Cold Comfort for Comfort Women

When I awoke yesterday to the news that the Japanese and South Korean governments had finally reached a consensus on the sexual slavery of Korean women during the Second World War, I felt a sense of relief. This relief, however, was replaced with disgust when I started reading the articles about this historic moment. The articles all framed this issue as if Japan and South Korea had signed a trade deal, focusing on the two countries’ relationships with the U.S., the one billion yen fund being set up for the remaining so-called comfort women (of whom only 46 are still alive), and referring to it as a “deal.”

In other words, these women were commodified by their colonial oppressors then and are once again being discussed as commodities in overtly capitalist terms. Consequently, their identity and suffering continue to be erased. Indeed, the issue has been referred to as though it is something to lay to rest, so political/economic partnerships can forge ahead. As Japanese Foreign Minister Fumio Kishida said, “I expect that the two countries will accept the outcome of the final negotiations meaningfully… I hope that the bilateral relations would start anew through implementing the agreement conscientiously.”

Deal, negotiations, agreement… These are not the terms one tends to use to discuss human beings’ lives. They scream CAPITALISM and NEOLIBERALISM. After all, within these ideologies, none of our lives actually matter, but some lives matter even less (Black lives, the lives of the members of lower classes and castes, the lives of women of colour, etc.).

As survivor Lee Yong-soo stated, “The agreement does not reflect the views of former comfort women… I will ignore it completely.” If this was really about the 46 women who are still living with these horrific physical and emotional scars, and the hundreds of thousands who have already died, Lee’s statement would have some impact.

The practice of discussing women’s oppression while simultaneously silencing their voices is quite common. Women’s importance in history and contemporary societies is at best given lip service and at worst overlooked entirely. Rafia Zakaria puts this succinctly in reference to the invasion of Afghanistan in 2001: “The Afghan woman’s blue burka became the symbol of sexual repression, the basis for the most righteous feminist indignation and of bombings and night raids. That the same women may not want their country bombed and occupied, or might wish to fight their own battles, were the sort of ifs and buts that were not entertained” (emphasis mine). Indeed, Zakaria’s piece, “Sex and the Muslim Feminist,” is an important read for those interested in considering how sex, sexuality, and women’s bodies are co-opted by capitalism.

Central to the discussion of the girls and women who were kidnapped, imprisoned, and raped endlessly—let us drop the euphemisms and call this what it was—is also the theme of honour and dignity. But whose honour is actually at issue here? Surely, if it was that of the girls and women who suffered, this atrocity would have been resolved decades ago or not happened in the first place. But women’s honour is always tied to that of the society; this is why rape is used as one of the weapons of war. It is an important detail that the statue in front of the Japanese Embassy in Seoul representing the victims is supposed to be removed. 

Once that is gone and the remaining survivors have died, the capitalist system can thrive unfettered by tedious reminders of old quarrels, and a new generation can fulfill its destiny of becoming obedient consumers and workers.

Consensus about subjugation aside, the message remains the same: Women—especially women belonging to marginalized groups—you don’t matter.

Not Shutting Up

More than once, a woman has said to me, “My husband is the one who follows politics” or “My husband is the one who deals with that stuff.” To me, such declarations mean “My husband is the one who does the thinking in our house.” I love that this is not my situation. I love being an independent woman, and as an independent woman, I can say and do whatever I want. And that’s just what I’m going to do.

Last week, there was a series of discussions on the public broadcaster in Ontario on the issues of boys and men. As someone who cares about equality and who thinks that patriarchy is incredibly damaging to males, I was intrigued. The word “misandry” was used and defined, but never really contextualized; nor was the question of what can be done to address why men feel ignored and largely irrelevant posed. In addition, in the discussion of how the education system focuses on girls and neglects the struggles of boys to catch up, no thoughts were offered on how we might help boys and encourage them to stay in school.

I know that there are men in Canada who feel like they don’t matter, and I know that some of them go so far as to claim that they are oppressed. I’ve heard it from their mouths; I’ve seen it in print. Who do you think they view as their oppressor? Like white people who complain of reverse racism, such men believe that they are being oppressed by women. I use the verb “believe” because the nature of oppression requires that the oppressor be the one with the power, and the reality is that white, able-bodied, cisgender men still run the show, and those who argue that they are being disenfranchised by feminists tend to be white, able-bodied, cisgender men.

Yes, women continue to be favoured in child custody cases, and yes, girls tend to be ahead in terms of verbal communication and reading when they start school, and thus the curriculum is skewed towards them because they perform better. These are real issues that need to be addressed. But these are not legitimate arguments showing that men are victims of misandry, although they are always used for this purpose. I think these are excuses for men to hate women who aren’t satisfied with the status quo. I think, like white people who complain that their cities and countries are being taken over by immigrants, this is all about fear of losing supremacy—supremacy, by the way, that is still firmly in place.

A lot of men would literally rather do anything than listen to a woman speak her mind. And women of colour get shot down twice when they try to express themselves, as they are seen doubly as inferior.

Interesting to note, this word processing software that I’m typing on doesn’t recognize misandry as a real term. Tell me, is that a plot hatched by the evil feminists running Microsoft???

I think it’s also noteworthy that in the two aforementioned discussions about misandry and the changing roles of men and women throughout history, a woman was doing the talking. I wondered why. Could it be because if a man was talking about this, he would immediately be viewed as antagonistic and anti-woman? Or could it be because patriarchy is so destructive that it prevents men from talking about their feelings? A little of both, perhaps.

I spent decades watching my mother work herself to ill-health to get ahead, to prove that she was worthy. In fact, one of her bosses told her that he wouldn’t promote her because she was a woman. You could say those things out loud back in the day. I suspect such men miss the good ol’ days. She played the game; she kept upgrading her certifications, so there would be no excuses not to reward her for her devotion to her employer and her job. When the system itself started to shift, she got a management position. But she was still paid less than the men in similar roles. Her employer wouldn’t hire an assistant to help her, though others had them. So, she worked long hours including weekends. She earned something resembling what she was worth finally once they knew she was going to retire. A condescending little pat on the head for a job well done. And when she retired, they divided her job into two high-paying positions—two positions that came with assistants, because no one could do, or was willing to do, the amount of work she had done. But sexism is over, right? Everyone is equal now; in fact, women are more equal, right? So, we should just shut up, right?

