. May your wounds heal. And may your memory rouse the power within all of us still here on earth to change the tides so another Precious may live, survive, and thrive. 

Rest in peace, angel. Love abides. Justice will prevail. 

exile

PHOTO BY SI

a lone disconnect 

horns clamoring silence

wake us from the warm comfort of illusions

within the boundless terrain of a faulty conscience

a child's doll house 

where naive hope collides with betrayal

where loyalty suffocates in the grip of retribution

where absolution succumbs to conceit

and a desultory suanter thus begins

...

The power in saying, "I was wrong."

Recently, I was faced with a situation in which I was made to admit my blunder. I had mistakenly understood something that was said, and instead of clarifying whether what I had just thought I heard was true or not, I allowed my mind to take over, fill in the blanks, and react without caution, care, and foresight. I let reason and sound judgement slide, and took the lowest of the low road to make assumptions about someone. Well, my horrible behaviour slapped me straight in the face when I realized that my assertions about the situation were in fact so totally absolutely WRONG!

Omg! What do you do when you're faced with potentially huge ego destruction, and not in your own company, but in front of your equals? Well humxn nature is such that it can cause us to react in all sorts of ways. I had many choices before me: 1) hold my ground and emphatically state that I heard what I had heard, and there was no effin' way I was going to budge; 2) admit that I had actually misheard what was said, but place the onus on the other person and say that they should have said things more clearly;  or, 3) admit I had misheard, and put the onus to clarify squarely on my shoulders. Well, I did a little of 2 initially, but then after my conscience got a hold of me, and shook me up a bit to get me to see straight, I responded with a strong affirmation of my mistake, and that the other person did not deserve to be subjected to the indignities that resulted due to my shoddy processing of reality.

Because of the error, the other person might very well be forever scarred, and, in my taking full accountability in no way frees me from the remorse I justly deserve and need to, have to, must feel. I acted atrociously towards a fellow human being, and now it's a matter of integrity and respect for me to commit to seeking some help to restore my mind and spirit so I can nurture more patience, kindness, empathy, and respect for others, and also encourage in myself an acceptance of where they're at and where I'm at in our mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual journeys as we each try to find some peace among the chaos in our world. The chaos we ultimately cause.

I've observed that the times I've welcomed humility to influence my responses to conflict, things always had a way of working out, even if the relationship took a different form or even if the relationship had to end. In those times, I felt a much deeper sense of connection with those who, due to their own unique life experiences, stuggles, and personalities, played their roles in the collision of our tensions, traumas, and auras.

Well I've become more the wiser because these folks put me on the spot and challenged my stubborn and anxious ego. They held up a mirror to let me take stock, and face up to my very human incongruities. This is why the word hate is a word that has never existed in my vocabulary. Despite all the ways in which I've been scorned, betrayed, harassed, insulted, shunned, rejected, judged, abused, and shamed, hate could never mess with my dogged belief that everyone I have ever crossed paths with had and has some hard lessons up their sleeves to teach me, even if we only engage in a moment (like the other day when I was in a grocery store, and standing next to this older man, who, when he saw me eyeing something on the shelf in front of me, said something under his breath in discomfort, and then when I reached over and picked up that thing, he very lightly touched my hand, and said almost in a whisper, "Tsk, tsk, don't do that." I realized what had happened and I said, "Sorry" as he walked away). Each time it happens, I get to grow all over again, and discard some more of the arrogant and oppressive behaviours and thinking that limit the opportunity for me to genuinely connect with my fellow humans.

In short, taking accountability for every situation, circumstance and loss I've had a part in creating is an incredibly liberating and humxnizing experience, which unquestionably brings me, and maybe the other folks with me equally involved in the struggle for validation and empathy, back to love. Back to LOVE, yeah.

"I saw that." - Bearing Witness to & Holding Space for "Nirbhaya"

PHOTO BY S. ISLAM

This was powerful personal narrative theatre at its best. "Nirbhaya" written and directed by Yaël Farber, brought me to tears from beginning to end. I stand up and applaud all these stupendously brave performers - Priyanka Bose, Poorna Jagannathan, Sneha Jawale, Rukshar Kabir, Japjit Kaur, and Pamela Mala Sinha - who had the guts to speak their truth in soft, in raging, in tearful tones. And then there was the sole male actor - Ankur Vikal, who played the ultimate Jekyll and Hyde roles, sometimes a friend, other times a foe.

