Artist Hana Shafi, known better as Frizz Kid. Photo by Augustine Ng.

Hana Shafi’s Instagram feed is a burst of bright colours and thick lines interspersed with the occasional selfie. The Toronto-based artist, who goes by Frizz Kid, posts images of her digital art almost every day. From the playful—an anthropomorphic pizza slice placed around the words “Thick as hell”—to the serious—a person, closed-eyed with purple hair, and the affirmation, “You didn’t deserve it. You weren’t ‘asking for it’”—Shafi’s work deals with themes like body positivity, healing from trauma, and self-growth.

With more than 29,000 followers on Instagram and now, a book of illustrated poetry, Shafi has enjoyed success in her work—at least some of which she can credit to social media. “I don’t know a lot of other spaces I could have been in,” she says.

Shafi recalls often feeling out of place in indie zine and arts markets because she would be the only Brown artist there, and, as a journalism school graduate, the only one without formal art training. She says social media is the only place where she could start being taken seriously as an artist.

Among the many other benefits—and, arguably, detriments—that social media has brought about, increased visibility for artists from marginalized communities is a crucial one. In a space like the Canadian arts community, which is traditionally dominated by white men, it can be a more accessible way for Asian artists (and more generally, marginalized artists) to promote themselves. It offers the ability for Asian artists to carve out their own identities—to be judged for their work rather than how different they look from everyone else at the art fair.

It’s no longer a strict requirement that artists follow the prescribed path of going to art school and hoping to be picked up by a gallery. Instead, they just need to go viral online.

***

Ness Lee’s apartment is a large collection of things. Some are things she’s created by herself, like the ceramic pieces spilling out of the drawers of her studio, but others are small gifts from her friends that have become themes in her space: vegetable-shaped pillows and stress balls propped up on the couch or hanging from a wall; small tortoise memorabilia in honour of her pet tortoise, Frank Ocean. She often mentions names of other Asian photographers and artists, people she says it seems like “everyone in the city” knows.

For artists like Lee, social media offers a way to connect with other Asian artists. Although it has a population of more than two million people, Toronto is tight-knit, and it’s evident the Asian artist community is no exception.

Ness Lee. Photo by Augustine Ng.

“Growing up, I had a lot of repression because I didn’t really have a way to talk to people,” she says. She explains that many of her friends came from immigrant families, and that they had languages they preferred to communicate in outside of English. Because she is Hakka, a Han Chinese diasporic group of about 80 million people, she didn’t know anyone who could understand her language. “I think [art] was just a way for me to talk to myself, or figure shit out,” she says. “Without me knowing it, I would notice I’d feel relief—it just felt good to make something, whether it was something shitty or not. It was a good way to work it out.”

Now, most of her connections are people of colour. “It’s really nice to have that kind of understanding from people,” she says.

For Lee, one drawback of having a following on social media, however, for Lee has been the following itself. Although her actual work carries with it a large personal weight, she says having a platform online—particularly her Instagram account, followed by more than 36,000 people—has made her unsure of sharing anything that isn’t art-related. “I want to make sure my voice is conscious and considerate,” she says. “I think my social media thing became more art, because I also can’t put my personal self into it anymore, because it’s just so scary.” She maintains a separate Instagram for personal posts, like photos of her feet.

She also struggles with guilt for her art receiving the attention it has—from her Toronto solo show, to a mural in partnership with Netflix’s “Orange is the New Black,” to the handful of other murals set up throughout the city. “I’m super thankful for it, but I’m wondering if I’m taking up too much space,” she says. She mentions impostor syndrome, a common phenomenon where sufferers feel unworthy of their own accomplishments, fearful they’ll one day be exposed as a fraud.

“Persistence is key. Staying curious, if you can afford to, is very key. Just being open, honest, and not superficial, I guess,” she says. “This social media thing. That whole conversation… It’s hard! I guess just, I don’t know, remember to be you.”

***

Shafi has had her own struggles on social media, particularly when one of her pieces went viral.

