New year, new country, new chapter

I started this year by making another one-way plane ticket decision. This time, I’ve moved to one of the most ubiquitous cities in the world: London, England.

Living in a city I’ve never been to, knowing only a handful of people, without a job lined up (yet) is pushing me way out of my comfort zone. While moving with a lot of uncertainty isn’t exactly new for me (see blog posts here and here), this is by far the most uncertain move I’ve ever made. That’s why I’m doing it.

—

When I was seventeen, I almost moved to Europe. After a few of my summer camp friends shared their life-changing semesters abroad, I wanted in on the experience. I printed off a stack of visa paperwork, begged my mother’s permission, and began putting the pieces together for my new life in Belgium. The Paris attacks happened. My mother promptly pulled the plug on my grand idea.

At twenty-one, I scrounged up enough scholarship money for a two-week trip. A friend from home was living in Wageningen and offered me a place on her couch. Her kindness allowed me to tour most of the Netherlands and a little of Spain; each city I visited was packed with centuries of culture and history that extended beyond anything I had ever experienced. Enamoured, I promised myself a longer visit the following summer.

Three friends and I made a group chat, designating me as the ‘yes man’, another as ‘the one who would get us thrown in jail’. For months, we swapped itineraries and the cheapest red-eye flights we could find. The day I was ready to solidify my plans, my mother called to inform me of a pandemic spreading throughout the continent. “You can’t go, Taylor,” she pleaded, “This is serious”. I started crying. Of course she would cancel Europe on me. Moments away from picking up a crush for a first date, I blinked hard, praying my date wouldn’t notice (he did) or ask about it (he did, but thankfully years later).

At twenty-three, I fell in love with a big city. After an incredible weekend spent in New York, I was convinced that my life would not be complete until I did a writing stint in a brownstone apartment. I figured it was a pipe dream; I had one friend there, the rent costs were out of reach, and New York didn’t fit my other life plans.

I continued on with my non-big city, non-Europe existence. With graduate school starting, I tucked both ideas into the far recesses of my mind - maybe one day, I dreamed, but not anytime soon.

—

Then, graduate school threw me a curveball.

On perfectionist paper, I had done everything right: gotten into a program with a 4% acceptance rate, maintained a 4.3 GPA, and secured a “once in a lifetime” research assistantship in Aotearoa.

My brilliance, however, was no match for the compounding traumas I came up against during my time abroad.

I was abandoned by those who had promised to support me, while isolated an ocean away from those who actually could. I was disparaged at my work, and forced into research that violated my values. Without access to mental healthcare or restitution, changing my circumstances was impossible; and because my scholarship funding and job were inextricably linked, I could not leave the country without facing severe financial and personal consequences.

By the time my body made it out of the country, my spirit had collapsed.

For months after returning home, the traumas I had experienced followed me everywhere. Because I hadn’t seen the unspeakable coming, my brain overcompensated with hypervigilance; any reminder of academia, Aotearoa or living abroad set off my internal alarm system.

In time and with therapy, I began healing. I exposed myself to academia and Aotearoa by chipping away at my thesis every day until it was finished. Never getting to do the type of research I dreamed of still pains me, but I wrote the best decolonial thesis I could under deeply colonial conditions.

However, all the thesis writing in the world could not change having my psyche damaged in another country. To prove to myself that the events of Aotearoa could not define me, I needed to be brave enough to embrace the uncertainty of living abroad again. This time, I would do it in circumstances of my choosing.

—

London came to me as an intuitive nudge. A sense that if I let it, this was the city that could provide a backdrop for my creative coming-of-age, and the literary community I needed behind my first book.

I made moving the light at the end of my graduate school tunnel; a promise to myself that soon, I would flip the page to a new chapter of my life. I bought the plane tickets before I could second-guess myself.

In the months between buying the tickets and putting them to use, I questioned everything about this decision: Was this the right call? Did I have to move this far? Could I be a writer and embrace uncertainty elsewhere?

I considered other places. My hometown felt stifling. Toronto lacked green space. New York, by nature of being American, entailed sacrifices (gun safety, healthcare) I wasn’t prepared for. Montréal and Vancouver spoke to me, but did so with reservation; I sensed that those chapters would come another time.

London kept calling. So although I was terrified to commit to this great big uncertain decision, I made a Google Doc titled “OPERATION BIG BEN” and started researching. I bookmarked neighbourhoods, job leads, and places I could make friends. The more I learned, the more my intuition proved me right.

I came to love London’s seemingly endless supply of things to see and do. There are 48 neighbourhoods here and 600 high streets to explore; people say you can live here for years without seeing it all, which is something I’ve never experienced but always wanted to. There’s a community for everything here; I have no doubt I’ll find my writing people, my running people, and my environmentalists too.

The other thing I came to love was that, unlike most big cities, London is surprisingly full of green space; 40% of the greater London area is composed of parks and nature, in part because of a green belt permanently encircling it. Since 2016, renewable energy and sustainable mass public transit, pillars of the city’s 2030 Net Zero Carbon plan, have helped to cut the city’s air pollution by half. Amidst a world so desperately in need of climate hope, London provides an inspiring example for cities around the world to learn from.

—

London is not a perfect city, and it certainly sits within an imperfect country; one need only look to the streets still named after slave exploitation to find evidence of colonialism. And while it may be one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world, it does not change the fact that the only place I will see my own culture reflected here is through stolen artefacts. For that reason, I already know that London is a temporary stay, not my forever home.

Instead, I’ll think of this era the way one of my friends described it in a voice memo sent to me during an airport layover: “I think of your life as a series of short stories. This is the beginning of a new story you’re about to enter. We don’t know how it’s written yet, or what the plot is, or how it’s going to play out. But I’m excited to hear every detail of it, whenever I see you again next.”

I’d never thought of it that way, but it’s true; many of my past stories culminated to bring me here. I dreamed up my big-city Europe plans at seventeen; eight years later, I’m finally making them happen. I yearned for a brownstone apartment two years ago; now, I live in one.

Last year was the hardest short story I’ve ever had to write; at times, my circumstances felt so bleak that I was not sure how I would make it to the next one. But I survived my thesis, and have turned the page on graduate school.

I’m writing a different story now; one filled with budding friendships, meaningful climate work, creative writing and continued healing. I do not know how long this story will last, or what its title will be, but I do not need to; this move has always been about braving uncertainty, and trusting that my intuition will catch me on the other side.

Cheers (as the Brits say) — to new beginnings in London, and the extraordinary stories of a life forming between this chapter’s pages.

The monarch and the matriarch

Aashkibagoog, the monarch butterfly.

They represent change and transformation, strength and endurance, hope and resilience.

Monarch butterflies have a north-south migration pattern; a multigenerational migration, which takes four generations to complete.

–

I am a collision of two opposite worlds: one upper-middle-class white Canadian, the other working-class Anishinaabe.

My mother grew up in a small municipality in rural Manitoba, went to university and met my father in towns hardly any larger, and raised me outside the city. Her siblings, and now my cousins, are strewn throughout cities and towns in Treaty 1, 2 and 5 territory. 

Nookomis (my mother’s mother) is the most beautiful woman I have not met. She was forty six years old when she passed. She should still be here. 

I miss her often, though I don’t often tell anyone that. Missing a person I have never touched is an ache that evades language. 

–

Nookomis grew up on the reserve of the First Nation now listed on my status card. 

Her grandmother, probably due to starvation and forced colonial imposition, signed Treaty 4 and relinquished our family’s ancestral lands to what would later become a white person’s playground, today called Riding Mountain National Park. 

Last summer, I visited Wasagaming, a townsite in my ancestral territory. Though I grew up a four-hour drive away, I intrinsically knew these were my homelands. By becoming a national park, these lands were kept intact - something my mother told me I should be grateful for - but the great presence of my people, interconnected with and interdependent on Mother Earth, was absent. Confronted with this reality, I crumbled and wept. 

The violence of my ancestors’ displacement extends beyond linear temporality. Four generations later, my body remembers.

Colonialism was designed, intended, to make us forget who we are and where we come from. If left unresisted, it can assimilate who we have been for thousands of years in the span of a lifetime. 

–

Aashkibagoog resist.

Monarch butterflies travel in swarms, and group together to rest. Many of these sites have become tourist destinations, spectacles of trees temporarily blanketed by black and orange. 

What tourists don’t know, though, is that the most remarkable part of a monarch’s journey happens far from shore.

Flying over Gichigami - Lake Superior - Aashkibagoog fly south, make an abrupt turn east, then continue south again. Considering they must travel over the lake in one unceasing flight, this extension of their journey seems bewildering.

Lake Superior was once a looming mountain over North America; one that tiny monarch butterflies could not climb nor fly above. They used what they had - their tiny solar compasses - and persisted east, making their way around the mountain.

Mountains, often seen as an ageless, concrete structure, have long crumbled into the earth. 

Still, the monarch’s flight pattern continues.

–

Aanikoobijigan (my great-grandmother) was a member of one of many proud Anishinaabe communities in Saskatchewan, though I don't know if she would have seen it like that; Canadian borders are a colonial construct that my people have never fit neatly within.

She went to residential day school in Kamsack, maybe. My family’s kinship has survived, but many of our stories have been muddled by colonisation.

What we can agree on is that whatever happened to her and her siblings, it was bad. No one abandons their language for that of their oppressor unless their tongue is forced. 

Three generations have now been separated from Anishinaabemowin; If we aren’t careful to do the work of revitalising our language, the missionaries and governments who sought to erase our very being will win.

But I am learning Anishinaabemowin, even if it is a stretch to call it speaking. I joined an online class last autumn and was delighted to see my aunties and cousins learning it too. 

Together, my family will bring our language back. My great-grandmother has long crossed over to the spirit world, but I bet she’s looking down on all of us, beaming at our breakthrough.

–

There is no migration journey compared to that of the Aashkibagoog.

They are tiny, with a four-inch wingspan, weighing less than a gram. Despite this, they are the only butterflies with a north-south migration pattern, travelling a path otherwise reserved for birds.

Neither the larvae, nor the pupae, nor the adults can survive cold winters; so every year, monarch butterflies make the four thousand kilometre trek from Canada to Mexico. 

Each butterfly lives a mere two to six weeks. No generation lives long enough to see the fruits of its own labour. Yet each one flies, mates, lays eggs, and ultimately dies, in the pursuit of a softer landing place for her children.

–

Nookomis would later marry a third-generation Ukrainian-Canadian. He was a gruff man who always kept a pack of cigarettes in his front shirt pocket.

My maternal grandparents met when she was fourteen and he was twenty-five. My mother thinks they met at a party, but considering Nookomis was in the eighth grade, we cannot be sure. 

Hearing about their age gap makes me squirmy, but in those days, what choice did she have? She was barred from attending high school under the Indian Act, and already pregnant with a baby she never consented to. 

He provided an escape from the poverty life had cruelly handed her. And so, they wed. 

–

My mother and her siblings were raised on a homestead near our reserve. Her father operated equipment, and sometimes Nookomis worked in the post office, but mostly, they lived off the land.

In the best of times, Treaty 2 brimmed with the foods my family needed for nourishment; deer, moose, elk, pickerel. During hard times, my family settled on jackfish or trapped muskrat. They picked wiingashk (sweetgrass), mashkode-washk (sage), and miskwaabiimizh (dogwood), the last remnants held onto from the medicine bundle of our ancestors. 

Though they were fortunate not to have been forced into the residential school system, the siblings endured systemic racism. In high school, my mother was barred from joining the other students on university tours. “You’ll never go to university”, her teachers snided, “you’ll always be a poor Indian.”

My mom, ever the scrapper, started teacher’s college later that year.

–

Aashkibagoog are adaptable, finding homes on every continent except Antarctica.

Across the world from Anishinaabe aki (territory), Aashkibagoog flutter through Māori territory, known by a different name. In te reo Māori (the Māori language), they are called kahuku. 

Two months ago, I made my own north-south migration journey to Aotearoa. I am spending six months here, alone, in the pursuit of mātauranga Māori (Indigenous Māori knowledge) and mātauranga taiao (Indigenous environmental knowledge) on how to better protect our precious planet.

My journey is worthwhile but lonely. In solitary moments, I look at my garden. There is always a kahuku present, nourishing itself on sweet floral nectar. It is a tender reminder that no matter where I am on this big blue earth, Nookomis and Aanikoobijigan will always find me.

–

My paternal grandmother's parents emigrated from Prussia in the 1920s. At the time, the Prussian government was stealing its people's land, sustenance and dignity. Knowing they had no future, my great-grandparents left for Canada in search of freedom to practise their religion, live a good life, and raise a family.

—

My paternal grandfather’s parents were German, though they emigrated from Poland. His father learned eight languages as a member of the Czar’s army.

But guarding the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg was not enough to shield the family from religious persecution. My grandfather’s parents fled Europe at the turn of the 20th century, under the promise of a free existence in Canada.

My paternal grandfather was born and raised a farm boy. He finished high school, and later an economics degree. At that time, white people could work their way up the corporate ladder; so he did, amassing wealth, land and a family along the way.

–

My father’s ancestors had to persevere in order to make it here, I cannot deny that. 

Yet, their history sits uneasily with me; no matter how perilous the migration journey of an immigrant, they are welcomed by Canada upon arrival. 

While those new here are granted the freedom to be who they wish to be, nestled under a cosy flannel blanket of multiculturalism, it always comes at a cost; the original multiculturalism of Turtle Island is at risk of forever being lost. 

This, of course, was by design.

–

My grandparents raised my father and his brother in a small town outside of Winnipeg. They were everything you would expect from a white Canadian nuclear family: my grandfather worked his corporate job in the city, my grandmother stayed home, and the boys spent their free time playing hockey. 

My father grew up with the privilege of being surrounded by everything he could have materially wanted: a big yard to play in, organised sports, and a fancy car to drive.

—

My parents met searching for friends they had lost at a house party in the nineties. They bonded over a mutual love of fishing and country music. Within three months, my father declared that my mother would bear his children. 

These days, my mother works a meaningful job, mortgages a nice home, and spends her evenings in the backyard, tending to her garden and feeding the nenookaasi (hummingbirds) who pay her a visit. 

In some ways, she has reached mino-bimaadiziwin, the good life. The resources she has are certainly better than what her mother, and her mother before her, had access to.

In exchange for these things, she had to make sacrifices no mother should have to. I love my mom, more than anyone, and I think she deserved better.

But I cannot make her want better. I can only take our journey further, and want better for myself.

–

In the settler mind - the mind of my father’s family - land is property and capital. But to my mother’s family, aki is everything. Anishinaabe aki provides us our sense of identity, our connection to the spirit world, our plant medicines, our interconnected relations with all living things.

My ancestors oppressed, and were oppressed. Caught in the middle of two opposite worlds, I am their collision. 

–

When I was younger, I used to walk through thick prairie fields, picking Wiingashk strands carefully so my mother and her coworkers could braid them. These natural beings, so much taller than I, held me with a scent as comforting as my mother’s touch. Sweetgrass, my medicine and my relative.

Through no fault of my own, I have inherited a responsibility to reweave the frayed ties of my family. It is a task fraught with thankless toil. Despite this, I feel fortunate; my walk may be long, but I can still make it home.

I cannot undo the legacy I come from. I can only act in the spirit of dabadendiziwin (humility), and do as Anishinaabekwe (Indigenous women) have done since time immemorial: providing, protecting, teaching, healing and leading our way towards mino-bimaadiziwin, the good life. The soft landing place.

In doing these things, I reconcile my family’s past, present and future.

It may not be perfect, but it is progress, and it is how I stay true to my Indigeneity.

–

Every four generations, there exists a ‘super generation’ of Aashkibagoog. These monarch butterflies are able to live much longer, and travel much further, than their preceding relatives. 

I come from a long line of strong women, who began and persevered through our multi-generational migration. 

I am the fourth generation. The super generation.

Guided by the ancestors who tenderly watch over me, I open my beautiful wings and fly.

References:

Justice, D. H. (2022). Narrated nationhood and imagined belonging: Fanciful family stories and kinship legacies of allotment. In Daniel Heath Justice, & Jean M. O’Brien (Eds.), Allotment stories (pp. 17). University of Minnesota Press. https://doi.org/10.5749/j.ctv2j56zf0.6

Kimmerer, R. W., & Ebooks Corporation. (2013). Braiding sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge and the teachings of plants (First ed.). Milkweed Editions.