What impacted me the most was the realization of my role as a member of the audience. There were so many moments during the performance where I wanted to jump from my seat, run onto the stage and offer my arms to these women or beat their assailants off. I didn't want to be that person struggling with the bystander effect. I wanted to get in right in the middle of all of it and break it up, cast a protective veil over these women, and scare off these men who seemed so relentless in their pathological and sadistic lust for power over these women, some were girls at the time.

Perhaps this is what was so concerning about the depiction of men in the play. It is so easy for the mind to start raging against those who have benefited for centuries from patriarchy and misogyny; it is so easy to give in to that fear that the people in our lives can instantly turn from gentle-hearted, compassionate companions and commuters to people who want to hunt, harm, and destroy us if we try to assert our confidence, our knowledge, and/or our leadership in any way. The way the mind works, I understood all too well the seeds of stigma and hatred against certain groups of people when all are painted with the same brush. But I wasn't going to allow my mind to go that way because I don't think that's what the intent of the show was. "Nirbhaya" didn't want women leaving the space angry and ready to smash all men to pieces. They wanted women and men to leave with a clearer understanding of the system in which we are raising our children - a system that defines both masculinity and femininity in very narrow and oppressive ways - a system that allows for such violent acts against women and girls to continue as we, its spectators, look on in helpless fascination.

I loved the fiery tone of Priyanka Bose as she narrated much of Jyoti Singh Pandey's tragic death and her own suffering as a child through gritted teeth and uplifted arms in the postures of the mighty Kali and Durga.

I understood Poorna Jagannathan's profoundly shocking "confession" of the "poisonous" nature of the "pleasure" she felt when trauma entrapped her.

I saw through Sneha Jawale's tears on stage as she revisited the day when she nearly died after enduring a vicious attack by family who also took her child away from her.

I hung onto Rukhsar Kabir's every word as she recollected how she was forced to believe that the violence against her was just another way of life, and how she finally stood up and said no more.

Pamela Mala Sinha's story burned in my guts. She spoke to that fear in me that compels me to lie in bed in near catatonic rigidity most nights. I know of the hole she speaks of.

Ankur Vikal, the sole male actor, the one male who played a hundred males - a hundred males who were friends, rapists, brothers, abusers, uncles, killers, fathers. All at once, imperceptibly, Vikal would shift from this character to that. From light to darkness. I was terrified of and for him.

Finally, Japjit Kaur, with her haunting singing voice that began the show and ran as a soothing thread throughout, she kept my tears flowing from beginning to end, for it was in her character's story - the real "Nirbhaya" that I saw the unfathomable loss that the Earth has suffered from the violent deaths of its mothers, daughters, sisters...women. As "Nirbhaya" walked in slow, measured steps on stage, draped in an off-white salwar, I felt that the ghost of her real self was there, holding space for all of us who are survivors, who are on the path, on some path, to rediscover our voices, whether through art, music, and poetry, or through restoring community, or through advocacy, or through media, or through calling for a national inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women, or through supporting women living with HIV, or through living with hope and love every day.

Every day the world might change a little.

I realized that just by being there, in that packed theatre, I was bearing witness, I was joining their voices and repeating the words uttered, "I saw that." Three words, so powerful. I. Saw. That.

I saw the play that I thought I couldn't see, that I wouldn't get to see. I heard their stories. I held that space for these courageous women alongside everyone else who was there. Yes, I felt like running out at times, many times, but I knew I had to remain seated, to honour these stories, to share these stories, and to help make things change for all of us trapped within the confines of stereotypes, prejudice, racialization, gender-based violence, and all the other oppressive ways we have learned to control one another or keep people in their place. These systems are destroying us. But thanks to the raw, biting fury in the ART we create, there are always reminders that we, as a species, have the capacity - the strong, eternal heart capacity - to do better, to do right by one another. Our fearless Jyoti Singh Pandey deserves that. And all the fearless women and girls who died with her. Rest in peace, angels.

I quote here the artistic director of Nightwood Theatre company, Kelly Thornton's words as presented in the play's program:

"What does it mean to be fearless? Perhaps it is not to be without fear but rather, to act in spite of it. For those breaking their silence and for those here to witness, the first step is being here tonight...This is what theatre can do. Invite us together to confront ourselves. And in so doing, restore our world."

Yes. Confront myself. It's how I might make things change, a little. 

Convergence

The clock struck.

The guts got ready. At least theirs. 

Not mine. Cuz I have none.

