Lake Jehovah

Lake Jehovah is Calgary-based comic artist Jillian Fleck’s first graphic novel. The story revolves around Jay, a genderqueer character, and the oddities of life in a small town in northern Alberta facing a series of apocalypses. Jay goes by the pronoun “xe,” but just as xe’s character evolves, so do the use of pronouns, with many people opting for “they” when referring to Jay toward the end of the story.

Through its comic style vignettes, the graphic novel brings the reader into Lake Jehovah’s mystical and dark world—much of which revolves around its bottomless lake. It’s a town where animals talk and demon creatures can be found in the depth of the forest, and where Jay feels certain it’s only a matter of time before the world ends.

Those thoughts are what ultimately send Jay into a tailspin, pushing xe’s girlfriend away, and leaving xe to months of solitude. But this remains a story about human nature, relationships, and learning to let go. Jay’s crisis about the meaning of life is something everyone can relate to and empathize with.

Date with Destiny

Ten grisly but rich descriptive short stories, Date With Destiny by Hélène Rioux glimpses at the many ways death affects our lives at any given age. From a mother with a suicidal son, to an overzealous funeral sales telemarketer, each character experiences death with a semblance of normalcy through Rioux’s colourful prose. Translated from French by frequent collaborator Jonathan Kaplansky, each story evokes a wide variety of emotion, from sadness and sympathy, to hilarity and awkward discomfort. Chapters also feature thought-provoking quotes by poets, playwrights, and even rock star Jim Morrison—each a nod to the overall themes of the collection.

Toronto’s Poor: A Rebellious History

Tracking the ebbs and flows of societal and economic events, Toronto’s Poor: A Rebellious History by Bryan D. Palmer and Gaétan Héroux studies the history of the city’s poor and resistance. Héroux, an anti-poverty activist with the Ontario Coalition Against Poverty (OCAP), and Palmer, a labour movement historian, document the discounted legacy of poverty—drawing back to the 1830s to present day—and how Toronto’s poor mobilized to resist the methods used by ruling classes.

By outlining how a “fight-to-win” mentality is key to the survival of Toronto’s poor—as most recently demonstrated by OCAP efforts—there is a clear mandate to sway or crystallize opinion.

As a text, there is a fearless ideological slant throughout that at times sets aside critical judgments for value judgements. The book provides absorbing context in outlining how Torontonians situated on the poverty rung of the class structure have been treated—and how they’ve fought for survival.

Shot-Blue

Set against the backdrop of a remote lake, Jesse Ruddock’s debut novel Shot-Blue follows a boy who learns to survive in a land that was once his home, but is now changed by strangers.

Packed with characters who are at times intertwined and disconnected—as evidenced by the novel’s alternating points of view—Shot-Blue sheds light on the reality of love, loss, and loneliness.

While the book is difficult to follow at times, Ruddock exquisitely breathes life into feelings we all know too well. Feelings that are felt so powerfully, even when conveyed through very few words.

Forehead smooth as bone china,
you are the witness, clinging
to opinion as though it were fact,
convinced of your own divinity.

Your voice reverberates against empty streets.
Streetlights pick up the tune, turning
like tuning forks, the hum barreling
along telephone wires and out
the open mouths at the end of each line.
You’re the message that lands like a bull

whip, the mother and the martyr, the city
wavering for one staticky instant
before collapsing on itself, rubble
rebounding into rebirth.

IMPOSSIBLE DREAM

I have seen the sun set over the ocean,
the freeway. I have seen the sun set
over gangplanks while toeing my way along.
I have toed the line, stepped over,
fallen over. I have woken up singing, sighing.
I have screamed at you for things that were not
your fault and things that are. I have let the seatbelt’s
steady hand hold me in one place for years
too long. I have unbuckled too quickly. I have given up.
Given in. Grieved for what I don’t miss. I have missed
you: and you, and you. I have held my breath. Exhaled
and found myself in a strange room filled with strange
words and strange pictures. I have lost heirlooms.
I have woven new ones. I have overused, underused.
I am a fallen tree limb caught in the arms of
another, still-attached limb. I am a chainsaw
to a tree’s heart, cutting deeper round by round,
laying bare every last goddamn scar.

Photo courtesy of Isaac Burkam

When Eva von Jagow first learned about food insecurity and inflation in the far North in high school, she couldn’t believe it was happening in Canada.

“I thought it was a disgrace. I was like, ‘There’s no way this is happening in my own country!’” says von Jagow, now a second-year student at McGill University. “And for so many people to not know about it!”

She explains that aside from a brief introduction in high school, education about Indigenous cultures was rarely accessible to her. She had to take initiative herself to learn about suicide and low graduation rates in these communities.

But what stood out to her most was the cost of food. A 2015 Bureau of Statistics survey showed food in Nunavut costs twice the Canadian average, for example.

“To me it didn’t make sense to tackle [other] issues if food was such a major problem,” says von Jagow. “How are children supposed to flourish in school, get lots of opportunities, if they’re not even eating properly?”