Sometimes I’m tempted to shut up. This is especially the case when I feel that no one gives a damn about anything, least of all about me and whatever I have to say. But there are other times when I feel this way and that is precisely why I don’t want to shut up. Sometimes when I read articles and the responses to them, or I have my own experiences that remind me of my position as compared to men, I get so angry that I want to hit something. How unladylike of me, no?

I actually do want to hear what men think, because if they feel disposable or despised, it’s important that we understand why that is. What I’m not interested in is hearing that women are somehow oppressing them, because that isn’t productive; all that does is promote misogyny (the software recognizes that one).

The discussion about education didn’t offer any solutions, but I have one. It won’t be popular. But if the differences between boys and girls in terms of development are causing long-term harm, it might be necessary. Boys’ and girls’ classes in the lower grades. If boys need special attention when it comes to developing certain skills, like reading, I don’t see anything wrong with employing techniques that target their needs while simultaneously focusing on girls’ needs in their own classes.

What I don’t have are solutions to get the sexes on the same page and to respect each other and appreciate what we share and what makes us different. And I’m not talking about our bodies. I already know I’m appreciated for being different that way; I’m reminded all the time. Maybe women can teach men how to be subtle, and we can have that in common. We can have seminars: How to check out a woman without being creepy. Yeah, yeah, it’s a compliment, right? I should be grateful. I was actually told that once. LOL. And you wonder why I might have a little womanly rage?

We all need to do our bit to do better. That’s really all I’m getting at. Women, if you’re not interested in politics or social issues, fine. But don’t wear your ignorance like a badge of honour because it means that you’re playing your part as the good little wife. Make sure you do have some interests that you pursue while your husband is thinking about politics and social issues. And don’t think it’s cute that your husband handles all the finances and stuff related to your assets, because he might die before you. Sorry for being a killjoy, but it’s a fact. You don’t want to be completely lost, especially at a time when your whole world has been turned upside down. And men, forget everything you’ve learned about what it means to be a man, if you’ve learned anything, because apparently this is one reason why boys and men are struggling.

Angry woman rant over.

Reading Between the Lines Drawn

The July–August issue of Biblio: A Review of Books includes Sharanya Minivannan’s mostly positive review of the anthology Drawing the Line: Indian Women Fight Back, published by Zubaan Books. I was fortunate to be among the first to see this anthology after its publication, and I have read several reviews of it. For the most part, this compilation of Indian women’s graphic stories has received positive feedback. Minivannan also sings many of its praises, but in her critique, I was struck by her failure to read between the lines of Drawing the Line. It’s natural to be hard on the author/artist for not digging deeper, but as readers/critics, perhaps we, too, need to delve a little deeper in our analyses.

My aim is not to pick apart the critique. As I stated, the review is overwhelmingly positive, and the issues that Minivannan highlights are valid points. In particular, as she and other critics note, not a single story in the anthology tackles caste. Perhaps the context of this particular gathering of artists (i.e., well-educated, middle class, English-speaking, city-dwelling women) indicates why this discussion does not take place. I have observed over the years that with the exception of some academics and activists, middle class Indians are not discussing caste. Moreover, as is always the case, those at the top of the social hierarchy and those living in environments where it seems on the surface that caste doesn’t exist have the privilege of pretending that it isn’t an issue. Drawing the Line provides evidence that this privilege exists. That isn’t to say that these artists don’t think about caste, but perhaps due to their socio-economic position, it wasn’t the first thing that came to mind when they were communicated the theme of the workshop that led to this publication. So, perhaps the problem is not that these 14 artists didn’t choose to tackle the issue of caste but that so few people who are privileged to be given a voice think of doing so.

The most striking critique to me—and I suppose to the author, as she highlights the issue several times in her review—is that the graphic stories uniformly depict middle class, urban, cisgender, heterosexual experiences. Again, due to the context of this gathering of artists, it should surprise no one that the works mostly portray the urban, middle class experience. In addition, if you choose a group of cisgender women to participate in a workshop, their stories will likely portray the lives of cisgender women. As in the case of caste, as cisgender people, they have the privilege of not having to think about what it means to live any other way. And in India, when one thinks of the transgender community, the mind likely goes to the hijra one encounters on the road; other trans representations are largely absent. For those of us who are cisgender, we must consciously start to think about the experiences of those who are not. And maybe the 14 artists in question are now doing so thanks to Minivannan’s observation.

As for the absence of queerness from the pages of this anthology, I shook my head and wondered where Minivannan is living. Indeed, this reaction is what prompted me to write this response to her critique. Homosexuality is an actual crime in India, and while queer voices are increasingly emerging in the English language media, homosexuality and bisexuality remain topics that many people avoid discussing. Of course, when you assemble a group of artists, chances are, at least one of them will not identify as heterosexual. It’s both a numbers game and a reflection of the fact that LGBTQ people have a long history of artistic expression. But when asked to contribute to a fairly mainstream publication, how many people would be comfortable outing themselves? Furthermore, is it really their duty to do so? On this point, I think one really does need to read between the lines of Drawing the Line. It is rather unfair to accuse these women of upholding the primacy of heteronormativity, since not all the stories reflect the heterosexual female experience—and I suspect there is a reason for that. When one does not live in an open society, one learns to be discreet. While I absolutely agree with Minivannan’s assertion that queerness is part of the Indian experience, perhaps she could have deduced meaning from the absence of male characters as partners or the grotesque depictions of the male body. True, in Drawing the Line, you will not find the cry, “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it!” But even those who live openly as queer people would likely find it difficult to highlight this experience for the eyes of the world. Is this the shortcoming of the artist or the reality of the society in which she lives and the product of the circumstances in which this work evolved? After all, when asked to discuss women’s issues, wouldn’t most of us by default opt for something that we think most women would identify with? Consequently, I would argue that the conspicuous absence of a clear queer voice is an effect of living in a heteronormative world.

