Learning what it is to be Black in Quebec

Part 2: Individuating

By high school, I was well into what they describe as an at-risk personality. My body ripened into a shape considered vulgar by some, exotic by others, and became sexualized in the eyes of some even before I got with the game.

The first high school I attended was predominately Greek and Armenian – who, for some reason liked to fight amongst themselves. Amongst this these groups, it was all about who drove the hottest Trans Ams, who could tease their hair up the highest and wear the most eyeliner, and who flashed around enough gold  to cover Fort Knox.

I spent my childhood watching/helping boys rebuild real muscle cars-Chevelles, GTOs, Mustangs, Chargers and even the ’69 Camaro – and race them on the flat stretch of the 440 at night. The factory built Trans Ams with the wings on the hood were just posers –yeah! I said it! As for the hair game, the last thing I needed was to add to my 5’11” height. I am also a silver girl. I do have to thank the Rulas, Toulas, Voulas and Zoes for helping me get my eyeliner game on point.

Also at this school, was a small and tightly knit Black student body. One problem; the price of admission is disassociation from anything they perceive as white. I was into theater –white- I liked rock music – white- used big words – white- and worst sin of all, I was into cute boys and could care less what colour they were. I was therefore out of the Black club.  The Armenian and Greek clubs were mostly closed clubs too. Once again I was the square peg in the round hole, then, lamenting she couldn’t be round. As a result, I started gravitating towards the other outsiders. Such was life at Malcolm Campbell High School.

By 14, my poor mom was lost when it came to me. She did not get me, I did not particularly like her. Her Jamaican ways and my Canadian ones clashed hard. To make a long story short, this led to, first a quick return to my grandparents’ home, and then a short stint in foster care, and a return to Laval, while I attended Chomedy Polyvalent High School.

I realised at this point that the bigotry and racism one encounters depends greatly of just how large a minority you are. In a student body of over 1000,  were there are maybe 10 people of colour, you are not perceived as a threat, and thus are largely ignored as long as you don’t call attention to yourself. Since most of the Blacks who lived in Laval at that time were all about assimilating, Blacks students did not gravitate towards each other there. Instead it was all about what clique you belonged to.

By this time, realising I would never gain mass acceptance, I adopted a no fucks to give posture. As opposed to seeking to belong, I started to revel in the freedom of my outsider status. I cultivated one best girl friend, my eventual foster-sister Lise, and we hung out mostly in the breezeway –stoner alley- or with the boys in woodshop and auto-mechanics- those classes were in the back of the building where we went to skip class and sneak smokes. I would eventually make friends with the girls in Cosmetology, many of whom dated the boys in auto-mechanics. I fostered these friendships when the rumor mill started suggesting that Lise and I were sleeping with the boys. While I could care less about the rumor mill, it was important to me that the girlfriends know I was not that kind of girl. That, while I had no problem with casual sex, I did not do OPP.

Ironically, our refusal to play the popularity game, coupled with our reputation of standing up to bullies and authority figures who were in the wrong, and  defending/protecting the special needs kids, eventually made us two of the most popular/notorious girls in school.

For the most part, my sense of being Black goes unattended at this time. The political climate has heated up, and folks checking identity only want to know one thing: are you English or French? This tension based on language would blind me to much of the systemic racism I would come to fight later in life.

My most interesting experience as a person of colour at this time, happens when Ville Marie rejects the foster-home I chose on the grounds that the head of household was White. The system had just woken up to the idea that Black children need to be nurtured in homes that understood their needs. At the time, this was strictly defined as a Black home. They tried to stick me in a Black home, but it did not work. I wanted out so bad I ran off, and they wanted me gone, as they caught me petting with their eldest son – “That Jezebel is a bad influence”. No one noted he was 4 years older than me. I guess I just had good game. (Note: There was no force or coercion involved – he was just a dumb ass, so stuck under his mother’s thumb that the first girl who came along who was not family, and was willing to give him the time of day, was irresistible to him )