So I listened. 

I heard their wounds. The sharp edges of deconstructed passages.

Passages in a book. I could read them over and over and over.

They expressed in forthright tones. In pain that had muscle. Their breathing apparatus intact.

They spoke with eloquence. 

Dazzling authenticities. 

These beauts of humanity launched their emancipatory prose into a universe, that however vast, felt so totally, radically like HOME.

I sat captivated in the glow of their commentaries and formulations on Life.

How to make it better. How to make it grow. How to love it into a kind of change that seems oh well.

Inconceivable? 

But no, not so impossible, dear heart.

For they had already been doing it long before this meeting of minds.

I was out of my mind. 

Trying to preserve the pretense of a "community role", 

I tensed knowing the release would come, awe-struck by the veracity of experience, I could not withhold the aching need to JUST BE.

The audacity of converging vernaculars! Oh, these precocious spirits were shining something monumental straight into my eyes!

They spoke of visionary, transformative, Indigenous ways of knowing.

And in/justices.

We all identified, a collective among so much nonconformity. 

We were all quite contra-rarities. 

And it soon became a celebration from within. 

This soul who walked the earth in rejected anguish.

To rediscover the lucid glow of a new familiarity, 

one that reminded this near-artifice of the forever-affinities of former companions.

And so it was to come again, today,

To remind me to tread closer to hope instead of the Edge.

Pay mind to the tribulations, my dear, but...

Colour your tainted vista with perspective.

They came. They found me. They pulled me out. 

Wet and weeping. 

But alive! Alive!

Convergence. 

Dear Justin...

Dear Justin,

Congratulations are in order.
A landslide victory for the virtuous red wave.
A collective spring of hope among the masses,
These discordant diversities untwisted and seemingly united within the folds of a thing called a ballot
Dear Justin, before we get too comfortable with each other, let me just say...

I'm guilty, for I've relinquished perspective
in the interests of "For he's a jolly good fellow"
a sad sad song; nevertheless, the band played on.
Justin, you're such a handsome man!
They now play for you, on the lands where "A Canada I can be proud of" echoes something profoundly reckless,
in the sepulchral sights, sounds,
and sighhhhhhhhs...
of our Native children,
coming forth in whispery wispy smudging,
through the cracks and crevices of hallowed grounds that mark these beauties' untimely expirations.

Though timely for you, Justin. Indeed.
And me too, for there is so much comfort and convenience in daily living,
So easy to forget all the misery of INconvenient truths

Your father left you with his legacy meticulously inscribed in grandiose form-latures as in...
"Whereas Canada is founded upon principles that recognize the supremacy of God and the rule of law"...
The words flowed like bubbly in the marbled and much marveled halls of colonial idolatry,
but all this time, the bubbly was blood...

of the thousands?

Multi-cultis like me, I remain hopelessly distracted by the illusory winds-of-change farce
And, Justin, your seemingly kind-looking face,
Canada knows comedy, eh

I smile. I feel the ebb and flow of something like tears - an instinct to cry in elation
But I do this because I'm reacting to tear-jerker manipulations and machinations...
at the sight of such deceitfully large gatherings of people,
cheering and lamenting TOGETHER AS ONE

such a..
such a bittersweet win, for political blood had to be spilled, too
Even though, really, really, we're one and the same man
But the ones in Orange, poor souls, skins not thick enough to weather the storms of social media dissatisfactions
Yet, what does it matter, Justin?
We're one and the same man,
something akin to a secret boy's club where not even the best and brightest boys are permitted to enter
because knowing any or many of its malevolence will unconscionably put the innocents in a bad way, and they too will become compost
like the disappearance and disintegration...

of the thousands?

Your angelic-wing-tipped feet walk on the earthy dust that was once full-bodied women with joys, sorrows, herstories, and other strange magical and mellow tellings,
Red dresses hanging in photoshopped shadows do no justice
And Justin, neither does your red wave tsunami
Because all I'll ever see is blood, on your hands, on my hands, on your hands, on my hands

Dear Justin, you now have the power to rip apart the shimmering shiny chimera you and I,
we've created,
You now can finally tell me,
"Ha ha, it was all a joke. A weensy experiment that went on for far too long."
You now can be the first ever leader of this palimpsest of worlds and words,
to uncover the stories and breathings...
annihilated.
exterminated.
invalidated.
massacred.
beyond recognition.

Beyond recognition...

of the thousands?