While I appreciate Sharanya Minivannan’s review of Drawing the Line, her perspective reflects the very disconnect she seems to identify in the pages of the anthology. I think we would all benefit from digging deeper and noting not only the shortcomings of others but thinking about the bigger picture of why those shortcomings might exist.

Focus on the Inside

Physical appearance and being female are conjoined. When you’re a child, the cuteness of your outfit might overshadow your recitation of the alphabet; the fit of your gi may catch more attention than the precision with which you execute the kata you worked so hard to master to reach the next level in karate; your femininity may be judged before your straight As in school are; and when you’re older, your hotness will often predispose someone to assess your ability to carry on an engaging conversation. So, whether you consciously try to or not, you will pursue achieving some standard of beauty, and beat yourself up every time your jeans feel just a little bit tighter or you see a photograph of yourself.

Let’s say you fancy yourself a fairly rational person, and you commit to learning to accept yourself despite your physical flaws—and you succeed. You look in the mirror and you like what you see for the first time in your life. Problem solved, right? Wrong. Nothing else changes. You realize that while you were focusing on the outside, you forgot about the inside. You battled against those who judged your exterior, without seeing that you were guilty of the same behaviour.

I often come across statements meant to inspire, like “Accept yourself for who you are” or “Love yourself as you are.” In general, what do people really mean when they say “accept” or “love” yourself? If you’re a liar and a cheat, are you supposed to accept and love yourself as you are? Let’s be honest; such self-affirmations tend to be about body image.

I’ve been various sizes, and at no time did the shape and girth of my body affect how I lived my life or how I treated others or myself. So, while I advocate loving yourself, I reject the idea that we should accept ourselves as we are. At no point should we stop striving to be better people. And, as I see it, the key to being a better person is to recognize the interconnectedness between yourself and others, and your environment.

The notion of accepting ourselves as we are, besides reflecting superficiality, is born from a harmful individualism. When you see yourself as entirely autonomous, rather than as part of something far greater, it is easy to think negative thoughts, be driven by greed, and feel indifferent toward what is happening to others. You may even cut yourself off from the people you care for the most.

If I know anything, it is that my actions and words affect others, and if I fail to exhibit that awareness, if I don’t show compassion and love, I cannot accept myself as I am, no matter what I look like.

Covering Columbusing or Covering for Cultural Appropriation?

Is it okay to appropriate someone else’s religious festival for fun? Writing for the CBC, Adam Carter touches on this question in the article “Multicultural or ‘my culture’? Who ‘owns’ the colour festival?” Specifically, he addresses whether the event A Midsummer’s Dream, which began in 2012 and will be held for the fourth time on August 15 at Gage Park in Hamilton, Columbuses Holi. Columbusing refers to when white people “discover” something that has in fact existed for a long time.

This event is the brainchild of Mark Gowland, who aligns A Midsummer’s Dream with Holi in the celebration of “the triumph of good over evil and the renewal of spring.” He further describes his objective as follows:

[aiding] with the movement in helping humanity push forward towards a bright new future, that embodies inclusion, balance, and service. It was created to serve as a massive force for good in the community, and to create a spiritual vibration that would echo through the energies of the people who attend. We want to bring diverse group of people together and encourage them to do acts of good and make positive changes in their community. We want to honour the principles of Holi, and share that message here in Hamilton, in hopes of opening the hearts and minds of all who attend.

When I started reading the CBC article, what immediately struck me was the significance of the location of this event. Hamilton was recently ranked second on Canada’s list of cities with the highest rates of reported hate crimes. And Hamilton’s Hindu Samaj Temple, which is partnering with Gowland this year, was destroyed by arsonists in 2001, days after the 9/11 attack in the United States. Also relevant is that last year the arsonists were finally sentenced for burning down the Hindu Samaj Temple. It took more than a decade for the police to catch the suspects, and this hate crime was ultimately deemed “mischief” by the court. The members of the temple may have forgiven these men, but that does not mean that we should forget the crime or the outcome of the case.

Context matters. So, I was hoping the author would connect these dots in his article. Rather, it appears that the author’s intention in writing the piece had more to do with defending Mark Gowland than with mounting an argument for how one can borrow from a different culture without being guilty of cultural appropriation. I say this because he does not mention what Holi is until the final section of the article. The focus is instead on showing the reader that in researching the article, he reached out to the Hindu Samaj Temple management and McMaster University professor Chandrima Chakraborty.

The event’s website states that Gowland sought the advice of the Hindu Samaj Temple before launching the event in 2012, and the CBC article echoes this. But highlighting the mere fact that one obtains “permission” to hold a celebration from those whom it views as the owners of the celebration—which is problematic in itself—is an insufficient counter-argument against the accusation of Columbusing someone else’s culture. This is not a simple haters gonna hate situation. The truth is that Canadians are routinely shut down when they try to highlight racism in this country, thus preventing any further discussion on the matter. This is a real problem in Canada that is preventing us from living up to our commitment to multiculturalism.

In seeking to defend the event’s creator and overlooking the context of the setting of the event, the article is unwittingly dismissive. What is the point of borrowing from a tradition that celebrates the triumph of good over evil and renewal if you don’t acknowledge the local problems that need to be overcome?

Canada is a multicultural country, and Hamilton is a diverse city; we should come together and open hearts and minds. So why not discuss the significance of bringing people together in a city where some inhabitants are attacked for the colour of their skin and/or their religious affiliation? I’m curious as to why the Hindu Samaj Temple has only this year become a partner in the event, and how this might influence A Midsummer’s Dream.

The most important question is not who “owns” Holi, as the article’s title suggests, but how one goes about promoting multiculturalism and genuinely trying to understand each other.

Accepting Ugly Truths

Like countless others, I grew up watching The Cosby Show and Fat Albert. And for thirty years, the former remained my favourite TV show, re-watched with delight for years in re-runs on television and on DVD. I idolized Bill Cosby. I even saw him do stand-up live a little more than a decade ago and laughed myself to tears for the duration of the show.

But I have since had to accept that my childhood idol is a monster.