Thankfully the foster mother I had chosen knew the system and was able to get us a meeting with then head of the department, Vaughn Dowey. I think I shocked him at first, as he hadn’t heard my perspective articulated before. Thankfully, he was not a rigid man. Another new rule had just come into effect at that time, which said a child of 14 had the right to an opinion about placement. So, instead of being dogmatic about the system and a very hard won rule relating to culture, and much to my mother’s chagrin, he chose to put my needs/desires first and approved my placement. (Note: My mother did not care that she was White, she just wanted the system to force me back home and make me comply with her rules- she was also deeply embarrassed by the whole thing)

Returning to my grandparents proved impossible as I had changed too much while living in the city. Where once I was a silent and obedient child, I was now argumentative and did things like skipped school. One day the phone rang. It was my 8th grade math teacher. The man was a grade A asshole, a misogynist and bully, and I was so over math. I skipped his class often, and when I was present, was considered disruptive because I would not take his shit. I think what really got his goat is that my grades were high- math, the great equalizer.

Now my Grandfather would have been upset about any problems at school, but he really lost his shit because the teacher happened to be a Bajun – I believe I mentioned the teacher was God in the Caribbean. Grandpa did not want to hear any explanations or defenses. He actually tried to spank me. It was kind of funny – my grandma always did the spanking. He got one swat in and I was out the door, refusing to return.

So I spent 18 months in foster care instead, when the day I ran out of my grandparents’ home, my friend Lise and her mother welcomed me into theirs.  During this time had experiences that would make most parents cringe. I embraced a freedom I never had, had a sexually awakening that most teen boys dream of, and discovered a me that others had been trying hard to supress.  Living with a White family also confirmed something else – whiteness is not superior nor is it always right.

Moreover, having gotten to know me, and my pension for avoiding or running away from my problems, my foster mother hug a sign on the fridge; words that would change my life forever. They said

You are the only problem you will ever have, and baby, YOU are the only solution.

I left this home at age 15, when I moved to live with my father in Conneticut. Where the Caribbean community at home kind of recognised me as one of their own- if a flawed one- the Blacks I meet in American high school have no idea what to make of me. They are friendly at first, but when they see me hop into a car with a White girl, I become suspect – what can I say, she was a senior to my freshman, had good weed, and was intrigued that I was a Canadian. She was also a truly kind person. That did not matter, all they saw was her whiteness and us accepting each other, which they took as a rejection of them.

I eventually make a Black girl friend and she even pens me a friendship letter. I show the letter to my stepmother who questions it. I am oblivious. The girl gets me invited to a retreat with her and some other some upper level students. One of the other students who attends is a boy I am crushing on. During one of the breaks, he and I step out onto the gallery to chat- read flirt. She comes out and I wave her away. Storm clouds gather in her eyes, and I assume it is the Black/White thing again and dismiss it for later discussion.

We return to the group session, and she quickly initiates a confrontation with me, wherein she eviscerates me emotionally in front of the group, revealing things I have confided in her. For the next two weeks at school I put up with bullying and learn the meaning of the words, hell hath no fury like a woman who feels scorned.

While I am telling this story, let me divert for a moment: to all LGBTQ people, who when in your youth trying to figure your own shit out, got hurt by clueless hetros like me, who in our naiveté sent confusing signals, I apologise. Had I known she was a lesbian, better yet, had I known what a lesbian was, I’d like to believe I would have acted with more sensitivity. Regardless of the pain she caused me that day, I regret the pain she felt thinking I was playing her.

What is interesting about this story was that I discovered that I did have a certain allegiance to the values of the Black community. I could have easily turned the tables on her that day or any day after, but as we were the only two people of colour in the room I chose not to.

Moreover, when my stepmother explained what she understood had happened, I couldn’t help but feel for the girl – unrequited love is a bitch. So I allowed her to bring back her version of the story to the school unchecked – one that kept her firmly in the closet, and allowed myself to become a pariah among most of my fellow Blacks. It was not all bad though. I was embraced by a segment of the outsider population and learned the joys of keg parties, country-rock and bon fires in the woods.

