Pink Ink Zine Is Going to Listen, and That Somebody Is Going to Care

Queen Street Kicks

I want to strut down Queen Street in these kicks, mid-afternoon with the sunshine warming my face, the cold wind brushing against my skin, and headphones streaming Kid Cudi’s “Erase Me” into these ears of mine. I want to walk down the street knowing that I deserve to live the best life that I can imagine. That my dreams and fantasies aren’t bullshit. That I have something to say about this life, to this world and that somebody 2012 Pink Ink Zine is going to listen, and that somebody is going to care. Layout Design: Alex Looky [email protected] I want to walk down the street with my head held high because I did Cover illustratror: Alixandra Bamford it my way. Frank Sinatra knew the game. He played it well. But, hey I’m no http://alixandra.ca/ocular crooner. Just a poet trying to make her way. I want to walk down the street with no baggage bearing down on me. No regrets. Only lessons learned, fates tested, games played. Imagine if we pushed ourselves everyday of our lives or even once a week. Imagine taking on just one challenge, jumping off just one precipice. Imagine being able to keep your shit together, not knowing where you’re going or where you’ve really been. Imagine dreaming again like you did when you were five, of not being told how hard it’s going to be, that you’ll fail or settle, that life never turns out the way you thought it would. Imagine drifting down the street smiling at passersby without any concern as to what they’re thinking. Of just gliding down the street like you’re fresh out the womb and everything is a different shade, a different hue, a different colour altogether. Imagine me and you, walking down that street, hand in hand, thinking, Goddamn isn’t this great?

Mary Dytyniak 2 3 is the kind The best kind of art that makes able of contents you want to run home and put your own hands and heart to work: fingers T onto keyboard, pen to paper, thought and emotion into words.

This was my experience after attending the 2009 Pink Ink Zine Launch at the Gladstone Hotel. It was the first time I had heard of Pink Ink, and Title Writer Page I was not prepared for the confidence, courage and wisdom I witnessed queen street kicks mary dytyniak 3 that night. I found myself feeling so lucky to live in a city that offered this preface kind of incredible resource and outlet - a writing community for queer vivek shraya 4 and trans youth! I was also in the process of finding my own voice again lacuna alix 6 as a writer and that night gave me everything I needed to push forward signals in soft blue silver fox 7 with my own work. poetry is dead jabez jones 8 metropolis musings jen 10 Three years later, I am thrilled to have the privilege of being the new facilitator for Pink Ink. When I started in April, I hoped to build on the ferdinand's a faggot ferdinand besik 11 important work of Pink Ink’s previous facilitator, Karine Silverwoman, a nigger faggot freak mat bowen 15 writer I have huge admiration for and a friend. It was such a wonder- the best and the worst the edgar allan poet 16 ful and surprising experience spending twelve Saturday afternoons with first date youth of varying ages, racial, gender and geographical backgrounds; nish is rani 17 youth who chose to commute for up to three hours to discuss various guys just don't kiss like that mary dytyniak 18 writing styles and techniques and to share and learn from each other, the governmental being jen 20 youth who worked tirelessly on their pieces for this zine, searching for hate on a speed date ramon vitug 21 the right word, the right title, the right ending. bamboo, filipinoness, and ray garcia 23 queerness One of our discussions at Pink Ink this year was around Audre Lorde’s “The Transformation of Silence”, a piece that quite literally transformed my collection of body parts alex looky 26 me after I heard it, impressing upon me the necessity for the creation metallic cans alex looky 29 and dissemination of more queer stories. Lorde’s essay also resonated audio cardio ramon vitug 30 with the youth, who drew from the piece as we brainstormed the new title silence mat bowen 31 for this year’s zine: “Breaking Silence, Building Voices, Being Heard”. This inspiration was also carried over into the beautiful cover by Pink Ink my beautiful girl sam stone 32 member Alixandra Bamford. malignant ferdinand besik 34 mad about mercury nish is rani 36 This year’s zine features work that is challenging, powerful and hon- est. Pieces that confront racism and fatphobia in the queer community, for those who died at sea mae martin 38 detail surviving homophobia in school and heartbreak, and honour our love letter to femme elders jessica miller 39 bodies and queer role models. Pieces that break silence. Pieces in which about the writers 42 the voices of these youth are resoundingly heard. eulogy for good old earth mae martin 46 Vivek Shraya Pink Ink Facilitator 4 5 Lacuna Signals in Soft Blue

Reconnecting jazz to sax, None of those few hundred photos online Reinviting warmth to my chaos. reveal the reason of my desire Drum beat picking up the downbeat. to examine your image repeatedly A comfort seeps slowly in, when what I seek eyes cannot see. Her warm breath on my neck.

It puzzles itself; Compressions traverse the room. exists, unknowable – The fortifying embrace finds me, its nature in question Connected to a sound, dying out. and also the answer. Cleverly orchestrated to give voice.

It resists our language of logic, The dormant spirit revitalised, will never meet with it, never undress for it. With clarity that travels through. Perhaps that explains why Gripping electro waves in awareness, something’s missing from my diary. That signals in soft blue. Crossing coolly. Or maybe that’s shame. It is in you. Reason is the wrong word, you see. And I am struck rightfully so. It’s just that you feel sick A style immersed in a simple tone, when you can’t understand, A bass that drives me home. I liked that about you. Where bold hands grasp firmly, But mystery stories have complete solutions Accented with pressing urgency. because we write them. We hold inside And eyes that suffer uncensored high sensory, what’s insoluble, unwritten – it’s defeated Tune in to subtle cues. us this time, the desire to solve. It is in you, signals in soft blue.

I’m talking about gaps – when you part your lips to speak, words missing in a language, what’s left when I enter my diary, alixandra what gapes between us. bamford silver fox 6 7 With loud sounding shrieks, He closes the canal with such ease, Poetry Is Dead He erases all trace of poetry.