After the news broke this week that Cosby had himself admitted to obtaining Quaaludes to drug and have sex with rape women, and drugging at least one woman for this purpose, I thought his relentless defenders would admit that they needed to rethink their position. Thankfully, some have. However, the overall response seems to have changed very little. Some, like Whoopi Goldberg, still defend him, arguing that one is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Cosby’s admission of guilt while under oath isn’t close enough for Whoopi, I guess.

The fact that Whoopi Goldberg has allowed herself to become attached to this story in the media helps me bolster my argument. Thanks, Whoopi! She is another actor/comedian whose work I enjoyed as a kid. I saw The Color Purple probably before I was old enough to, and who didn’t love Sister Act and Ghost?! But that was Whoopi Goldberg acting; I never knew the real Whoopi Goldberg. Now that she is on TV and social media daily, with the ability to share her thoughts with the public, she can show us more than the characters she has portrayed on screen—and she’s not very impressive. Remember when she defended Justin Bieber for using the n-word, because she felt that it doesn’t have the same meaning in Canada as it does in the U.S.? Bill Cosby, too, might have written timeless material and played a convincing dad character, but we, his viewers, never knew his character because we enjoyed his work. I’m not sure if his defenders are clinging to their cherished memories of Heathcliff Huxtable or they just can’t admit that they need to change their position.

Was it easy to admit that my childhood idol is a monster? Of course not. But it had to be done. Life is about change. As you age, you realize this more and more. If you can’t learn and grow, and admit when you’re wrong or ignorant about something, then you’re not evolving as a human being. Our basic human nature should cause us to feel outrage and disgust in response to dozens of women accusing a man of sexually assaulting them.

The fact that there are people who continue to find it easier to question the women’s motives than accept that Cosby might be a vile man says something about North American culture.

Much has been written about rape culture, and fortunately this term has finally entered the mainstream discourse, making people question what they see and hear around them and generating discussion about what consent means. Thank you, feminists! By the way, the concept of consent is why I put a strikethrough through that text above, in case it didn’t click when you read it. Conflating sex and rape is part of why we still need to talk about consent and teach the ignorant—youth and adults alike—what it means. I had a conversation with someone about Cosby a few days ago, and I uttered the words, “He admitted to drugging women so he could have his way with them.” As those words came out of my mouth, I realized that the phrase “have one’s way with” is a euphemism that English speakers throw around like it’s nothing, and this shows how murky the understanding of consensual sex vs. sexual assault can be. Here is a great explanation of what consent is:

We tend to look outward rather than inward. It is easy to say things like, “Women are treated so badly there [insert the name of any so-called developing—read non-white-dominated—nation].” Introspection is hard work, but it is necessary. We must do it both as individuals and as societies. Besides the fact that the accusations of roughly 40 women don’t matter to everyone, the fact that people can make jokes about Cosby raping women, or say nonsensical things like “This happened so many years ago. Move on!” (a comment I saw in response to an article posted on Facebook) suggests that we have a cultural problem.

Let us not forget that marital rape wasn’t deemed a criminal act in Canada until 1983, and it wasn’t until 1993 that it was outlawed in all 50 U.S. states! How civilized are we, really? And honestly, is there ever a time when a woman’s accusation isn’t met with questions about her character or behaviour? Yet some men seem to take it personally when another man is accused of rape, as in Bill Cosby’s case, as though the default position—in complete contrast to how women are looked at—is that one should naturally assume a man’s character to be good.

I have learned in the last year. I have learned that I used to idolize a monster; I have learned that it is okay that I used to idolize a monster, because I didn’t know that he wasn’t worthy of my idolatry; I have learned that a woman’s word is still of less value than a man’s in this culture; I have learned that education about sex and consent is still lacking and is absolutely essential; I have learned that rape culture is insidious and must be identified and challenged on an ongoing basis; and I have learned that it is important for these stories to come out, if for no other reason that the reactions to them shine the spotlight on the individuals and systems that either tacitly support patriarchy or utterly despise women.

Don’t “move on” from this. Grow up and have difficult discussions with yourself and others about unpleasant and inconvenient truths, like the fact that Bill Cosby is a monster who got off on raping unconscious women and has been getting away with it for decades because women’s choices and bodies are not necessarily their own.

Devil's Night (a short story)

I was in my apartment, seated comfortably in my armchair, feet up, with a fleece blanket draped over me, and a steaming cup of Earl Grey on the end table. My cat, Charlie, was asleep on the floor in front of me. I was doing a crossword puzzle, struggling with Twelve Across, when I felt a sudden chill. Charlie seemed to feel it too, because the black fur on his spine stood on end. He meowed groggily, and suddenly his ears tensed and he rose from his comfortable resting spot on the grey carpet. He was looking towards the window. I turned and saw nothing. I shrugged and went back to my crossword, but Charlie remained fixated on the window.

“What is it, boy?” I asked, reaching down to rub him behind the ears.

He jumped, all four paws off the floor, and turned his head around to bite my hand. I pulled away from him, and he looked at me as though he was surprised to have just done that. Charlie was usually a very affectionate cat. In seven years, he hadn’t bitten or scratched me once.

I felt the same mysterious sensation again, and Charlie darted across the room and under the sofa. Not one for panic, I shook my head and took a sip of my tea. The hot liquid soothed me. I leaned back in my chair and stretched my arms over my head. I took a casual survey of my living room and saw nothing out of the ordinary.

I thought that perhaps if I took a break from pondering over Twelve Across, the answer would come to me, so I grabbed the remote control resting next to my cup of tea and turned on the television. One of the twenty-four hour news stations came on. A man had attacked and dismembered two women in a park. I mumbled something to myself about detesting this planet, shut off the television, and picked up the crossword once again.

A voice whispered, “Mayhem.”

It was the answer that had been eluding me. The voice had come from inside my head, but it wasn’t my voice. Still, it felt like a part of myself had spoken. This didn’t startle me, but I was thoroughly confused.

I got to Fourteen Across and before I could even think of the answer, the same voice gave it to me: “Undead.”