And of their lands. And of their dreams. And of their gifts to a humanity that might have evolved.
The thousands?
Who we will never get back.
Because they.
unlike you, and me, Justin.
They don't come, have never come, in waves.

Meta.Morph.O.Sees

The body. It has trans.de.ported this soul. 

Dis.figured in ana.comical and psycho.ill.logical ways.

Its brain, once with dormant potency, 

now functions accordingly with de.face.it character.

Nevermind the panic at witnessing the glossy tightness of skin, 

stretching trans.new.sin over the terrific swelling of extrem.i.tease.

It's the approaching ex.p.erasure. 

Beat. Beat. Goes the heart in triple time.

Vital fluids suffocating along narrowed pathways. 

Once sturdy internals mal.fluctuate, unresponsive to the toil of treatment.

Day by day, ex.her.shun augments the numerical results.

So the body ushers in the cons.e.questions. 

And the soul awaits its impending dis.missile. 

La vie n'est pas la vie sans un chat

Permettez-moi de parler d’un chat dans cet espace. N’était pas un simple chat!

Pour aimer cette espèces d'animaux dans notre monde, cela prend la tendresse comme une mère où un père après la naissance de leur bébé.

Mais, l’exception est j' arrête jamais regarder ma chatte de cette façon. Elle est une vieille chatte qui j’ai adopté de Toronto Cat Rescue.

Le monde semble charmant a partir d'ici. 

Tous les jours, je la regarde avec calme fascination.

Je lui suis dans notre appartement

Et j’apporte son brosse à cheveux favori.

Ma chatte adore la toilettage et elle à ronronne comme la vibration du cordes de violoncelle; c’est un son qui est particulière à ma chatte avec pas du miaulement.

J’ai aussi une voix étrange mais elle change quand je suis lui parler. 

À chaque fois je parti pour le travail, j’allume la radio et le bouton est toujours sur la station de la musique classique.

Elle aide ma chatte à se detendre et faire une sieste pendant que je n’est pas là.

Mais, des que je rentre, ma chatte est l’attente à la porte avec sa queue haute.

Heureuse.

Moi et ma chatte les deux!

Cette chatte magnifique est mon petit ange. Elle me donne l’espoir quand le monde sent froid.

Elle me rapelle toujours que j’ai la sagesse de créer un heritage durable avec ma passion pour la composition musicale et l’écriture.

Elle vient de me regarde et je sais ce qu’elle dit à moi. Je me demande souvent qui est derrière ses yeux.

Je pense que c’est la divinité.

*Le mot "chatte" a des deux sens, l'un de qui est apparemment utilisé dans l’argot à Montréal. Mais, dans ce poème, “chatte” veut dire tout simplement une chatte. 

Pretty Little Perfidy

Smiling is an art

And the one who masters its colourful variations has the world plenty in hand
For how can anyone turn away from such nuanced charms?

Tempted too soon, we give that treacherous contortion our undivided confidence
So fall we must

And fall we do.

Concatenation

grew up a rough n' tumble girliehood, boyishhood, two
but they didn't know
sometimes
couldn't tell the difference
God knew

fuck

wore something tragic, itchy scratchy pleated plaids, Scottish kilts 'cuz i wasn't
slip-on clogs that made clop-clop sounds on marked terror-tories,
was the smelly paki horse wishing delitescence
sigh...complete erasure wasn't possible
brown punching bags were trendy, visibility required

Sir Robert Borden Junior High. 

often sported crooked bangs after grinning chop-chop shears made stereophonic shunning sounds
ears got clipped, blood psycho-delicooed on piliferous skin
spilled crudely through that most torturous of exits when objects incomprehensible jabbed in discreet push ins, push outs

push ins, push outs

yeah, a boy in a girl, girl in a boy, he and she were tightly wound to make we two one, wounded
a freakin' child, only

chee, chee, shame, shame

oh but their snickering n' snorting 'cross the pavements left scars deeper than Great Slave Lake
spitting invective like they never knew their mothers' names
jagged little rocks hurled with hideous speed, sculpting screaming crevices
who would've thought that such ravaging could come from the graceful physics of a perfect pitch

their eyes never lied, sadistic juvenile joys

so i turned the shelter of my hands into fists
ran after these flimsy pawns with the menacing thud thud of the monster in the closet
eclipsed their repellent malignancy with the bright raging wrath of a tits-before-time pre-teen