The artists no longer feel the need to design rhyming words, narratives Using the design of words we create beauty. and all things fiction. I want you to imagine a world where poetry is dead. They would rather sit around all day wondering what was put in Michael Artists deprived from their bohemian ways and the raging demon of Jackson’s prescription. anarchy runs wild and unfed. When the devil is done deluding the faceless people’s minds, Everyone else is unaware of the death that has just taken place, He then turns and leaves, Poetic artists carry the heat of their blazing torches in hand. And when he’s gone the people awaken from their heavy daze, They embark on a journey to stop the devil’s son in his evil plan. Confused only for a moment, They go back to their normal lives, celebrity obsessed The devil’s son is malice and curl. All the fad crazed He pure vanity, with horns so long and wide it stretches out reaching into the minds of others. The state of mind of the people is oblivion He comes to take our creativity They are unable to see what is to become And replace it with absentminded normality. As the freedom of speech is the thread that weaves everything unsaid This is the world if poetry were dead. As faceless people stare as the devils son starts to unravel his plan, Artists shout with all their might ‘SANITY or VANITY’ as they marched, They shout and scream until the twilight, Until all their voices will no longer speak, Until they are parched.

They start to look around for contrast of colors and beautiful words to inspire there talent to fuel their power to stop this raging monster. But there is none, all the untouched diction, phrases and sentence structures have been taken from them, because in this hell it isn’t normal to dream. It isn’t normal to care. Losing all hope they fall into despair. They now see the flames all around them it intensifies and incinerates their flesh, Tortured screams and cries escape their lips as they try to escape, they try to thresh.

Just before the fire engulfs them the devils son speaks ‘I am not yet done’ jabez jones 8 9 Ferdinand’s a Faggot Metropolis Musings When I was in preschool another child chased me down a hall, jumped on my back, and tore into me with his teeth. Pondering in the park about lifes absolutes. When I was in elementary school a student picked me up by my collar The stressful chaos and smacked me across my backside with a hockey stick. and the in-betweens. When I was in middle school I left a youth dance at a local community centre, afraid to go into the washroom because another teenager had The choice that comes crept up behind me and whispered “Watch your back”. despite ones constraints. When I was in high school I washed my bright red Swiss army knife The cityscape looms. under hot water, delicately brought it against my cheek, and blamed my cat when people asked what had happened to my face. Peering past the trees lights peek through; a reminder and But what I remember most vividly of those golden years was Grade 9 startling truth of ones surroundings. gym, a seventy-five minute period every day which began and ended in a small, disgusting, locker room. Each day all the guys would crowd into the Picking [something] to bring rectangular room, benches flanking three of the walls, and ready them- a sense of peace... selves for the skill testing or soccer matches or weights or occasional run. They’d throw off their Catholic dress pants and golf shirts and slip But there is no escape. into Catholic gym shorts and tees. They’d laugh a bit, maybe talk about that “hot older chick” which so-and-so was banging (even though he sure as hell wasn’t), place bets on who was going to win the playoffs... you know. Of course the tall and lanky, decidedly awkward kid who couldn’t serve a volleyball if his life depended on it, would end up in the gym class with every stereotypical jock of his grade. Go figure. I’d enter the locker room and keep my head low, eyes never making contact with anyone, and get ready quietly to myself. I’d always keep my back towards the centre of the room when I got dressed. Sometimes I would wear my shorts under my pants to ensure I could get out of the room as quickly as possible. It was suffocating. jen 10 11 and the tee, a tingle ran up my spine. While the locker room was usually boister- But despite my fears occa- ous and lively, today it seemed stagnant and quiet. Slipping on my shirt, sional smirk, that crooked smile which over time I had come to under- I realized it wasn’t just quiet...but silent. The smell of sweat sickened my stand meant anything but kindness, at the beginning of the semester it stomach. I sat down on the bench and kept my eyes focused on my shoes, actually wasn’t too bad—everyone was from different schools, so we were not sure what to do, hoping that the teacher would come get us. all a little scared. All a little alone. I’d chat sometimes in the locker room as we waited for our teacher, and I wasn’t even picked last for teams “Ferdinand’s a faggot,” a voice whispered, the words piercing through (thank God). I would joke with the guys and put my shorts on in the locker the silence to sting my ears. I looked up to see a smile full of yellow teeth room; I kept my head up when I passed through the blue door engraved across the room at the other bench. As if the words burned I felt my ears “Male Changing Room”. getting hot, my face flushing a bright pink. But then things changed...bonds were being built on the court and “Ferdinand’s a faggot,” he repeated, but this time, others had joined in the weight room based on your ability to dribble and the number of in unison. And with horror in my heart, I sat helplessly as more and more weights you could lift. Lines were slowly drawn across the field demar- of my classmates joined in, their voices becoming one and the same, lost cating us into teams: more and more, I realized that hope of possible in noise. Ferdinand’s a Faggot! Ferdinand’s a Faggot! Ferdinand’s a Fag- camaraderie was a fragile dream. While holding my head up, I had let my got! guard down. The walls of the locker room reverberated the sound into a surreal It started with one guy in particular, a stocky, rude character with mantra; a ballad of hate and power which blasted my ears and my mind, scraggly hair and bad teeth. Hiding beneath his lips, those yellow-white all while the sickly-sweet smell of their sweat violated my nose, and a knives were the first thing I noted about him when he walked into the hand, lifting my shirt up to bare white skin violated my body with a blood locker room; a crooked smile and jagged jaundiced teeth. A smile which red tattoo. burned itself into my mind when during a basketball skirmish, while he Stunned, I tried disappearing into the bench, imagining my body slowly gave everyone else on the bench high-fives, he decided to give me a high- dissipating into the cracks of the sweat-stained wood. I closed my eyes five to the face, sending my glasses flying onto the court. and shut my ears. “Ferdinand’s a faggot,” he said through his teeth, a smile creeping up Ferdinand’s a Faggot! Ferdinand’s a Faggot! Ferdinand’s a Faggot! the corners of his mouth. Ferdinand’s a..... Picking my broken glasses up from across the lines of paint etched fell upon the mob as into the wooden floor, I realized then that my slow alienation was com- A familiar silence our teacher walked plete. Watching them laughing, holding my broken glasses in defeat, all I in. I opened my eyes and turned to him, watching as his smile—his row of could think of was how pathetic I must have looked. How weak. white teeth—disappeared into a blur of hot tears. I brushed at my face After that moment all I could do to get through those classes was viciously, a small pathetic gasp escaping my mouth. distance myself from everyone else—I would wait till the last possible mo- “Would you guys keep it down?” The teacher asked politely. My class- ment to enter the locker room, sometimes arriving late just to avoid hav- mates apologized, laughing and promising to keep it down. I turned my ing to change with everyone else. I always wore my shorts under my pants. gaze away from my teacher before I could watch him walk out of the room One day arriving late, I walked into the locker room to see that every- and shut the door behind him. one was still sitting down on the benches. Flustered and taken off-guard, When I was thirteen I slipped a note underneath my mom’s bedroom I hurriedly found a space on the bench and began changing, keeping my door, tears rolling down my cheeks, the words: “I’m gay, I’m sorry” scrib- back towards them. As I took off my golf shirt and reached for my gym bled across the page. 12 13 When I was fourteen I found myself trapped in a locker room, the words “Ferdinand’s a Faggot” echoing against the walls, down the hall, into my heart. When I was seventeen I lost my best friend because I told him I liked NIGGER him. When I was nineteen I was diagnosed with stage II malignant mela- FAGGOT noma, a cancer which over the years has left me with scars across my legs, my back, and most recently, my hip. I wear them as art. FREAK Despite those painful moments, which mark my life like the inner rings of an elder tree, I have always been strong, and all these past moments I NIGGER FAGGOT FREAK wear like my scars: as reminders of that strength and perseverance, as reminders that while he hit me in the face and broke my glasses, I am still Is that all that you see when you look at me here. I am tired apologizing for who I am and who I want to be As reminders that even though they sang a mockery of my name and I haven't done anything wrong identity while a teacher stood listening, stolidly, stupidly... I am still here. I am still here to tell you a story of a young, skinny boy, about fourteen, NIGGER FAGGOT FREAK whose most dreaded fear was a seventy-five minute block of time which consisted of sports, a chant, and a locker room. Is that all that I'll ever be I am tired of being your victim And yes, he is a faggot: he’s a goddamn strong faggot who wouldn’t I want RESPECT have it any other way. I want my voice to be heard

