Community-Made: Moving from Scarcity to Abundance

ROOTS    

“A culture that is not in control of its own narrative will forever be at the mercy of another’s pen”―Mark Gonzales

My maternal grandmother lived most of her life in Eldoret, once a small town in the highlands of Kenya, close to the Rift Valley. She used to tell me that she wished she could have done more with her life, but she failed to recognize how much she had done. She was one of two South Asian women accepted into a formerly all-white women’s league, and the first to advocate for prenatal care. She made space for herself in a space that did not accept her, and then she made room for more.

What broke my heart is that she didn’t see herself in that light.

In 2017, I went to Kenya with a voice recorder and a blank notebook, prepared to ask my grandmother all the questions I had never thought to ask before. The stories of my ancestors were often of men, and it was something I had internalized without even realizing it. I did not know what the journey from India to Kenya was like for my great-grandmother, who got married and left her family home in Gujarat when she was only 17.

When I arrived in Eldoret, I couldn’t wait to spend time with my grandmother and listen to her recall her memories. Sitting on the verandah with our cups of chai, I asked her to tell me her story, expecting her to spill out every detail of her life. Her response shocked me: “I have nothing to tell.”

I did not understand. How could she have nothing to say given all her accomplishments in her personal life and her community life? I felt a lump rise in my throat as I realized it was a story I also told myself from time to time, one that other writers may be familiar with: Who wants to hear this story? Who is going to read it? Why am I doing this?

Making the choice to keep writing is the only way to quiet that voice.

Despite her initial response, I coaxed my grandmother to share as much of her story as she was comfortable with. I recorded her singing ginans, laughing at antics from her childhood, and proudly recalling the time she placed first in track and field. The only time I myself can run fast is when I run to catch the bus.

My grandmother told me that her mother left home never to see her own mother again. I wondered how the memory of loss cycled in my own blood. My great-great-grandmother, who couldn’t travel anymore, reunited with my great-grandmother’s sister one last time before her death. She told her to pass on a message to my great-grandmother: “We couldn’t reunite in this lifetime, but we’ll reunite in the next.” In some ways, I am “the next lifetime.” As their great- and great-great-granddaughter, I feel I am reuniting them here on this page.

As I sit here numbed by my grandmother’s recent death, I am struck by this ancestral cycle of separation. My mom, who could not travel for her mother’s funeral, reclines in sunlit silence, knowing that she will not be reunited with her mother again—at least not in this lifetime. We take small comfort in the stories from my uncles, who tell us over glitchy internet calls that representatives from every community came to my grandmother’s funeral. Garlands of red roses flanked her casket, and bouquets of white and buttery yellow roses were sent home. Roses feel appropriate, considering my grandmother’s nickname was “Rosy,” because of her red cheeks. Prayers and rituals were performed not just in our jamatkhana, but in the gurudwara and temple as well. I recall my mom telling me that, when she was growing up, my grandmother sent plates of sweetmeats to our Hindu neighbours as they celebrated Diwali, and they did the same when we celebrated our festivals. During the post-funeral period, neighbours send plates of food to our family.

It was my grandparents who taught us, through example, that community thrives in a relationship of reciprocity, and a belief that no one, no matter how independent, can make it on their own.

SELF-MADE?

When I started out on the poetry scene about 20 years ago, I was determined to make it. For me, making it meant being recognized by my peers, publishing my work, and being given opportunities to present my work internationally. These are not surprising goals for a writer, but my intention lacked clarity. At times, I was seeking validation instead of serving the story I was trying to tell. Using all manner of props, including standing on chairs, I insisted on being seen because the dominant culture made me feel invisible. I was often the only South Asian poet in the room and the more uncomfortable the audience was, the more I felt they could relate to my experience.

I was determined to prove that I belonged, to make a name for myself. What I had forgotten was that I had already inherited a name. When I was born, my dad, in order to ensure my name would be pronounced correctly, went to my sister’s kindergarten class and asked the kids to pronounce my name. They did so flawlessly. He was confident that I would feel a sense of dignity hearing my name pronounced correctly. What he could not foresee was the bullying. Growing up, kids intentionally mispronounced my name all throughout school, calling me “she-sneeze,” followed by a sneezing gesture.