Arms stiff, I dropped the paper on the floor. I got out of my chair and slowly turned around. Nothing. I was alone, and yet, I felt a presence. Where had that voice come from? It was soothing and ghastly all at once. There was something familiar about it. I slowly sat back in my chair, looking from left to right.

Just as I relaxed, I felt something like a cold hand on my shoulder. When I turned my head to look, there was nothing there. Was my mind playing tricks on me? I figured I was just tired, so I decided to go to bed.

In the bathroom, I was bent over the sink washing my face, as I always did before bed, when I felt that same chill—more intensely this time. My torso shot upright, the face scrub burning my eyes. In the mirror, I could see a figure behind me. Frantically, I grabbed the hand towel, removed the excess cleanser from my face, and looked in the mirror again. There was nothing there except my own reflection, but I could still feel something.

“Charlie!” I called out. “I’m going to bed. Come, keep me company.” He didn’t appear.

Apprehensive, I kept my head down, eyes darting from side to side, as I made my way to the bedroom. I turned on the light and froze. There was a man—but not really a man—standing next to my window. He had pale skin, black hair, and bright green eyes that glowed like nothing I’d ever seen. He smiled and I distinctly noted fangs.

My heart stopped for a second, and when I caught my breath, I asked tentatively, “Who are you?”

His smile turned to a playful smirk, and he said, “No one. Shouldn’t you be asking what I am?” The voice was the same one I had heard earlier in my ear.

“It’s not possible,” I said. “Vampires don’t exist, at least not the ones you read about in novels.”

His stare pierced through me. It felt as though he could see everything within me. Suddenly, he was standing behind me.

“But we do,” he whispered softly in my left ear, causing my whole body to tremble.

“Isn’t there some rule about vampires not being allowed to enter a place unless they’re invited?” I asked as he circled around me.

Leaning close to my face and staring into my eyes, he replied, “But you did invite me in. You wanted help with your vocabulary. I read your thoughts. You weren’t going to finish what you started. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

Then he let out a chuckle unlike any human laughter I’d ever heard. It was demonic, but not unpleasant to the ear.

“I always finish what I start,” I replied, affronted.

He just stared at me with that same smirk on his thin face. I was starting to wish that I had the power to read his thoughts.

“You can,” he said.

I was so foolish; it hadn’t occurred to me that he was still tapping into my mind. I guess I just didn’t know vampires. What could I say to him? He was terrifying and intriguing me at the same time. If only he would speak to me, instead of boring into me with those beautiful yet menacing eyes.

He placed a cold, graceful hand on my shoulder and guided me to my bed. “Sit,” he said, “I’ll tell you a story, but you must be comfortable when I tell it.” I obliged. “I won’t tell you that same boring story that all vampires tell, about how I was born in some godforsaken European village and my family perished in some tragic event… No. I’m not centuries old; I’ve been undead for exactly two years. As for my relatives, they live nearby, but they think I’m dead, so we don’t keep in touch. The human version of myself was born in 1979, so, you might say that I’m twenty-six years old. In vampire terms, I’m still a baby stumbling and fumbling through life.

“When I met my maker, I was at a Halloween party. Quite appropriately and disgustingly, I’d gone dressed as Dracula. Pathetic, right? Perhaps that’s why he chose me? He wasn’t very creative. Anyway, my girlfriend was with me, dressed as a devil. I thought we were having a good time together, but at some point in the night, she disappeared. I asked everyone if they’d seen her. They all said no and gave me sympathetic looks. Naturally, I wondered what was going on. I felt like I was out of the loop.

“I looked upstairs for her, but couldn’t find her, so I decided to try the basement. As I descended those creaky stairs, I knew I was making a mistake. Instinctively, I knew nothing good would come out of going down there. It was dark, and I couldn’t hear anything, but something in my heart told me that I was going to find something. I flipped the light switch in the laundry room, and there she was with my best friend. How appropriate that she was dressed as a devil! Something died inside me at that moment. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t do anything. I just turned and walked back up the stairs. Everyone asked me what happened. I ignored all of them and walked straight out the front door of the house.

“I must have walked for hours. It’s hard to remember. The sun hadn’t come up yet; that much I know. I reached a poorly lit park and sat down on a bench. I couldn’t block out the image of them together in my mind. I was consumed with pain and anger. Then I felt a sharp pain in my neck and I blacked out. When I came to, this fiend in a long, black coat was standing over me, wiping his chin with a white handkerchief. He had a completely indifferent look on his face that irritated me. I was the serious sort; pensive, intense… I guess I still am. But you see, I have the luxury of being able to refer to my mortal self in the past tense. Anyway, he didn’t look remotely interested in me or in what he’d done. The pain in my neck was excruciating.

“‘Who are you?’ I gasped.

“That got his attention. He looked at me, but he didn’t answer me.

“I tried to get up and face him man to—er—vampire. At that moment, I didn’t really understand that he was a vampire. The pain and the loss of blood were messing with my mind. After he finished wiping his chin clean of my blood, he began to inspect his slightly overgrown nails.

“I repeated myself more urgently, ‘Who the hell are you?’

“He glared at me and said, ‘The most important being you will ever encounter.’

“I was appalled. ‘You think highly of yourself, don’t you?’

“He chuckled. ‘I knew you were the perfect specimen—proud and sanctimonious. You were begging for a reality check.’

“‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I snarled.

“‘Yes!’ he hissed. ‘I can’t wait to watch you in action after you’ve been indoctrinated.’ He looked very pleased with himself.

“Then he used his sharp thumbnail to slit open a vein. I was disgusted. Very quickly, though—immediately––the open wound was pressed against my mouth. I wanted to resist, but that first taste of his blood was so intoxicating, I was powerless to stop this transmission. At first, it just flowed into my mouth, but after a moment, I realized that I was intently sucking it out of his vein. I felt a strange mixture of pleasure and abhorrence; the simultaneous guilt and delight were intense. And the hunger… There is no equivalent human experience that I can relate it to.