Set on a pink background, the piece features an ECG monitor line covered in flowers, with the words “Healing is not linear” written in bubbly lettering across it. The piece’s popularity jump-started her career in art, which, back then, was marked by on-and-off commitments to Facebook pages and Etsy stores. But since then, she says she’s been plagiarized numerous times; a Google search of the phrase yields multiple renditions and uncredited reposts of her original piece.

“I’m almost having trouble saying, ‘This is mine,’” she says, “especially when you’re a young woman and you’re putting your work out there.”

Photo by Augustine Ng.

But for Shafi, who didn’t feel like she belonged in the traditional arts scene, with growing online recognition came with it a larger number of Asian artists reaching out to her with support and encouragement.

“[They reached out to me like,] ‘Hey, keep pursuing this. Maybe not everyone is being super supportive of you, but you have potential, you can do this. Keep practicing,’” she says. “I learned just in my own experiences, the true importance of community and just really knowing your worth and making that known.”

Dear art thieves,

Yes, that’s what you are. No, I don’t care that you just really liked my work. No, I don’t care that I didn’t use a watermark. It’s my design, you took it, you didn’t get my consent. You’re an art thief.

I know we live in a time where millions of delicious chunks of media are dancing on our fingertips—accessible, saveable, easy to find and use. I know you love following blogs on the social network Tumblr that post inspirational art (without crediting the artist), and cute online corkboards on Pinterest that post soothing illustrations (without credit), and so-called feminist Facebook pages that post sassy memes (without credit). But that does not mean you can take my art without my permission.

I’m talking to you, girl who was selling my stuff on her online store. And I’m talking to you, Instagram account with hundreds of likes for displaying my work without credit. And you, tattoo parlour that used my work without my consent. And I didn’t forget about you, art student who plagiarized my work for an assignment. And you and you and you, dozens who have overtly stolen my art, posted without credit, or attempted to sell it for profit.

I’ve been creating artwork for years. And for years, most of it went unnoticed. In April 2016, an illustration of mine—a floral EKG line, captioned with the words “healing is not linear”—blew up online. It was an earlier piece in an affirmation series I decided to create. Now, I’ve made more than 100. It’s a labour of love—I don’t get paid to make these pieces that I post every Monday. I do it because it’s something I care deeply about, something I believe in. I have a day job to keep me afloat. I’ve paid my dues, and you, art thieves, swoop in and steal the fruits of my labour in an attempt to catapult yourself to sudden Instafame without the years of work that actually went into my social media rise.

I think it’s cute when you decide to answer my messages with a long story of how deeply the illustrations in my affirmations series—like “you have survived so much” written over a mountain range—resonated with you and how much you care about mental health. What about the mental health of the artist you stole from? It really tickles me pink when you quietly remove the work in question, without an apology or acknowledgement of your wrongdoing. It’s even worse when, after I call you out, you proceed to lecture me on how better to protect my work or how hard it was to find the source. You really know how to make a girl smile.

I know what you’re thinking: It’s “just art” and I’m “just an artist.” Who cares about the time and energy that went into making the piece? Its only purpose is to serve you, completely unattached from the artist who made it. It’s on the internet, so that must mean that everyone can use and exploit it, however they choose. Right? Wrong. It’s my work. I made it. It’s for me, the creator of it, first. It’s for those who see it, second, after I choose to put it online to show them. I own the work. It’s my blood, sweat, and tears.

You should know that my livelihood is important. Like you, I’m trying to make a name for myself in this world and earn some money doing what I love. I deserve to be paid for my labour. When you don’t credit me, I don’t get recognition and it affects my career. When you steal my work, you’re taking potential profits from me.

The saddest part, art thieves, is that all you had to do was ask for consent to use my work or recreate it for your own leisurely purposes. Most of the time, I say yes. Sincerely, The girl who creates the beautiful things you like to steal.

—HANA SHAFI

But it’s hard to celebrate when we consider how much work still needs to be done to make this country one that supports and encourages its minority communities. Indigenous women and girls in Canada still go missing and are murdered regularly. Black men are still harassed, violated, and even killed by police on our streets. And, most recently, in our very own industry, professionals have made a mockery of appropriation, with some of the most influential players calling for a prize in its name.