25 things I know at 25

1. People are rooting for your success more than you know.

2. The person you wish you knew better feels the same way about you.

3. Feelings - even the big overwhelming ones - always pass.

4. Life is more fun when you go all out for the occasion.

5. The patriarchal gaze is overrated.

6. Great ideas flow through us all the time; it’s our responsibility to take note of them.

7. You make a unique contribution to the world when you dare to be creative.

8. Constant vigilance won’t protect you from getting hurt.

9. Love is a worthwhile risk.

10. Don’t ask “What are we?”. State what you want, and ask “Are you on board for that too?”.

11. Peace and passion can coexist.

12. An ‘us vs. the problem’ approach can get you through just about anything.

13. The only way to close the gap between your taste and your work is through steady effort.

14. If mediocre people can make it to the top of their industry, so can you.

15. Not every place will be your best environment to thrive; don’t stay somewhere you hate longer than you need to.

16. You can gain insight from an awful experience and still deserve better.

17. Healing is a spiral, not a straight line. Life brings us back to lessons to heal them even deeper.

18. It’s okay if the current chapter of your life isn’t figured out yet. The title will come later.

19. There is enough time for you to make both mistakes and masterpieces.

20. Something good is always on the way.

21. Reflecting on past mistakes is a sure sign you’ve grown.

22. When you live a life you love, you won’t look for ways to escape it.

23. The only person who can decide who you are is you.

24. Make what you stand for known.

25. When faced with a difficult choice, always choose to do the brave thing.

Living deliciously 101

This post is inspired by the season two finale of the podcast Exactly with Florence Given! Full credits to her and her audience for kicking off my own list of delicious ideas. I’ve paraphrased the ones she shared to the first list below:

1. Finding your signature scent. Bonus points if: you wear it to bed when only you can smell it.

2. Drinking a coffee slowly, quietly and intentionally as you hear birds chirping. Bonus points if: it’s at sunrise with a gorgeous view.

3. Drinking a glass of wine in the bath and watching your legs glisten in the water. Bonus points if: you bathe with essential oils.

4. Covering lampshades with coloured paper or fabric to change the aesthetic. Bonus points if: said material tints the light pink.

5. Leaving home every single day to take in fresh air and be inspired by your surroundings. Bonus points if: you allow your mind to wander without music.

6. Choosing to sit in the most aesthetically pleasing part of the room you’re in. Bonus points if: that part of the room matches your outfit.

7. Buying flowers when you pass a florist, and carrying them around with you for the rest of the day. Bonus points if: the shop is a locally owned one.

8. Making an intentional choice to walk in the sun. Bonus points if: you cross the street to do it.

9. Listening to the soundtrack of a movie that pairs perfectly with your scenery. Bonus points if: you’re traveling through the location where the film was made.

10. Plaiting your hair with velvet ribbons, placing stickers all over your journal, or buying the candy you enjoyed as a child; basically, anything that brings out your inner playfulness. Bonus points if: you share your childhood nostalgia with your mom.

11. Scrolling through Pinterest instead of social media. Bonus points if: you use it to envision exactly what you want all aspects of your life to look like.

12. Making an indulgent sandwich with like 9 ingredients, the kind you would normally only buy from a fancy cafe. Bonus points if: you use sourdough bread to make it.

13. Going to an art gallery or museum in a cute outfit and allowing yourself to go wherever the day takes you. Bonus points if: you end up somewhere better than expected.

14. Choosing a favourite seat in your local coffee shop. Bonus points if: you become a regular and befriend your barista.

15. Applying a power lip in public. Bonus points if: you use a compact mirror to do it.

16. Drinking hot drinks exclusively from tea cups and saucers. Bonus points if: you hand-curate your crockery collection.

17. Cooking yourself a romantic dinner with slow music and a glass of wine. Bonus points if: you garnish your plate.

18. Walking in the park with your lover and creating storylines for the other strangers around you. Bonus points if: the stories you create are outrageous.

19. Standing in a hot shower and pressing your tits against the glass like you’re in a steamy magazine shoot. Bonus points if: you’re showering by candlelight.

20. Trying ‘masturbation manifestation’. Bonus points if: you do it with a vision board in view.

21. Staring up at the full moon. Bonus points if: you’re cuddled up with a loved one, sitting on top of a roof.

22. Planning a slumber party with your girlfriends. Bonus points if: cozy pyjamas and classic romantic comedies are involved.

23. Sending your friends voice notes as though you’re hosting a mini-podcast. Bonus points if: you’re spilling piping hot tea.

After hearing Florence’s list, I challenged myself to dream up my own. I landed on 101 ways to live deliciously, and it was far easier to think of than I realised it would be! Writing this list reminded me just how lovely and romantic life is - I hope it does the same for you.

1. Sending love letters. Bonus points if: you kiss the envelope and leave a lipstick stain on it.

2. Cold plunges, followed by immediate warmth. Bonus points if: you’re cycling between the pool and the hot tub.

3. Colour coordinating your lipstick, nails and accessories. Bonus points if: your colour of choice is a bold one.

4. Skinny dipping at night. Bonus points if: you’re the first to do it in a group, and everyone else joins in.

5. Watching a movie in the park on a big projector. Bonus points if: you bring your own pillows and blankets.

6. Jumping on the bed. Bonus points if: you’re in a hotel room and there are two beds to jump on.

7. Buying the quintessential second-hand find that sets you apart from everyone else. Bonus points if: the item is priced lower than it is worth.

8. Marking a new chapter of your life with different hair. Bonus points if: it involves a major chop, bright colour, or bangs.

9. Listening to an album all the way through on vinyl. Bonus points if: there are slight differences between the record and streaming versions.

10. Finding a drive-out parking spot. Bonus points if: the spot is right beside the doors of where you need to be.

11. Perfecting a parallel park on the first try. Bonus points if: you do the sexy hand on the headrest, look behind you thing.

12. Buying produce at the farmer’s market. Bonus points if: you talk to the farmer and learn the story behind their labour of love.

13. Texting someone a secret message in a crowded room. Bonus points if: the text says, “Want to get out of here?”

14. Planning a themed party. Bonus points if: the music, decorations, costumes and games are all coordinated.

15. Refusing to wear a bra if you’re in a setting where you can get away with it. Bonus points if: you can go commando too.

16. Making delicious, vibrantly coloured smoothies. Bonus points if: you drink it in a tall glass with a straw.

17. Capturing friends with a film camera or Instax. Bonus points if: your photos make a mundane night look dreamy.

18. Wearing a matching activewear set to the gym. Bonus points if: you work out to hot girl music.

19. Putting your jewellery on display in a cute ceramic dish. Bonus points if: you sculpt the dish yourself.

20. Applying a peel-off face mask. Bonus points if: you apply mini under-eye masks too.

21. Reading a book in a library or bookstore. Bonus points if: you can finish the book in one sitting.

22. Listening to emotional music on a nighttime bus ride home. Bonus points if: you’re alone and able to have a cathartic cry.

23. Hanging a beautiful decoration that reflects sunlight into your room. Bonus points if: said decoration is a disco ball.

24. Having one ridiculous, yet iconic pair of shoes. Bonus points if: they’re cowboy boots or mega-platform heels.

25. Pairing your flowers with a cute vase. Bonus points if: the vase is strangely shaped and colourful.

26. Curating a gallery wall in your home. Bonus points if: your art pieces are from places you’ve traveled.

27. Picking fresh berries. Bonus points if: you find them growing wild.

28. Choosing a favourite small animal or bug to notice whenever you’re outside. Bonus points if: you start seeing them regularly.

29. Changing your ringtones and alarms to enjoyable sounds. Bonus points if: the sound sets you apart from everyone else.

30. Finishing your shower as a song ends. Bonus points if: you perform a solo concert in the shower.

31. Naming your tattoos like they’re art pieces. Bonus points if: each name has a story behind it.

32. Affectionately naming your car or bicycle. Bonus points if: you name it something whimsical.

33. Making up catchphrases. Bonus points if: your friends start unintentionally adopting them too.

34. Taking photos in the vintage photo booth. Bonus points if: you can still find one in the mall.

35. Organizing your books and/or clothes by colour. Bonus points if: you have an item in every colour of the rainbow.

36. Journaling daily from a scenic spot. Bonus points if: your writing is a secret you keep to yourself.

37. Taking part in small-scale expressions of creativity, like poetry slams or stand-up comedy. Bonus points if: you try being an act in a show.

38. Joining workshops and classes to dedicate time to your hobbies. Bonus points if: you make new friends there.

39. Splitting a milkshake with two straws. Bonus points if: you drink it in an old-school diner.

40. Exfoliating your whole body with a homemade scrub. Bonus points if: you apply lotion to your whole body too.

41. Shaving your whole body to smoothness. Bonus points if: you crawl into fresh sheets immediately after.

42. Serving non-wine drinks (kombucha, cocktails, etc.) in a wine glass. Bonus points if: your alternative looks like wine.

43. Wearing a huge, long, fluffy scarf. Bonus points if: you wrap it around your head, babushka style.

44. Meeting your friends for picnics in the park. Bonus points if: you serve sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

45. Finding a signature wine or two to serve at home. Bonus points if: you cooly ask your guests, “Red or white?”

46. Batting your eyelashes slowly and softly to feel romantic. Bonus points if: you look up all doe-eyed at someone you love while doing it.

47. Sticking your tongue out at babies. Bonus points if: you can make them laugh.

48. Dancing when you get the teeniest bit excited about something. Bonus points if: you do it without noticing.

49. Writing a haiku. Bonus points if: you gift it to your lover.

50. Agreeing to be ‘vent partners’ with someone at work. Bonus points if: you gain a friend in the process.

51. Tying little notes to helium balloons. Bonus points if: you surprise someone with them for their birthday.

52. Reading at the beach. Bonus points if: you read a juicy summer novel on a hot summer day.

53. Letting someone else remove your shoes after a long night out. Bonus points if: they take some effort to get off.

54. Writing on planes. Bonus points if: you use your airplane mode time to dream about the future.

55. Feeling the soft touch of satin or silk against your skin. Bonus points if: you have a favourite silky dress.

56. Serving, or being served, breakfast in bed. Bonus points if: a cute serving tray is involved.

57. Admiring swans, ducks or koi fish in ponds. Bonus points if: you stop to really observe their behaviour.

58. Watching dogs get the zoomies at the dog park. Bonus points if: one runs up to you and lets you scratch their belly.

59. Sitting lakeside, sunning yourself on a dock. Bonus points if: you cannonball off the dock for a swim.

60. Riding a bike. Bonus points if: it has a basket in the front.

61. Watching the sun glisten over water. Bonus points if: it’s golden hour.

62. Wearing elbow-length gloves. Bonus points if: it’s for a fancy event you have no business being at.

63. Dancing on tables. Bonus points if: you can get away with it at the bar.

64. Painting BIG canvases. Bonus points if: you host a paint night with friends, and share a canvas together.

65. Standing on top of a mountain and staring out at the view. Bonus points if: you climbed it.

66. Warming towels and robes in the dryer. Bonus points if: your lover hands them to you as you finish your shower.

67. Making out in an elevator. Bonus points if: you pretend it never happened when other people get on.

68. Taking yourself out to dinner. Bonus points if: you say “table for one” with intent to your host.

69. Roasting marshmallows. Bonus points if: they come out perfectly golden.

70. Enjoying someone else’s boat or pool for a day. Bonus points if: you have regular access to it.

71. Having a go-to “airport uniform” that you don’t have to remove at security. Bonus points if: it’s comfortable loungewear.

72. Scented sunscreen. Bonus points if: the smell brings back memories of a certain vacation.

73. Vacation flings. Bonus points if: you return home with an incredible story and never speak to them again.

74. Wearing an everyday tote bag. Bonus points if: the bag is a conversation starter.

75. Locket necklaces. Bonus points if: you and your sweetie keep photos of each other inside.

76. Finding a food item you thought you could only get abroad at home. Bonus points if: you find the item in an international grocery store.

77. Buying a magazine subscription and allowing yourself to indulge in reading it each month. Bonus points if: the magazine is trashy.

78. Infusing your water with cucumber or lemon. Bonus points if: you keep a big jug to refill from throughout the day.

79. Curating a killer charcuterie board. Bonus points if: there are 3+ types of cheese and a salami rose on it.

80. Doing yoga to wind down before bed. Bonus points if: your practice increases your flexibility.

81. Regularly listening to a podcast. Bonus points if: the podcaster knows of your love for them.

82. Writing down inspiration as it strikes. Bonus points if: your good idea comes in handy later.

83. Walking around your house naked. Bonus points if: you do it without sexual intent.

84. Dangling an air freshener from your car’s rearview mirror. Bonus points if: it smells yummy.

85. Burning candles or incense in your home. Bonus points if: you pick up compliments on your signature scent.

86. Leaving the party on your terms. Bonus points if: you make it an Irish goodbye.

87. Saying no to a substance everyone else is taking. Bonus points if: you use "no” as your complete sentence.

88. Fresh squeezed juice. Bonus points if: you squeeze it yourself.

89. Assigning a storyline to a mundane task you’re doing to make it more interesting. Bonus points if: said storyline motivates you to complete the task.

90. Committing to your boundaries. Bonus points if: doing so clears a toxic person from your life.

91. Learning the ins and outs of your own pleasure. Bonus points if: you advocate for your needs and have them met.

92. Hosting dinner parties. Bonus points if: themed decor is involved.

93. Crowd surfing. Bonus points if: it’s at a music festival.

94. Taking photos of your neighbourhood flowers. Bonus points if: you send them to your mom and tell her they remind you of her.

95. Collage making. Bonus points if: the collage becomes your vision board for the month.

96. Allowing yourself to be a beginner at something. Bonus points if: the activity brings out your inner kid.

97. Curating a perfect Spotify playlist for the moment. Bonus points if: you’re complimented on your music taste when you play it.

98. Buying someone else’s coffee. Bonus points if you say “my treat”.

99. Laughing at the “kiss cam” at sports games. Bonus points if: you kiss the person next to you.

100. Blowing out candles on non-birthday occasions. Bonus points if: you use them to set your intentions for the season.

101. Fervently believing you have ‘lucky girl syndrome’. Bonus points if: it starts coming true.

Decolonizing the sexual and reproductive health rights movement

On February 25th, I was invited to speak at an Oxfam Canada event titled “Decolonizing the Sexual and Reproductive Health Rights Movement”. As a panellist, I shared the ways the SRHR movement has reproduced colonial narratives and structures, its effects on Indigenous women, girls and 2SLGBTQQIA+ individuals, and the actions we can collectively take to repatriate pre-colonization Indigenous understandings of gender and sexuality.

Q: Is there a ‘trap’ that Sexual and Reproductive Health rights movements and initiatives have fallen into in reproducing colonial narratives and structures? 

A: Absolutely. Colonization violently repressed our cultural understandings of gender and sexuality; as a result, those of us in the Sexual and Reproductive Health rights movement remain under pressure to speak about these rights in line with puritanical, sex-negative values, or on scientific, biological terms. 

These two views are pervasive, and yet neither adequately speaks to the very normal, common, human experiences of gender and sexuality. I’ll give you a few examples:

• Diverse genders and sexualities have existed since long before colonization; for example, my nation, the Anishinaabe nation, has words such as agokwa (man-woman) and okitcitakwe (warrior woman) to describe gender. When Europeans colonized Indigenous peoples, they enforced binary gender roles through tactics such as forcing gendered hairstyles and uniforms within the residential school system. Though the last residential school closed 26 years ago, the same gender binary continues to dominate.

• When we frame Sexual and Reproductive Health rights solely in a biological, scientific way, we fail to resonate with people meaningfully. There’s a stark difference between the names for anatomy we’re taught in the classroom versus the slang terms many of us use in everyday life; this imposed pressure on us in the Sexual and Reproductive Health rights movement to use scientific terminology to avoid pushing buttons results in our failure to equip sexual beings with the knowledge they need to be safe and protected from harm.

• Puritanical views of sexuality frame sexual and reproductive health  in sex-negative terms - for example, “Don’t have sex until marriage!” “Don’t get pregnant!” “Don’t catch a Sexually Transmitted and/or Blood Borne Infection!”. This imparts shame on all of us, ignoring the reality that people engage in sexual activity for pleasure, not procreation, the vast majority of the time. This approach also does not equip us with the knowledge of what to do if we do get pregnant, or how to manage living with an STBBI. 