“Suddenly, looking weakened, he pushed me away. I felt such separation anxiety, but it was quickly replaced with a sensation I can only express as implosion. Every part of my body began convulsing. There was a ringing in my ears, and my vision blurred. I think I blacked out again, but I had no concept of time, so it’s hard to say. Then I heard his impassive voice saying, ‘Welcome, my son.’ I opened my eyes expecting that same fuzzy vision; much to my surprise, my eyesight was sharper than it had ever been. Everything around me had come into sharp focus. It was as if I was seeing the world for the first time.

“He held out his hand and I helped me up. ‘Hungry, my child?’ he asked me. I was. I wanted that succulent taste again. He pointed to a couple on one of the other park benches. They were gazing into each other’s eyes, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. I couldn’t believe how fast I moved; it was as if I just apparated behind them. With one swift movement, I drained the young man. I chose him first because he looked fit; the girl was somewhat plump, and I guessed that she would have a harder time running away from me than he would. I was right. She shrieked at the sight of her boyfriend’s limp body and rose from the bench to run away. I gave her a moment; there was a devilish excitement about giving a headstart to someone who didn’t stand a chance of getting away. I could hear her heart pounding. It gave me an unfamiliar rush. I knew in that instant that I was no longer human; my compassion had disappeared. I descended on her, sending her crashing to the ground. This kill was even more delicious because I could taste the exquisite fear in her blood.

“When it was over, I didn’t know whether to bask in the immense pleasure or hate myself for abandoning my morals. In any case, I had no choice. I was what I was, and any trace of human feelings of guilt lurking inside my soulless body were doomed to vanish.”

I gaped at him, fascinated by his story. What an intriguing life he leads, I thought. He heard me, of course. The disapproval in his eyes was clear. “You want more intrigue?” he sneered at me.

“Yes,” I replied matter-of-factly.

 “Why are humans so predictable?!” he grumbled.

No, Rachel Dolezal, You're Not "Transracial"

At the core of the bizarre Rachel Dolezal story appears to be a troubled woman who wants attention. For that reason, I think we should soon stop giving it to her. However, her 15 minutes aren’t over yet.

I watched her interview with Matt Lauer and was appalled too many times to count. First and foremost, as regards her position that she is “human” racially, I would like to retort, isn’t that a lovely thought! Tell that to the black person who was just called the n-word or pulled over for driving while black. While we are all, indeed, members of the same human race, the idea that Dolezal can be “racially human,” given that she has been masquerading as a black woman, is incredibly insensitive to actual black people—you know, those people Dolezal supposedly identifies with and advocates for—who, unlike her, will never have the option of shedding their skin and identifying as another race.

In addition, I found her choice of words in answering Lauer’s questions fascinating. She took responsibility for nothing. Instead, she chose to paint herself as a passive agent. Others identified her as biracial or black, and in all instances, she just didn’t correct them; she met an older black man with whom she connected, so he just became her father; she “[doesn’t] avoid the sun” and therefore her skin is darker than it used to be… If Dolezal really cared about her work with the NAACP, she would have owned up to misrepresenting herself and apologized to the people she might have hurt.

Interestingly, Dolezal claimed that she has “identified with the black experience” since she was about five years old, when she would allegedly draw herself with brown skin and black curly hair, as opposed to her pale skin and blonde hair. That explanation sounded contrived to me. What awareness does a five-year-old—especially a white five-year-old—have of the “black experience”? Maybe she was creative; maybe family members told her she was ugly, so she envisioned herself as someone else; or maybe she just made this up.

If, indeed, Rachel Dolezal has self-identified as black since the age of five, why did she assert her whiteness to accuse Howard University of discrimination in her 2002 lawsuit?

Furthermore, if this story is simply about a woman who loves her black family members and is passionate about equality and aligns herself with the African American community, why try so hard to pass as black? The number of hate crimes that Dolezal alleged, with no corresponding evidence presented to police, might suggest that she wanted so much for people to see her as black that she invented a struggle that was not her own, but that is very real to black people.

It seems that Rachel Dolezal was trying to construct her own victimhood. But why? Is this a sign of mental illness? Desperation to validate her invented blackness? A need for attention? Whatever the reason, the reality is that by making false accusations about being the victim of crime, she was trivializing the real experiences of people who have been harassed and threatened due to their skin colour.

But this is the crux of this insane story. Dolezal’s dishonesty is insulting and dismissive. Rather than asserting her position as an ally and trying to fight injustice and inequality, basically, she got a tan, got her hair done, and spoke on behalf of black people.

Being white, black, aboriginal, Asian, etc. is not a choice that an individual makes. Yes, race is a construct, but that doesn’t mean that people construct it for themselves. I heard Dolezal use the word “transracial” in her interview moments after I said to someone, “I wouldn’t be surprised if she tries to start some sort of ‘transracial’ movement.” Am I right? Many people on social media have likened this story to Caitlyn Jenner’s and asked if someone can be transgender, why can’t another person be transracial? Kat Blaque replies brilliantly to this question. Transgender people are being true to themselves and taking a tremendous risk in doing so, whereas Rachel Dolezal was deceiving people and benefited from it.

While she would have the world believe that she represents either blackness or the fluidity of race, in fact, what Rachel Dolezal represents is white privilege. Dolezal has proven that she has the luxury of either claiming or abandoning blackness whenever it feels right to her. How many people of colour have the same option?

It is bad enough that this woman took it upon herself to hijack someone else’s narrative. She did the right thing by resigning. We cannot allow her to resume what she did with the NAACP by writing some new narrative of transracialism that dismisses the reality of living in black skin.

Female Viagra?

Good news, ladies, the “Female Viagra” has been approved! Okay, so it has been rejected twice by the U.S. FDA since 2010, it has side effects, and you can’t take it simultaneously with birth control pills. But so what!

How can there be a female Viagra, you ask, when Viagra stimulates blood flow, and women’s readiness for sex is about so much more than blood flow? Well, this drug is not about promoting blood flow but altering the female brain. If that prospect scares you, you’re not alone.

Let’s digress a bit and talk about sexuality, shall we?