In our July/August issue, we shed light on many of these issues. But we felt it wasn’t enough. So, we reached out to Indigenous writers and writers of colour, asking them what they think of Canada 150. It is crucial that we hear from these voices, which have so frequently been silenced or ignored in discussions about 150, our country’s industries, and what still needs to be changed.

This feature is a living document—it is intended to grow and change with time. If you are a person of colour or an Indigenous Canadian, please send your own thoughts on Canada 150 to editor@this.org, and we’ll include them here.

This isn’t just a time to celebrate. It’s a time to reflect, to resist, and to enact change.

–ERICA LENTI, editor 

Canada 150 is a moment to celebrate the 150 ways that Canada has let me down. 150 catcalls. 150 tranny slurs. 150 Canadian white boys terrified of intimacy. 150 conversations about the problems with “the natives.” 150 poetry readings with racist poets. 150 therapy sessions for intergenerational traumas from genocide. 150 Starbucks coffees. 150 white guys on Twitter telling me to die. 150 excuses for colonial excuses. 150 dead Indians everywhere every day without no end in sight.

But let’s be honest with each other? We come to each other in pieces. Canada is not a whole being. So let’s celebrate 150 kisses down my neck. 150 chances to start again. 150 days of medically supervised hormone replacement therapy. 150 days of a gender and name change without complication. 150 breaths sleeping beside a Canadian boy I love. 150 snowflakes in Calgary. 150 steps up a mountain in Banff. 150 moments to change society. 150 Indigenous women getting up and making it through. 150 words in Anishinaabemowin. 150 years of resistance. 150 plays of Feist. Canada, let’s talk about the 150 ways you break my heart but don’t forget the 150 ways you hold me together.

–GWEN BENAWAY, Annishinabe/Métis poet

There’s always something that’s made me anxious about CanLit. It’s the same thing that makes me anxious about Canada 150, though until recently I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it precisely.

I am Tuscarora of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy. Canada as a nation depends on my repression; or better still, my assimilation; or best of all, my disappearance. Though the treaties my ancestors negotiated and signed are the legal basis of this country, my ancestors’ existence has also been incredibly inconvenient to the national narrative. Canadians want to think of this country as good, moral, polite—better in a thousand ways than their louder, brasher neighbour to the south. It’s a nice fairy tale when you’re a certain kind of child, the kind that claps and dances during Canada Day celebrations, staring at the flag with reverence and wonder. That flag is why you are here, after all. That history is why you are here.

It’s why I’m here, too—trauma trailing me like a killer, taunting me every time I have to Google translate a language that’s been beaten from my blood as per national policy. I have never believed patriotic fairy tales; after all, Canada has never been good, moral, or polite to my people. Therefore I do not celebrate Canada’s Confederation. Instead I celebrate the ways my own nation has survived despite every Canadian attempt to destroy us. That celebration can’t be collapsed into a single moment, a “birthday”; it’s ongoing, never-ending—a resistance far older than Canada’s 150 years.

This brings me to the issue of CanLit. The literature of a nation builds that nation up: letter by letter, line by line. Each book a brick making it sturdier, more legitimate. When that nation continues to deny its hand in colonialism and, further, refuses to address it, how can I in good conscience agree to be part of its national literature? The fact that my work can be branded “CanLit” even as I’m writing about my people, for my people, on my peoples’ land feels like another attempt at assimilation, another denial of my identity, my sovereignty as a Haudenosaunee woman and writer. In this country, at this time, I must agree to be swallowed up by CanLit. There is no space for me otherwise.

But my writing isn’t Canadian. My writing is Indigenous. My stories are Indigenous. They will never build up the nation dedicated to tearing my own nation down. I can’t celebrate CanLit as an institution any more than I can celebrate Canada 150. I can admire Canadian writers and their work, consider them friends and allies in my struggle to assert my right to be myself. I can be a friend and ally to them in their struggles to assert their rights to be themselves. But my literature can never and will never be Canadian. It is forever and always Indigenous, and should be considered such.