NIGGER FAGGOT FREAK

I am so much more than the labels you place on me I am STRONG,FEARLESS,BOLD I am a free bird that finally realized he had wings And I refuse to be caged by the words

NIGGER FAGGOT FREAK

ferdinand besik mat bowen

14 15 I walked up the hill, wor- ried that I was running late. As The Best of the Worst First Date I saw them standing around waiting for me, I hurried upto them. He was there too, looking as sexy as ever. I was glad I had put some I don’t remember last night but it must’ve been fun effort into my appearance that day and I wondered if he thought I looked I remember the crammed hotel suite good too. I found out soon enough. As I slowly stripped off my black coat, Remember that good feeling of catching up with old friends I took care not to meet his gaze while I revealed my spring green dress Seeing familiar faces topped off with a pale green lace cardigan. When I finally looked up, he At the after party at two in the morning was grinning at me and said that I was a vision. My heart fluttered as That’s when it started I grinned at him too. We held hands as we explored the castle grounds We all got the booze, someone else bought the weed transformed by the beauty of the place, talking and sneaking kisses in With cream soda for chasers the nooks and crannies. It was dusk when we left and it was getting chilly. I took shot I decided to go home with him and we got into his car and drove to his After shot place. He came around to open my door and I sighed inwardly because my After shots fishnet stockings had a hole in the crotch. I tried to get out of the car as I love the burn gracefully as I could but his eyes travelled up my legs as he took in the The way it feels when vodka is melting my chest sight, but he remained poker face. As we walked into his appartment, we Makes my heart race were greeted by a little black and white kitty who started to meow and My insides hummed, vibrated rub up against our legs. He set a dish of food for it and took me into this I smiled at you bedroom and held me against the door kissing me all over. I really enjoyed You’re so high, lost in your own world kissing him because he was so good at it and made me want more. I loved Didn’t even notice me the way his chest felt under my hands as I stripped off his t-shirt and I drink to feel straight burrowed into his arms. He pulled the straps of my dress down as my I drink to feel normal chest glistened in the soft light and he unbuttoned the clasp of my bra I drink to forget that I have a family, a family that will never accept me as he freed my breasts. He held them like he should. He played my body I drink to forget that I’m so lonely like I was his favourite instrument coaxing the music out of me. After, we I get high to be happy lay on the red sheets twisted in heat, my head on his chest listening to I get high, so I can forget that I’m gay his heart beats, slowly falling asleep. I woke up smiling to the shafts of I wanna be happy all the time, sunlight filtering in the room reaching over for him. There was a purple Be normal and happy, because there’s no such thing as queer brown lilly on the pillow beside me with a note. He had written that he had some Muslims errands to run and that I could stay as long as I liked and help myself to When I come down from the high, I hope I’ll just snap out of it anything I wanted in his kitchen, that he would be back soon. I cuddled I’ll wake up straight the kitty for a bit and ate a slice of toast, showered and left. I was kind That it’s just a phase of glad to have woken up alone and thought that maybe he had sensed But it never works that I was the nervous type. All day long, moments of our time together Reality always corrodes and seeps through, would flit through my mind. His silhouette casting shadows on the walls, Disturbing my fantasies the deep musky scent of ‘swiss army’ wafting into my nose, his skin taut I keep running away from myself over his shoulders and my body trembling in response to the closeness between us. I knew he would call be- the Edgar Allan poet cause he would be a fool not to. Nish Is Rani 16 17 We kept the conversation going till 3am. We talked about growing up Guys Just Don’t Kiss Like That in the suburbs with nothing better to do than drink and do drugs in our parents’ basements or in the park. We talked about how our Catholic par- Excerpt from “My First Kiss” ents can’t control what we do or who we sleep with. How she lost close friends after coming out to them. How scared I was to tell my parents. She told me that I’d get through it, that we have to.