I’ve written about sex in this blog before. Many people have a rather rigid definition of sex, and as a result, the experience can be somewhat blah for women. This is one reason why women might not be raring to go. Fear of untimely or unwanted pregnancy can also cause a problem. A third possible reason is fatigue and/or distraction, especially if you have a family and a career. Fourth, many women are insecure about their appearance and therefore aren’t comfortable naked, even if they really love their partner. Similarly, some women have been conditioned to think that their vagina smells odd or is unattractive, and this can hinder their eagerness for sexual expression. Fifth, the experience of trauma in the past may continue to affect a woman’s emotional and/or physical comfort with sex. Sixth, some women have medical conditions that affect their ability to have sex. And the list goes on and on…

If only it were just about blood flow! It is, in part—and if that’s news to you, then there are a lot of things you should learn about and try before opting for that pill.

Since women’s sexuality is so complex, Flibanserin (a.k.a. Female Viagra) targets the brain chemistry to stimulate sexual desire. In fact, the drug was first studied as an antidepressant. Antidepressants themselves still spark debate, so using a variation of one to correct sexual dysfunction should be controversial.

We live a world where the answer to problems is often to try a drug. Pharmaceuticals are big business. So, is it any wonder that they would be desperate to get this drug on the market?

According to an NPR article, a woman almost lost her husband due to her lack of libido, even though they were growing closer as they got older. This anecdote gave me pause. In this hemisphere, we’ve been led to believe that sex is the barometer of a relationship, and that if it’s not meeting your expectations, you should seek it elsewhere. Few people talk about the fact that like all other aspects of a relationship, sex is a learning process, and it requires effort—worthwhile effort if you find someone with whom you share love and respect.

I’m an advocate of examining root causes, whatever the issue may be. I think a libido enhancing/mind altering drug should be the last resort.

Viagra appeared 15 years ago, blessing aging males with erections they hadn't seen in years, while this pill for women has only just been given the green light. So, one should reasonably expect it to be revolutionary, but it doesn’t seem to be. Apparently, the researchers determined that the subjects’ desire increased by 53%, decreased their distress by 29%, and doubled their number of “satisfying sexual events.” I don’t know how these things were measured or what exactly constitutes a “satisfying sexual event.”

It appears that the jury is still out on whether Flibanserin is really beneficial, and which women will derive its benefits. Maybe we should shift the focus from the lab to the self, and then determine what makes our relationships meaningful, and work on that.

Are Canadians Nice?

For various reasons, the topic of identity has always interested me. One of those reasons, I have always believed, is the fact that I am Canadian. Canadians struggle with the question of who we are. In general, the answers to that question come in the form of comparisons and contrasts with our neighbours to the south. This in itself is problematic. After all, our basis of comparison is arguably the proudest, most confident nation in the world. It’s hard not to be cast as the little sibling who can never measure up.

So, the easiest thing may be to just forget about it, and let each individual focus on him- or herself—bring out the maple leaf on July 1, cheer for the Canadian Olympians every two years, and forget about it in between.

But, then, one periodically hears comments from people who only just seem to have noticed that Canada is a country of immigrants. Personally, I knew that when I was a child, but apparently some people are still catching on. They complain that [fill in the blank with whichever group they believe they can recognize] are taking over!

Maybe the Canadian education system failed these people, and they never learned that our country adopted multiculturalism as an official government policy in 1971. Or maybe they were always surrounded by people who looked like them and spoke English as a first language—or didn’t, but they never noticed because they didn’t talk to them, but they had familiar faces nevertheless—and now their neighbourhood is becoming more visibly diverse, so they are forced to be in close proximity to different people.

Canadians pride themselves on their politeness. Undeniably, politeness is essential for interacting with others. Politeness, however, is not always accompanied by kindness. And this is where some people get confused.

There was a Tim Horton’s ad in 2013 that I saw as total propaganda: “Canadians are so nice... But we don’t let anyone push us around!” And there were geese honking a chorus of sorries. That was the only part I liked. I find our geese rather endearing, even if their distinctive honk is being made to sound like “sorry.”

So, we say “sorry” a lot—really a lot—even when someone else bumps into us. Perhaps we’re polite, even excessively so. But are we nice?

Kindness involves being pleasant and compassionate toward others. I know what I think about how “nice” Canadians are in general, but instead of ranting about that, I’m going to end by stating that kindness is something we should all strive for within ourselves, rather than worrying about how others are behaving. I try to show empathy and compassion toward everyone, including those with whom I disagree or who have hurt me.

You can only fight negativity with positivity. Love and kindness are the tools that I have learned I must use to get through life.

So, are Canadians nice? Maybe. Maybe not. But this Canadian tries to be.

Canada's Money Troubles

The Harper Government (that’s what Dear Leader likes us to call it) promised a balanced budget, and look! Finance Minister Joe Oliver delivered… sort of. We’re supposed to overlook that the government is hardly spending on anything, and it borrowed from the contingency fund to deliver a meagre $1.4 billion surplus. That shouldn’t be hard; Canadians are highly skilled at not paying too much attention to politics, or anything happening in their country, except for maybe the grand opening of the next big box store.

Do I sound harsh? That’s because my people can be rather arrogant. They proudly wave the maple leaf flag and boast that this is the greatest country on earth while ignoring whatever isn’t spoon fed to them in a quick sound bite, and failing to turn up at the polls on Election Day. That’s why we’ve suffered under the Conservatives for NINE long years. Voter turnout in the last federal election, which gave the Conservatives a majority, was 61.1%. While this was an improvement as compared to the previous 58.8% turnout, the big picture is that Canadians have been voting in fewer numbers since the 1990s.

And if Stephen Harper’s terrorism fear mongering continues to achieve results, we could have yet another four years of him as our prime minister. Interestingly, that’s pretty much what the 2015–2016 budget is about: throwing a little money at defence to reassure the Conservative base that our government is serious about getting the bad guys at home, abroad, and on the Internet. The highlights are here.

Terrorism works as a great distraction; I’ll give the Conservatives credit for that. Meanwhile, reports are coming out stating that 42% of first-time home buyers are getting the money for the down payment from their parents! Am I the only one who is alarmed by this? Fortunately, these people’s parents have the money to give; what about the next generation? At this rate, they won’t have access to the “Bank of Mom and Dad” like their parents did.