last of the famous...ha ha

punched, kicked, wrestled, scratched, gouged
this mighty heart showed no mercy
viciousness propelled 'til I could no longer see their dirty buggery disguise
tore their beastly souls asunder

avenging, satisfying a thirst, lust

pressed their immaculate complexions into the thick brown mire
how does it feel, I laughed, laughing long and hard, long and hard
malice in my core, I was like them, not like them

no

a boy in a girl, girl in a boy, he and she were tightly wound to make we two one, wounded,
i cried to the Restorer
hoped for my brothers and sisters, we'd all win this fight
our arsenal, gleaming serpentine swords
we gut-spilled destruction in these remorseless reincarnations, these sad sad granules of humankind
oh, such waste, such waste
they were

'til they were no more. no more. no more.
'til the scars vanished
'til the nothing became something-something
or the girl became the boy, the boy became the girl, two

such were the menacing dreams of the child, whispered into existence with God's ayatul kursi
born in war
born broken
born tainted

born doomed.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tick. Tock.

A Lost Cause

A glass jar had shattered to the floor

It was on its way down shortly after 

the deep, insufferable tremors 

lasted 

shook the temple and its striations to the core

Oblivious to those ominous split-second cracks

blinking oddness

for a ceaseless period of tick-tock tick-tock

the delusion of normality endured

despite

its slow steady ascent to a world of alien audibility

fury

High Park, Toronto. PHOTO BY SHAZIA ISLAM

Then like the flashes of lightning exploding into Clap! Clap! Clap!

The irreversible shift arrived

self-deprecating, immobilizing

mischevious

Numbing the once habitual intonations and inflections

All vanished without a trace

To be replaced

by

A most vigorous series of efforts

originating from strangled caverns

twisting, turning, 

twisting, turning

A mangled perturbation

A lost intimacy

Some laughed

Some mimicked

Some looked horrified

Some doubted

Some gossiped

They opined madness or a severe dis-EAZE

Some desired to silence these delinquent tribulations of tone

Some offered cough drops.

The awesomeness of NOT having what it takes...

Ice sculpture of an angel. Winter in Toronto 2015.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about mediocrity. I've been thinking about it because that's where I'd classify whatever talents or skills I have. I have not been able to rise above my "just average" persona in all the areas I've studied or trained in (and I've studied quite a few things in my life!), and the more I relax into this realization, the more I'm liking it!

Many of us learn from a very early age that we're supposed to be better than others, superhumanly perrrrrfect, and then some! When we don't accomplish such feats, we are then encouraged to feel envy/hatefulness towards those who seem to be pushing forward and who demonstrate remarkable talents, skills, and competencies, who force us to look at the insignificance that's staring back at us in the mirror. We feel a strong desire to reach for the same immortality that such awe-inspiring people in our activist and artistic communities have experienced and are experiencing. But like Thomas Hardy's Jude, there is always some invisible but strongly felt weight on our backs that slow us right back down to a "finish-last" trot. And then POW! We are forced to grapple with the absurdity of what we were attempting to do. We realize our big mistake! How dare we try to stand side-by-side with the gods!

At the same time I acknowledge the often incredible barriers that exist in the matrices we live in. We each have had life experiences and were forced into certain social positions that have pushed many of us to the margins with no access to schooling or employment that could improve our condition. If Jude were alive today, he'd see that not much has changed!

But could we try sticking it to the man (no joke here but we are still living in a patriarchy) by cultivating an appreciation and compassion for the "skill" of just being average? It can be such a powerful thing cuz it liberates us from toxic behavioural responses to other people's successes (particularly towards our peers), and also brings us closer to loving ourselves and our shortcomings.

Is it ok to be viewed as inept? Well, Hollywood makes it a thing in some of the movies out there as more often than not white female leads stumble their way through 1.5 hours of trying to prove their competencies in the rom-com balancing act. Despite their obvious lack of smartness, these women manage to find the one guy who proves they really are worthy because he actually likes their amateur charms (then again the message could also be saying that men like dumb women)! (Sorry for the heteronormative example but it's Hollywood for a reason.) Real life is real life and not fairytale lala land though. When we don't get the kudos we hunger for, some of us turn ourselves into hissing narcissistic cats clawing at anyone who actually is miles ahead of us and deluding ourselves into thinking that we're always first past the post even though we haven't lifted a finger to master our trades. But again, an exploration of the hows and whys of our dysfunctional views might reveal that the overarching powers-that-be are telling us that we'll never never never have what it takes. So then we enjoy watching reality TV shows that say the same to other fellow humans.