“So,” Andrea started, her eyes downcast as we swayed through the We lay down in the grass, sat next to one another on a bench, leaned streets, with lampposts lighting the way back to residence. “I might have against an old church wall and never worked up the nerve to kiss each this wrong and I don’t want to be arrogant, but I’m pretty sure I know other. who you like.” My head felt muddled from the last round. Alcohol always makes me bolder. “It is you.” I shrugged. “I thought you would’ve guessed sooner. It’s kind of obvious considering the situation.” “Well.” Andrea looked up the road. “I started thinking it might be me since I’m the only lesbian on this trip.” I chuckled as we passed the bright green hospital sign illuminat- ing the drug store. “Yeah, that’s true.” “Wait.” Andrea paused. “Is it just cause’ I’m a lesbian?” “No, not at all.” I shook my head. “You’re exactly my type.” Andrea smiled out the corner of her lip. We took a detour to the park overlooking the brightly lit city. We stared out at the view for the longest time, our eyes wandering across the clay shingled houses, hilly, winding streets, tall church steeples, and cypress trees filling the Tuscan valley below. I had never seen anything like it. Toronto was noisy and crowded and restless. Siena was simply breathtaking. this stunning girl with There she was, pale skin and jet black hair, standing beside me, leaning against the wooden railing with a dreamy expression on her face. She caught my gaze and smiled, inching closer. I asked her to take off her gladiator sandals so I could see the dark ink covering her feet. She obliged, explaining how the left foot held the coat of arms from her Scottish heritage and how the right contained her mother’s Italian maiden name. I gently ran my fingers across her pale skin, remarking that it was beautiful. Mary Dytyniak 18 19 The Governmental Being Hate On a Speed Date

This dismoral vat of bureaucratic lies Hi, you must be Richard. My name’s Derek, I’m 21, and this is my first Their corrupting thoughts invade like a virus time speed dating. How are you? Infecting members of all societal groupings You’re not into Asians? Oh. Sorry?

Verbal diarrhea spewing from their vocal orifices Be specific. Like you’re not into Filipinos? Japanese? Vietnamese? Creating senseless laws for the masses Or you ate so much Chinese food once that it made you sick which made With their one track wealthy minds you sick of Chinese guys? Oh, just all of us. Why? We’re just not your preference. Ohhhh. And hid behind their glazing eyes (Pause) Ohhh. Shit fueled lies and fraudulent statements That systematically smash citizens expectations You know, we still have another four and half minutes left together. (Pause) jen I don’t understand how you can I don’t get it. live in Toronto with so much Asian culture around, but you’ve failed to recognize how different we all are. I mean, look at all the gaysians in this room. We’re all so different ilence and beautiful in our own way and you’re never gonna know how amazing S we are because you just wrote us all off. Or is it just me? Intelligence doesn’t attract you? A great sense of My silence has consumed me humour? Somebody with family values? Ambition? Talent? A nice smile?

Bitter tears of rage, wrap around my neck So then what’s your issue? It’s my eyes isn’t it? Are my eyes too as I choke on the words I long to speak small and exotic for you? (takes a marker and draws big circles around eyes) Are they big enough for you now? My silence is my biggest regret Is it my skin? Am I too brown? Too dark for you? (puts baby powder all over body) How about now? Are you attracted to me yet? My silence has kept me safe in a warm bed of false security, as the weight of my Is it my lips? Are my lips too big? (grabs lips) Would you prefer them smaller like this? And have me talk like this? Does this make me shame slowly kills me better? (Pause) I love my Asian eyes. Your eyes may be bigger, but if you really opened them you’d see that mine are a deep, sexy, brown. And if you looked mat bowen passed my race for one second, and really looked me in my eyes, you 20 21 might get lost in them. And my skin? My beautiful brown skin. Caramel. It’s like my entire Bamboo, Filipinoness, body is a dessert. And these big lips I have? (blows kiss) Luscious. Some have even and Queerness said juicy. So that when a real man comes in my life and kisses me, he has even more to enjoy. Your time is up. Next!

“What does it mean to be Filipino?” My parents are both from the Philippines; my mother hails from Tal- isay Camarines Norte and my father is from San Juan Batangas. My mother traveled to Hong Kong to work as a nanny for a wealthy Chinese family and my father followed shortly after- although my father was registered as a nanny, he secretly worked as an engineer for his Chinese employer. My parents rented a small room in an apartment in Chai Wan. When my mother gave birth to my brother and me, all four of us lived in that room. Working and raising two babies on minimum wage and harsh hours in such tiny space was impossible, so my parents decided to send my brother and me to the Philippines. For four years I was raised by my aunt. I lived and breathed Filipino life. I would wake up to the warm sun, sit down to a breakfast of taho and suman, and spend the rest of the day climbing the palm trees. On my fifth birthday two strangers arrived at my house. They quietly shuffled my brother and me on to a small jeep and stole us away. I was too young to understand what was going on - that my birth parents had come to take me to Canada so that I could finally be with my "real" family. They took my brother and me to the airport and twenty four hours later we landed in Toronto. My parents landed in a strange land with the hope of a better life and two sons they barely knew. The Canadian sun was cold and there was no warmth in my new “family.” My parents did not allow my brother and me to communicate with anyone back in the Philippines. We had to adapt to the “Canadian” way of living –anything “Filipino” was discouraged; I woke up to cold air, and sat down to a bowl of soggy cereal. The rest of the day was spent learning ramon vitug English and how to stay silent in public -all this was to ensure that I 22 23 would have no difficulty assimilating into Canadian culture. have faced internment camps, corrupt governments, political turmoil, and economic instability – yet we still stand strong. I slowly lost ties with Filipino culture and after three years I forgot about the Philippines and my life there. Philippines became external to me a strong proud – it was a dream, a story, a summer vacation or a long distance call from I stand before you Queer Filipino a family I no longer knew. Canadian and I know first-hand of the quiet strength that is inherent in each of us. Although I looked Filipino, I certainly didn't feel like one. After eighteen years in Canada, I only saw myself as Canadian. In a society that constantly tells me that I should hide and be ashamed of my sexuality, that I will never be good enough because I am not white, So what did it mean to be Filipino? and that my culture is inferior to the Western world -I stand proud and Oddly enough, I discovered the answer to that question on a journey strong. of Queerness. In a society that tells me that my only worth is in being a nanny or a I found that I could not talk about being Queer without talking about nurse and that all I have to contribute to the world is Manny Pacquiao - I being a person of color; Queerness and Filipinoness seemed inexplicably stand proud and strong. intertwined. They were both parts of myself that I had left neglected and I have nothing against these notions; instead I look past them and unexplored -dark and mysterious parts of me that were hidden in fear recognize the reality of the systems that drive and enforce them: the dif- and shame. ficulties faced by immigrants entering Canada; the superiority associated Society deemed being Filipino and Queer worthless, dark, and danger- with the Western world; and the complexities of colonization that enforce ous -but worthless, dark, and dangerous to whom? I found these identi- strict binaries of gender, sex, and race. ties full of knowledge and stories -yet they were also lined with pain, fear, We Filipinos are so much more. There is no one Filipino –we are many, and shame –Yet it was from these sources that my innovation, creativity, we are diverse, and we are strong. But, a plant is only as strong as its and power came from. roots. In my history of loss, alienation, separation, and reconciliation -I I found what it meant to be Filipino and Queer growing in these an- crave Filipino culture and its stories. cient places within me: A strong, thick, vibrant stalk of bamboo. I reach out for it like a plant’s roots reaches deep into the soil. I Bamboo is ingrained into Filipino culture and history; there is an an- thirst for it – for something I have barely tasted. I stretch out my roots cient Visayan creation story that tells the tale of how the first Filipino and grasp it like the soil which nourishes me, grounds me, and ultimately man and woman emerged from split stalks of bamboo. Our Filipino ances- makes me stronger. tors used bamboo to mimic cannons to fool Spaniard soldiers; it is also We must reach out through song, dance, poetry, story, dialogue and used in the ancient dance of Tinikling, a dance made to mimic the graceful any way we can to firmly connect and reconnect with our culture- its Tikling birds. stories and histories. The one extraordinary thing about bamboo is its amazing strength. We have each within us, this strong vibrant stalk of bamboo. We stand Bamboo is capable of withstanding the heavy rains and vicious winds in a storm of oppression and inequality and just like the bamboo in the of Filipino monsoons. It has a temperament close to steel while flexible midst of a monsoon -we will not be knocked down. enough to withstand tremendous pressure without breaking - it is this quiet strength that we Filipinos have inherited from this ancient plant. Filipinos have faced Spanish, American, and Japanese occupations. We ray garcia 24 25 my collection of body parts