• Sex-negative messaging imposes a burden (overwhelmingly on women and non-binary people) that it is one’s personal responsibility to ensure sexual violence does not happen to them. Assuming that dressing modestly, not going out at night, etc. will prevent sexual violence is a lie that ingrains rape culture. It blames survivors for living their lives, rather than examining why perpetrators choose to violate, or looking at the wider systemic issues that contribute to that choice.

Q: What are the impacts of this ‘trap’ on Sexual and Reproductive Health rights and access for Indigenous, Black, and People of the Global Majority?

A: The result of these two views (puritanical, sex-negative values, and scientific, biological terms) being the dominant norm is an erasure of diverse understandings of gender and sexuality held by Indigenous, Black, and People of the Global Majority. As the current Sexual and Reproductive Health rights movement stands, many of us remain largely unable to define ourselves and be understood on our own terms.

As Indigenous people, we are too often reduced to racial stereotypes; Indigenous women are deemed hypersexualized princesses (think Pocahantas), while Indigenous men are branded as savage warriors (think Jacob Black in Twilight). Media portrayals of Indigenous peoples continue to “fuel the myths of conquest and glory”. The fallacy of Indigenous peoples having “already lost” to conquest denies us our rights to exercise our own bodily autonomy. 

This myth, combined with trauma (historical, multigenerational and intergenerational), social and economic marginalization, and a lack of institutional will, maintains colonial violence. As a result, Indigenous women, girls, and two-spirit individuals experience violent victimization at a rate 2.7 times higher than non-Indigenous women, and sexual violence at a rate 3 times higher. 

Indigenous women are also at particular risk of being murdered by serial killers on the basis of our identity, and violated by transient workers in resource extraction “man camps” on our traditional territories. Furthermore, our access to justice is decreased because of racism, sexism, dismissal and victim-blaming that permeates the justice system. When these cases end up in the media, the coverage they get is often abysmal. 

To this day, there persists particular expectations on what a survivor is supposed to look and act like; for example, being thin, white, straight, and conventionally pretty, as well as having been violated by a stranger, fought back against our attackers, and immediately reported our cases to police. Those of us with marginalized identities or life experiences outside of puritanical expectations will continue to be failed by Sexual and Reproductive Health rights movements and initiatives as it stands because the justice system is incapable of bringing us the justice we deserve.

In short: we cannot build an effective Sexual and Reproductive Health rights movement until we are ready to:

1. Reckon with white supremacy, colonization and extractive capitalism; and

2. Move away from puritanical, sex-negative values and an overreliance on scientific, biological terms in favour of a model rooted in a culture of consent, gender-equitable relationships, and proactive sexual health.

Q: What does it mean to incorporate decolonial lenses and practices into Sexual and Reproductive Health rights-related work? 

A: When I think about what constitutes decolonization, I want to ensure we are being specific. In their fantastic article, “Decolonization is not a metaphor”, Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang drew attention to how quick those of us in social justice spaces are to adopt calls for decolonization in our workplaces, schools, and organizations. Decolonization, in their opinion, is not just the decentering of settler perspectives; rather, it “brings about the repatriation of Indigenous land and life”. 

With that in mind, I want to speak to the repatriation of pre-colonization Indigenous understandings of gender and sexuality, as I think it should be an integral objective of incorporating decolonial lenses and practices to Sexual and Reproductive Health rights-related work. 

Before colonization, Indigenous peoples did not see sexuality as shameful; rather, they saw it as a sacred ceremony and a gift from the Creator. Each nation has different stories and teachings about sexual health, which were passed onto children in the community openly; these included discussions about their bodies, coming-of-age ceremonies, moontimes, and sexual and reproductive passages. Sexual violence was not an element of Indigenous cultures, even when women were taken by enemy tribes during times of war. Rather, colonization, and the residential school system in particular, led to the violence we see against Indigenous women, girls and 2SLGBTQQIA+ individuals today.

Taylor and Ristock note that one of the most devastating results of the residential school experience was “the denigration of women and Two-spirit people in [Indigenous] communities” (306). Residential schools “did not make room for women to have roles equal to those of men”, erased a proud history of Two-Spirit people, and instilled homophobia and transphobia within society that persists today. 

As a result: 

• 78% to 85% of Indigenous Two-Spirit individuals have experienced gender-based violence;

• Sexual violence is 3x higher for Indigenous women than non-Indigenous women;

• 85 percent of queer Indigenous women have been sexually assaulted; 

• 78 percent of queer Indigenous women have been physically assaulted; and 

• The rates of violence we experience are higher than any other racial/ethnic group in North America, even when all other differentiating factors are accounted for.

Knowing these statistics, and being a survivor myself, makes it abundantly clear that we cannot end gender-based and sexual violence against our people until we end, and heal from, colonization. I agree with The Final Report of the National Inquiry Into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls which states, “An absolute paradigm shift is required to dismantle colonialism within Canadian society and from all levels of government and public institutions. Ideologies and instruments of colonialism, racism, and misogyny, past and present, must be rejected”.

In my opinion, decolonizing Sexual and Reproductive Health rights in an Indigenous context can look like:

• Denouncing all forms of violence against Indigenous women, girls, and 2SLGBTQQIA+ individuals;

• Recognizing and honouring Indigenous women’s vital roles - as “teachers, leaders, healers, providers, protectors”, and more; 

• Revitalizing Indigenous nations’ gender and sexuality terms, in our own languages, to revere the sacred contributions of Two-Spirit and LGBTQQIA+ individuals;

• Treating our cultures as the “fundamental right, basic need and top priority to reduce risks of violence” that they are, and ensuring every Indigenous person has access to them;

• Restoring Indigenous legal orders and principles of justice, (these include the ways we keep each other safe, care for one another, ensure our rights are upheld and uphold our responsibilities);

• Funding Indigenous-led health and wellness practices, including ceremonial and health-based medicines, matriarchal teachings on midwifery, elder care, and others; 

• Creating culturally relevant and trauma-informed violence response services by and for Indigenous peoples; 

• Teaching comprehensive sexual education, including healthy sexuality, cultural competency, youth empowerment, reproductive justice, 2SLGBTQQIA+ identity, and sex positivity; and

• Ending extractive industries and environmental violence, and advocating for land back.

I also recommend reading the 231 Calls to Justice listed in the Final Report of the National Inquiry Into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls, and asking yourself which ones you can take action on. 

Q: How would you recommend aspiring youth leaders to meaningfully contribute to decolonizing Sexual and Reproductive Health rights?

A: When I began doing this work as a survivor in 2018, I felt completely alone and isolated in my experience. Knowing that there are aspiring youth leaders today who want to meaningfully contribute to the Sexual and Reproductive Health rights movement thrills me. 

From an older youth to younger youth, here are my recommendations as you take on work in this space: 

1. Treat your lived experience as the valuable knowledge it is. 

   As youth, we often aren’t listened to by older adults, because they assume we can’t possibly have the knowledge or experience needed to be a subject matter expert. But if you have had an experience with Sexual and Reproductive Health - such as surviving sexual violence, or being unable to access contraceptive or reproductive services - then you probably understand how systems and institutions fail better than most people.

   2. Get involved in settings where you can speak truth to power and be taken seriously.

   Back in 2018, I became a representative on my university’s Board of Governors. Being in that position, where I had equal voting power to the President of my university and other senior administrators, which allowed me the unique opportunity to raise concerns about and influence change in my university’s sexual violence policy.

   3. You can’t build a movement alone.

   Connecting with other social justice organisations around you can allow you to gain a deeper understanding of how issues such as white supremacy, colonization and patriarchy intersect. It can also help you spread campaigns, raise funds, and find communities to lean on.

   4. Don’t underestimate the value of intervening with your peers.

   One of the reasons why our Sexual and Reproductive Health rights continue to be violated is because few people are willing to intervene with the perpetrators in their lives. The majority (73%) of sexual violence is perpetrated by someone the victim knows; this includes our partners, families, friends, acquaintances, colleagues and neighbours. Most perpetrators engage in multiple forms of sexual violence (‘rape jokes’, cat-calling, sending unsolicited nudes, etc), so it is crucial that we intervene (as long as it’s safe to) when we witness warning signs.

   5. Keep your activism sustainable.

   If you want to sustain your action in the Sexual and Reproductive Health rights movement, you have to prioritize your own healing and well-being. If you don’t, you run the risk of burning out and stepping away from the work altogether. It is crucial that you be honest with yourself about your own limits, and commit to staying within them.

Writing prompts to encourage creative confidence

On February 3rd, 2023, I facilitated a workshop called “Giiweyendam (‘they think of returning home’) to the Artist Within” as part of a Canadian Centre for Sexual and Gender Diversity (CCSGD) event called Queering ARTivism. The program, intended to teach 2SQTBIPOC youth aged 16-29 across Turtle Island about “the power of art as a form of activism and 2SLGBTQ+ history and storytelling” was a huge honour to be invited to. Younger, closeted Tay never would have expected to have an opportunity like this.

Leading up to the program, I felt major imposters syndrome; thankfully not about my identity, but rather, about my qualifications to lead a workshop. I have been comfortable with public speaking for as long as I can remember. I had shared my writing publicly for five years. But up until that point, I had never led anything more elaborate than a meeting. How was I supposed to lead a group of youth to make art, especially considering some of them would be older than me?

After a lot of perfectionist procrastinating, I sat in my neighbourhood coffee shop and vowed to myself not to leave until I had a fleshed-out idea. Hours later, I landed on my workshop’s core tenet: I wanted my participants to leave feeling comfortable seeing themselves as artists.

I knew from years of experience that believing in one’s artistic potential was a difficult task without experience, a fully developed personal style, or capitalist accomplishments. Which is absurd, because creativity is meant to be unbridled! As children, we embraced our creativity, and let our imaginations flourish. But somewhere along the way, we traded in these things for logic and pragmatism.

I was determined to shift my participants toward an understanding that they still housed creative gifts, even if those gifts felt buried deep within. We just needed to find ways, together, to uncover them. To return home to them.

I thought intently about the exercises I had done that instilled my own belief that I have always been a writer. I pieced bits of them together until I had seven writing prompts. Twenty slides and eight pages of script later, I had created an hour of creative confidence-building content.

My workshop garnered rave reviews. Now, I gift these prompts to you.

Grab a pen and paper (or your notes app), and get to it.

PROMPT ONE: Naming it

Set a one-minute timer, and write your answer to the following question:

What form of self-expression brings me the most joy?

PROMPT TWO: Owning it

Set a thirty-second timer, and write down the following sentence:

I am a [insert form of self-expression listed in prompt one].

PROMPT THREE: Valuing it

Set a one-minute timer, and write your answer to the following question:

What is a cause that I am passionate about?

PROMPT FOUR: Refining it

Set a five-minute timer, review these roles conceptualised by Deepa Iyer (find them on page six),

and write your answer to the following question:

Which of these movement roles do I see myself in?

PROMPT FIVE: Visioning it

Set a four-minute timer, and write your answer to the following question:

What is one creative thing I can do that ties my cause and my role within it together?

An example to help: If I were to do this exercise, I might say that I value building a violence-free world. I’ll narrow my aims a bit, and say that my role within that cause is to be a storyteller and visionary. And since I’m a writer, I might choose to write a poem envisioning what a world without violence would look like. 

PROMPT SIX: Coming home to it

Write down the words past, present and future. Space them apart so you can write a sentence beside each.

PAST: Write one example of you being creative when you were younger.

PRESENT: Write one example of how you are creative now.

FUTURE: Write one example of something creative you can imagine yourself doing in the future.

Set a five-minute timer to come up with the three examples.

PROMPT SEVEN: Finding kinship within it

Set a one-minute timer, and write your answer to the following question:

Who is my creative community?

Note: It does not have to be only fellow creatives in your life; your list can also include anyone who might be able to support you as you grow your creative gifts.

TLDR; A quick pep talk:

• You are a creative being.

• Your art and your activism are connected.

• You play an integral role in your community.

• Your creativity has always existed, and will always exist, within you.

• You don’t have to create alone.

How to: make love go the distance

I’ll start with this: Younger me was supremely underqualified to give relationship advice.

Being in my early twenties meant I was in the prime age bracket for emotional unavailability, ghosting and other fuckery. My early adult life made me an expert on unrequited love; after three failed, bruising situationships, I was convinced that my standards needed to be on the floor in order to be met.

Then, I met Keean. Keean is the picture definition of a cisgender straight man if it were written by the female gaze. He’s a devoted feminist, emotionally intelligent, undeniably charming, and (in my humble opinion) strikingly handsome. We admired each other throughout our undergraduate degrees from afar, only working up the nerve to talk when we each wanted to attend the other’s senior gala. We exchanged tickets, matched dresses to ties, and coyly flirted before what would be our big finale. Then Covid arrived, cockblocking our not-so-innocuous intentions.

To my surprise, Keean kept in touch with me, even after I moved back in with my parents and later, across the country from him. He describes this phase simply: “Talking to you always made me happy, regardless of where things were going”. While I was stumbling through my first steps in a new city, I had a long-distance crush who was steadfast and sure about me.

We called, FaceTimed and texted for over a year. We agreed that our feelings “weren’t going to end in a relationship”, swore off flirting with one another, stopped talking, and started talking again three weeks later. We were unable to help ourselves. Yet when friends insisted I liked him, I shrugged it off.

“So what?” I would retort.

“I’m not moving to Ottawa, and I am definitely not doing long-distance.”

I called him one night after getting back from a solo road trip; the details were too juicy to send over text, I rationalized. After catching him up on my recent adventure, we toyed with the idea of finally visiting each other in person. The way I saw it, this was a guaranteed two weeks of getting laid, and after unsuccessfully floundering through the Vancouver dating scene, I deserved a sexcation.

I sent him a screenshot of my booked tickets, telling myself that this would in fact be our big finale. In hindsight, my obliviousness is laughable. What we really needed was a push in the direction of a relationship. Once we realized we’d already built a solid foundation of friendship and communication, being in a long-distance relationship became easy. We started dating three weeks later, and have been falling for each other since. 

Keean and I started dating with no plans to move to each other’s respective cities; since then, Keean almost moved to Vancouver, I almost moved to Ottawa, we both changed our career and education trajectories and now I’m a 21.5-hour flight away from him. Neither of us would have expected this much change in our lives when we started dating, but love got us here anyway.

The vast majority of people we’ve told about our dynamic have responded, “I could never do long-distance”. I get where they’re coming from. Not knowing when you’ll see your person again is scary enough to make you disengage from the idea entirely. Still, I’m not convinced that long-distance is a futile endeavour. Call me naive, but I believe that if you have a healthy dynamic, care for one another, make each other happy, and communicate well, the other details can work themselves out in due time.

Of course, I know that’s a simplified justification, which is why I created a guide below on how to make love go the distance. These are the insights I’ve gathered based on my own lived experience, so take from it what resonates with you.

HOW TO MAKE LOVE GO THE DISTANCE:

1. If you are going to go the distance, do it with someone whose life vision, values and interests align with yours. Otherwise, what’s the point?

2. Long distance is a means to an end. You and your partner should be firmly interested, in moving to the same place at some point.

3. Strong communication is key to growing closer and easing relationship anxieties. The right amount of communication is going to look different for everyone, but daily or near-daily quality time goes a long way in making your partner feel closer than they may be geographically.

4. If something is bothering you, address it as soon as possible. Working through small problems together builds trust and makes good practice for working through larger issues.

5. The initial post-visit withdrawal is the time when being apart aches the most. But, you can get through it, by letting yourself feel, caring for yourself the way your partner would, and settling back into familiar routines. 

6. Try to always have your next visit (or two) planned. Countdowns give long-distance relationships a sense of security and something to be excited about. 

7. When it comes to visits, go back and forth, or meet in the middle; otherwise, effort will start to feel uneven, which is cause for resentment.

8. Romance is easy to keep alive, so long as you’re willing to invest thought into it. Send them love letters. Pay for their coffee. Curate a playlist for them. The possibilities are endless.

9. Long-distance and sex can be an awkward pairing, but it doesn’t have to be if you reframe it as an extended form of foreplay. Start a list of things you want to do to each other, have FaceTime sex, use partner-controlled sex toys. It may unlock ideas you otherwise would never have considered.