There is something to learn from Hollywood cuz the characters are actually likeable, even loveable, in their quirkiness and incompetency. And then they become our heroes and sheroes and theyroes cuz they're so right in their wrongs, and through them, maybe we could learn to like our own commonness instead of suffering and struggling like poor Jude.

Even though our talents/skills may be second-rate, the effort and the risk we take putting ourselves out there to become laughing stocks or gossip-fodder say so much more about the spirit in our souls, and our unwillingness to give in or give up. Once we are OK with ourselves, then putting ourselves out there in the mediocre ways we do is just FINE as is.

If we still feel that strong desire to reach beyond our limitations, we can do this by living joyously and vicariously through the achievements of great people we have the privilege to be close to. We can nurture admiration for their focus and mastery without ever wishing we could have what they have cuz we are happy people where we're at with our underdeveloped but loveable capacities.

We all have our moments of greatness of course, even when we only experience those moments at home in our baggy tees and pajamas. I and many others will remain unremarkable in the things that put others ahead of the pack. But let's take a step back and really look at our insignificance in the eye, shall we? I genuinely believe that greatness lies in the mundane. Jude's humble demeanour was an epic ideal of personhood to me. I fell in love at first read (I've read Jude the Obscure an unexceptional 3 times!). It is through such humble natures that we can sense greatness of kindness and patience. Greatness of humanity and compassion. Greatness of love and adoration. Greatnesss of momentary passions and interests as we strive to create, to learn, and to rejoice in just the effort. We are the best listeners.

To those who are making it, I applaud you warmly and thank you for being champs in our communities; I wish you continued success and public acknowledgement for your hardwork. To those like me and Jude, I applaud you warmly as well and thank you for being your oh-well-humdrum selves; I wish you continued pleasure and joy in the journey towards mastery even though you and I know we will never reach that destination.

Here's to peace, love, and just being mediocre we!

"Shiny Ropes"

Shiny ropes hang by my side

When the nights are long

Shiny ropes can tell no lies

Even when the dream’s gone

We all love the same when the stakes are high

We all crash, burn and hope, until we die

We’re all lookin’ for somethin’ that keeps us hangin’ on

Liftin’ you

Liftin’ me

Right up to the sky

We all feel the sadness when they say goodbye

We all pull, push, and cling to give it one more try

We’re all reachin’ for heaven, hoping to belong

Hold you up

Hold me up

We won’t break the tie

Shiny ropes hang by my side

When the nights are long

Shiny ropes can tell no lies

Even when the dream’s gone

We’re all dependin’ on someone to make us feel alive

We’re not savin’ our hearts from something we can’t deny

LETTERS TO A DEAD GIRL: TRANSCENDENCE ready for CESA2015

Synopsis - Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence

One-person show written by Shazia Islam a.k.a. Neon

*This story is a fictionalized account of an American soldier's dive into the hellfire of war and the tragic consequences of his indoctrination. The idea of the story evolved during the annual 3-Day Novel Writing Contest held over Labour Day weekend in 2013 after I had read about the horrors of the US invasion of Iraq in Jim Frederick's Black Hearts: One Platoon's Descent into Madness in Iraq's Triangle of Death. The now deceased Frederick (rest in peace Jim) had a vision to write a book that would effectively change people's naive perceptions of US intervention in Iraq. He wanted to tell the real story and he did in profoundly gripping detail. His book changed my reality for good. The 50-page Letters to a Dead Girl was written during a turbulent time in my own life so I was unable to expand on the story and make it more "complete" within the 3-day time limit. As fate would have it, an opportunity arrived to turn the manuscript into a solo theatre show, and so, the story renews its determination to be heard, for better or for worse...

Humanity in every soul cannot be extinguished, yet it must be continuously rediscovered, for a light flickers within. --SI

During the second U.S.-led military invasion and occupation of Iraq in 2003, hundreds and thousands of Iraqi civilians were subjected to violent deaths as a result of an armed, foreign military presence. The deaths of civilians in this period saw a tragic increase from the first invasion of Iraq in 1991. The embattled region remains in chaos and its people deeply affected by the horrors they had witnessed.

Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence is a one-person theatre production with music about a U.S. soldier living out the rest of his life in solitary confinement for crimes he committed while stationed in Iraq. The story of Private First Class Leonard Purple is a profound and disturbing exploration of a troubled American youth's indoctrination into military invasion, racism, occupation, and violence. After receiving the toughest sentence of life without parole out of a group of soldiers charged with the rape and murder of an Iraqi teenager and the murders of her family, he sits in a solitary jail cell back in the U.S. as turbulent memories of the past invade his mind. In an attempt to take accountability for his actions, Purple begins writing a series of letters to Fatima Qureshi, the girl he had killed. What follows is an unexpected transcendence where identities converge and then merge, and where Purple suddenly finds himself on the side of the Occupied. As this alternate reality unfolds changing the landscape of his prison cell, Purple hears the voice of Fatima through his own as she delivers a repertoire of haunting ballads to reclaim the life she knew in one final act of resistance and repossession.

Letters to a Dead Girl: Transcendence has no entertainment value. It is not a show or a spectacle. It is a story to remember and to honour the young spectres of war and violence whose lives were mercilessly stolen, and whose spirits yet remain, roaming in anticipation of liberation. 

Music:

"Time" composed and performed by Timothy A. Bartsch

"Foreshadowing" and "Abeer Qassim Hamza Al-Janabi" composed and performed by NO FEALTY

Performance Date:

Thursday, April 30, 12:15pm - 1:45pm @ Critical Ethnic Studies Conference (#CESA2015)

York University Campus

Cracks in the Pavement

PHOTO BY SI

I don't see grass growing through those cracks. All I see is cold, fractured holes that descend into nether worlds.

I lose my child's imagination that chooses the missteps so I could fall into this abyss of wonder with rabbits, mad hatters, and bitch-face queens, enticing with tea and talk of pleasantries and backstabbing. 

But no, these cracks rob me of a child's talent to make light of danger; the child who trusts and believes all the big people in this world will eternally love, care, and protect. You love me, don't you?

Looking down into that void, I sense its strong gravitational allure, a familiar sensation and a familiar place.

These fissures, abode of the Erinyes, they know me. They know me well after the child's erasure. 

Blood tastes metallic sweet as another number pops up in the morning news. The sound of splitting, breaking. A screaming separation. I attempt to avert my eyes, struggle to block my mind from letting the story seep into this trembling sentience.

But I've been hit. A hard nefarious force like all the others before, a deafening blow on the side of the head. Gravity beckons with no safety net for the fall through the jagged tear, a knife wound meandering in freakish zigzag carved with sadistic sensuality by that staunch killer of functional faculty.

I retreat, cower, holding breath, a bete noir that the imminent intrusion will take me down for good. Because they all know me. Know I belong to them. That I'm one of them.
 

I'm. One. Of. Them. 
 

Lateral Violence: Divide and Rule's Special Ingredient

"Lateral violence happens when people who are both victims of a situation of dominance, in fact turn on each other rather than confront the system that oppresses them both. Lateral violence occurs when oppressed groups/individuals internalize feelings such as anger and rage, and manifest their feelings through behaviors such as gossip, jealousy, putdowns and blaming."

I've been thinking a lot about this lately, and I think many of us who identify with marginalized communities are really hesitant about talking about this issue because it might open our communities up to ridicule and possibly further oppression. But I've spoken to peers who have experienced it far too often on a daily basis. I've experienced it myself both on a personal and professional level and am very familiar with the various displays of wrath that's out there - usually in the forms that are listed in the definition above. I don't think any of us are necessarily immune from it. Whatever struggles you're identifying with as a human being, those struggles will bring you into a community of others who have experienced the same. Our hope is that in coming together under this collective suffering, we'd all find understanding and acceptance. But more often than not, the very people who we need to count on for support are the ones who drag us down even farther. What such lateral violence creates is a profound and permanent lack of trust in our own people so that we all remain divided...and wretchedly conquered.

The only way we can create change and challenge systemic oppression and violence against our communities is to love each other fabulously, where each and every person's dignity is held up to be honoured and respected, where each and everyone's strengths, achievements, and dreams are celebrated, not envied or ridiculed. There is no denying the fact that we can't change the world if we can't change ourselves, but I'm not that naive to think that making such a change is all a bed of roses, as quick as a holiday makeover, particularly when we ourselves become both prey and predator of this kind of violence as we fall into a cycle that takes us deeper into fear, rage, and hate.