No matter how many “birthdays” Canada celebrates, Indigenous people, Indigenous literature will always resist. So will I.

–ALICIA ELLIOTT, National Magazine Award-winning Haudenosaunee writer

My relationship with Canada Day has always been a layered one. The reasons that brought my family and I here in 1996 remain true—the freedoms and opportunities Canada has provided me with were what my parents had hoped for in moving us here. And yet, I am always faced with the uncomfortable truth that the chances I’ve been given here were chances ripped out of the hands of Indigenous communities that face genocide, occupation, and forced assimilation. I know that I am an immigrant who continues to face racism and misogyny in a country that parades its apparent progressiveness; a settler on stolen land where systemic violence continues to be perpetuated and white supremacy upheld; a citizen in a place that gave me a brighter future. Patriotism has always been too simple, too violent in its erasure of these intersections to appeal to me. Canada 150, with all its flair, frills, and excellent PR, is yet another oversimplified display of the deeply complicated issue on what it means to be Canadian.

–HANA SHAFI, regular This contributor and artist

An Unsettled 150

When Chief Dan George gave his “Lament for Confederation” in 1967 in front of 32,000 people at Empire Stadium in Vancouver, he said, “My nation was ignored in your history textbooks—they were little more important in the history of Canada than the buffalo that ranged the plains. I was ridiculed in your plays and motion pictures.”

His address, his words carry weight today, 50 years on, as Canada as a nation state celebrates Canada 150. His lament is a timeless reminder of the dispossession and theft of land, the suppression of culture and languages, and the patriarchal control over Indigenous reality that still stifles young Indigenous lives and dreams in this year of “celebration.”

The word “reconciliation” is bandied about so much that the word itself has pretty much lost its meaning, has become a cliche masking the absence of responsibility in Canada coming to terms with its Indigenous past and, most damning, its Indigenous presence.

To this day, the federal government refuses to implement the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP). Indigenous and Northern Affairs Canada (INAC) has spent over $500,000 in court fighting the rights of Indigenous children who live on reserves, in defiance of the Canadian Human Rights Tribunal. Boiled water advisories exist on close to 100 reserves. And the list goes on.

When First Nations, Métis, and Inuit peoples are asked to celebrate Canada 150, what exactly are we being asked to celebrate? The continuance of the status quo? Police forces that remain both negligent and unaccountable in the violence perpetrated against Indigenous women, children, and men? The underfunding of languages and education? The lack of health services for communities in Nunavut and the North?

For Indigenous peoples, whether to partake in Canada 150 celebrations is an individual decision. I retain no disrespect for those who decide to partake, in whatever fashion. However I am one of those who will not be celebrating. The alternative is not to simply stand aside and try to ignore the “festivities” but to critique them, to point out the hypocrisies, to celebrate those activists and artists who are living examples of survival, who are giving hope to youth, who are living, loving, and creating outside the Canadian colonial framework.

It is people like Inuk grandmother Beatrice Hunter, only recently released from a men’s prison in Nova Scotia for defending her land; Cindy Blackstock, who tirelessly lobbies and fights the injustices of the bureaucratic system that denies a future to Indigenous children; and the late George Manuel, who famously said, “As long as I am leader, our position is not going to change from that of our forefathers. I do not want the responsibility for selling the rights of our children yet unborn.”

These are the kind of Indigenous leaders that Canada should be celebrating, not fighting.

No doubt, in the celebrations to come, there will be First Nations, Métis, and Inuit artists showcased. There will verbal acknowledgments of traditional lands in speeches. There will be an effort to present a rosy mosaic of what Canada would like to think it is. But until there is real movement to address injustices, to recognize and implement Treaty Rights, to ensure the safety of women, children, and men, to implement the UNDRIP, to return stolen lands, it is an escapist party that leaves a colonial hangover in its wake.

Uncloaking the settler mentality is not easy nor can it be done by saying sorry or uttering platitudes of reconciliation and hiding the reality with cosmetic actions. It is a serious engagement to establish a new relationship. Until that happens, my heart is with those activists, land protectors, and artists who are doing their best to unsettle Canada 150. May they walk in beauty.