I was given a first name, but I wanted to become known beyond it. My experience had taught me that my given name was not enough to be taken seriously.

My grandfather, who shared the same first name as my dad, was a self-taught orator, requested to speak at all manner of events—from school openings to funerals. I vividly recall coming across a photo of him in a suit and tie, standing on a chair to give a speech. A mirror, right there in front of me.

But a mirror is only a mirror if you are willing to recognize yourself in it.

The pressure to speak on behalf of my community was suffocating, but I did not know then that it was not my responsibility. Responsibility to represent is tricky when you are the only person of colour reading at a series or sitting on a panel. The urge to begin by stating that your opinion is your own, not that of an entire community, is profound. If you say something that is perceived negatively by your community, you are suddenly thrust into the role of a representative. The only way to counter this dilemma is to move beyond representation into a multiplicity of perspectives. Why not have a panel of South Asian writers from different regions, who speak different languages, and write in different genres? Why is one South Asian, or any one writer of colour, enough for lists, panels, and readings to be considered “diverse”?

But a mirror is only a mirror if you are willing to recognize yourself in it.

My great-great-grandfather settled in an area in the Rift Valley referred to as the “White Highlands,” named so because it was reserved for white settlers. Indians were given a few more freedoms than Black Kenyans, and that was by design. Control the population and you control the country. The less likely we are to trust each other, the more we can be manipulated into believing stories about each other. In the words of Frantz Fanon, “Imperialism leaves behind germs of rot which we must clinically detect and remove from our land but from our minds as well.”

The acceptable narrative, which stubbornly persists, was that success was earned by an individual, not a community. The goal was to prove you could make it on your own without anyone’s help. If you were the only person of colour on a panel or at a reading, it meant that there was only room for one of you; you should be grateful and do everything to protect that position. This is undoubtedly a colonialist mindset; a falsehood used to divide and conquer.

Writer and arts educator Whitney French speaks to this false narrative:

I’ve been thinking a lot about the stories that are upheld in certain cultural societies and the stories that aren’t. When I think about ‘self-made,’ there’s this narrative that is very appealing. You did all these things; you’ve beat the odds—it’s the hero narrative. When there’s a hero in the story, the hero has a certain level of power and agency to impact and change the world, which sounds great—but often it’s outside the context of exterior things that the hero might have barriers with—not necessarily barriers of their motivation, but barriers to existing. For example, a plague, or a drought, or a system like fascism, sexism, racism—these heroes tend to be absolved of these larger societal issues.

What I’ve learned from my ancestors, and especially my elders, is that when I go back to Jamaica and have conversations with my aunties, uncles, and my cousins, when I’m on the street where my auntie lives, there’s an awareness that they are pillars of a larger community. There’s so much that everyone can collectively share. We’re no longer thinking of a hero narrative, we’re actually thinking of a narrative where many people contribute—a community narrative. It’s not just one person changing the world, it’s many people responding to how the world has impacted them.

The stories I heard about my great-great-grandfather were ones of bravery, of making a name for himself through hard work, determination, and sheer gall. I have a sticky note above my desk that reads, “Is this story yours, or the one you’ve been told?” It is an anchor for me as I write my own stories and examine the ones I have been told as truths—within and outside of my community. It is only in recent years that I have come to question the ancestral story I have been told, realizing that my great-great-grandfather was not a self-made man, but a community-made one. It was because of his close ties to his own community and communities outside of his that he was able to establish his business and also support others. It was not just about his success, but the success of the community at large.

Is this story yours, or the one you’ve been told?

Our ancestors survived because they worked together for each other’s success.

About ten years ago, I attended a creative writing conference and found myself engaged in a walking conversation with an established poet and professor. They told me about an opportunity to apply for a lucrative gig, and then, under their breath, confided in me that one of their colleagues chose not to share the submission call with their students. When I asked why, they told me that their colleague wanted to apply for the same position and did not want the competition.