How do we develop self-esteem and self-awareness, and have the emotional tools to draw on courage to challenge our own internalized tendencies to oppress? How do those of us who work in sectors that serve vulnerable populations that we ourselves identify with in some capacity support them without having to sacrifice our own healing for the sake of seeming less than we actually are (such as by faking stupid) so we can avoid becoming victims ourselves? And if we do encounter the unfortunate circumstances of being a victim, where can we access resources and support that act as harm reduction to throw a wrench into the gears and stop the cycle?

We can't heal in a vacuum. We desperately need each other and need to collectively explore and implement transformative ways to reconcile, resolve, and grow with each other and for each other. If February is meant to be the month of Love (beyond the consumerist-romantic meaning of it), then let's challenge ourselves to know, be, and breathe Love. That, in my mind, is probably the single greatest act of resistance, and possibly the best antidote to our inner oppressed and our inner oppressor. Cultivate love by never losing hope in ourselves and our peers, especially the ones who have wronged us. Power to the people.

HIV is not the problem

Recently, a friend of mine flew into Toronto for a visit. My place was too small to be shared between two people, so I checked out the airbnb site and found him a communal home where several people lived. When I sent my friend information about the house, he was quite elated to read that the residents shared many of his own values and lifestyle and dietary practices. I was really happy to have found the place since most of the other bnbs looked a bit too stuffy for an artistic wunderkind like my friend.

My friend arrived and I helped him settle at the home. He would stay for the next 3 weeks in order to connect with musicians who might be interested in working with him on his musical odyssey. All of that began to fall into place as he hit the pavement and began to expand his network here in the urban jungle. He exuded warmth and did not feel inhibited as he struck conversations with musicians, bar patrons, and friends at the open mics he performed at. He received a welcoming ear among the crowds, and support and encouragement from new and old faces.

He struck up similar conversations with his housemates and in an effort to tell them more about his personal story, he gave his card to one of the residents, who then checked out the website. Well, I'll inform you all here that my friend is open about his HIV status, which he spells out in colouful text under his alter ego's section on the website. This resident upon reading this information about my friend, then notified other residents of my friend's status. One person who frequented the house refused to come while he was there. I'm not sure if this person was given appropriate information about HIV, but they eventually sort of came around as I was told.

The owner of the house told my friend that he should have disclosed his status from the beginning. Soon, many of the residents were walking on eggshells around him when just a few days before they were warm and welcoming. Now, it seemed they didn't know what to say to him. Their discomfort was obtrusive, but my friend didn't take it to heart and responded by providing the owner with website reources such as TheBody.com to help educate. I also supported my friend by writing an email to the owner outlining some of the basic myths and facts of HIV, the reality of stigma and discrimination against poz peeps, and ways to educate and stay informed. I offered to invite my colleagues at ASAAP to hold a HIV 101 workshop at the residence along with a grounding activity so everyone would feel safe, most especially my friend. The owner responded by asking if the email could be forwarded, and I gave the OK.

Even though the owner had responded that things were much better now that some of the other residents who were apparently well-informed about HIV were back in the house, my friend continued to experience a sort of arms length distancing and contrived friendliness among some of the folks there.

It's the 21st century, but some folks choose to live in a past largely constructed by irresponsible and inaccurate media hype when facts and realities about the condition were still being formulated. I'm surprised that a household that prides itself on establishing a sustainable communal lifestyle was unable to extend that care and compassion to a fellow human being who respected the rules and policies of the house, and made the effort to reach out to the residents and give them an opportunity to learn something new about the human condition and the diversity of struggle, suffering, and triumph. I would think that if we are to apply social justice practices in our daily lives, it demands that we raise our consciousness and foster understanding. What does inclusion and anti-oppression really mean if they only serve as catch phrases to pad our egos?

What this incident showed me was that despite all the great gains that have been made in HIV treatment and care which has resulted in the overall improvement in the lives of poz communities, programs that educate and raise awareness to help fight HIV stigma must continue full steam if we are to see greater positive shifts in attitude and knowledge among the status quo. It's largely due to the work, advocacy, commitment and courage of many many poz individuals, their supporters and allies, and AIDS service organizations that advances have been made. I'm proud to stand by all of them, including my friend, as we act diligently to soften hearts, transform minds, and nurture our collective and love-affirming humanity.


*In writing this post, my intention was not to judge people's behaviour. I acknowledge that some people struggle with OCD, and so situations such as this might trigger fear or anxiety. They too are suffering from a condition, and should be provided with all the information they need to feel at ease and safe. In order to challenge HIV stigma, it requires compassion for all.