10. Deep breathing together and an ‘us vs. the problem’ approach can get you through just about anything, so long as you bring your problem-solving brain and unconditionally loving heart to the issue at hand.

11. Reuniting does not have to play out like a scene from the movies. It can feel nerve-wracking and unfamiliar and awkward. It’s okay. You’ll pick back up where you left off sooner than you think.

12. Assuming the worst of someone causes us to get defensive, antagonize them, and react out of anger; three things that can prolong and worsen fights. If you aren’t certain of your partner’s intentions, ask what they are.

13. During fights or big changes, get a trusted outsider’s perspective. Therapy, alone or coupled, is nothing to feel ashamed of. It can help you see situations clearly, prepare you for daunting adjustments, and above all, it’s an act of demonstrated dedication to your partner.

14. Long-distance does not mean you have to stop going on dates; it just means you have to get creative with planning them. Some ideas to get you started: share a Netflix series, cook the same dinner recipe together, or run a two-person book club.

15. Ethical non-monogamy and/or polyamory are options that can be explored during periods of distance; however, they are options that require open and honest communication, clear boundaries, and increased tolerance for jealousy. Reading books about it together, posing hypothetical scenarios to one another, and leaving room for change in your negotiations can make these structures more approachable.

16. Long-distance can leave some rules up for interpretation, since you may not always be able to ask your partner questions immediately. Are there unique boundaries that need to be set? New definitions of cheating? Hone in on those, and have clear definitions of the parameters to stick to within your relationship.

17. In the span of a lifetime, one/two/a few years apart is not that long. Reminding yourself of this fact, and of the future milestones you have to look forward to, can carry you through lonely periods.

18. Stop obsessing over whether your relationship is “worth it” or whether your partner is “the one”; they might be, or they might be a learning experience that forms part of your journey. Instead, ask yourself “Am I happy to choose this person today?” and if the answer is yes, carry on.

19. Long distance, like any relationship, is a two-way street. You deserve to receive back all the effort you’re putting in.

20. You are not “needy”. Everyone has things they need in a relationship. Either your partner will be able to meet your needs, or they won’t. If they cannot or will not, you always have the power to decide whether it’s a deal breaker.

Long distance may not be the path of least resistance, but it is worth it for the right person. As a formerly emotionally unavailable early twenty-something now in love, I would know.

Vancouver, I’ll miss you.

I came to Vancouver running.

It was June 2020. Amidst the pandemic, I had moved back into my parents’ basement and become tangled in a cycle of ruminating over past mistakes and fretting about the future. Being isolated gave me plenty of time to do both.

I was early in the process of figuring out how to define myself, on my own terms. I spent years in the public eye of the small pond I inhabited; having branded myself as my alma mater’s “girl boss” student politician, I had wrapped my own worth up in my ability to garner votes and change on campus. 

Three months into “unprecedented times”, I could feel myself slipping away from that persona. I now know that metamorphosis was the foundation that built who I am today. At the time though, it felt as though the stability I had known for years was giving out beneath me.

At the time, I knew a few of my core values that remain true: I cared deeply for Black and Indigenous lives, I hated police brutality, and despite my best efforts at denying it, I was bisexual. These values would go on to define my writing, public speaking and activism. They still do.

But living back in the predominantly white, straight, small town that raised me, I wasn’t always safe to express them. Time and time again, I found myself striving to overturn opinions on tenets of humanity that shouldn’t be a fight. As someone with light-skinned privilege, this was my responsibility to bear; and at the same time, I yearned to be surrounded by peers whom I didn’t need to justify myself to.

In came a FaceTime with two friends from university, both of whom were faring through COVID-19 better than I. “Come visit us here!” they insisted. I was wrapping up a couple of university classes online, so I figured a week or two-long visit couldn’t hurt.

Olive branch extended towards me, I came running to Vancouver.

—

A professor of mine once told me, “We survive this world because of acts of kindness”. 

Nothing could be truer of my time in Vancouver; I survived my first summer in, and my eventual move to the city, because of the unearned kindness I was given by my friends.

My friends allowed me to sleep on their couches until I could get my bearings. They took me camping and hiking to show me what “beautiful British Columbia” really meant. They showed me all the hidden gems I would need to know around the city. They celebrated my move into my first apartment with flowers. They showed up in droves when I held my own celebrations. Most importantly, they adopted me into their worlds, and loved me deeply as I learned to love myself.

Living through lockdowns in a new city also taught me to get comfortable with my own company, and become my own friend first and foremost. With every restaurant, coffee shop and thrift store I took myself to, I proved to myself that being alone does not mean you have to be lonely. As I raised the standards for how I treated myself, it became easier to ask those around me to meet those same needs.

The time and distance between myself and my dear friends is about to grow, and I feel as though a part of my being is missing. How lucky I am, to have experienced that kind of love.

How lucky I am, to carry my own companionship with me wherever I go.

—

I came out publicly the night before I moved to Vancouver for good; though if you’ve read The “Feeling”, you’ll know that I knew for a decade before that. I struggled to embrace my bisexuality for so long because I was held back by compulsive heterosexuality, as well as internalized and external biphobia. Being in a new city where hardly anyone knew me felt like a perfect opportunity to let my queerness bloom. 

However, there was one problem with my plan: I already had a candidate for a partner, who happened to be a cisgender straight man. A small, queer part of me felt disappointed that I would never have a girlfriend, especially after waiting so long to admit to wanting one. The rest of me, however, felt lucky to have an expansive sexuality that could encompass all genders. My wonderful Keean had all the long-awaited characteristics that I was looking for in a partner of any gender; I chose him and promised myself that I would not let him crowd out the wildflower sexuality I had only just begun nurturing.

What I didn’t anticipate was Keean’s support beyond my wildest queer dreams. Of course, this is something I could have expected, considering he was one of the first people I called for support after coming out. I knew he wouldn’t have a problem with my identity, but I wasn’t sure if, or how, he would include it as part of our relationship. Over the past two years, he has taken me to drag shows, bought me queer-signalling accessories, and encouraged me to branch out and find pockets of my own community. As a result, my queer presentation, friendships and identity have grown stronger than ever.

These days, I roll my eyes at him when he tells me to let women know that I find them beautiful; but I always smile to myself when he’s not looking.

—

In moving to Vancouver, I was sure of my values and deeply unsure about how I could shape them into a career.

Falling in love with the land my first summer ultimately aided my decision. The more I loved the land, the more I wanted to support its protectors. I dove into the deep end and made working for Indigenous peoples my full-time job. I worked two jobs before graduate school; they differed greatly from one another, but both challenged me and gave me much-needed clarity.

In my first job, I liaised between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people in the emergency management sector. Supporting communities through climate and public health crises was rewarding. It was also exhausting; especially when my ideas weren’t taken seriously by superiors, when staff unloaded their racist opinions on me, and when I was put in unsafe working conditions. I later left because of these issues.

I am immensely grateful for the opportunities that my first job provided me to travel across the country. My time working on reserve was especially integral because it allowed me to bear witness to the conditions my kin live in. 

My second job took me from working on the ground to working at the policy level. The work wasn’t as thrilling on a day-to-day basis, but I understood that the portfolios under my purview were important to advance. I wrote resolutions, organized major events, and contributed integral insights to reforming a national income assistance program. 

I knew the day would come when I would have to leave the workforce to be a graduate student. I left my second job because the next chapter of my life required me to move abroad. I also left because of some organizational blind spots: our structure in some ways mirrored the colonial institutions we were trying to resist, I saw no upward mobility for my career, and I was taken less seriously than many of my peers.

I am lucky to be taking the next six months to reflect on what I want from my career. Two years ago, I would have said yes to any opportunity that came my way. I’m glad I did say yes to the opportunities that found me; there are things I learned from my first two jobs that no amount of reading could ever amount to.

And at the same time, I’m glad I learned that I can want more. The standards I’ve practised raising within my interpersonal relationships are standards I’m eager to apply to my career too.

—

I have always been a writer; though I have not always thought of myself as one. Yes, long captions were my thing, yes I performed spoken word, yes I scattered thoughts across journals and notes apps. But I thought I didn’t, couldn’t, think of myself as a writer, until I had produced something of substance, something that others deemed good.

Taking a long break from social media was one of the best things I did to shift how I thought of myself. My break freed up a significant amount of my time and allowed me to get back to doing the things I loved. I read more books, spent more time outdoors, and romanticized life more. By the time I returned online, I felt ready to be wholly, authentically and unapologetically myself; but it would take another push for me to shed my desire to people please enough to share my words with the world. 

Taking a writing course provided me with the push I needed. In our first class together, my instructor reassured me that writing was not a process that happened alone; rather, it was a process necessarily strengthened by those who could cheer us on and call out our blind spots. Of course, this was a lesson we had to put into practice by submitting our work to be edited by the entire class. 

At the time, this ask felt like a mortifying ordeal. What if I couldn’t submit the required ten pages in time? What if I did, and people didn’t resonate with what I had to say? What if they thought my writing was objectively bad, and they were about to tell me so to my face? I fretted and procrastinated on my submission date until the end of the course.

Eventually, I was forced to make peace with the possibility of being an amateur. I loosened my grip on my deep-rooted perfectionism and allowed my unbridled creativity to take the reins for the very first time. It paid off: the next class, my classmates made me tear up with their kind and constructive feedback on my work.

A few weeks after the course wrapped, my friend Vanessa texted our group chat, announcing that it was about time she added that she was a writer to her Instagram bio. My initial reaction was: why? How could we call ourselves writers when we had only submitted ten pages? That was hardly a product of substance, right?

I soon corrected myself, realizing that actually, submitting ten pages of writing to be edited by strangers was something only writers are eager enough to do. How could I not claim the title? I took a deep breath and added the word writer to my own bio. In the nine months since, I launched my website, have been published in the Puritan and the Tyee, and am planning my first book.

These days, I am producing things of substance, things that others deem good. But even when my work isn’t deemed worthy by anyone else, I feel proud of it, because I come to it wholly, authentically and unapologetically myself.

—

Now I am in the midst of a cross-continental shift, towards passion.

Life in Vancouver kicked this shift off. It was August 2020, and I was taking part in an outdoors-based youth program. On our last day, we sailed through the Salish Sea, where I blasted my Y2K hits playlist and led the group in a half-karaoke singalong, half-dance party.

Fond of our energy, our ship captains took us to a patch of ocean deep enough for us to rope swing off the boat. Summer sun on my back, I took a running jump and plunged into cool turquoise waters. Playfully shrieking upon impact, I fluttered through shimmering waters, eager for a second jump. In the midst of doing so, I smiled and thought about how glad I was to be alive. 

The simple pleasure of experiencing life had returned to me, after years of dimness in the chapter that preceded it. Through it all, the adventurous part of me remained intact, and I realized it was my duty to nurture her for good.

That is exactly what I plan to do over the coming months. There is truly nothing I would rather be doing than writing my thesis and memoir; both fill my cup to the brim with excitement so big that it overflows. Not to mention, moving to a new city, country, and continent means that I will be able to experience and revel in life around every corner.

Vancouver, now in my rearview mirror, has wished me well on my next move. 

I’ll miss this city. 

But Ōtautahi, I’m ready to run towards you.

Reflections on grad school: semester 1

Disclaimer: All thoughts shared below are my own. I do not represent my program, my university, or any other students/staff/faculty within it.

—

A few months ago, I was so excited to return to school again; at the time, I called my Master’s the education opportunity beyond my wildest dreams. As a queer feminist, studying Gender, Race, Sexuality and Social Justice seemed like a perfect fit. My campus was beautiful, and as one of the chosen “lucky eleven” students, being accepted made me feel special. I knew going into my program that Indigeneity would not be a focus of the program, but I figured as long as my thesis research was Indigenous-focused, I would be fine.

It was foolish to ever think that I could shove my Anishinaabe self back into some figurative identity closet.

—

I shared with a faculty member that everything I do academically is in service of the communities I belong to. They remarked, “That’s an Indigenous worldview”. I shrugged off what she said and carried on with our conversation. Later that day, I clued in.

Whether to make more money in the workforce, gain tenure-track faculty positions, or become famous for their theoretical contributions, there are people in this world who go to university for their own personal gain. I’m not saying my decision to go to graduate school was entirely altruistic; but I will say that thinking of how I can best serve my ancestors, my communities, and my future kin was the most integral factor in my decision.

I cannot disentangle myself from this worldview I carry. And yet, I feel as though academia constantly makes that ask of me.

—

In my first month’s reflection, cracks were already starting to show. I admitted then that my journey was more emotionally draining and time-consuming than I expected. I stayed hopeful because I saw value in the connections I was making with my cohort.

We’ve grown closer than ever, to be clear. They even brought me a dessert tray (with candles for me to blow out) in celebration of my upcoming Aotearoa move. It is their support that has kept me going each week.

But, it is apparent to me now that universities are vehicles for the continuation of settler colonialism. As Leanne Betasamosake Simpson summarizes so well in Land As Pedagogy,

“My experience of education was one of continually being measured against a set of principles that required surrender to an assimilative colonial agenda in order to fulfil those principles” (150).

Most of the time, I am the only Indigenous person in the room advocating for the perspective of my nation, and Indigenous nations everywhere, to be heard. It is exhausting work that makes me feel as though I am up against settler colonialism at every turn.

As a result, I have grown increasingly jaded with “the academy” as an institution. After my experience thus far, I’m not sure I have it in me to continue onto law school or a Ph.D. But if I were to make a return to this school after graduating, here are the things I hope would change.

—

See the inherent value of every student.

In Ross Gay’s Dispatches From the Ruins (a chapter of his book Inciting Joy), he discusses the practices he’s implemented to foster a more meaningful learning environment. One of these practices includes only giving A’s to all of his students, which sounds radical (and perhaps it is). Here’s how he argues in favour of it:

“In [the] grading system, in which everything - approval, advancement, entry, reward- is based on the grade, the learning will inevitably be secondary to compliance or the ability to follow directions” (153).

I’ve been outspoken in my classes lately. Having said some uncouth things, I’ve asked those in supervisory positions whether my comments will negatively affect my grades. “You’re fine,” they tell me, explaining that “everyone gets As in graduate school”. The grading choices in my classes feel arbitrary.

If that’s the case, why do professors choose not to give A’s to their undergraduate students? Why are universities so selective about their graduate school acceptances? When the opportunity is there to see the inherent value in every learner, why are we so often choosing not to?

This scarcity mindset, of judging students by how well they adhere to university rules, stifles the joy and beauty that can be found in actual learning. I would much rather admit to being a beginner and making mistakes while being held by mentors who see the value my gifts hold to make this world a better place.

—

Make learning free and accessible to all.

This week, a group of students organized a protest against raising tuition fees at a UBC board meeting. They were met with swift dismissal, and the Board voted in favour of raising tuition fees anyway. They did so, knowing that this policy choice negatively affects students, and makes receiving an education even more inaccessible than it already is.

For reference, post-secondary education is a privilege few of us have access to while in “Canada”, 54% of adults have a university degree, this access is not equal for everyone; only 10.9% of Indigenous people have a university degree. This number drops to 5.4% for those who grow up on reserve.

While there are many factors that contribute to the lower rates of post-secondary education attainment for Indigenous peoples (including the burden of relocating from one’s community, lack of culturally relevant curricula, and intergenerational trauma from the residential school system), it cannot be denied that insufficient funding plays a large role in this discrepancy. Especially when Indigenous peoples experience the highest levels of poverty of any demographic in “Canada”.

While some post-secondary students receive some Indian band-provided education funding, this funding is not disseminated to everyone, and it often does not cover all of their expenses. Those of us left unsupported by our bands often rely on scholarship funding through organizations like Indspire, which receive much of their funding from corporate entities (Hudson Bay Foundation), fossil fuel subsidiaries (Suncor Energy Foundation), and big banks (CIBC), the very institutions that have harmed us for centuries.

Indigenous students shouldn’t be forced to accept the appeals of our oppressors to get an education.

“Canada” is failing to meet its obligations in the Truth and Reconciliation Commission Call 10.I: “Providing sufficient funding to close identified educational achievement gaps within one generation”. However, the country could easily resolve this by providing free, accessible post-secondary education to everyone. They should take notes from countries like Denmark, Norway, Finland, Sweden, Germany, Iceland and others, who have already successfully done so.