Canada has a problem, whether Canadians want to acknowledge it or not. Should we be like Joe Oliver and “leave that to Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s granddaughter to solve”?

Talk to Your Kids

When I started writing again, I vowed not to get too personal in this blog. But there are times when there is a reason to open up a bit.

I haven’t written for a while. I could come up with numerous excuses, but the truth is that I’ve been censoring myself—something I promised myself I wouldn’t do. There is never a shortage of topics to grab among all the activity buzzing around my brain.

I’m a fairly open book, but there is something I’ve never discussed before. If my mother was still alive, she would be really upset to hear this, because it happened under her nose without her knowledge. When I was a kid, I really disliked myself. I didn’t really understand why, besides being affected by the constant bullying and the reinforcement that I was ugly and basically inadequate. That stuff stays with you, no matter how strong you are or how well-adjusted you become as an adult.

I used to cry and bang my head against the headboard of my bed and hope that I would knock myself out and not wake up. I remember, I started to get sloppy and would visibly bruise myself. I honestly don’t remember if my mom noticed, but if she enquired, I’m sure I had an excuse that she bought. Fortunately, this was the extent of my threshold for pain; otherwise, I might have inflicted harm on myself in other ways. I would also pray to die in my sleep, so I wouldn’t have to face another day. And then I would wake up in the morning and have to deal with all the same crap and the self-loathing.

We all struggle. Compared to a lot of other kids, I had it easy. But I’m sharing this because I worry that the world in which we’re living isn’t making communication easier. I was an introverted kid, who didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t have a very open line of communication with my elders, so I felt alone, which no one should feel.

It wasn’t until I reached my late 20s that I learned to really accept myself and recognize what I have to offer.

I think adults take a lot for granted. They forget what it was like to be a kid. More importantly, they forget that kids don’t rationalize and understand things the way they do, now, as adults, who have the benefits of experience and knowledge. No one asked me how I was doing, if there was anything I wanted to talk about. That probably would have made a difference to me. I wouldn’t have felt so alone. I wouldn’t have questioned whether anyone cared about me.

Please, spend time with your kids. Listen to them. Let them know that you want to hear what they think and feel.

International

Inhabiting two worlds is a little odd. Every time you leave one for the other, something in you switches off or gets left behind. You may have to speak another language and/or dialect, you may have to hold back where you would otherwise not think about your actions and words, you have to learn to readjust, and most importantly, you have to say goodbye.

I’ve been doing this for more than a decade. As exciting as it can be, and as grateful as I am for having this incredible, enriching life, I am constantly testing my limits and those of the people who care about me the most. Yet I keep reminding myself that what I gain far exceeds any loss that occurs in the process of leaving.

It is always strange, albeit familiar, to wake up in a different bed, in a different house, in a different country for the first time in a while. It can feel like something you’re observing, rather than something you’re experiencing first-hand. It’s like those 24 or more hours of travelling fade away and you’re left wondering what the hell happened, before seamlessly resuming your life in that place. Well, almost seamlessly; there is the unavoidable jet lag that messes with you and reminds you that you were indeed somewhere else yesterday.

I never really had any expectations about my life being easy or difficult. That must help me live like this. There have been times when I’ve envied others, but if this wasn’t my reality, where would I be? What would I be doing? Who would have taken up the position of my extended family? Would I be happy with myself? It’s best to deal with what one has, as opposed to wondering what might have been under different circumstances. There are things in life which we can control and others which we cannot. I have very little to complain about.

So, I won’t complain.

Unfix Your Labels

Imagine going on a blind date in the dark. You must navigate a blank space, and really listen to your date to get a sense of who he or she is. Imagine the depths that you could reach in your conversation without the interference of superficialities. Imagine having this freedom to open up and allow the other person to interact with the real you.

Could you do it, or would you ask questions, like in a job interview, coaxing your date to label him- or herself as x, y, or z?

We are supposed to choose a finite number of adjectives from an infinite list of possibilities to neatly and concisely define ourselves. Since I work with language for a living, I appreciate the ability to describe oneself using as few or as many words as possible. But why do we attach labels to ourselves? Is it to understand ourselves or to make ourselves understandable to others?

Understanding myself has relied largely on playing with labels and then abandoning them when I find them limiting. Further, allowing others to rely on labels to understand me has always led to misunderstanding. Rigid definitions tend to lure people into a false sense of comprehension without doing the work of probing.

For example…

I’m not particularly patriotic. I like Canada, and I’m happy to have been born in Canada. But do I think it’s “the greatest country in the world”? Well, no, because I don’t believe that such a place exists. We all fit in in different places. Those who feel comfortable in Canada should settle there; if they would rather be elsewhere, they should settle elsewhere. I have lived abroad, and I was happy. I think I can be happy in many different places.

I have no burning desire to alter my relationship status. I am financially independent, and I don’t need to conform to anyone else’s norm.

I eat whatever I feel like eating, whether the ingredients were removed from the ground, plucked from a bush or tree, or came from an animal. Sometimes, I go for long stretches of time where I eat a plant-based diet, and then I might crave a burger or some spicy chicken, so I have it.

I am left-of-centre, but I feel no allegiance to a particular political party. My membership to one of Canada’s main parties lapsed not long ago, and I have no desire to renew it, as I want the freedom to vote any way I please.

I believe that the universe is too amazing to just be an accident, but I embrace no organized religion.

Not so neat and tidy.

Yet non-compliance when asked to define oneself can make the inquisitor uncomfortable, in turn, causing discomfort for the subject. At various stages of my life, labelling myself has made me feel vulnerable or empowered. Today, I feel free—free of needing to define myself, free of worrying about what anyone thinks, free of pressure from others to do or be any particular thing.

It’s fanfreakingtastic!

I recognize how privileged I am to enjoy the freedom to be myself. I am under no pressure from family members or society to do any particular thing with my life.

This isn’t to suggest that I don’t use labels. If you read any prior posts, you will know that I have indeed referred to myself as various things. It’s unavoidable. But these are mere details.

I largely reject the idea that we should categorize ourselves. Perhaps this works for some people, but it has never felt right to me. I am—as we all are—so much more than boxes to tick.