Thankfully, at the end of that school year I was shipped back to my mom in Montreal, and returned to visiting Connecticut in the summer and for holidays.

I returned to Chomedy High, and accidentally fell into activism, while I continued to party and live a second life under the name I assumed when I started at CPHS –Lynn, my middle name. While I did not have the words to describe it then, for most of my teens I was fighting a battle to individuate from the identity that was being forced on me. I made choices that would let me be me, while hiding who that was from my family.

To give you one concrete example, I’ll tell the tale of the night that would put the death nail into my adolescence. As I mentioned, my mom was very traditional West Indian. Doing something as common as sleeping over at a friend’s house was pretty well verboten. After my stint in foster care, my mom tried to lighten up. On this particular evening, I got her to agree to let me stay with my friend Joy, who lived next door with her boyfriend.

Now, I freely admit that the point of staying at Joy’s that night was not just to sleep over, but so that I could run the street with her. We went off to our favorite watering hole, a brasserie called The Post, where they did not card – which was not something I really worried about, because at 16 I was all woman, at least physically. Anyway, Joy met a guy that evening and decided to spend the night with him. As I was staying at Joy’s, and her boyfriend would wonder where she was if I went back without her, and I could not go home, less my mother take away my privileges, I wound up spending the night with Joy, the guy she met, and his best friend, I guy I knew vaguely from the club. Copious amounts of alcohol fueled some risky behaviour, which seeded the little miracle that would change my life forever.

The birth of my son at age 17, put an end to my adolescence, and started my journey from rudderless to purposeful.

Join me tomorrow for the third and final installment: Playing grownup

Learning what it is to be Black in Quebec. (Part 1: the early years)

My personal sense of Blackness is very much a self-defined one. It has not always been so. When my father’s parents emigrated here from Barbados, they bought into the Canadian narrative of inclusion, and threw themselves into the acculturation process, believing that one day their children would truly belong. Rather than settle down in Montreal or the South Shore, where “safe” Black enclaves could be found, my Grandpa chose Duvernay, Laval to call home.

Family lore has it that my first sentence was uttered in French- I apparently told my Aunt she was a pig when she needled my shy self to speak to her in French. There is also a story about how, when I was 2, my Grandmother put me down for my daily nap, and went to nap herself. She awoke to the police at the door. I apparently had taken off on my tricycle and got lost. Though I did not know my address or phone number, the police were pretty confident where I belonged- the only house with brown faces found in a 5 mile radius (yeah, it was miles then).

My first awareness of my Blackness comes at age 5 – the summer before I started school. My best friend at the time was Annik, who came with the bonus of having a pool. We had been friends since toddling, when her grandmother approached mine in the desire to have her learn to speak English.

That summer, a new family moved onto the block, our first vocally separatist family. They had a child our age, Monique, who naturally was welcomed into the neighborhood gaggle. We did not get along –not everybody likes everybody, right? No big deal, or so I thought. On the first day hot enough to go swimming, I headed over to Annik’s house as usual.  When I arrived, Monique lost her shit, “ Je veux pas nager avec un noiro! Elle va sale la piscine et nous teinter. » This led the other children  present to chant the name that would follow me down the street for the next few years, Noiro. Needless to say I left in tears and most of my childhood friendships ended that day. I also committed my first act of self-hate when I went home took a bath and covered myself from head to toe in baby powder. (Note: While Monique was a hateful little bitch, and I do believe she behaved that way because of the things she heard around her kitchen table, I also know her parents would have been ashamed of her behavior that day. Kids don’t always take away the meaning you want them to when they eavesdrop on adult conversations. Her parents were fighting for systemic change, but they never treated my family or any other Anglophone like the enemy)

As with almost every bad experience, I can also look back and see how it served me:  I am fluently bilingual – Annik never learned English- I learned to love the pleasure of my own company, and I developed a highly creative inner world.