—

Stop treating Indigenous peoples as an afterthought.

Every time I met someone with more power than I do to instil change, I arrived at a dead end. “Change is slow,” I’ve been told with half-hearted shrugs, “Maybe try going to an Indigenous event”.

I’m grateful for the Vancouver Indigenous Student Collegium and the First Nations House of Learning on campus; I did my best to make the most of visiting them this semester. However, these resources were introduced to me late in the semester, long after I began struggling.

Here are some things that should have been in place; for me, and for all Indigenous students:

• Someone to tell me about all the resources available to me, during my first week of studies;

• Peers to visit these spaces with, so that I felt comfortable in them;

• An Indigenous-specific counsellor, who could provide me with trauma-informed and culturally specific mental health support;

• More faculty, staff and students who looked like me and shared my life experiences;

• An administration receptive to the concerns raised by Indigenous students.

—

Learn from and with Indigenous cosmologies.

Something I have been immensely frustrated with over the course of this semester is the insistence of non-Indigenous scholars to pass off teachings originally held by Indigenous nations as their own, without giving credit where it is due. I wonder if perhaps this happens because “scholars are asked to become entrepreneurs, producing ourselves as brands and seeking stardom from the very first days of our studies, when we know nothing” (Tsing, 2015).

One example that comes to mind is quantum physics. I won’t pretend that it is something I can fully wrap my head around yet, but it has come up often in my classes. Some theorists echo many of the teachings that my nation has held since time immemorial: indeterminacy as an embodiment of "the great mystery" of all things, for example, and an interrelated connectedness to everything from plants and animals to the cosmos.

Drawing attention to these similarities, and asked my professor, “Why is it that the things I know intuitively had to be made into a philosophical academic commodity, learned, taught and disseminated by a non-Indigenous scholar in order to be listened to by us?”

They responded, “Oh it’s not the same. Quantum physics places man at the centre”.

But here’s the thing: It is wrong to cherry-pick Indigenous teachings to make your own point without giving credit where it’s due. To do so is theft of our beautiful, animatedly existent cosmologies. It is especially violent, given that these cosmologies were devalued for centuries through both Indian Act policy (e.g. Banning the sun dance and potlatch) and the residential school system. That needs to be acknowledged.

Seriously commit to decolonizing, and giving the land back.

When I first came to UBC, I was so impressed by its inclusion of a Musqueam elder in my graduate orientation, as well as the totem poles that decorate the campus, mainly because it was so much more representation than I ever saw at my alma mater. However, I have since learned the history behind this institution and realized that UBC is as complicit as every other university in Indigenous displacement and invisibilization.

University of British Columbia’s main campus is located on the unceded homelands of the Musqueam Nation. The university was provincially mandated through the 1907 Act to Aid the University of British Columbia by a Reservation of Provincial Lands and the 1908 Act to Establish and Incorporate a University for the Province of British Columbia. Point Grey was selected as the location for this 175-acre university because it was “close to, but not part of, Vancouver”. This UBC purported narrative of Point Grey as an undisturbed, waiting-to-be-developed plot of land is an example of Terra Nulius doctrine that attempts to obscure a much darker truth: the Crown made these decisions about Musqueam land without Musqueam consent.

How can we even begin to decolonize this institution when to this day, it sits upon stolen land? As Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang’s oft-cited essay declares, “Decolonization is not a metaphor”. Rather, decolonization requires “the repatriation of Indigenous land and life”; when the university does anything short of this, they are continuing to uphold their own colonial legacy.

The logistics of dismantling UBC and returning its lands to the Musqueam nation are complex, I know. But in the midst of a world headed towards (and already experiencing) an unprecedented, existence-altering climate catastrophe, isn’t it time to decolonize and radically rethink the way Indigenous lands are treated; especially when it is Indigenous peoples who hold the much-needed knowledge to restore our relationship with mother earth?

—

I am cognizant that making these asks on my personal blog will not result in the change I seek. Maybe it would make more of a statement to leave this institution. I have considered it. But I will stick it out, because I refuse to lose out on my cohort, scholarship funding, thesis research, and future career pathways this degree can open up. Mama didn’t raise a quitter, so I will not quit.

But I will not tacitly accept the way myself, and other Indigenous students, are treated in this institution.

I will keep pushing through while resisting in the ways I know how: sharing my experiences openly, demanding more from the institution I pay to provide me with an education, and advocating for decolonization to be at the forefront of social justice rather than its afterthought.

Mostly, I write this because one day I will be on the other side of this institution; perhaps an author, a lawyer, a professor, or all three. When that day comes, I want my twenty-something writings to serve as a reminder; both of what I endured to make it and the better conditions I want to instil for generations of post-secondary Indigenous students to come.

Conversation starters that could change your life

In the summer of 2016, I found myself thumbing through a book in a small-town gift shop, simply titled “The Book of Questions”. I thought it would make a great icebreaker for my first year of university. Little did I know then that it would become my game-changer for good.

When a dear friend of mine asked me questions for the first time, we opened a floodgate and opened up to each other in a way we never had before. My first-year roommate and I giggled at its hypothetical scenarios for hours. When I posed the questions to a “Chad type” I was dating, he confessed that I’d gotten past his “alpha male persona” and gotten to know who he really was underneath it.

As a guest at a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner, I brought the questions along to pass the time on the drive. My book soon became the talk of the table. By the time I returned, I’d gained a second family and a lifelong best friend. A  few months later, I decided I would gift the book’s magic to a crush of mine, only to find its last copy at the same time as another customer. She’d been searching for a previous version released in the 1980s- the version that made its rounds through the conversations she was having in her twenties. Clearly, the questions have stood the test of time. From my experiences, they’ve stopped time entirely.

Case in point: A friend of mine once picked up the book right before our plans to go on a late-night adventure. Six hours of talking later, we never left my house- in the midst of asking questions, we realized we were more than friends, an adventure all its own. I’ve since taken questions along on every adventure I’ve been on, from the beaches of Maui to the jungles of Belize to the cobblestone alleys of Spain. I always keep questions tucked in my back pocket, ready to cut past small talk and get straight to connection. 

Why do I love to ask? Because deep down, I know that every person I cross paths with wants to feel seen. Our fast-paced world allows us the opportunity to get away with meaningless interaction all the time, displayed in our “I’m good” replies, our “hope you’re well” emails, and our “let’s catch up” texts. I believe people are too complex, too storied and too beautifully complicated not to have more interesting things to say. And if I get to find out even a sliver of those things, I consider my life all the better for it.

Perhaps this is an opportunity for you to start asking the people in your life questions too. Aside from physical touch, what better way is there to practice closeness than through conversation? I’ve hand-picked these ten just for you- but before you get going, I’ll let you in on one secret: the magic isn’t found in the questions themselves- it’s found in one’s openness to answering them.

THE QUESTIONS:

1. If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about one thing about yourself, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know and why?

2. Would you rather be very successful in a professional sense with a tolerable private life, or have a great private life and an uninspiring professional one? 

3. What is the most outrageous thing you’ve ever done? Do you feel more proud or embarrassed about said thing?

4. Would you like your partner to be smarter and more attractive than you? If so, what is it about you that would hold their interest?

5. How would you feel if you knew that within your lifetime, computers would become more self-aware, intelligent and creative than humans? Would it change the way you live your life now?

6. Has anyone been able to greatly influence your life within a short period of time? Do you think you’ve had that same effect on them, or had that effect on anyone else?

7. Would you rather have one true soulmate and no other good friends, or no soulmate and lots of good friends?

8. If you could return to a previous point in your existence, change a decision you’ve made, and pick up from there, would you?

9. If someone threw a party for you and invited everyone you’ve ever cared about, who would you be most excited to see? Who would you be most nervous about seeing?

10. If you died this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Do you think you’ll ever tell them?

Enjoy these questions - if any resonate and you’d like to send me your response, you can always reach me by email at tayalyjade@gmail.com.

I have always been a writer

CW: sexual assault. If you require support after reading this, please reach out to one of the phone numbers listed here.

JUVENESCENCE

October 2003. I have just started Kindergarten, and I LOVE show and tell. One day of the month, I get to speak my mind to a classroom of attentive listeners, and it is my most favourite thing.

I also love to read the newspaper. Each morning before school, I sit on my mom’s lap and learn about the world with her. People say newspapers are for grown-ups, but they are wrong because I can read big words too.

Sure, I like comics, but it is everything else that grabs my attention. I read about the weather, and crimes, and classified advertisements, and am engrossed by it all. I decide that at the next show and tell, I will come ready to educate my classmates about what’s going wrong in the world.

My mother chuckles as she retells me this story. That day, I came to school and told my classmates about the murders happening in our community. My teacher called my mother, concerned for my well-being, and asked her to stop reading me the newspaper.

“She’s teaching herself to read,” retorted my mother, “Who am I to stop her?”

—

October 2008. I am in fifth grade, and my language arts teacher reveals that she has an exciting assignment for us. We are to write a short story- our only requirements are that it has to have a forest, a princess and something enchanted involved. Most of the other kids are groaning about the three pages expected of them, but I am beaming. This sounds like the most fun homework I will have, maybe ever.

I take out my favourite notebook and get to work. My story is aptly titled The Enchanted Forest. It is a gender-bending fairytale about a sword-wielding princess who trains her male love interest to fight the dragons that threaten the forest surrounding their village. In return, he shows her how to do domestic tasks. Naturally, they are a perfect match and live happily ever after. By the time I am done writing its side quests and plot twists, it becomes a twenty-page behemoth. 

When presentation day comes, I am ecstatic. The teacher has brought in a special cherry red leather armchair from the library for each of us to sit in as we read what we have written. The Enchanted Forest is a story that deserves to be remembered, so I volunteer to go last.

I read all twenty pages of my story aloud to the class. My presentation is much longer than the others- in fact, it takes a full hour to get through- but I do not care. I have never been happier, or felt more me, than I do at this moment. 

During recess, one of my bullies comes up to me. She says, “That was so long I almost fell asleep, but so interesting it kept me awake”. It is the closest thing to kindness she ever gave me.

I make my mother proud. She thinks my book should be published. As a ten-year-old, I don’t know what that means exactly, but it sounds important. The Enchanted Forest was never published, of course. But to this day, my mother brings it up whenever I’m feeling down, as proof that my writing gift has always been with me. 

—

May 2016. I am in twelfth grade, and taking second-credit literary English. My English teacher wears vintage dresses and thick-rimmed glasses and is more self-assured than I think I will ever be. She’s a hard marker, which makes me deeply want to impress her. When she gives us free rein on our final assignment, I pour every fibre of my being into it.

I write her a journal, titled Turning Seventeen. The first few pages provide an overview of key events in my life. The rest of the journal consists of “memory jar” entries, crumpled scraps of paper with details I want to remember.

As a teenager, I am convinced that my life will one day mean something important, so I write down everything. This includes my first hangover (horrendous), my friend breakups (dramatic), and the time I kissed two boys in one week (scandalous!). My English teacher grades me an A+ on my work and refuses to make eye contact with me ever again.

Looking back at this assignment, I am both horrified and amused with myself. I am sure my English teacher and her husband (my art teacher) ate up my exposé on everyone in my grade and everything that happened that year. 

I would never write something so scathing now. But I do think it is the purest example of myself creating with abandon, and proof that I was meant to be a memoirist.

ADOLESCENCE 

November 2018. I am in my third year of my undergraduate degree, the worst year of my life. Three months before that night, I was sexually assaulted by my best friend. Now, I am getting on stage for the first time to speak out about what happened to my body that night.

Every year, the Women’s Centre puts on an event called Survivors Speak. It is a brave space, built into a cozy campus cafe, that invites survivors of sexual violence to share their experiences with listening ears. I have not written much since high school, so the idea of sharing my writing on a topic this vulnerable scares me. But since I am fighting a sexual assault investigation that continually invalidates me, I desperately yearn to be heard. I decide that I would write something, just this once.

I get to work on my piece, a seven-minute monologue of the sexual assaults I experienced at ages five, eighteen, and twenty years old. I describe them happening to three of my friends - Taylor, Alyssa, and Jade- and tie them together by clarifying that I am Taylor Alyssa Jade in my conclusion. I speak back to victim-blaming culture, punctuating my last sentence with the words “fuck no”. It feels powerful.

Because I have never been to a poetry event, I assume that memorizing the poem is mandatory. I recite mine with no notes and do not miss a word. My audience responds with a standing ovation, hugs, and hand squeezes. The speaker after me says, “I don’t know how to top that”. My work is so well-received that the Women’s Centre invites me back for years to follow.

I perform at more coffeehouses, join a local poetry collective, and slowly start to believe my voice has something to say. While words cannot return my stolen body back to me, I am grateful that they found me in time to pull me through my darkest days.

—

November 2021. I live in Vancouver now, as far as I can geographically get from home without my mother wrangling me in. I’ve long graduated, and just started a job as a policy analyst; after a year in the emergency management sector, I no longer crave a work-fuelled adrenaline rush.

It’s been a while since I had time to spend with my own thoughts, so I am eager to get back into writing. I decided to build my own website, a little corner of the world where I can freely put social justice in creative terms. The problem is, I am not quite sure who to write for.

That’s when Haley’s newsletter finds me. Haley, a bossy, Brooklyn-based, bi gemini who writes boldly about mental health, sex, and trauma, is the coolest person I have never met.

Haley is starting a course called “Writing With Confidence”. We are challenged to show up every Tuesday evening to write, in the company of other budding creatives. The intent of this class is to boost our confidence and break our procrastination habits. I sign up within the hour.

Haley and her perfect blowout deliver a writing prompt to start our first class. We all share, no preambles allowed. I am soon enamoured with the creative brains of my classmates. 

A few weeks into the course, I submit a ten-page submission for editing. I hold my breath the entire week, forgetting I am in safe hands. There are nothing but kind, constructive comments left on my work.

The course gives me lifelong friends, whom I later fly out to see in New York. My newfound community instils in me a belief in my own abilities, strong enough that I whisper aloud to myself: I am not just someone who writes, I am a writer.

—

September 2022. I am back in university, this time to get a Master’s degree in Gender, Race, Sexuality and Social Justice. On orientation day, my and I cohort are squished into a small classroom. Our professors have prepared presentations to welcome us into the program.

Two women take their seats at a table facing us. The first to speak shares words of knowing comfort. 

“You belong here”, she declares. 

Speaking to a room filled with people of colour, she intimately knows that we have all already experienced academic exclusion. I feel at home, knowing someone cares enough to rectify it. 

Detailing vignettes of her career, she drops a detail that I audibly gasp at: she is writing a memoir and has a contract with Penguin Random House to do it. She is personified proof of my dream. It takes everything in me not to raise my hand and beg her to tell me everything. 

I decide, bravely, to email her later the following day:

“I learned a lot yesterday, and I would love to learn more from you. I imagine you are incredibly busy as both a professor and MFA student, but if you can make time in the next month to discuss memoir writing and the publishing world, I would be delighted to listen.”

She replies back:

“I am more than happy to share with you my own story of acquiring an agent and also about how I got the publishing contract. I would also be happy to share with you an introduction to an amazing agent – this seems to be the all-important key to acquiring a book deal!” 

I immediately call my closest friends, crying tears of joy about even the slightest chance at this newfound opportunity. For the first time in my life, my goal is within reach. I may be a writer now, but one day, I will be an author too.

ADULTHOOD

December 2023. I have just finished my Masters degree. It was laborious, but flew in the blink of an eye. I fast tracked my degree and finished it in sixteen months. I teeter between excitement and nervousness over what comes next.

I know one day I’ll want to go back to school- whether for a PhD or a JD, I’m not certain yet. But for now, all I want is to write.

It is risky, taking time away from the workforce to pour into myself rather than fulfill someone else’s agenda. Money is tighter than I would like, but I consider myself lucky. I live in London, England, with the love of my life, and since he has a full-ride Masters scholarship, neither of us will have to worry about rent for the next few months. 

I have the capacity, finally, to focus entirely on completing the first draft of my first book. I have an agent in mind- the one my professor helped me find all those months ago- and cannot wait for them to fall in love with Brave Thing. My memoir has been six years in the making; like an overstuffed animal, my story is bursting at the seams, ready to spill its inner workings onto the page. Thankfully, I journaled that entire year, so my memories remained intact; it’s like I knew my words would mean something important one day.