This is how DueNORTH began.

What started as a gently-used jewelry sale in her community, which ended up raising $20,000 for the Sakku School in Coral Harbour, Nunavut, has turned into a partnership with communities to tackle food insecurity in the North.

For the most recent fundraising event, von Jagow teamed up with the principal of the Sakku School to organize afterschool workshops. Students in the programs made artwork, some that depicted Inuit life, that was sold in a silent auction at up to $200 a piece.

In turn that money funded a breakfast program at the Northern school.

“People are always wondering if they’re the right person to do something. If you have any capacity to act on something you hear about, even if it’s a small contribution, you’re still contributing,” von Jagow says.

She adds: “You might be helping one person, you might be helping a thousand people, you might be helping a whole community, but if you can do anything, then strive to do that.”

How did the legal system come about?

The civil court has always been the elected council, falling under the Indian Act. But the people said: well what about Akwesasne laws? We have 33 laws on the books that include the needs of the community. The community said they want a court law to fall back on but more particular to what our practices are here, so the Council decided to use Mohawk values along with Canadian ideals in order to create the laws.

What makes it different than in the past?

It was ratified by the community itself. It is not under any Canadian statute. The people appointed to the court, the justices especially, aren’t through any statute or law of the Canadian government, making it very unique. The Council used their customary rules and created the court so that it meets the needs of the community.

What kinds of things does the court deal with? 

Often traffic law or peace bonds: we’re calling them skén:nen orders (skén:nen means peace). It also deals with tobacco regulations, sanitation, property, and wildlife conservation laws. Criminal matters are still settled in federal or provincial courts.

Do you have any stories from court you can share that illustrate the council’s way of handling violations?

One person was coming in for a traffic violation because he was driving without a licence. Instead of giving him a fine, the court worked with him and ordered him to get his driver’s licence, which is a solution I don’t think anyone else can say they would give. But here, you get your licence and if everything’s well then that violation will be lifted and things are put back in balance with the community, because then you have somebody who can legally drive and follow the rules of the road.

How were disputes handled beforehand?

Well it stems back from how we used to resolve disputes before. You would make sure there was a balance in the community. If somebody did something wrong, you ask: what would it take to rectify the situation? In Canadian law, you have your list of offences and your list of penalties. There’s hardly any room to maneuver, to say: you know, we need to send this person to rehabilitation. For example, if you’re caught shoplifting you pay a fine, but here if you’re caught shoplifting, we ask: what’s behind it? Is it an addiction problem? Is it you need food for your family? The court can inspect these things and see what we can do to make this person better.

How did these types of resolutions work traditionally?

In the community we always had a way of resolving disputes. You didn’t need a judge to tell you how to fix things. In our community, you would talk to the neighbours and see what they can do to resolve it. If they have to come to court, then how can we resolve it for the community? It all follows restorative justice practices, and I think that’s a better practice than somebody just getting a fine and you’re on your merry way until you get caught again.

What does this mean for the community?

Well they’ve always wanted it. We wanted to be able to use our people we want to be able to use our practices. We want to resolve our disputes internally and and be able to work with the families and with the offender to resolve our issues rather than it go outside.

What are your hopes for the outcomes of this new legal system?

We hope things are different because we want to be able to incorporate that sense of security in the community. Meaning that when people go to court, their issues will be addressed. I’ll give you an example: Imagine a person who might have written graffiti on the wall at a school—he would be given a $50 fine. But here, the Justice can say, “I know you’re a good lacrosse player, why don’t you teach the kids that go to that school lacrosse?” So that person will start building a relationship with the children and when he walks to the school to teach them he will see the graffiti and realize what they are seeing every day. So hopefully there’s some responsibility and the person will realize they did something wrong to those children. There are about 12,000 people in the community so we know the families here pretty well. If someone is trying to say something like, “My parents don’t care,” then the Justice will say, “I know your parents and they do care.” We’re small enough so that we know everyone and their situation and that will only make the system better.

Photo courtesy of Afripads

Madeleine Shaw had been making reuasable cloth menstrual pads for six years when she met Suzanne Siemens at a community leadership course in 1999. The women instantly clicked over their shared goals around business and social change, and together, they decided to take Shaw’s pad project to the next level.

“When I was in university, I became an activist and I thought I’d end up as a social worker,” says Shaw, a women’s studies student at the time. “But becoming an entrepreneur gave me a whole new set of tools to create change.”

Years later, their Vancouver-based company Lunapads is still growing. Their product, reusable pads, is aimed at tackling the host of problems associated with feminine hygiene products: the ongoing cost and environmental waste, and for many women across the world, inaccessibility.

Since 1999, Lunapads has sold one million units, and as of September 2016, select Target stores across the United States were fully stocked with the reusable goods. And while business is thriving, so are their international charities, including Pads4Girls and One4Her, two programs that donate pads in developing countries. Because of their work, 20,000 people in countries such as Uganda, Cambodia, and Jamaica have been given nearly 100,000 pads to help them continue going to work or school while on their periods.