The winter of my 7th year, my mother took me to live in Jamaica. Here I discover that privilege and hate that can be directed at people with lighter skin. After years of being ridiculed/pitied by my father’s family for being too dark and African looking (Bajuns?) here was my Jamaican fam glorying in their so called light skinned, Canadian kin. The hierarchy of shades would eventually get upended in Jamaica but this was the early 70s.

It is also not surprising when you find out my Jewish great-grandmother admonished her granddaughters to never bring home anyone darker than themselves –try not to judge, she went through some shit; bigotry is always wrong but often complex. She also paid the karmic price of having my mom grow up and choose the darkest partners she could find.

As such, the rose and gold skin tones in my father’s Maroon Indian, Scottish, and Black heritage, coupled with those pretty curls, tickled my grandmother, and due to genetic inheritance, she favored me.

My time in Jamaica turned sour, when in school a teacher, who was hostile towards me in a way that I did not understand then, decided to beat me. Now here is the thing, I grew up in a family that very much believes in the need for a good spanking as a part up their discipline tool bag – I am not talking child abuse, though I know some believe that any spanking is too much. My point here is that, although I was a classic good girl at that time, I knew what spanking as discipline was. This teacher used a thin excuse to bring me before the class in order to shame me and get satisfaction from inflicting pain. She had me hold out my palms. Usually they would aim the strap at the palm. This woman hit the area between my elbow and fingertips with what felt like the all force she could muster.

Usually the teacher is God in the islands and is never to be questioned. In this case, two things worked against her:  a) My skin is very delicate and the welts she left behind looked criminal and b) my mother had had a similar experience when she was a child in school –bigots come is all shapes and colours – so my grandmother was not having any excuses from the teacher.

Even though the teacher backed off, this coupled with a few other experiences soured me on the Jamaican experience. My wily (Bajun) grandmother discovered my unhappiness and got me back to Canada on the pretense of having me spend my summer holidays with her, only to never send me back. Upon returning, I find out I have a baby sister and my Jamaican experiences will be locked away in a box until much later.

For the next 4 years, I will spend most of the year in Duvernay, and summers in Connecticut with my father, sister, stepmother and extended family by marriage. The American Black experience is a whole new world to me. Here I am exposed to real wealth – the kind that insulates – the kind that will one day have me say to my father,”You know dad, if your weren’t a Black man, you’d be a republican.”

As a kid, I just understood they were different from West Indians and Canadian Blacks – I would later discover these differences resulted from what boat our ancestors were packed into when stolen.

This source of Blackness was however is fortifying for me. My stepmother teaches me about Black pride, how to take proper care of my skin and hair, how to pick cloths that are right for my body, and how to use my voice effectively. She introduces me to Jet, Essence and Ms. magazines, here I fall in love with the Stylistics, the Chi-Lites, The Four Tops, George Benson and my still favorite Nancy Wilson -no not the one from Heart, though I do love them too. It would take another ten years before Black American music enters the mainstream in Canada.

My next big Black defining moment comes at 12, when I move in with my mother.  Having returned to Canada shortly after it became clear I was not going back to Jamaica, she lived in the heart of Cote-Des-Nieges, so I attended Coronation Elementary School.

Until then, my sense of the Montreal Black community came from our church, the Westmount 7th Day Adventist Church – interestingly we lost that connection when our family moved to the St. Laurent Church to help get it going. Imagine going to church one Saturday and seeing only folks who look like you, and the next, the only folks that look like you, came with you – ok, my Uncle’s family came too; my auntie even started a school there.

Anyway, as much as I longed to live in Montreal – I’ve had an ongoing love affair with this city since I was 5- CDN was a culture shock. Suddenly I did not speak Black enough, look Black enough or dance Black enough – ok, they had me on the dancing, you don’t learn to shake dat ass as a church kid.