On the days where it is hard to write, to revisit that worst year of my life, I remember who I have to lean on. My mother. Past teachers. The poetry collective. My Writing With Confidence classmates. Haley. My graduate school friends. My professor. My partner.

I feel grateful, knowing these people will be with me, throughout this process. I can’t wait to have them in the audience of my book tour, responding with standing ovations, hugs, and hand squeezes. 

—

November 2025. I am an author, holding my published memoir in my hands. Every time I pick up a copy of Brave Thing, the surreality of this accomplishment sets in, and my eyes well up with gratitude again. 

Writing this book was an arduous process; there is no triumph without preceding struggle, a mentor once reminded me. I did what I needed to push myself through: I diligently went to therapy, took breaks that grounded me in the present, and cried on the shoulders that could support me. 

My book is a powerful thing. It looks my rapist in the eyes, names what he did to my body, details the unjust burden of winning a sexual assault investigation and delivers social commentary on the wider issues illuminated by my case. The publishing team at Penguin Random House says this book has the power to reignite social discourse about sexual violence not seen since #metoo went viral. It might even make it onto the New York Times bestseller list, they tell me. 

Tonight is the first night of my book tour. The buzz outside my changeroom tells me the venue is already packed. I may be nervous to share something so vulnerable so publicly, but I know my entire life has prepared me for this moment. 

I step onto the stage in a gorgeous gown, receive a standing ovation, take my seat in a cherry-red leather armchair, and captivate the room.

It’s time we had “the talk”

Excerpt from the policy proposal I presented to provincial government changemakers through the LEVEL Vancouver Foundation Youth Policy Program. My full policy proposal calling for comprehensive reforms to British Columbia’s (BC’s) sexual education curriculum that emphasises consent, sexual well-being, gender-equitable relationships, and the full inclusion of sexual orientation and gender identity can be found here.

It’s time we had “the talk”.

The overwhelming majority- ninety-seven per cent of us- will engage in sexual activity at some point in our lives.

However, only twenty-eight per cent of us understand what it means to give consent. 

This is in part because our sexual education curriculums have failed to teach young people to respect one another’s boundaries. 

This failure comes with reprehensible consequences. For example:

• Fifty per cent of women in Canada report that they have felt pressured to consent to unwanted sexual activity.

• Forty-four per cent of women in Canada report experiencing some form of psychological, physical, or sexual violence by an intimate partner in their lifetimes. 

• For those with identities at multiple intersections of marginalization, we know that these rates are even higher, while their access to justice is lower.

Gender-based and sexual violence is 100% preventable.

But it will take major shifts in policy to create a world without violence.

That’s why I am asking government leaders to place consent at the forefront of sexual education curriculums.

In my research, I sought the answers to one question: 

What should youth be taught in their sexual education classes so that they enter adulthood knowledgeable about consent?

After conducting a thorough review of best practices, I came up with a list of recommendations for the Government of British Columbia to implement: 

1. Schools need to explicitly mention consent in their sexual education lessons. Teaching students how to effectively give consent and respect the consent of others contributes to a safer world for us all.

2. Students need to be taught that they have a role to play in eradicating gender-based violence. Including everyone in these conversations will ensure that misconceptions about gender-based and sexual violence are dispelled and that violence is no longer deemed a “woman’s issue”.

3. 2SLGBTQQIA+ sexual activity and sexual health need to be included and normalized as topics in the sexual education curriculum. Having representation that extends beyond identity will ensure the curriculum is relevant to all students.

4. Digital and printed resources need to be developed so that parents and guardians can understand why the lessons covered in sexual education curriculums are so necessary. This will garner their continued buy-in to the curriculum as it undergoes transformational change.

5. Sexual-education curriculums need to emphasize positive sexual well-being instead of just the prevention of negative outcomes. By reframing sex as a pleasureful, life-enhancing experience grounded in consent, safety, and respect, we make the curriculum more meaningful to students. 

As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse as well as sexual assault, I came to this research with a lived perspective.

Had I been taught comprehensive sexual education, I could have known the difference between “good touch and bad touch” as a child. 

As a teenager, I could have learned that my sexuality was valid, that sex isn’t supposed to hurt, and that my personal bodily autonomy deserved to be respected. 

As an adult, these lessons could have prepared me to identify unsafe people in my life, and leave abusive relationships before they escalated to the levels of violence they did.

Instead, I learned what consent was by experiencing what it was not.

I was failed by my sexual-education curriculum. But the youth of today don’t have to be.

The government of British Columbia has the power to build a comprehensive, consent-based sexual education curriculum for youth.

I hope the government chooses to take on that responsibility as though the lives of youth depend on it - 

because they do.

Reflections on grad school: month one

Now that I’m a month into my graduate school journey, the question I’ve been asked most frequently is: How is school going?

It is challenging, though not at all in the way I expected.

I knew this year I would have to buckle down, and get used to being immersed in the academic world once again. To do so, I prepared myself myself months in advance by writing long papers. After producing 100+ pages of policy research, I thought I would be 100% ready to take on whatever challenges graduate school threw my way.

I was not.

—

This semester, my faculty designed my program’s classes so that professor and students could co-create their academic environment together. Learning in this way has taught me that everyone’s lived perspective is valuable, and possesses something for others to learn from.

I wasn’t prepared to share so much of myself in the classroom.

That’s why I have this website. It may be on the internet where anyone can read it, but I know my work is only being exposed to those who can hold it in safe hands, at least for now.

I don’t have that same kind of assurance in graduate school.

—

Last week, I took a leap and poured my heart out to my class. My assignment was to braid together Narrated Nationhood and Imagined Belonging, Braiding Sweetgrass, and my own family history in presentation form. To do so, I interviewed both sides of my family to learn about their stories of migration, assimilation and colonization.

I grappled with what it meant to come from both colonizing and colonized ancestors, and what kinds of responsibilities I hold as a result. Parts of my own family’s story had me choking up with tears as I spoke.

At the end of it, when it came time to offer feedback, the first person to respond said, “I love your outfit”.

—

My classmate’s comment was intended to land as a compliment, but it hit me as an uncomfortable gut punch, a stark reminder that I am often treated as something to look at rather than someone worth listening to.

I walked away from that class feeling gutted. It was one example amongst many that has made my master’s degree so much more emotionally draining and time-consuming than my academic research practice could have prepared me for.

I made time that week to mourn graduate school for not being what I expected.

—

A few days later, I showed up to a seminar, where two of my classmates asked how my week had been going.

“I’ve been sad the past couple of days,” I replied.

They came over to me, and asked permission to hold my hands. I let them.

“Listen, I know I didn’t get to tell you in class the other day, but I LOVED what you had to say. It was incredibly, powerfully written. I know how hard it can be to share thoe things, and I am so proud you did. Your piece was on my mind for days afterwards”.

Something new clicked for me.

THIS is what graduate school is about.

It’s about making genuine connections with like-minded people.

It’s about building a deeper understanding of my own identity, and how that ties into social justice.

It’s about being brave enough to put myself out there, even when that isn’t received the way my ego expects.

All the other stuff- the research and writing bits- are things I have already proven myself capable of doing.

—

Does that change the fact that graduate school is challenging?

No. I won’t deny that it still is.

However, rather than mourn about what graduate school isn’t,

I can choose to be excited about what it is,

and who it will evolve me into.

The next chapter

I’m going to graduate school.

I’ve been awarded $20,000 to pursue an education opportunity beyond my wildest dreams. If younger me could see what I’m up to now, she would be so proud.

I always vaguely knew I wanted to pursue graduate school, but had no idea when, where, or what I wanted to study. Looking for some semblance of direction, I reached out to a professor from my alma mater for advice.

“If I'm interested in Indigenous studies, where should I go to learn it?” I asked.

He gave me a few options to consider in Canada, and at the bottom of his email, added:

“I’m looking for an RA (ideally with an Indigenous background) interested in doing research in Aotearoa. This would be a fantastic opportunity for someone like you, based in Aotearoa New Zealand.  Just a thought in case you might be interested in exploring this…”

My initial thought was to reply “Thanks but no thanks. I have a partner in Canada, and don’t plan on moving across the world from him. Best of luck finding someone else!”. 

Curiosity got the best of me. I read his research proposal and it intrigued me.

“I think I’ll apply to some schools out here”, I said, “But I’m willing to learn more about this Aotearoa New Zealand thing”.

He invited me to his next meeting with the Aotearoa New Zealand research team. The team consisted of a few professors from various universities throughout Aotearoa New Zealand, and a research assistant based out of the University of British Columbia. I clicked with them instantly.

They felt the same way about me. One team member sent a private message saying, “Taylor’s just hit the jackpot”.

“I have a good feeling that this is all going to come together really well”, remarked my former professor.

I remained skeptical. 

I kept the idea on the back burner and decided instead to apply to the University of British Columbia for their Gender, Race Sexuality and Social Justice (GRSJ) program, as well as the University of Victoria for their program in Indigenous Governance (IGov). Since both appealed to different sides of me, I figured I would go wherever I was accepted.

The problem was, that both schools competed for me.

UBC’s admission offer came first, followed shortly by UVic. UVic’s offer had a $5000 scholarship attached to it; when I told UBC, they matched it.

With two offers sitting in front of me and none of my Aotearoa New Zealand applications sent in yet, I had no idea what to do.

“I had a feeling this would happen,” the professor said. “You’ll be taking a chance if you say no to these and wait to apply to schools in Aotearoa New Zealand, but I really think it'll be worth it”.

I started tearing up. “But I really love my partner,” I replied, “How can I be that far from him that long?”

I was reminded that a few months away from my partner, in the grand scheme of life, was not a big deal. He pointed out that having a funded master’s degree in Aotearoa New Zealand, on the other hand, was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. 

I decided that my best course of action would be to accept one school’s offer, defer it, and then use the extra time to apply to schools in Aotearoa New Zealand.

As an activist in the queer and feminist communities, UBC’s GRSJ program appealed to me. I knew I would be exposed to a variety of fascinating viewpoints. It certainly was the school that got me more excited. The downside? I would likely be one of the few Indigenous students in the program. Indigeneity would likely only come up as an honourable mention in the broader subject of intersectionality.

UVic’s IGov program, on the other hand, would have at least 50% Indigenous student representation. I knew I would feel safe learning about my people's history, culture, and struggles amongst a like-minded cohort. However, I also knew I would be sidelining my feminist and queer research interests, which wouldn’t feel right either. 

I didn’t want to have to choose between studying as a queer feminist or studying as an Indigenous person. So, I proposed an idea that could structure my graduate studies to suit me. I emailed:

“I've been toying with the idea of a mixed model recently. The Gender, Race, Sexuality and Social Justice Masters I was accepted into has a thesis component, so my idea is to conduct my coursework at UBC, and then move to Aotearoa New Zealand to do my thesis portion of the degree. This would allow me to complete a thesis on Māori water governance in Aotearoa New Zealand, while receiving a “Canadian” degree (which makes it easier for me to apply for scholarships).”

He replied, “If the idea you are hatching gives you a greater feeling of security, and that you’re getting the most of the various options that are being offered to you, then I’d say let’s try to make it work!”

It was settled. I would be going to the University of British Columbia and the University of Canterbury.

This September, I am starting my Master of Arts in Gender, Race, Sexuality and Social Justice at the University of British Columbia. Getting to go to UBC is special. I know I’m going to mesh well with my faculty, my cohort, and the university at large. Seeing my lush, vibrant campus in person made me feel solid in my decision.

In January, I’ll be moving somewhere else lush and vibrant- the city of Christchurch, Aotearoa New Zealand. There, I’ll be working as a guest researcher at the University of Canterbury’s Ngāi Tahu Center, writing my thesis on Māori water governance.

There are striking parallels between the environmental degradation that has happened to my homelands and on Maori territory. My master’s degree is an opportunity for me to learn from a fellow Indigenous community and bring their knowledge home to help my own.

—

My mom recently gifted me a pair of monarch butterfly earrings. Inside their box, she wrote me a letter about the multi-generational migration journey monarch butterflies make.

“You’re finishing our family’s journey”, she told me.

The Indian Act prohibited my grandmother from being educated beyond the 8th grade. My mom was a trailblazer in our family when she went off to university. Now I will be the first to get a graduate degree. My educational journey has always been as much about me as it has been about my ancestors. 

Truth be told, I’m feeling all kinds of nervous to be embarking into new territory, both in education and my (soon to be) location. There’s lots to think about, and I don’t yet have all the answers to the worries running through my head. 

However, here are the things I do know for certain:

1. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that I’m thrilled to be taking on.

2. Learning, growing, and making new connections are exactly what I need at this stage of my life.

3. I have a great team of mentors around me, both here on Turtle Island and in Aotearoa.

4. I’ve got a partner whose love for me spans the world, and we’ll be continuing our long-distance journey together while I’m away.

5. No matter what, my ancestors are looking out for me.

Main characters, do this:

1. Make your bed every single morning. It starts your day with a sense of accomplishment.

2. Find your regular coffee shop, memorize your barista’s name, and have a go-to coffee order.

3. Stop to smell the flowers (and send a picture to your mom so she can appreciate them with you).

4. Curate playlists for your every mood. Envision them as the soundtrack to your big, beautiful life.

5. Give yourself full permission to sing and dance at stoplights (no one is paying attention).

6. DM the acquaintance you wish you knew better. I bet they wish they knew you better too.

7. For the love of god, leave your hometown. Your new setting, even if temporary, will grow you exponentially.

8. Go to therapy (if you can afford it). It’s the greatest gift you will ever give to yourself and those around you.

9. Speak up for your boundaries. Set your own bar for how you want others to treat you, or they will set it for you.

10. Learn why your parents are the way they are so you stop resenting the way they raised you.

11. Do not extend empathy to people who refuse to take accountability for their actions. It’s a waste of your precious energy.

12. Lean into the issues that get under your skin. Chances are, you’d be a really great piece of the puzzle in solving them.

13. There’s no point in saving the clothes that don’t fit you for “when you lose the weight”. Start embracing your body as it is, ever changing.

14. Own your sexuality and pleasure. When communicated effectively, doing so makes for better solo and partnered experiences.

15. Create a go-to character uniform for yourself. 3-5 outfits you love (matching sets for ease!), plus some statement accessories only you could pull off.

16. Get a tattoo or a piercing on a whim. You’re living in a borrowed meat sack for a speck of time, why overthink it?

17. Do things for the thrill of it. Kiss strangers, book impromptu trips, go skinny dipping, whatever.

18. If you want to stop feeling like time is passing you by, start making your birthdays, holidays and celebrations memorable.

19. Try not to record every second of the concert/event. Your followers didn’t pay to experience the show live, you did.

20. Shake up your routine and try a new hobby. It will allow you a rare opportunity to see the world with childlike wonder.

21. Keep your goals where you can regularly see them (as your phone background).

22. When in doubt, make the career decision that will grow you most.

23. Spend time in adoration of Mother Nature. It’s the best cure we have.

24. Stop wearing your “trust issues” on your sleeve as a means of avoiding commitment. Let yourself fall in love already.

Shame, identity, imposter syndrome

I recently had the pleasure of travelling to Victoria as part of the LEVEL Youth Policy Program 2022 cohort. It was an incredible opportunity; one that exposed me to the world of Indigenous and Canadian governance and connected me with BIPOC policymakers who are as committed to systems change as I am.

The trip also dug up some deep-rooted identity imposter syndrome. 

We began our day at the Legislative Assembly of British Columbia. The Songhees, Esquimalt and WSÁNEĆ erasure was palpable; while the grounds of the legislature were once home to these nations, today they have been forced to the outskirts of the city. Their presence is memorialised by a single totem pole on the property’s lawn. 

We came to the legislature to attend Question Period. The set up of the Legislative Chamber, imprinted from the colonial British era, positioned the MLAs’ desks in rows. The government and opposition parties faced one another as if prepared for battle. 

This session opened with introductions and discussions of important events happening throughout the province. Coming up was the one-year anniversary since Tk’emlúps te Secwe̓pemc announced that 215 children went to residential school and never returned home. It was the first of many unmarked gravesites to be found across the country, an unveiling of “Canada’s” shameful past and present.

