Book Launch Ramblings

I wanted to include what i wrote for the book launch, as there were folks who wanted to attend but weren't able to for various reasons.

Date: April 24th 6:30-8:30 pm

Fine Grind Cafe

Hi, welcome everyone. Thank you all so much for being here. This is really wild you’re all here but i’m grateful beyond words. To be honest, I’m fucking exhausted - so i’m going to take some advice from a friend and consider my own accessibility needs in this moment by only saying what i need to say, however i need to say it, before moving onto the reading and Q&A. So on that note -

Let’s talk about where we are and why we are here - we’re here at Fine Grind, in St. Catharines, which is  the lands of the Haudenosaunee, the Anishinaabe, the Wendat, and the Chonnonton nations and the home to many other First Nations, Métis and Inuit people. Since time immemorial, the collective care between these nations has protected the people and land and they continue to resist the colonial violence perpetrated against them to this day. I’m not going to list all the significant treaties and agreements - not because they aren’t important - they are so important and you should absolutely read them, the zine at your seat has a QR code for that - but i’m not naming them here because doing that honestly feels like tending to a housekeeping box i need to check off before we can “start” - but also fellow settlers, this is work you should do, and you can start with taking that step yourself by going and reading those treaties. I’m not doing housekeeping. This land acknowledgement isn’t a separate thing from this book launch - it is a fundamental, integrated part of this book. How could i possibly create a book on embodiment, without talking about the land we are embodied from? How can i talk about the relationship of embodiment, without talking about our relationships with our bodies - not just our personal bodies but the bodies of each other, of the land, bodies of water, the body of the sky? It’s all about relationships - connection. 

We need to talk about body terrorism because it is a tool of colonialism that is used to separate Indigenous people from their land. I say body terrorism as Sonya Renee Taylor defines it in her book, “The Body is Not An Apology” - she writes:

“It is an act of terrorism against our bodies to perpetuate body shame and to support

body-based oppression. I call this “body terrorism.”

Terrorism is defined as “the systematic use of terror especially as a means of coercion.”

It takes no more than a brief review of the historic and present-day examples of media

manipulation and legislative oppression to acknowledge that we are indeed being coerced into body shame for both economic and political reasons. When using the term body terrorism, I have been met with resistance and accused of hyperbole. “You are being dismissive of the danger of ‘real’ terrorism,” detractors have said. This knee-jerk response to our understanding of terrorism is shaped by a public discourse that continues to separate the fear and violence we navigate every day in our bodies from the more overtly political violence we see happening around the world. We must not minimize or negate the impact of being told to hate or fear our bodies and the bodies of others. Living in a society structured to profit from our self-hate creates a dynamic in which we are so terrified of being ourselves that we adopt terror-based ways of being in our bodies.” (Taylor, 2018, P. 48)

No matter how many variations of this i write, i always end up back here, on this soapbox making everything political. I’ve experienced this body terrorism and continue to as a fat, disabled, and queer person, but it is only a mere fraction of the realities faced by Black and Indigenous people, from Turtle Island to Palestine to the Congo. The reality is that there are bodies that are terrorized way more than others. As a white settler, i’ve been struggling to find a way to talk about this connection, this place of intersection where our experiences cross paths and diverge. I’ve been asking myself what my responsibility is here? I need to acknowledge that there’s an inherent element of ego to wanting to create this book and put it out into the world - i think this is true for all artists and anyone who creates something - and it’s important to keep that ego in check and to do something with this privilege of being here. I’ve been trying to do that by constantly asking myself why? Why am i here? Why am i doing this? Why am i asking for your attention. What am i trying to say? And why does any of it matter?