the lips hair i have been told to possess large, oversized lips a good relaxing involves like those of negroes depicted in belgian comics, an extra-strength base with an activator like i did not meet the standards set a creamy neutralizing shampoo and a replenishing conditioner that repairs and revitalizes by someone else’s experiences of human bodies of course, the application requires thorough covering of the nappy surface area my lips, above and below and frequent massages to elongate the strands disconnected for so long to break the chemical bonds that will render them straight their beauty i recognized so you understand the neutralizing shampoo is necessary but did not value after all that chemistry one has to wash away our shameful secrets one lays on top of the other the conditioner repairs our colonial damage underestimating the adventures they could take on and revitalizes our sense of distorted beauty. any irritation is worth it.

every six weeks, i perpetuate this hypocrisy my lips take life when oiled: i love my hair flat, straight with curls at the bottom. they engorge and i would not know how to take care of it once the thickness settles in mark the beginning of what is promising the pain to detangle my genetically nappy crest seems far worse than the burn of processed, a visual caress professional looking hair touch, taste, feel, scent… my burden lies with my history, wait till you see color, my truths and my sense of beauty and shine. 26 27 metallic cans

They say I am paranoid – those that bother listening to me. nails I scream tales of strangers Caught up in daily interactions, Following, like automated Hair and nails are indicators of time. Embedded in the striations of my toe nails are the stories of the weeks and months just passed. I enjoy Compliant pawns cutting my nails as soon as they grow but toes nails receive a different treatment. The exercise of reaching to the toes is an excellent test of In a society, rigid, left with so much malleable matter to spare. my flexibility; I chop off rigid sponges as if the past no longer mattered.

The strangers and I clash Five months ago, just a few days before my birthday, I indulged in a In those metallic cans pedicure at some fancy spa where the lady couldn’t bear the idea that I wanted my nails painted with a clear transparent neutral color. I finally And some stare yielded to a creamy white polish that now is a reminder of what I have lost. In disbelief – shameless, The ridges on my big toes are the signs of hardship along the way; in anger – entitled, the remainder chipped polish that I refused to wash away with acetone some astonished, warn me: It is a matter of time before every memory of my father fades and emptiness settles. some trained to judge harshly – and move on.

I swallow it all, whether My eyes hiding or hair, nails, lips are all part of a larger collection under con- struction. The purpose of these small texts is to reconnect, my hearing melting into music, removed. to acknowledge, to celebrate, to challenge a body so tremen- I wonder, dously silenced by shame and distorted thinking, to recognize and to be greatful. breasts, nose, eyes, hips are to come... how could I forgive myself today?

alex looky 28 29 Audio: Please, you have enough junk in your trunk. udio ardio I choke and then throw the chips away. I stand up and walk towards A C the audio. Me: Excuse me? Look at me. I’m doing jumping jacks. Audio: All I can see is your fat ass. Audio: Ten, nine, eight. That’s right, you wanna get fit? You jump like a kangaroo. You show those kangaroos who’s boss. Three, two, and one. Me: They’re just a few chips; it’s not going to affect me. Good job, mate! Take a breath. Now lets power on to push ups. Get Audio: You cheat your diet all the time. yourself into position and ten, nine, eight. Don’t slow down now. Feel the Me: No I don’t. burn, feel it! Oooohhh yaaa. Three, two, one and a quarter, one and a half, one. Good job! Audio: What did you have for lunch today? Me: Woo! Definitely felt that. Me: All I had for lunch was a mango. Audio: Let’s move on to sit-ups. Get yourself into position and twen- Audio: Mmhm. ty, nineteen. Me: Okay, it was a mango salad. Me: Oh, no, no, no, that’s not happening. The Audio voice continues to count down. Audio: Mmhm. Me: Why did I buy this stupid thing? Me: With shrimp everywhere… I pick up the cd case. Audio: And... Me: “Be a red hot Gay with Audio Cardio: One hun- Me: They were battered…in butter…And I had a side of poutine. I dred colourful exercises to get you in top shape, even if you’re a bottom.” didn’t eat the salad. Okay, so what? I eat some guilty-good food some- I sit down, drink some water and open up a bag of chips. times, it’s not a big deal. Audio: Don’t you dare eat those chips. Audio: You think that now, but soon enough you’ll see. All those late I slowly turn my head to the audio. night runs for ice cream and large fries will catch up to you. I can already see it forming under your chin. And have you weighed yourself lately? Audio: Put the chips down. Putting the scale back five pounds doesn’t help if you’ve gained an extra I grab a chip. five. In your case, ten. When will you stop lying to yourself? You’re not Audio: Do you like wearing skinny jeans? cute. You don’t look good and you never will. Not like this. Me: Yes Pause. I start setting up a dinner table. I open my back pack and Audio: Then put the chips down. take out a box and place it on the table. Me: Mother? Is that you? Audio: What are you doing? Do you hear what I’m saying? Oh real Audio: Those chips will be the end of you! Put. The chip. Down. mature, you’re just going to ignore me now? You’re pathetic, you know I stare at the chip and then eat it. that? You’re ugly and pathetic. And nobody will ever love you. Audio: AHHHHHHHH!! Why’d you do that?! I stop the audio CD. I open the box to reveal a cupcake. I place a napkin underneath the collar of my shirt. I light up the cupcake’s candle. Me: Hey, you just gave me a hard work out, I deserve to eat a little junk. ramon vitug 30 31 to be? My beautiful girl Did you know that when you live honestly you speak a truth that is so wonderful it forces the world to listen?