The week it happened, I visited Tk'emlúps as a show of solidarity. Collective grief and trauma hovered over the school grounds like a thick cloud of fog, evidence of the devastation this news left in its wake. Even as a guest to the territories, I left feeling dispirited, and angry with the government for its attempts to extinguish the bloodlines of my Indigenous kin across the country.

So when the topic of residential schools came up during the question period, I was expecting it to be handled gently, and sensitively. It was not. The MLAs spoke about the topic with no trigger warning or regard for the Indigenous youth sitting in their gallery. They described awful human rights abuses as trauma porn, forgetting that the harm they described had happened to our living relatives.

—

Following that, the MLAs moved on to discuss the parliamentary issues at hand. Up first was a debate on British Columbians’ wait times for and lack of access to family doctors. It was a serious topic, one that warranted a fulsome, collaborative discussion. 

Unfortunately, the way the issue was presented was unproductive and combative. The impetus used by the Liberal Party of British Columbia to argue for funding more doctors was that the British Columbian government needed to stop funding its “billion-dollar vanity project”, otherwise known as upgrades to the Royal BC Museum.* This was posed as a question to the Minister of Health; the problem is, the “vanity project” in question falls under the purview of the Minister of Tourism, Arts, Culture and Sport.  

Wondering who that might be? it’s the Honourable HLI HAYKWHL ẂII XSGAAK Melanie Mark, British Columbia’s first Indigenous woman elected as MLA, as well as the province’s only First Nation woman to serve in cabinet. She was never given an opportunity to answer. 

It deeply frustrated me. The last thing the British Columbian government needed after finally getting one First Nations woman in the room was the opposition party silencing her.

—

In the afternoon, our group headed over to the Esquimalt Wellness Centre to learn from Jessica Wood, Assistant Deputy Minister of Reconciliation. Jessica presented her efforts to implement the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act, but what struck me most was what she had to say about her role in her community.

“Here I may be regarded as an expert,” she said, “But back home, I would be told to help care for babies and clean fish jars. I’m seen as a baby there because I have so much to learn about my culture, spirituality and language”.

Her statement hit like a gut punch; I was reminded of how disconnected I feel from my own Anishinaabe nation.

My great-grandmother was fluent in Anishinaabemowin. Colonialism crept into our family quickly; none of my relatives have fluently spoken our language in generations, and I only know a brief introduction in my language. 

I’ve never learned to hunt, trap, gather, pick medicines, or bead. I wouldn’t have a clue how to survive in the bush, even though my ancestors lived intimately with these lands. 

At that moment, I felt like a baby to my community too. That feeling of failure, of shame, of imposter syndrome, came crashing over me. I excused myself from the session and had a long, hard cry outside.

One of our program facilitators, a mixed Nehiyaw woman, followed after me.

“I get it,” she said, “Sometimes I feel too Indigenous in white spaces, and too white in Indigenous spaces. Let me remind you though, you are welcome here”.

I wiped my tears, calmed myself, and headed back inside to continue the reclamation work.

—

You may be wondering where my sense of feeling “too white” to be Indigenous comes from. I know that Indigenous peoples are not a monolith and come in all skin shades. My family is evidence of that. However, to this day I still struggle with imposter syndrome.

I remember learning it in the fourth grade. I was in social studies learning about cultural identity for the first time. I went to a school where the majority was so white that the students of colour could be counted with one hand. 

“Raise your hand if you are English”.

10 hands.

“Raise your hand if you are Ukrainian”.

7 hands.

“Raise your hands if you are Aboriginal”*.

3 hands. Myself and two other students, both of whom had darker skin than I did. Both of whom were bullied badly by our peers. Both of whom I felt as though I could separate myself from if I stopped saying I was Aboriginal and started saying I was European.

It was there I learned to be ashamed of who I was. That shame kept me from connecting with my Ojibwe roots until I was in university; a decade-long gap in knowledge that could have been spent becoming rooted in my identity. 

Instead, I internalised a sense of imposter syndrome I haven’t been able to shake; despite writing my thesis on the harms of the Indian Act, despite assisting 11 First Nations across the country navigate humanitarian crises, despite my nonprofit work to promote Indigenous women’s reclamation of the outdoors industry, despite writing a report to petition the government to better support Indigenous youth, despite being accepted graduate school to write a thesis addressing reconciliation.

I know that I am Anishinaabe, and that nothing I do will ever change that. However, I also know that maintaining cultural, spiritual and linguistic ties is essential to our resistance to colonialism and our continuity as Nations. Without a strong cultural and spiritual identity myself, I have never felt as though I’ve done enough to be considered a “real” Anishinaabekwe.

When I was younger, I was ashamed of my Indigeneity. Now that I’m an adult, I’m ashamed to admit that I walk through the colonial and the Indigenous worlds, never feeling like I fit perfectly into either.

_

The larger takeaway here is that modern-day colonialism is not about smallpox blankets. It’s about how we are silenced, erased, and removed from our communities. It’s about how we’re made to forget who we are and where we come from.

Today’s colonial methodology may be more insidious, but it is surely just as destructive. The British Columbian government having one First Nations woman in history and then silencing her is proof of that. So is my family line’s disconnection from who we have been for thousands of years in the span of one lifetime.

_

Note: As this post was written, the government of British Columbia halted its plans to invest $800 million into redeveloping the Royal BC Museum, over allegations that doing so was irresponsible in the midst of a doctor shortage, an increasing cost of living and other critical issues coming out of the pandemic. I agree with the decision, and I still don’t think the Honourable HLI HAYKWHL ẂII XSGAAK Melanie Mark should have been silenced.

Note: I used Aboriginal here because it was a term I grew up hearing used to refer to Indigenous peoples; however it is outdated now, so please stick to Indigenous or better yet, the individual Nation you’re referring to.

What do we do about Canada Day?

This July 1st, Vancouver titled its Canada Day Celebrations ‘Canada Together’ and worked collaboratively with representatives from the Musqueam, Squamish and Tsleil-Waututh Nations to build an event that includes a Coast Salish welcoming ceremony, storytelling workshops, and a performance by Eagle Song Dancers.

Halifax re-envisioned its festivities as ‘KANA’TA: Canada Day 2022’ in partnership with the Mi’kmaw Nation, and chose to include an Indigenous Cultural Village, including bannock tacos, craft making and live performances.

And in Winnipeg, organizers at the Forks have opted to reimagine ‘A New Day’, foregoing their fireworks celebration in favour of a powwow, pipe ceremonies, tobacco tie workshops and other cultural programming.

To be on the right side of history is to be intentional about co-designing events on Turtle Island in partnership with its original inhabitants. As an Anishinaabe kwe whose family has been directly harmed by Indian Day schools, I welcome cities’ commitments to change for the better. 

At the same time, I worry that events like these may be another form of lip service to Indigenous communities, or worse, examples of tokenism that suppress our real calls to action. 

Think about it: initiatives to re-centre the original inhabitants of this land on Canada Day have only started very recently, even though we’ve been here since time immemorial. It’s only recently that the holiday was even called Canada Day; before 1982, the holiday was called ‘Dominion Day’, and intended to celebrate confederation and Canada’s connection to the British empire’s imperialist project. Does changing the name of the holiday really change its true intent?

In 2021, Indigenous communities across Turtle Island were rocked by news of the discovery of the remains of 215 children who were students of the Kamloops Indian Residential School. Since that first announcement, more than 1300* potential unmarked gravesites have been found, with many more yet to be uncovered. 

Following these uncoverings, Idle No More and grassroots Indigenous folks organized protests against the celebration of a country built on attempted genocide and stolen land. In response, 80+ cities and towns across 10 provinces and territories decided to cancel their Canada Day events out of respect for First Nations. Even the pope offered an apology for the Catholic church’s role in organizing the residential school system. 

Do cities cancelling their fireworks celebrations change anything for Indigenous people? In a tangible sense, no. Cancelling fireworks celebrations will not directly impact First Nations communities experiencing boil water advisories, the overdose epidemic taking the lives of our family members, or the disproportionate rates of violence faced by our women, girls and two-spirit community members. 

However, it’s still important that they do. When cities choose to validate and stand with the struggles happening within our communities, it keeps Canada’s true past in people’s minds, instead of promoting the myth of Canadian exceptionalism. That spurs change and gives me hope that a reconciliatory, decolonial future is possible. 

Now that a year has passed and the buzz around residential schools has quieted, I worry that we have collectively forgotten. I don’t want you to forget. I want you to continue to show up in solidarity with us. 

You may be wondering: Isn’t Canada Day all about celebrating multiculturalism? What’s so bad about throwing a Canada Day party, or watching the fireworks, to celebrate that?

To that, I urge you to consider the irony of upholding Canadian multiculturalism at the expense of Indigenous peoples. Pre-colonization, there were as many as 2 million Indigenous peoples across what is now Canada; by 1867, disease, starvation and warfare reduced our population numbers to 100,000. We have built our population nearly back up to pre-colonization numbers (reaching 1.67 million people today), but even that only comprises 4.9% of the overall Canadian population. Furthermore, while there are more than 50 Indigenous Nations and 70 distinct languages (that’s more than Europe) across Turtle Island, only 15.6% of Indigenous peoples can conduct a conversation in an Aboriginal language, and most Indigenous languages in Canada are at risk of going extinct. 

How can we celebrate Canada’s multiculturalism today when the country was founded on European colonial assimilation and genocide? How can we throw parties, knowing that we are still uncovering Indigenous children’s bodies at the sites of residential schools intended to ‘kill the Indian’ in them? How can we idly watch fireworks celebrating Canada’s multiculturalism, when the original multiculturalism of Turtle Island is at risk of being lost forever?

Personally, I don’t think we can. So if you don’t want to celebrate Canada Day, here are ten things you can do, as an ally, to show up in solidarity for Indigenous peoples:

1. Begin taking a course to more deeply understand Indigenous peoples, such as this free, online one offered by the University of Alberta;

2. Source your news about Indigenous peoples from Indigenous publications, such as APTN;

3. Spend time consuming Indigenous creatives’ content on social media, television, podcasts and music;

4. Read the TRC and MMIWG reports to better understand the historical challenges and current realities Indigenous peoples are facing today;

5. Pay an Indigenous speaker and/or performer to attend an upcoming event you are planning;

6. Contact your local elected officials and ask them how they are working to implement the 94 Calls to Action;

7. Support Indigenous entrepreneurs by purchasing goods from their businesses;

8. Volunteer your time to an Indigenous charity or nonprofit;

9. Donate to Indigenous peoples’ GoFundMe pages and mutual aid requests;

10. Advocate for the protection of the lands and waters we share.

Notes:

*The numbers are not what matters. As Dr. James A Makokis (@drmakokis) tweeted, “No matter what the numbers are, there are not supposed to be graveyards at schools, ever”.

Student organizing against gender-based violence

Excerpt from my interview with the Canadian Women’s Foundation (CWF) and the IMPACTS Team.

Overview:

Across Canada, students are mobilizing to end gender-based violence in their schools. Students of all ages are organizing in their high schools, CEGEPs, colleges, and universities to raise awareness of the pervasiveness of gender-based violence on campus, to support those who experience this violence, and to call for policy change to end it.

I spoke as part of a roundtable discussion with student organizers about the shape of student activism: what it’s like to organize online, the challenges of sustaining student-led movements, and their current campaigns and calls to action.

Q: How did you get involved in organizing around gender-based violence on your campus?

A: I got involved in organizing around gender-based violence through student politics. In the second year of my undergraduate degree, I ran to become a representative on my university’s Board of Governors.

I included advocating for a better sexual violence policy in my platform because of my own experiences with sexual violence growing up, and because I had heard about the work that OurTurn (now Students for Consent Culture) was doing.

When I joined the Board of Governors and brought the issue forward to one of my more experienced colleagues, he said “This is not a board priority, and I don’t see it becoming one unless there is a major crisis”. Three weeks later, I was sexually assaulted. I began my advocacy in the gender-based violence space at the same time I began navigating my own sexual assault case.

Q: What are the key issues you’re dealing with on your campus related to GBV and organizing within your institution?

A: My university’s sexual violence policy was survivor-centric in theory, but not always in implementation. Many survivors felt disincentivized to come forward because of the revictimization and barriers they experienced when coming forward.

Some issues with our policy included:

• Perpetrators were able to find out many personal details about the survivors’ lives.

• Survivors are forced to interact with their abusers and hear “their side” of what happened.

• Survivors not knowing their perpetrator’s consequences following a completed investigation.

• Interim measures and consequences are not being upheld by the administration.

Furthermore, the university administration wasn’t targeting every demographic it needed to in order to effectively implement prevention efforts. This allowed rape culture to remain pervasive throughout the student body.

Q: How did you tackle those issues, and what kind of institutional response did you receive?

A: I tackled gender-based violence through a variety of means, including:

• Representing the student body in advocating for changes to the sexual violence policy as a Board member;

• Speaking at large-scale public engagements, such as the United Nations 16 Day Campaign to End Gender-Based Violence;

• Sharing my lived experiences at Survivors Speaks events put on by our university’s Women’s Center;

• Helping my program put on fundraising events for sexual assault support centres in our community;

• Meeting directly with the administration staff to raise concerns I had about how the university was perpetuating rape culture and failing to support survivors.

The institutional response I received was, for the most part, discouraging. I think that while there were individual staff willing to hear the student body out, the university administration as a whole was more intent on protecting their legal reputation than they were on creating a survivor-centric policy.

However, my one positive exception to this happened while I was reviewing the sexual violence policy at a Board meeting. I spoke up and raised concerns about some of the amended language they were proposing because it came across as victim-blaming. I knew the language they used throughout the policy could make or break whether survivors felt comfortable to come forward. I advocated for the language to change. And the administration agreed to it! It made me grateful to be in the right place at such an important time.

Q: We see lots of conversation online right now about gendered violence, like with the Depp v Heard trial, though some folks don't realize these conversations are tied to a broader structure of rape culture. How do you think social media is impacting the movement to end gendered violence on campus? Do you think social media has made it so that people are more aware of GBV as a systemic issue?

A: When I was in university, social media was a major tool to raise awareness about gender-based violence. There were the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements, Chanel Miller’s victim impact statement went viral, some big abusers in Hollywood were being held accountable, and while the Trump era spewed misogyny, it also sparked the Women’s March, the largest single-day protest in U.S history.

Because youth are so receptive to change, and because my generation was raised so closely with the internet, these events spilled over into conversations about ending gender-based violence on campus. So I do think that while I was in university, social media was a powerful tool that made people more aware of gender-based violence as a systemic issue.

I am nervous about the way that the movement to end gender-based violence is going, both in terms of the upswing in violence against women, girls and gender non-conforming people throughout the Covid-19 pandemic, as well as the recent sensationalization of abusive relationships in media (Kanye/Kim, Johnny/Amber, etc.).

However, if my social media echo chamber is anywhere near reflective of the younger Gen Z, I firmly believe they have been able to bring forth feminist talking points that are far more nuanced and insightful than what I saw during the era of millennial pink, #girlboss feminism. That brings me hope.

Q: Though GBV is covered in the news and taken up by school administrators more than in the past, some activists have pointed out how an intersectional framework is often missing in efforts to address GBV. Are there any key concerns you see around a lack of an intersectional framework for how issues related to campus GBV are addressed? 

A: My university’s current sexual violence policy is sparse in how it addresses intersectionality; it acknowledges that those in equity-seeking groups who experience intersecting forms of disadvantage may be disproportionately affected by sexual violence, but it doesn’t include an intersectional framework to address these issues.

The policy may aim to “combat broader societal attitudes regarding gender, sex and sexuality that normalize sexual violence and undermine equality in addition to recognizing systemic forms of oppression”, but it does not state how, or how someone within the university community may hold the institution accountable when it fails to do so.

It’s so important that we feel seen and cared for by those we go to for support. When those people can relate to our life experiences, it makes it much easier to open up. Without an intersectional lens and framework applied in policy and its implementation, survivors miss out on the support best suited to their unique needs. 

Q: GBV is not the only issue or concern for students on campus. To what extent are you connected with other social justice organisations on your campus? How do you see these issues fitting together?

A: I was fortunate as a student politician to have an overview of everything going on on campus. I assisted my university in progress in many areas, such as adopting a new mental health framework, supporting our accessibility strategy and contributing to Carleton’s Indigenous strategy and calls to action.