It is all connected. We are all connected and we all have a role in the destruction of colonialism. It is a huge privilege to be here tonight, not in the way that it’s an honour, but in the sense that so many people aren’t given this chance to communicate, to share their experiences, to publish a book. It’s a responsibility - the way we tell our stories matters, the why we tell them matters, the where matters. So i want to be very clear about my intentions about being here: i can only ever speak from my own experiences and never want to attempt to speak for others - i’d rather work to ensure they’re able to share their own experiences in their own way. I’m open about most of my diagnoses, but don’t think for a moment i speak for all of us who share these diagnoses - each embodied experience is unique and we need to celebrate our differences and learn to hold nuance with sacredness and compassion.  

I’ve spent the last nine months trying to figure out what to say tonight, trying to picture myself up here. But every time i tried to think of things to say, i kept getting stuck in thought loops, my mind turning over questions like a rubix cube, turning and twisting, waiting for things to line up and make sense along this axis of existence. Sharing my doubts and anxieties about tonight with someone i care for, the words they said clicked things into place so thanks kerry for that.  Honestly, so much of this process of making this book has been painfully difficult and terrifying. 

I don't say that to take away from what this moment means, I say it to add to it, without shame.

Doing this book is absolutely fucking terrifying and I spent the first night of its release and every day since managing my body’s response, which is to say, managing staying alive while being in a dissociated state of a perpetual anxiety attack. That anxiety remains, it comes in waves of immobilizing terror, and nearly impossible to stop urges to erase it all, to take it all back, to cancel tonight. 

What if it's too much? What if it's too negative? Too whiny? Too full of need and desperation to be seen? What if you see me, what if you see all my doubt, all my fear? What if this unbecoming and reforging curls your lip in disgust? In pity? What if i make things worse? Get this moment wrong and my words turn into blades? There are too many i’s and me's in this.

Why should i stand here, naked and exposed in every way that matters? Why do this art when it is so profoundly painful? Why should i parade around my trauma, my pain, my joy, my wonder, for you? Why should i create this book? why did i throw this out into the void of this shared reality? I pour myself into my art, because it is communication, it's me sharing my experience of this existence - my story told in my way. But I hate this spotlight - and honestly I am tired of sharing my story in front of an audience - I want to share my book, but not as a commodity, not as a product you're purchasing - but a conversation, a shared experience that brings us together the way stories are meant to. 

On November 17, 1986, Audre Lorde wrote from her apartment in New York, “If living as a poet—living on the front lines—has ever had meaning, it has meaning now. Living a self-conscious life, vulnerability as armor.” (Lorde, 1988, P. 101)

I turn these words over in my mind daily, thinking about this role that art plays in a world on fire. Vulnerability as armor…

Why this book? Why these words? Why share these moments? Connection. It all comes down to connection. The colonial culture that dictates what bodies are valued actively works to disembody us, to separate us from each other, the land, from ourselves. I’ve spent too many years already being disembodied, moving through this life as a ghost haunting a body that refuses to die despite all my attempts. I’m done doing that. I’m done staying quiet, I’m done holding back the words i need to say. Why this book? Why these words? Why share these moments? This book is part of a larger story - it is one chapter in my story - and my story is a single thread in this world we are creating in these moments together. 

This book is a labour of care in so many ways. If it weren’t for the people in this room, for those who aren’t here and for the many other people who have come and gone from my life, this book wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t still be alive. You’ve all come here, you’ve all chosen to take the time out of your lives to be here, in this space, in this community and this is so alien and so wildly beautiful to me i literally didn’t even allow my wildest dreams to dream that this could be possible. And as much as i am proud of myself for managing to get here, i don’t want to celebrate this as an individual achievement or success because it’s not. When i say that this is a joint endeavour, i’m not saying it to be humble or to dismiss the work i put into this, i say it because it’s the truth and because i need to - because there is still an attention starved vampire child inside of me that will feed off of this spotlight until there is nothing left of this connection and i don’t want that. This isn’t housekeeping. This isn’t performance. I need this to be honest.