My beautiful girl, There’s so much power in you that there’s enough to change the world in just the tip of your baby finger. Last week you gave me your list of “ifs” and “ers.” You said, “you know, I could be beautiful.” Did you know that when you laugh the way you do it is so radiant that it touches the stars? “I could be beautiful if I was taller and thinner.” And that your spirit is so gorgeous that it dances in the moonlight. “I could be beautiful if my skin was a bit lighter and my nose was a bit smaller.” “I could be beautiful if my hair was longer and blonder.” My darling girl, you’re allowed to be beautiful. You exchanged your Harry Potter fan-fiction for the latest issue of Cosmo. You ARE beautiful. You disposed of your Girl Guide uniform and replaced it with a brand new pair of trendy jeggings. You stashed away your hockey stick and pulled out some lash-blast mascara. I watch you gaze into the mirror turning round and round, grabbing folds of skin and I think I can hear what you hear. That flimsy piece of glass is screaming “HEY YOU! 14 YEAR-OLD GIRL! YOU’RE NOT CONFORMING TO OUR PATRIARCHY!” And I can’t be sure, but I swear I hear you whisper back, “I’m sorry, I’ll do better.”You tell me “I’m not how a girl is supposed to be.” You say you want to look like Scarlett Johansson or that actress from Gossip Girl. I ask you “who says those girls are what’s beautiful?” And without hesitation you say, “I do.” But my darling girl, Has anyone ever told you that you’re allowed to be whoever you want sam stone 32 33 Sitting naked on the chair, a thin piece of paper crumpled below me, , Malignant awaiting the inevitable scalpel. I open my eyes, shuddering as I stand up and turn off the shower head. I get out of the bathtub and stand in front of the fogged mirror, wiping away the thin veil of mist until I can see a face staring back at me. There are 30 days before it is July 18th. I touch the small mole centred on my forehead and wonder if that will be next. Maybe it will look like the Why are you so pale? mark behind my right leg, a circular scar I jokingly refer to as my bullet wound. I press my face closer to the mirror, imagining the coin-shaped Don’t you ever go outside? scar adorning it, feeling its rough texture and jagged lines. If people You need some sun! asked, I’d tell them it was another battle wound. I’d tell them that standing in front of a mirror I saw death, looked it in the eyes, and said “Fuck Beams of sunlight beat down upon the thin pane of glass. I’m sitting you”. on the bathtub floor, the shower curtain opened just wide enough for me to look through the small window high on the wall across from me. My eyes burn as I struggle to maintain my gaze outside, the cool water rushing across my face and dripping to my feet into a shallow puddle. Outside, an oppressive heat washes against the walls, seeping through the bricks and dry wall. Through the steady stream of water the window blurs—glass melting away into quivering, translucent snakes. I look down at my legs: skinny and pale, the hairs wet and clinging to skin. I can still see the groove, the concave impression in my left leg where there used to be flesh. I follow the line, curved like the shape of a bite, feeling where the flesh has been removed. The scar is hard and taut. Malignant. I press my fingers deep against the skin of my legs, gritting my teeth. I’ve come to loathe the heat, the sun, the summer. The marks on my legs, hip, and back remind me of the summer appointments which come and pass like clockwork. They remind me of the dread of waiting, waiting for July 18th and the possibilities which that date holds. I can see the sterile waiting room, graphic depictions of discoloured moles framed on the walls. Images of white and red skin, a cross-section of something evil and unstoppable burrowing deep into bones. A bright- yellow smiley face reminds me that “no tan is a good tan” and that I’ve become a vampire. Unfortunately, sunscreen doesn’t protect me from my genes. Cellular suicide—a body destroying itself from the inside out. ferdinand bEsik 34 35 well. meeting him in real time, i felt a little scared and in awe of him but i think the booze bolstered me to keep going. i began opening up to mad about mercury them about the relationship i was currently in. they seemed horrified as i from upcoming memoir started to spill my guts about how jamie and i were sleeping together, and i was in love with him but he was gay. i think it was the reason i had been drinking, because jamie was there that night too but flirting with this boy mathew. i told them how much it hurt, and how confused i felt. and then i tripped and fell. i laughed then, ‘stupid heels!’ and promptly took them off was sitting on the steps of a store on church street, the and walked down the street in my barefeet propped up between jessica sun was just setting, the raging yellow rays turning into and david. those were their names. they turned out to live in my neighbor- crimson as the sky became engulfed by the veil of night. hood and we rode the bus all the way home together. as they were getting i felt him before i saw him. some magical electricity that off the bus, me and jess exchanged numbers. david didnt have a phone. 5 crackled in the air as he walked by. i was mesmerized by minutes later she called me and we made plans for the next day. i showed him. he was wearing a felix the cat shirt and plaid pants, up at her house after dinner and started to feel a little uncomfortable listening to his music that i could almost hear vibrate through his body. i cos i barely knew them. we listened to music and drew for a bit. i tried he was beautiful. i admired his fashion sense. i liked what i saw in his eyes, to talk to jessica in private to ask her if she had a pad because of that confidence with a tinge of vulnerability. as he moved out of sight, i real- all too familiar feeling in my womb when david walked in upon us. she told ized as my body slumped and i came down to earth, that my nerves felt him that she was just going to show me the bathroom and then gave me a shot like i had been electrified. i had never felt this way about a guy be- tampon. i had never used a tampon before but i didn’t want to look stu- fore and i knew that i wanted him but figured i would never have him, and pid. i looked at it and tried many times unsuccessfully to apply it. finally that i didnt deserve him so i let him walk away. i felt a pang of sadness i gave up, and used a huge wad of toilet paper. as soon as i came out of as i thought that but by then i had been conditioned into feeling unpretty the bathroom, david said, ‘you are on your period, aren’t you?’ and unworthy by the world so i lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke curls fade into the air. i found this a little irritating and amusing because we had gone to great lengths to keep this from him. he told me that it was ok and that i a week passed by, and this time i was stumbling down the same old could always talk to him about my period and that i didn’t have to be all street with a few friends. we had scored some booze and hung out at secretive about it. i was impressed. of all the reactions that other boys slacks. we were quite drunk. i was wearing my black come hither dress had to the knowledge that i bleed, his was the best yet. i relaxed then, which had a slit down the front showing off my cleavage and it came down and went out on jess’s porch to have a cigarette. he came with... saying he to just above my knees. i was feeling a little out of control because i didn’t mind the smoke. i don’t know what it is was about that night but was going through something quite huge, and i blurted some of it out to a we never went back in. we talked for hours, lying on the grass in jess’s