However, in hindsight, I wish I had involved more of the student body, especially those with lived experience unlike mine, in organizing around gender-based violence to see where these issues could have fit together.

Q: As students doing this work, do you feel like you are part of a broader feminist movement? Have you been able to find allies outside of your post-secondary institution? Are you connected to the movement to end gender-based violence in your community or more broadly? 

A: Being in university while a feminist wave was crashing over the internet, I absolutely felt connected to a wider movement. When Students for Consent Culture graded various universities across Canada on their sexual violence policies, it was discouraging to see how low the grades were across the board; but it was encouraging to know that students at other universities across the country were speaking out.

I’ve also been fortunate to carry on the work I started within the university to my workplaces after it- I’ve run trainings at my workplace about 2SMMIWG, and I’m currently writing a report about the priorities of First Nations women, gender-diverse and 2SLGBTQQIA+ people in British Columbia, and my next project is a policy brief advocating for sex education reform.

Q: By its very nature, student activism is time-limited. Students graduate out, move on to different institutions or roles in life. In contrast, systems change - whether it’s changing systems within post-secondary institutions or within government - can take a long time. How are student activists thinking about passing down knowledge to incoming students? Are there ways you think we can collaborate with off-campus feminist organizations to help prevent that loss of institutional knowledge?

A: My situation is unique in that I graduated early on in the pandemic, when everything, from the way we learned to the way we did activism, had transitioned online. Additionally, I graduated feeling extremely burnt out. I needed a break from the gender-based violence activism space in order to recover.

As a result, when I moved away from Ottawa, I didn’t think about the importance of passing down knowledge to incoming students. I wish I had because students’ memory of the activists who came before them is usually limited to 1-3 years older than their own efforts.

I absolutely see a role in collaborating with both on and off-campus feminist organizations in order to ensure that knowledge is able to be passed down. For example, women’s centres on campus could conduct outreach to the student activists they know in order to collect their policy recommendations, then pass these on to groups like Students for Consent Culture for campaigning purposes. We need stories of hope from those who came before us in order to keep us pushing forward.

Q: What kind of self-care considerations should student activists be thinking about, especially for those working in a gender-based violence space? What advice can you offer for balancing the stresses and possibly triggering or vicarious trauma of working on these issues with academic pressures, financial pressures, etc. that come with student life? What does it look like to take care of yourself and your community?

A: Living through Carleton’s sexual violence policy at the same time that it was up for revision meant that on one hand, I could share my lived experiences during a meaningful window of opportunity. On the other hand, I wish I could go back in time to when I was sexually assaulted and tell myself to take better care of myself.

When I was navigating my assault, I was a full-time student trying to remain on the Dean’s list, learn the world of student politics, partake in extracurricular activities, work part-time and maintain a ‘normal’ social life. It was an impossible balance, one that came at the expense of my mental health. Yet even though I knew I was navigating PTSD and depression, I never gave myself more than a week off of my work. I felt as though I had to stay involved in student politics in order to prove to my abuser’s circle of friends that they couldn’t silence me.

As a result, I hit a mental health rock bottom, one that if it weren’t for my therapist intervening, could have taken my life. I regret not giving myself time to heal and rest earlier. I didn’t listen to my mental health cues or body, and I’m lucky that people were around me when I was at rock bottom. Others might not be so lucky. It’s vital to have a support network, but you shouldn’t have to overextend yourself before leaning on them. 

Therefore, my advice to those balancing advocacy in the gender-based violence space with the other demands of student life, especially for those with lived experience, is to be honest with yourself about what you have the capacity to take on and stay within your limits. Be gentle with yourself, because it may take years to recover if not. 

You don’t have to change the world, or even your campus, in the short time you are there because there will always be brave folks willing to carry this work forward. Healing is such an important part of the work. I think about Micaela Coel’s Emmy speech, when she says, “Do not be afraid to disappear, from it, from us, for a while, and see what comes to you in the silence”. You are allowed to heal quietly and speak loudly about it later.

Q: What has been your biggest “win” as a student activist? Are you working on any specific campaigns now that we should know about?

A: This year, I’ve joined the Vancouver Foundation’s LEVEL Policy Program cohort. We’re working on putting together policy proposals on topics of our choosing so that they can be presented to the government. I’ve chosen to conduct my project on reforming British Columbia’s sex education system so that it has a stronger focus on consent, boundaries, healthy relationships and marginalized communities’ experiences of sexuality, such as those who are disabled or part of the 2SLGBTQQIA+ community.

Last month, I visited parliamentarians at the BC Legislative Assembly, and the Parliamentary Secretary for Gender Equity mentioned my idea in conversation before I even had a chance to share it. So I’m incredibly hopeful that my policy ask will be taken well and will lead to change.

The wins we receive in this space are too often hard-fought, but they are possible. So if I can leave folks with one parting remark, it’s don’t give up the fight.

15 reminders for Indigenous peoples x Pride month

Ah June, my favourite month to celebrate all of who I am. I put together this list in honour of both Indigenous Peoples and Pride Month - take a number that suits you.

1. Pride started as a riot, spearheaded by trans women of colour. We owe everything to them.

2. After generations of colonization devaluing their wisdom, we have an imperative to restore the inclusion of Two-Spirit individuals into the 2SLGBTQQIA+ acronym.

3. Land acknowledgments and Indigenous representation should be present at every Pride celebration.

4. Police presence, on the other hand...

5. Indigenous conceptions of gender and sexuality are far more expansive than the western world can ever hope to be. Our terms, in our languages, deserve to be revitalized and upheld.

6. Not everyone gets to access our ‘coming out’ stories, our ‘queer awakening’ stories, our intergenerational trauma or our ceremonial stories for free. Pay your queer and Indigenous storytellers who are willing to share. 

7. On that note, allies: please dedicate your time (yes, your paid holidays) and your financial resources to learning from and supporting us.

8. It’s best practice to lead conversations with your pronouns and ask everyone to join in. 

9. Yes, you are “queer enough”. Even if you are early in your transition, even if you are in a straight passing relationship, even if you’re in the closet, even if you’ve never been to Pride.

10. Fluidity is a sacred and gorgeous thing.

11. Yes, you are “Indigenous enough”. Even if you don’t know your language yet, even if you grew up urban, even if you’re mixed, even if finding your way back to community is challenging.

12. Intersectionality at the centre, always. Our Indigiqueer kin have so much to say.

13. Indigenous youth, especially Two-Spirit and queer youth, deserve better mental health services, including identity-affirming spaces, traditional teachings and access to our lands. 

14. Indigenous and trans women suffer rates of sexual assault three to four times higher than their settler and/or cisgender counterparts; we need systemic solutions that keep us all safe.

15. When we remain resilient in the face of institutions constantly working to erase us, we honour the generations of ancestors who strove before us, and our future ancestors to come.

How to: feel comfortable buying sex toys

Ever felt awkward in a sex shop?

I know I have.

I remember clearly my first visit. A friend and I talked about how we had newly discovered self-pleasure and agreed to go as each other’s moral support after dinner. 

We walked into a stag shop, fluorescent lights glaring overhead, ball gags and ten-inch dildos staring us in the face. I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be in there, and awkwardly stared at the floor.

“Hi! What can I help you find?” asked the cheery sales associate.

A way out of this place, I thought.

“Uh, I’m not sure. Something to use on myself, but I don’t know what exactly. This is my first time.”

She guided me towards a section designated for clear beginners like me.

“Here, this is a bullet vibrator. It just needs one battery to run, and it’s only $12. It’s a great one to start with.”

She placed it in my hand. I watched, dumbfounded, as a buzzing lipstick tube bounced around in my palm.

“Are you sure this won’t hurt?” I asked. “This seems really intense.”

“It won’t be as intense when you use it.”

I took a deep breath, and brought my tiny purple lipstick tube to the counter, making sure not to look at anything or anyone else. The sales associate tossed a free battery inside, and flashed me a knowing smile.

“Trust me.” 

I gave her a weak grin and left. My friend and I giggled outside the store, feeling sheepish and giddy about this newfound woman territory we had just entered. We showed off the colours of our buzzing lipstick tubes to one another, and exclaimed, “Let me know if it works!” as we headed home.

—

To quote Florence Given: “Not to be dramatic, but my first vibrator changed my mother fucking life”.

It’s been a few years since I placed my trust in that sex shop sales associate, and I have to agree. That visit started me on a trajectory of taking pleasure into my own hands and valuing my desires as equally important as the people I explored intimacy with. I cannot overemphasise how empowering it feels to take control of your own body and learn its ins and outs.

However, not all sex shops are created equal. 

My most uncomfortable experience happened last summer. The store I visited reeked of cigarette smoke, held every item behind glass cabinets, and was filled with pictures of women in compromising positions. Nearby, a curtained-off section read “Pay 10 tokens to see the back room”. It made me immensely uncomfortable, and I left the same minute I walked in.

That experience made me reevaluate what I find important when shopping for pleasure products. My now non-negotiables are:

• The store must feel welcoming and safe. 

• There has to be reliable information available. The section for books and pamphlets is just as important as the sexy ones.

• It must be 2SLGBTQQIA+ friendly. If they carry queer-affirming products, I know I’m in good hands.

• I need to know that the products I’m buying are body-safe. I don’t want to be worrying about an allergic reaction interrupting my business.

• Discreet shipping is a must. I may be sex-positive, but I still don’t need my roommates to know what I’m buying.

• Bonus points go to any business that’s prioritizing accessible sex education, giving back to the community, and implementing sustainability initiatives. 

Thankfully, I’ve put together a list of places that fill each of those criteria. I’ll tell you what I love about each of them below. And as a bonus, I’ll make a recommendation on one item you might like to try from each.

Venus Envy

Stores: Online

Why You’ll Love Them: Venus Envy is education-oriented, describing itself as both a sex shop and bookstore. They have an entire blog dedicated to free, accessible sex education, with articles on topics like “Navigating sex on antidepressants” and “How to talk about masturbation with a partner”. They are run with feminist, anti-racist, and queer + trans-positive values, and even feature a “pay-it-forward” program for binders and gaffs.

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The Sleek Pillow Talk Sassy, $80 CAD. With a long handle and curved head, this one is able to reach all the right internal spots. It has a range of rumbly vibration settings that are easy to cycle through while being used.

The Nookie

Stores: Toronto

Why You’ll Love Them: Founder Veronica Kazoleas has been researching women’s sexual fantasies for twenty years- and she’s become an expert in pleasure products along the way. The Nookie seeks to provide people with the knowledge, tools, and confidence necessary to explore their sexuality, ranging from recommending vibrators to assisting couples in defining sex-free intimacy.

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The body-safe Pyrex Icicles No.66 Glass Plug in Black, $30 CAD. Glass toys may seem a little scary, but if cared for well, can last a lifetime. It’s waterproof, easily cleanable and great for hot or cold temperature play.

Come As You Are

Stores: Toronto

Why You’ll Love Them: As a democratic, ethical and anti-capitalist co-operative, Come As You Are focuses on stocking low-priced, quality products without profiting off of your pleasure. Their shop “reflects diverse genders, orientations, sexualities, and life experiences”, and features incredible resources throughout their “Sex Information” blog, book section, and referral knowledge. They also explicitly stated the location of their store’s wheelchair-accessible washroom, a piece of information that all stores should publicize.

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The ribbed texture Screaming O Jackits Stroker, $12 CAD. This toy can be used for handheld pleasure or to rub up against, which makes it a great bang for your buck (literally).

Industrial Luv

Stores: Regina

Why You’ll Love Them: If you’re looking for a place that won’t yuck your yums, Industrial Luv is it. Women-owned, sex-positive, and 2SLGBTQQIA+ supportive, this store brings over 50 years of experience in the sex industry. They have a wide selection, but can also do custom orders if you don’t see what you’re looking for.

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: This travel-friendly Gaia Eco Biodegradable Bullet Vibe, $19.95 CAD. Quiet, powerful, waterproof, and compatible with any lubricant, this is a great starter toy for vulva owners. Its starch-based bioplastic material also makes it the world’s first biodegradable and recyclable vibrator, which is a win-win for you and Mother Nature.

Sensuale Intimate Wellness

Stores: Calgary

Why You’ll Love Them: Unlike many conventional stores, Sensuale goes without gendered packaging and labels, enabling you to find a wider variety of toys that work for your pleasure. Their expert sex educator team ensures that every item they carry is body-safe, and as a member of the Ecopackaging Alliance, they’ve adopted packaging that biodegrades within 180 days. They also do something radical called “compassionate pricing”; meaning they can meet with you personally to discuss your device and budget needs to help you find a toy that fits.

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The versatile Be Bold Hollow Strapon Set with 8” Dildo, $110 CAD. Its simple and innovative design makes it suitable for all genders, and with no buckles or straps to worry about, it’s easy to wear too.

Intamo Pleasurables

Stores: Vancouver, Victoria

Why You’ll Love Them: Intamo values inclusive sex education for all humans; a portion of every sale it makes goes towards providing free local, inclusive sex education. They share a list of sexual health clinics and other helpful resources on their website. Their store also uniquely features its own plant-based and cruelty-free lubricant and personal care line.

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The Lovely Day Massage Candle, $45 CAD. The wax burns long (30-40 hours) and low (using skin-safe soy wax), leaving you feeling smooth and smelling delicious. Plus, its pour spout means you won’t have to worry about dealing with a hot (wax) mess afterwards.

Womyn’s Ware

Stores: Vancouver

Why You’ll Love Them: Having changed the culture around pleasure since 1995, this store is a veteran in the area of advocating for women’s (and all genders’) sexuality. They believe in tailoring their shopping experiences to each customer, exploring sexual expression beyond what’s seen in popular media, and above all, replacing shame with joy. Their website also features a full blog dedicated to providing tutorials, making them very learner-friendly.

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The Bluetooth-compatible We Vibe Moxie, $140 CAD. This one is hands-free, held in place by a magnetic clip- making on-the-go use possible (just don’t offend any service industry workers with it). Those in long-distance relationships will appreciate sending good vibe(...bration)s with its accompaniment, the We Connect app.

Spectrum Boutique

Stores: Online

Why You’ll Love Them: Spectrum Boutique speaks transparently about sex, health and relationships to affirm all identities, curiosities and experience levels. They don’t gender their products or tell folks how they’re “supposed” to be used because they believe that everything in their store can be used by anybody. They have both a journal and a forum online and invite their community to join in on the conversation.  

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The packs-a-punch Pillow Talk Cheeky Silicone Rechargeable Massager, $69 CAD. As a vibrator massaging wand, this toy is great when used on all kinds of erogenous zones as a warm-up, or as the main act indirectly or directly against the clit. Its textured handle provides extra grip for yourself or a partner to apply pressure, and it’s splashproof, making it compatible with any water-based lube.

Shop Enby

Stores: Online

Why You’ll Love Them: Enby is not just inclusive of the queer community- it’s built for it, especially gender non-conforming, trans and nonbinary people. The store carries plenty of products from Queer and Trans-owned businesses and artists, with a full section of their shop dedicated to ‘affirmation’. They are also committed to social and environmental good; each purchase funds renewable energy and forest conservation projects, and 2% of their profits go towards organizations supporting Queer and Trans People of Color.  

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The multi-use Fantasy Ultimate Pleasure Dual Oral Sex Stimulator and G-Spot Vibrator, $145 CAD. The motorized tongue simulates oral sex, the handle vibrates and hits the g-spot/prostate, and the pump can suction to increase blood flow and intensity. It may be expensive, but it’s also one of the most versatile toys out there- each sensation can be used together or apart on any erogenous zone you please.

Unbound Babes

Stores: Online

Why You’ll Love Them: Unbound says they make the most beautiful, safest sex toys in the business- a big claim, but one that’s backed with lab testing and factory inspections. They’re a small team of loud activists who have done some pretty cool things, like sending vibrators to members of Congress in support of reproductive health. They also publish an online magazine that’s both educational and entertaining.

One ~Fun~ Item I Recommend: The compact Puff, $48 USD. This toy simulates oral sex with five different suction intensity levels. It's waterproof, travel-sized and easy to use- great for delivering exactly what your clit needs.

—

I hope this list was as helpful to you as the sales associate was to me when she put that first buzzing lipstick tube in my hand. Wishing you a safe and fun pleasure journey ahead. ;)