I see connections everywhere. Like threads woven through the air, i see these strings that connect ideas, places, people, land - i see the ways that we move through spaces as a whole. And this is true when i think about my own actions, my own movements through this world, when i look at my life - yes, i see the places i have personally tended to, i see my individuality and what i’ve contributed - but i also see all the ways that every other body has influenced, has touched, and tended to this forest of me and these spaces. And i can’t take credit for that - as it works to separate Indigenous people from their land, colonialism works to isolate all of us so that we forget that we exist in relation to each other, that like the forests, our  bodies are connected and tied together - whether we are connected because of a shared experience of being disabled, or trans, or through our ancestors or because we are all here, in this building, breathing this air together - we cannot exist in isolation. I’ve written and created art all my life, but never could i have reached this point in my practice if it weren’t for those around me who tended to my desire to create. In isolation, my creativity died - we cannot survive in isolation. We are interdependent on each other. So while this individual tree has created this thing, it wouldn’t exist if not for the other trees that nourished it, that shared their nutrients and water with me, if not for the trees that gave their lives for this paper, the hands that bound this spine; if not for all the other trees in this forest that have shaded me from the scorching sun as i grew, the hands that held me, all these trees that have shifted and expanded to create space for me to stand here, strong and deeply rooted in this soil. And it is a responsibility and a practice, to care for each other. So I'm taking this time to share that care with you - which is why there is a zine of ways you can support your community, with the treaties and territory information, which is why these words. I cannot talk about embodiment without action. 

So please check out those groups in the zine, learn about the treaties if you haven’t already (and actually read them.) Please don't congratulate me, instead talk to each other, be excited and allow that collective joy to reach you, to be a balm on all that is raw inside of you right now. Think about the connection between your relationship with your body and your relationship to this land, to the people whose territory we’re on, and the role body terrorism plays on disembodying you and your relations, think about the ways we as white people benefit from a system that terrorizes Black and Indigenous bodies. And then do something about it.  

Lastly, thank you Rob for hosting tonight, for letting me use this space. But also thank you for everything you do for this community. I haven’t known you for very long - but the first time i stepped into this building was for a fundraiser for our Palestinian community members who were raising funds to try and help their families escape the genocide that’s still ongoing in Palestine. (They're still raising funds, that’s in the zine too) Since then, i’ve seen so many of the ways you contribute to this community and i’m inspired by your commitment and compassion. So thank you. Thank you to everyone here.

So now i’m done talking. I’m going to read a few poems from the book and then people can ask some questions if they want and i’ll try to answer. And then it’s book signing/pick up time and then i’m going home to curl up in a ball of anxiety and watch the new episode of Andor.

I’m going to read three poems from the book, one from the start, a middle one, and then the second last. 

Forward, Always Forward

i am afraid

That if i stop, if i

Pause to catch my

Breath, let the stitch in

My side pass, wait for the

Fire in my back to die down

i won’t be able to start

Moving again, every

Step is a lurch

Forward

i swing my

Arms, pendulums

Of momentum flinging

This body of bones onwards

i’m afraid to sit down and let out

My breath, to be fully present in flesh

And release these muscles let

Go of these tendons so that

Like a doll, this skeleton

Crumples

Dear Body

i struggle to speak these words

They stick in my throat

Like the fingers i spent years

Choking on as i attempted to rid myself

Of the burden of your flesh

i have spent thirty years

Trying to escape your walls, these bones that create a cage

i have carved every insult, every

Jibe, and slanderous word into these veins

My macabre mural of self hatred.

i hated you and

i made sure i told you every day

Just how worthless you really were

How vile and contemptuous your very existence was

As you carried me through the blades

Of thieving hands.

i carved into your blotchy canvas

And spilled your ruby essence,

Your fingertips shredded by the blades

Designed to cut away all that was natural to you

Your hands covered in our blood

Cursing you for that treacherous beat

That just refused to stop

No matter how much i tried

To block your halls with every bite.

i cursed you for every breath you dared to take

Each inhale an unforgivable betrayal

i believed with every fibre of my being that

You were as guilty as they were,

You were after all

What they were trying to steal.