–PAUL SEESEQUASIS, writer and author of the forthcoming book Blanket Toss Under Midnight Sun

Diversity in media, 150 years on

Canadian media is still far behind in telling diverse stories and hiring more diverse journalists. We’ve made some advances, but we don’t get to pat ourselves on the back. Diversity has become one of our industry’s favourite talking points—we love to go on about why we need it, what we should do and how we should do it—and yet it seems we’re reluctant and unwilling to incorporate it into our static media landscape. Worse, Canadian media giants speak empty words on diversity with little understanding of its value or purpose.

Take for instance this year’s National Magazine Awards, which opened with a compelling speech by Indigenous writer Alicia Elliott on the need for powerful media key players (who are almost all white) to make room for writers of colour. However, nearly all of the gold and silver NMA winners were white, and no stories about diversity, or by diverse writers, were awarded.

Take for instance the Toronto Star’s attempts to address anti-Black racism by offering journalist Desmond Cole a column. Except the louder he championed for basic rights for Black Canadians, the more apprehensive the Star became, until Cole decided to leave. The defence was that journalists cannot hold activist affiliations; for some unaddressed reason, talking about anti-Black racism is a political agenda, yet far-right (and plagiarizing) columnists and their harmful ideologies are protected under their right to “freedom of speech.”

Take for example the calls for diversity in publishing, and yet we are still struggling to get our books into the hands of publishers.

Take for instance the hungry chase producers who want our painful stories for the five o’clock news, then add guests with opposing views to attack and trivialize our own experiences on national television, which they innocently claim is for the sake of “having a debate.”

Do we actually want to advance inclusion, or do we just like how it sounds? We don’t get choose what parts we want to incorporate into our newsrooms, because being a person of colour is an emotional, spiritual, metaphysical experience that is difficult, beautiful, complex, and Canadian. Without these stories, we fail to represent a large majority of Canadians. So where are those stories in the mainstream media, and where are the people who get to tell them? Unfortunately, that’s not for us to decide.

–ETERNITY MARTIS, associate editor at Daily Xtra

Reconciliation is not a matter of ‘burying the hatchet’

In light of Canada 150, many leaders and citizens alike are taking this time to acknowledge both Canada’s past and hopeful future. Many are celebrating the country’s victories, while recognizing the violent history. It is with no doubt that Canada has made a great deal of progress in terms of improving relations with Indigenous peoples. However, this is debatable when examining the unsolved problems that exist at present.

A few prevalent issues are the over-incarceration of Indigenous peoples, the health and suicide crises among communities, and the government inaction regarding the epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls. It is hard to believe that a country appearing to be so keen on solving various issues would spend hundreds of millions of dollars on Canada Day celebrations, while there are communities without clean drinking water, for example.

The common settler’s stance on reconciliation is that it is only a matter of Indigenous peoples “shrugging off” their intergenerational grudges. However, this mentality only acknowledges the Canada that settlers think exists, not the Canada that truly exists. This outlook is a dangerous one, as it upholds the claim that there is little improvement to be made for Indigenous peoples, and that the country has every intention of making these improvements.

It is easy to get caught up in the government’s “sweet talk” and lose sight of what is truly going on. Once you take a step back and sincerely recognize the current, growing issues surrounding Indigenous peoples, it is impossible to think of reconciliation as a matter of “getting over it.” Reconciliation must involve solving the key problems that affect Indigenous peoples by genuinely listening to what we have to say. This must start with admitting that Canada is not postcolonial, and putting an end to land claims. We cannot focus on the future of Canada until the issues of our past no longer affect those being ill-treated.

This year, I am not interested in settlers whose feelings are hurt by protesters on Canada Day. I am not interested in those who have the “it happened, get over it” mindset. Until the country has taken the proper steps to reconciliation, I will not celebrate a holiday that is built on the genocide of my people.

–LAURYN MARCHAND, Métis student at Dalhousie University