boy who then proceeded to make out with me and grabbed my hand to go backyard looking up at the sky. she tried to get us to come back in, but dance on the bar. they used to have a space for that, it was very coyote neither of us wanted to. i could tell she was a little upset because of this, ugly. it was exhilarating but my sister had lent me her black and pink heels so i told david i didn’t mind if he went in. he said he didn’t want to leave and i was struggling to keep my balance. me out there and that jess was just jealous. at one point, jamie called me we left soon after when we came upon a group of people and a loud and i walked away to talk to him so i could have a little privacy. i could feel and rowdy conversation ensued. it was then that i noticed him sitting in david’s eyes on me the whole time, my entire body acutely aware of him. the corner, distanced from everyone. i went over and said ‘hey’, and he sort of scowled but acknowledged me. he was sitting with a friend of his so i said hi to her. he was really quiet whereas she was more welcoming so i struck up a conversation with her hoping to get to know him better as Nish Is Rani 36 37 Love Letter to FOR THOSE WHO Femme Elders DIED AT SEA The woman I am today owes a debt to many people. I am going to pay it now. Rest assured, nothing I could say or do would be enough, but when you owe more than you can pay, you pay what you can. For those who died at sea, Strong, so strong now, my foundation. You are my roots. Leah Who put their heads upon their pillows Lakshmi. Anna Camilleri. Joan Nestle. Amber Hollibaugh. Without you, I would not know my own name: Femme. Though they heard the ominous groans, Your dreams and your words and your survival nourished me. Blew out their lamps and, See, Leah, I read “gonna get my girl body back”1 and it hit so hard. Having resolved to wait out the storm, Cuz I saw a name for me. I saw the way you took your body back. Your body and your life. You saved me. At a time when I was lost to Murmured fervent prayers myself, you saved me. That buffeted feebly, Leah, you revealed to me the necessity of dreaming. Before Fluttered wildly in the terrible wind you showed me that self-love was revolutionary, I saw my body as a battle ground, bloodstained and haunted. Before you, I thought we And were dashed into the water. only got one body, one life. Without you, would I have discovered those were lies? I rebuilt my body, rebuilt my life. Blessed my body with tattoos and piercings. Gave myself permission for glitter, micro-minis and fishnets. Anointed this body with fragrant oils and declarations of holiness. Because of your courage and your honesty. Now I can look at myself in the mirror and say “This is a woman who is not broken. This is a woman who is rebuilt”. Anna, when I read “Cut From the Same Stone”2 , it floored me. The Medusa tattoo on my back is a tribute to your reclaiming her mae martin story. From you I learned how it was possible to protect your heart 38 39 and still your own fear, set it down and move sure-footed towards I wrap your stories around me like tefillin. Each of you, in your own your desires. You taught me first that there was no shame in being way through cracked concrete. Fighting to live and to shine. Steal- “impenetrable, an utterly untouchable stone femme”3 . Later you ing whatever it takes to keep growing. taught me that there was no shame in wanting more than that. You No words to say thank you. Never enough words of my own. let me see that yielding, that opening, was not treason. This is a But my heart swells with gratitude for your words. You gave me my lesson I still have not mastered. name and my home. And I see now, how none of you saved me. You, Joan, your courage and vulnerability are legendary. You faced my femme foremothers, showed me how to save myself. the sex wars and kept talking when other feminists tried to shame you for your desires. You refused to silence yourself in the name of sisterhood. Standing in a slip, unashamed, you said what you needed to say. I need your bravery and the words you imagined your mother would say “They called you freak and me whore and maybe they always will, but we fight them best when we keep on doing what they say we should not want or need for the joy we find in doing it”4 . Amber. Brave. You taught me that fucking, that staring un- flinching at who and what we desire is as necessary as protesting. From you, I learned that fumbling and failing and having things come out wrong is worth it in the struggle to name and honour our desires. When you wrote about femme hunger, I understood in a way I hadn’t before, the ache I felt in my gut. “If we don’t see ourselves or others who resemble our experience, the experience itself becomes suspect”5 . Thank you for speaking your heart and for giving me a gift. The gift of seeing jessica miller someone whose experience looked like mine. You gave me a way to see myself and my desires as precious and sacred. 1 - Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, “gonna get my girl body back: When I lie down with a butch lover and we reach across a this is a work in progress” in “Brazen Femme: Queering Femininity”. swirling morass, the hatred of bodies and sex and queers, when we Edited by Chloe Brushwood Rose and Anna Camilleri. (Vancouver, B.C.: love each other and ourselves, it is radical. When I slip stockings Arsenal Pulp Press, 2002) over smooth legs and swing my hips in the hopes of making some 2,3 - Anna Camilleri, “Cut From the Same Stone” in “Brazen Femme: butch go weak in the knees, that counts. That naked expression of Queering Femininity”. who I am and who I want is a power no one can take from me. 4 - Joan Nestle, “My Mother Liked to Fuck” in “A Restricted Country” (San Francisco, CA: Cleis Press, 2003). My femme foremothers, I read your words over and over 5 - Amber L. Hollibaugh, “Introduction” in “My Dangerous Desires: a again, with a zeal which good yeshiva boys reserve for Torah. queer girl dreaming her way home” (Durham, Duke University Press , 2000). 40 41 about the writers Aisha Wahid, or The Edgar Allan Poet as she is sometimes known by, is currently writing met- Mary Dytyniak writes articles, stories and aphors and similes that make everyone melt. Her best advice is to poetry about queer sexuality, romance, travel, urban culture and “Love yourself first!” city life. She hopes her writing encourages her readers to connect with, understand and relate to common human experiences we all A recent graduate from the University of Toronto, Ferdi- share. She is currently working on the 2nd edition of Guys Just nand Besik found solace in writing throughout high Don’t Kiss Like That, a story of a young woman exploring her sexu- school, embracing any chance to escape the cafeteria and explore ality and falling in love for the first time while studying abroad in the imaginative realm. Apart from writing, he enjoys watching 80s Siena, Italy. http://www.marydytyniak.com/ horror movies and is an avid swimmer. He was recently awarded the Canadian Association of Geographers’ Undergraduate Award, the United Way Helping Hand Award, and was recipient of the Most Mae Martin is a stand-up comedian and writer Outstanding Student Award in English and Drama as well Human who has appeared on television and radio across Canada. She has Geography. Currently he is working on a publication investigating been nominated for two Canadian Comedy Awards and is currently neighbourhood health for the United Way of Peel Region and will be based in London England where she recently won the Best Inter- pursuing his Masters in English Literature at York University this national Artist at the Brighton Fringe. She spends her time eating upcoming fall. cake and trying to find Scary Spice in the U.K.