When teachers are vying for the same opportunities as their students, it is not surprising that we can become fiercely protective and secretive about the opportunities available. Economic challenges can compound the scarcity mindset, because the system is designed in such a way that we have to compete—even for very little—in order to survive, never mind thrive.

Author and academic Adrian De Leon sums it up:

I personally think that scarcity mindset has a deep relationship with the actual political economic scarcity. We’re scrambling for pennies. If we look at the funding landscape for Canadian arts and letters, let alone the even more meagre pools of money available for diverse artists, it's no wonder that we're always at each other's throats! As evidenced by the recent turn of events with the Griffin Poetry Prize and the like, Canadian funding for arts and culture needs to be democratic and abundant, and not driven by a chosen and privileged (and unaccountable) few. Canadian artists deserve good wages, livable conditions, and good structures to be productive—and rewarded for it.

There is no doubt that, in order for the scarcity mindset to shift to abundance, we have to witness systemic change. And yet, despite this grim reality, there are many who choose to model a different way of approaching scarcity.

Founder and Executive Director of the Festival of Literary Diversity (FOLD), Jael Richardson, once said on a conference panel that we should take a look around and pay attention to who is not at the table. She went on to encourage us, despite needing gigs, to ensure we are the right fit when taking on work. If not, we should graciously step aside and recommend someone who is better suited for the job. This takes humility, self-awareness, and a willingness to concede. It can become very difficult to do when we have to pay rent or cover basic necessities, which is why making more room as a culture is important, as Richardson further explains: “There’s not a lot of room for Canadian writers. And writers feel that. But I’d encourage any writer to get in the habit of making room in whatever way they can. Consider who you can cheer on in addition to promoting your own work.”

The poet and editor Jade Wallace, who advocates tirelessly in favour of making room, points out that emerging writers can be emerging at any age—citing socio-economic barriers that may prevent writers from beginning their career early. As a result of their advocacy, Wallace was successful in having the age cap removed for the Bronwen Wallace Award.

‘Consider who you can cheer on in addition to promoting your own work.’

As they explain:

We spend so much of our lives feeling trapped by numbers—the fixed hours of a workday, or a biological clock, or money in a bank account against a balance of bills. Writing allows us a brief freedom from numbers. We can write more or less often; we can write more or fewer words; people of almost any age can write; people of almost any income level can afford a pen and paper. Good writing resists quantification. It seemed to me arbitrary and callous to create a prestigious and well-funded writing contest, to offer an unparalleled opportunity to emerging writers, to even ensure that it was no-fee to make it more accessible—and then to shut certain people out with an age cap. Especially when we know that people’s ability to establish professional careers in the arts can be greatly influenced by their life circumstances and privilege. There is no age limit on literature, so why should there be an age limit on a literary prize?

‘Good writing resists quantification.’

The recent response to the revamping of the Griffin Poetry Prize is another encouraging example of making more room for fellow writers. While the board of the Griffin was under the impression that the community would be thrilled with the announcement of the new prize, most poets were emphatically not. It is heartening to note that we would rather, as a culture of poets, see more of us succeed than aim for one big prize all on our own. Ideas from the poetry community ranged from splitting the prize money to support more poets, offering mentorship opportunities and residencies and supporting living costs for poets. Poet and children’s author Jordan Scott tweeted a response to Ian Williams’ call for a reimagining of the prize, stating, “This puts needless pressure on Canadian poets as if to say: if we don’t like the new prize structure, we can’t ‘compete’ internationally. Poetry is not a competition.” Poet and Founder and Managing Editor of Kegedonce Press, Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm, also tweeted a response: “I’m interested in building community, not creating celebrity poets who are positioned to hold & hoard power, opportunities, & $$$.”

‘There is no age limit on literature, so why should there be an age limit on a literary prize?’