“The typical girl in Uganda, for example, is so embarrassed to take the risk of going to school and soiling herself that she will stay home,” Siemens says. “When they don’t go to school, their grades drop, and they often drop out.” That girl may then be forced to marry and become pregnant, Siemens adds. In effect, access to menstrual pads has the remarkable ability to change the course of one’s life for the better.

This dedication to business and social change helped Lunapads secure a portion of $500,000 in 2016 from SheEO’s #RadicalGenerosity campaign, an initiative that encourages female entrepreneurs to loan money to fellow female founders to help grow their businesses.

As Lunapads moves into the next growth phase, Shaw and Siemens are focused on educating customers on how to use their products for light bladder leakage, making their language and products more gender-inclusive, and publishing a graphic novel-style booklet for Lunapads users in Africa—all while staying committed to their core values. “Every business can do something to be more socially inclusive and environmentally responsible,” Siemens says.

The Break

“In the end, all that matters is what is right here.” These words by Métis writer Katherena Vermette perfectly capture the heart of the stories within The Break. Vermette, who won the 2013 Governor General’s Literary Award for Poetry, offers alternative perspectives surrounding a brutal crime—each point of view so raw, readers won’t be able to pull away from the story. Equal parts heartbreaking and beautiful, Vermette tells an important story audiences must hear. Amid all the pain felt through the characters’ remembered histories, there is a strong sense of survival: Vermette shows readers the true resilience of the human spirit within a family narrative.

Like much of Toronto, the Yonge and Eglinton neighbourhood has undergone great change. As condos crop up on nearly every street corner and new transit lines are built to expand the city, the midtown area, frequented most by businesspeople and commuters, has seen vast growth. Nothing is stagnant, and the streets are a hubbub of honking and screeching. Even amid this noise, Caroline Akwe attracts Torontonians with her music.

On a cool September evening, Akwe sits near the intersection belting out powerful soul and playing gently at her keyboard. Onlookers stop and sit at Akwe’s side and sway to her tunes—a blend of hip-hop, alternative, and pop music. Also beside her is her notebook with scribbled lyrics, and her boyfriend, Nick Seo, picks up what the wind scatters. Together, they form the duo Les Kingdoms.

Akwe is a soft-spoken young Torontonian originally from Haiti. Growing up there, amid civil strife, she and her family would find refuge in music. “From a very young age, I would listen to music with my friends, but I would hear it differently,” she says. “I thought about it more. I analyzed it.” Her mother would often play music in the house, pushing her to take music classes at a young age. Akwe says her mother was her inspiration from the start.

But it wasn’t until Akwe met Seo, who is Canadian-Korean, that Les Kingdom was formed. “The whole idea of Nick being Asian and me Black, we’re all part of kingdoms, whether continents or culture,” she says. “I created Les Kingdoms to glorify who we are on earth and to give us a place. We’re part of something and it’s something special.”

Right here in the city’s midtown, Akwe is carving out her own kingdom, playing music in a space so frequently filled with the noise of construction and commuters. Her sound is a mix of soul and modern influence, from pop to folk and rock. “I moved around so much growing up and always was surrounded by many cultures,” she says. “I always try to give everyone something they can relate to.”

While she performs elsewhere in the city, Akwe is always drawn back to Yonge and Eglinton’s multicultural population. She says there are many people who genuinely love to take a seat by her side while she sings. “At the square, I feel it’s where all the souls meet,” she says.

In the summer of 2015, Akwe faced hardship when her mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. The first time she learned about it, Akwe was in the kitchen cooking a meal and her mom was in the living room. “Something told me to peek over,” Akwe says, “and when I did, she was gone.” Her mom wandered out of their home at St. Clair and police discovered her days later 45 minutes outside of the city.

Her mom is under 24-hour care, but the pair still listens to music together. “She’s still young, but her mind gave up on her,” says Akwe. “She could be very serious, very quiet, but then you play music for her, and she’ll close her eyes and just start dancing. She’s there, and she’s in that moment.” Her mother’s favourite song, Édith Piaf’s “La foule,” will often bring the pair together. “When she’s in that place, it’s magic and I want to be there, too,” she says. It’s inspiration for Akwe to connect with her own audience.

Much like the Yonge and Eglinton area itself, Akwe’s identity and sound are still growing. Even though she is one of few artists in the neighbourhood, Akwe plans to stay put with Seo; the pair hopes to nurture the midtown arts scene as they finish production on their first album.

In making her music, Akwe’s not just infusing the cityscape with sound— she’s making it a welcome hotspot for tired feet to sit, relax, and enjoy the show. Hers is an accessible magic, where regular fans will come back with coffee and muffins for Akwe and take a seat by her side. There, everyone is illuminated by those same square lights; everyone is in their own small kingdom.