Here is there first time I was to hear the words, “ you speak like a white person” muttered as an insult. This is when I’m told that I am, “a browning with good hair” – read not Black enough. Here is also where I stand up for the first time to a bully in a fist fight – I also shocked my poor aunt with how much sailor talk I knew.  I also got to have Mr. Spicy for lunch, and had my first (Canadian) Black teachers. Unfortunately, I got the uptight Mr. Foster, rather than the ultra-cool Mr. George. (lesson later understood: The universe gives you what you need, not necessarily what you want.)

This is also where I first develop the attitude that results from the words, “You know, as a Black person you should . . .” regardless of who they are spoken by. Even at a tender age I intuitively knew these words were a demonstration of bias and a cultural trap. I chaffed at these attempts to force me in to conforming to the ideals of others’, whether well-meaning or down right racist.

Mom quickly decided that CDN was no place to raise a teen and my soon to be baby sister, so when I turned 13, we moved to Catrierville and a year later, St. Laurent. While at the time, my PSBGM school was predominantly Greek and Jewish, the neighborhood was rich in its diversity. Like CDN, new immigrants were being directed into the area.

Here, for the first time, I would confront and recognize bigotry aimed at me by a fellow West Indian; a girl from Trinidad. I had never been taught that there was a hierarchy amongst people of colour – shades yes, but this island vs that or islanders vs Africans no-  The first time I referred to her as a person of colour she let me know that a) she was not Black she was Indian and b) being Black was akin to being untouchable. My reaction? The same one I have now when someone tells me they are “mulato”; incredulity. Then I cussed her stank, now I shake my head, step away and try to remind myself of everyone’s right to the journey of self-identity.

This is also where I discover that I do have internal limits that if pushed past, flip my switch to crazy – as in batshit out of control. This happens when two sisters, the popular girls- read first ones to grow breast, and thus are perceived as easy-  who happened to be White, decide that the new kid needs a beat down. When the first one started beating on me, with the prerequisite circle of sycophants chanting, egging her on, I quickly rolled into a ball and took it. I was taught not to fight, and particularly not to fight with girls, as I grew up rough housing with boys. I also feared the crowd getting involved if I fought back. She eventually gave up because I was offering her no fun.

I figured it was over and was prepared to slink away in shame. Then her sister stepped up and declared it was her turn. To say I lost it is an understatement. Even looking back now, it still scares me and is the reason I do not raise my fists in anger. I attacked, and while I do not remember most of it, I do remember coming back into myself when an adult neighbour pulled me off the girl and she was raw and bloodied. I also remember one of the kids telling the man that he should call the cops because, “that nigger bitch is crazy.” Thankfully, that (White) man had been watching from his window, having caught the end of the first fight. He chose to be an ally that day, shaming those who would use me as prey, staying with me while forcing the crowd to disburse, and watching to see that I got safely home. Interesting twist in this tale, I would later go on  to become friends with the sisters, Lori and Karen, when slut shaming and gossip mongering hit them hard –did I mention I love an underdog?

Grade 7, which I did in Morrison Elementary School, marked the end of my childhood. It was the year I grew breast, had my first period, had my first real crush, and welcomed my second baby sister.

Join tomorrow me for Part 2: high school and the discovery of sex, drugs and rock and roll.

This evening was the launch of the Black History Calendar and month long festivities. The event was held at city hall.

I am not one to get nervous about these kinds of things. I have no problems with public speaking or official protocol- though I do choose integrity over protocol. I am however, one of those people who is challenged by social anxiety. The causes and manifestations of it are complex, and we will go into those over the month; for now it is suffice to say I am a very shy person who has learned how to perform the extrovert. Doing so is taxing, but necessary as a person of colour- another statement I will get into over this month.

As is typical, when I know I have to be on, I spend a lot of time in my head in the lead up. Today was spent reflecting on my gratitude and sources of pride, and pondering the question, why me?

Here is some of what I have come up with. I am proud to have been selected BECAUSE I am not the type that usually gets the nod. I have lived my life according to my own values, standards and beliefs, which are often at odds with the norm (if such a thing even exists). I didn’t hanker for the stability represented by the home in the suburbs, the nice car, or trappings of wealth. In fact, that is mostly how I saw those things – as traps.