Alixandra Bamford is a writer and artist. She received an HBSc from U of T in 2010. She has created Alex Looky is a queer bundle of joy, born in two graphic novels, Nearest the Mouth (2010) and Thin Ice (2011). Togo, living in Toronto. She immerses herself in writting, photog- Her current project should take the shape of a novel, if all goes to raphy, graphic design, litterature, music, translation, shopping for plan. You can find her online at http://alixandra.ca electronics and can’t never talk enough about sexual healthvand science. No trophies! No Awards! No PhDs! Just the school of life. and blah blah blah... Jen is a pansexual and genderqueer human (?) who has been here, mostly in Toronto, for close to 30 planetary revolutions around Sol. Silver Fox was born in Canada and raised in Trinidad. She loves music and literature and has a passion for community development. She draws courage and inspiration from writers, Shani Mootoo and Audre Lorde.

42 43 Nish Is Rani is a queer femme of colour who dab- bles in various art-forms such as spoken word, poetry, theatre, song, dance and making films. She loves to make zines as a way to resist oppression, and find community and believes art can be very Mat Bowen is a queer multidisciplinary visual and healing. You can find her on facebook or email her at nobodys_gr- performance artist. His work often explores themes of silence, [email protected] seeking & finding ones voice, self-expression and empowerment. He strives to develop works that challenge audiences but also chal- lenges himself in the process, doing the uncomfortable in order to Jessica Miller is a queer biracial high femme encourage critical thinking about ourselves & the world we live in. Jewish third wave feminist. She is a librarian by trade and a dreamer Mathew’s theatre credits include: Nice (rock.paper.sistahz festi- by necessity. She lives and loves in Toronto. val), Arise (Eventual Ashes), My Baby’s Got a Secret: Drag Musical (Eventual Ashes/Asian Arts Freedom School) and The Kitchen Party Nervous Breakdown (The Cabaret Company). He is currently writing Ramon Vitug is a graduate of the Theatre and a play and a collection of short stories and poems inspired by his Drama Studies program at University of Toronto and Sheridan Col- own childhood growing up in Barbados. lege. He loves to entertain people with his abilities in Acting, Dance, and Music. He’s one half of a new Queer pop music duo, O Nouveau. He and his music partner, Edi Cheung, write, produce, and record all of their own songs. Be sure to check out their first music video, “Baby, I’ll Give It All” on youtube. Ramon would like to thank Pink Ink for rejuvenating his sense of community and for reminding him how important it is for the LGBT community to support and empower one another. He would also like to give special thanks to Vivek for helping him create his monologue “Audio Cardio.”

“I gather up all the sounds you left behind and stretch them on our bed. Each night I breathe you and become high.” Writing to me is all about expression. I began writing when I was a pre-teen full of angst and anger unsure of how to get it out of me. To me writing is therapeutic, not only does it ground me but in many ways it has saved my life. I am a University student at York studying for my BA in Communications and Sociology. My name is Jabez Jones and in Hebrew it means pain. In my lifetime I hope to never see a world were poetry is dead.

44 45 EULOGY FOR GOOD OLD EARTH

Let me give Earth’s eulogy, For I am made of sympathy, And it would mean so much to me If, in darkness, I could be The one to mourn the parched And hostile desert, he’s the poorest - Pink Ink is a writing group of SOY (Supporting Our And then there is the sad and swampy forest. Youth) for queer and trans youth located at Sherbourne Health Cen- I’ll toast to them and to the flaws in their design tre in Toronto, Ontario and is generously funded by Toronto Arts But mostly I will toast to human kind And all our frantic, trembling childhood terrors, Council. Our vicious and disastrous errors, A groaning tide that won’t abate Pink Ink will start up again in the new year! And all our yawning moral gates. Email [email protected] for more details. Here’s to our grand outspoken heroes and, of course, the meek and www.soytoronto.org timid, With all the large and lovely things they could have said but didn’t.

If they lived how I would kiss the hollow cheeks Of all the wretched madmen as they shrieked. If only we had been more kind! But it’s no use, we’d grown accustomed to abuse And now, in empty space I will lie before the void prostrate, I will kneel before the congregated stars and say “We did our best but were afraid and see how dearly we have paid - You should have seen us at our best!” I will cry with arms outstretched “There was much beauty there!” mae martin 46 47