When I was 17, a first year in university, a friend took me to an open mic called La Parole, held on the third floor of Ritz Caribbean restaurant, in the heart of Toronto. A series dedicated to centring emerging and established spoken word artists and poets, La Parole was started by the visionary Karen Mason (née Richardson), who made everyone feel welcome regardless of their level of performance experience. It was Karen and the seasoned regulars who nurtured me into experimenting with poetry on stage. The first time I stepped to the mic, I brought my printed poem with me, just in case. All the other poets memorized their poems, and I wanted to prove that I could as well. While I could refer to the text, I chose to recite the piece by memory instead. Unsurprisingly, I messed up a line. I remember a badass established poet sitting in front of me, snapping his fingers and encouraging me to keep going. There was no judgement when I had to look at the page, just hollers of support. That is what La Parole taught me. The spoken word artists I encountered did not laugh or snicker when someone messed up. They did not bring their egos to the stage. They trusted that their words would carry them far enough without having to compete with others (slam poets are a different category, and yet, even at slam events, there was immense respect between poets). Poets in the audience snapped their fingers, clapped to fill the awkward silence, and spoke words of encouragement directly to the poet’s heart.

Publisher of Hush Harbour, Whitney French, speaks of this collective possibility in CanLit:

When I’m working through community, especially with Hush Harbour and the larger CanLit picture of who’s-who, prizes, and competitiveness, when a press receives accolades because their ‘hero’ has won, I wonder what would it look like if multiple presses work together—not just exist in a community because they have to—but that they actively champion many people in their spaces, or even find time to champion everybody for their individual talents. I’m blessed to be in conversation across publications with folks who are much more engaged and interested in collaboration for survival’s sake. Often having the self-made hero story, having that individualistic mindset does not work for everybody because we don’t all have the same starting point.

UNLISTED

“Dominator culture has tried to keep us all afraid, to make us choose safety instead of risk, sameness instead of diversity. Moving through that fear, finding out what connects us, revelling in our differences; this is the process that brings us closer, that gives us a world of shared values, of meaningful community.”―bell hooks, Teaching Community: A Pedagogy of Hope

The idea for this piece began in response to a lively Twitter conversation in 2021, when end-of-year “best of” lists were coming out and it became apparent that people were not happy about them. While some of this frustration might be professional jealousy (let’s be real, a writer with a recent book out who does not make a “best of” list may understandably feel slighted), some of it was less about our personal feelings and more about the value of such lists in the first place. Who are the gatekeepers making these lists and determining which books are the best in every genre? How are these lists determined? Personal preference, book sales, hype, PR posturing?

And, perhaps more importantly, what does it mean to be the best in a literary landscape that is redefining what the “best” literature is? As we have seen in the last decade or so, CanLit is shifting in voice, representation, and the kinds of stories readers want to engage with. The challenge, however, is that change takes place slowly in the upper echelons of the industry, particularly amongst publishers, agents, reviewers, and editors.

Who are the gatekeepers making these lists and determining which books are the best in every genre?

The Writers’ Union of Canada, in its “Diversity in Canadian Writing: 2020-2021 Snapshot” report, makes one of the following recommendations:

Ensure that gatekeepers and those in positions of power in the sector are more diverse, both within publishing houses and in affiliated organizations such as reviewing outlets, festival and prize administration, literary agencies and funding institutions, by creating concrete, transparent and measurable goals around their makeup. (23)

There are many of us telling nuanced stories, not just about our identity or heritage, but also stories that dream new worlds into being. A fellow South Asian writer once told me that there was a Facebook group dedicated to South Asian authors who were asked by publishers, editors, or agents to add a red sari to their stories or book covers. Often, the stories that sell are the ones that profit from our suffering and stereotypes, and the gatekeepers determine what is considered valuable by the market. Until gatekeepers behave differently, meaningful change cannot happen for our community of writers, and scarcity will continue to be a reality for many of us.

I asked Whitney French, publisher of Hush Harbour, about a publisher’s role in trend-making: “Publishers shouldn’t be trend makers; they should be putting out books. They should be aware of trends, but they’re not making them—the readers are. The readers are the ones determining what they want to read.”