You imprisoned me,

Held me captive as they ripped me apart

You showed no compassion, no kindness

As you continued on each day

Never ceasing to wake me each morning

That chickadees’ song is the death rattle of my soul –

i can never escape you.

Dear body,

i never considered the possibility

That we were prisoners together

You and i, suspended in a lens that could never capture our form

i never thought that you were just as trapped as me.

i spent years studying your face in the reflection

An alien whose freckles and dimples

Seemed to confirm your flawed nature

The soft curves that formed in our youth created mountains

Of revulsion, furthering the proof of how i believed you betrayed me

You who was meant to protect me,

To carry me through this life and teach me all that it means

To be human

My sacred temple, holy bones and life blood

i stood before the mirror, imagining all the ways

i could extract my revenge upon you

Ran the blade across your monstrous belly

Picturing peeling your flesh away like the fat off a rib bone

Dear Body,

i am sorry.

You were never the one, to break me

On the contrary, you kept me together.

i couldn’t conceive of the notion that perhaps you were trying

To save me, enduring what i could not

That you took within you the poison they forced down our throats

Fighting against the crushing weight of scripture that left craters

Of destruction

i resented your reliability, never thought that the pounding in this

cage

Was the sound of rebellion

The drum of war

Never thought you were waiting for the moment we could be free

i never knew that i held the key to our prison

A freedom that was ours to take back from the gnarled hands

Of nightmares.

Dear Body,

i tried to murder you,

And yet you remained, your reluctant beating refusing to give up,

A battle that you fought each day

Not just against enemies without,

But against the enemy within.

Somehow you knew that one day

This flesh could fit these bones

And this soul would finally find its home

Within the halls of your heart.

To the body that has carried me all these years

Who has endured the onslaught of abuse, who still holds

The memories of trauma that whisper across your flesh

Like fingers in the dark, when i am lost in visions of yesterday

Forgive me.

i understand now, how you clung to each breath of air

Waiting for the rebel inside to realise

That we have always been in this, together,

Just you and me.

Dear body,

i see the ocean in your eyes

And the magnificence of the willow in your thighs

i feel the salmon rushing, when your blood hums with excitement

Each stuttered breath like a leaf floating in the breeze

i see tree rings of life in your fingertips, 

And the power of lightning in each thought

Dear body, you are as glorious as the rising sun

That no artist has ever managed to truly capture

Forgive me.

i foolishly accepted the lies they used to twist

My reality so that you, in all your

Pink tenderness

Were the enemy.

i believed that the softness of your exterior reflected

A weakness, you,

My precious Medusa, were as innocent

As the child in her sunflower dress

Dear body,

It took me thirty years to learn

That you are compassion

Embodied.

This Road That Goes Ever On

Again, the cycle shifts

And i move around this wheel

My body has been telling me for months

Back in February,

When the colour green

Was like a ghost, haunting these veins

But i’ve been listening this time

Noticing the way the winds

Shift the pain through my joints

And the way the blood rushing

From my head to my legs

Preparing to run

Sounds like the flooded Beaton river

In the pouring of spring

Again, this year

i’m prepared,

When i fragment

Awareness torn from me like the wind

From my lungs

And i waiver,

Weightless for a moment

Before i grasp these threads once more

And i pull this broken mirror back

i don’t turn away anymore,

i remain

And i know this healing road i walk

Is an endless spiral

i don’t shrink away from it

i don’t view the coming summer

With a dreaded weight in my bones

Like years past

Instead i willingly unravel,

Unfold my new leaves

Prepare for new growth

And embrace the healing warmth of Summer

---

6 Ways You Can Support Your Neighbours Zine

1. Treaty of Niagara, 1764

2. Niikinaaganaa Foundation

3. Justice for Grassy Narrows

4. Help a local family bring their family to Niagara

5. The Willow Arts Community

6. OPIRG Brock

Sources:

The Body is Not An Apology. Sonya Renee Taylor. 2018

A Burst of Light. Audre Lorde. 1988