In my youth Saul Alinsky introduced me to the haves, the have nots, and the have a little want mores. He helped me to understand that it was this last group, what we call the middle class that was really the danger. That the rich baited the middle class with the idea that they too could be rich, but only if they helped keep the have nots down. Is it any wonder that as the middle class shrinks, the rich are getting nervous?

It turns out when eschew the traps that others embrace, you become a bit of an outsider. Now, don’t get it twisted, I like money and comfort, I just don’t make my decisions or base my life on these things. I’m the girl who once took a  significant pay cut so that I would not have to lay off staff. Moreover, the concepts of status and class makes my stomach churn.

Needless to say, in a community focused on moving on up, I was an anomaly; one that scared some, and disgusted others.  My parents, grandparents and community worked very hard to build a certain lifestyle for me, and had aspirations about the path I would take through life. I can look back now and understand why my choices worried them – they were still seeing the world as they expected it would be. I was busy finding my way in the world as I knew it to be.

Which brings me to my second point of pride: I am proud to give my parents something that they can be proud about. When everybody else kids are following the path with clear road marks and indicators, it is hard to be the parents of the kid who marches to a different drummer. I have had many successes in my life and racked up many achievements, but being a laureate is one my parents can appreciate. Moreover, it is one they can show off.

The last point of pride I will share with you has to do with hanging on folks walls. During the month of July, there are some who will be wondering WTF? Her? And I get a HUGE kick out of that. More importantly however, are all the so called “at-risk” youth I have worked with over the years – I guess many of them are full-fledged adults now but they will always be my kids ;o) – young people who felt the sting of rejection when, while trying to find themselves, disappointed and scared others. People who I promised, that if they followed their inner truth, and stayed true to who they were, they could be who they want to be and have a good life. With one little photo, those young people will know I did not lie to them or blow smoke up their ass. I am and will always be them.

Speaking of the WTF people, I pondered the why me question. I tend to focus on my purpose rather than my achievements, and I rarely pull out my credentials to prove myself to anyone.

The theme this year is Voices of Emancipation. How do I fit? Well, let’s see:

I was one of the first girls to register auto-mechanics in high school, eventually forcing them to admit girls to the course across the country – I eventually dropped the class, because I only did it ‘cause they said I couldn’t. Having earned top grades for 2 semesters meant that my choice to drop did not impact other girls. Shout out the Mr. Ashford (who I am sure is on the other side by now), the only teacher among the three teaching the course who was willing to let me into his class. He is one of the reasons why I know men can choose to be great allies and it is patriarchy that is the enemy.

I was a part of the group of 12 students that instigated the massive walkouts in the support of teachers in, I believe, 1979.

I was instrumental is stopping the closure of a CEGEP, long enough to ensure the students registered at the time would have chance to graduate. They closed it because we were an English campus, mostly adult and visible minority, attached to a French CEGEP – can’t have that in Quebec.

I have represented and advocated for community concerns for over 28 years at a local, and national levels. For three world conferences, I brought the voice of youth, minorities, women and Canadians to the world stage.

I initiated the employment centre in Little Burgundy, when I realised every social service that provided fish was present in the community, but no one was teaching folks how to fish for themselves.

I have assisted countless youth and new immigrants to find their way, and when the time came, I stepped aside so that the next generation could have room to move up and take their place.

Sure there is more, but as I mentioned, I am not big on baring my credentials. There is a throwback saying: haters are my motivators. That never felt right for me, because to be honest, I tend to put my haters on ignore. I also found that trying to prove anything to haters can lead you to do some stupid shit.

No, as Mr. Tedford, my grade 10/11 math teacher discovered, doubters are my motivators. Tell me I shouldn’t do something or it’s not a good idea, and I will hear you out. Suggest that I am not capable of doing something – Well then, just watch me.

In the end, I have to admit, this moment in my life is a significant one, and I give thanks, that although I have at times sunk into the deepest valleys in life, in the words of the immortal Dr. Angelou, STILL I RISE!