And about the “best of” lists:

From a publisher’s point of view, any kind of publicity for the book is a good thing. That said, you can’t eat exposure. But as a reader, if I see a cover over and over again, then I have a sense of false familiarity with the book, regardless of whether it’s good or not. I’m more excited by unique lists, like the ones Electric Literature puts out. For example, lists about BIPOC writers writing outside of the white gaze. It helps me to understand the landscape of literature at the moment. Perhaps, then, it is the richness of our stories, rather than what we’re meant to represent, that matters more than what is perceived as best.

Take Manahil Bandukwala’s recent speculative poetry list on 49th Shelf. Bandukwala listed several writers who write speculative poetry, including more than one South Asian poet: Irfan Ali, Sanna Wani, and myself. I had never thought of myself as a speculative poet until she included me on the list. Hers is the kind of list that provides insight and contemplation—beyond “best of,” into a deeper investigation of the work itself. We have an opportunity to know ourselves through our community, peers, and fellow writers who mirror our work back to us. Bandukwala explains:

When big media corporations put out lists that claim ‘the best Canadian poetry’ or when they title things ‘best’ or ‘top,’ it contributes to the scarcity mindset. Who defines what’s best? Who is sitting and creating these lists? Whereas with the opportunity to create a list for the 49th Shelf, I had the freedom to take it where I felt it should go. Firstly, if I were to sit down and choose my favourite poetry collections, I don’t think I’d be able to capture them in just ten books. Secondly, I wanted to have the opportunity to feature recent titles published by small presses in Canada. There are not a lot of lists to go around, and I wanted a theme to tie the list together. It also felt important to avoid the scarcity mindset coming through as a result of the list. These were books that I enjoyed reading at the time I was writing my book, MONUMENT. They intrigued me.

Bandukwala’s speculative poetry list is one way of moving beyond “best” into something more meaningful.

‘When big media corporations put out lists that claim ‘the best Canadian poetry’ or when they title things ‘best’ or ‘top,’ it contributes to the scarcity mindset.’

Ten years ago, 49th Shelf gave me the opportunity to make a list of South Asian women poets that first influenced my writing. The list was by no means comprehensive, as I admitted to my reader: “There are so many more poets who have not been named (please forgive me). These are simply reflections of my journey, reflections of poets who have moved me to write, re-write, stop writing, keep writing, forget writing, remember writing.” Perhaps, then, the disclaimer that lists are determined by more nuanced factors than by what is simply perceived as the “best” would be a more honest admittance of our fallibility and preferences as writers and readers.

Rooting ourselves in the specificity of context, craft, and narrative is by far a more compelling approach to creating lists. Instead of limiting our understanding of what is best to what we like based on our own biases, we can think more collaboratively about the work that may challenge us or confound us. Maybe the text is ugly, uncomfortable, painful. Maybe it is complicated, or it pushes us beyond our current understanding.

A recent tweet by Rose Lyddon created a lively discussion about classic literature: “There’s so little contemporary literature that has [the] potential to be classic. (i.e., to be appreciated outside of its immediate context).”

I would like to offer a different possibility: maybe it is a good thing not to have gatekeepers determine the “classics.” When we look through the lens of a dominant culture, the classics may look very different from the ones of another culture or community. If the classics are relative to who is reading them, then how can we persist with a canonization that could exclude vital texts from multiple perspectives and lived experiences? Often the argument for this is craft is king—good craft is recognizable regardless of context. But to sever craft from context can be problematic, particularly when there are only a handful of gatekeepers deciding what good craft looks like.

But to sever craft from context can be problematic, particularly when there are only a handful of gatekeepers deciding what good craft looks like.

We have it in us to make space for other narratives, to refuse to fit neatly into boxes—and to tell stories that are fascinating, with respect to context and craft, and that also challenge expectations. For that to happen, we must shift our mindset and ask the right question; rather than wondering if it is possible, we ought to ask how we can make room for more of our stories.