It is the easiest thing in the world for a man to look as if he had a great secret in him. - Herman Melville, Moby-Dick, or; The White Whale (1851)
El Perro/The Dog (circa 1819-23), by Francisco de Goya, originally painted directly on the wall of his house in Madrid, now in the collection of Museo del Prado, Madrid.
I LIVE IN CONSTANT FEAR, burdened by severe anxiety exacerbated by madness, complex post traumatic stress and generational trauma; haunted by ghosts, the spirits of all those I have walked with and stared into their dying eyes. I believe I am a truth-teller, shaped by empathy and compassion for individuals and communities, peoples and cultures, that have been erased by the toxic violence of colonialism and capitalism, classism and racism, gender phobias, ableism, ageism, freakism, queerism, speciesism. I write, make, speak, act, out of conviction; sometimes I cross lines, more frantic in my madness than I wish to be; I am only human, animal, ghost, alien, messed up. My traumas (“anxiety disorder”), coupled with Autism, make me spiral into rage that often leads to self harm. I hurt, physically, mentally, spiritually; that's my hard truth, and I can be hard to be around, especially for my kin.
All that I share, in whatever creative form, is informed by my convictions, I speak from a position of authenticity, I have no interest in posing, even my alternate identities are genuine expressions of the beings I carry. My greatest fear is to be dismissed as false, tokenistic, a poser, because I believe that what I have to share is honest, meaningful, has, and can still be, impactful. My experience over the past decade, however, has been a seemingly endless accumulation of cancelling and ghosting, of gaslighting and dismissal, from former peers and mentees, and from the community I live in; many have said I should look in the mirror and be more self-aware, that if this keeps happening there has to be truth in all the negativity directed at me. Fair enough, but I am extremely self-aware and self-critical, I lead a very “examined life,” I welcome critique, I invest in strong therapy, I am constantly learning; it strikes me that it is my accusers, those who are most mired in narrow academic theory and personal identity politics, in their own selfish self-care and “wellness” who form cliques to reinforce their biases and demand accommodations while never granting me the same respect, who are the ones who need to start questioning the harm and violence they nurture and perpetuate. Too many label me a “Privileged CIS White Man,” which is blatantly false; my queerness, madness, poverty, are the antithesis of this mislabelling. I am, as my late father said, “Funny Queer,” and while I openly acknowledge that I was raised in whiteness, masculinity and a colonial settler society (I was born in Hamilton in 1963), I have consistently worked against this worlding. I am a Treaty Person, an ally, an old woman (named after my mother Anne-Marie “Annie” Allen, born 1933 in Hamilton), a ghost (of my grandfather, Herbert “Bert/Ernie” Allen, born 1896 in Birmingham, England - died 1973 in Port Colborne, Ontario), an alien (Billy); I am avian, the 4th Child of the Morning Star, and the three-headed green hare (living in futures, pasts, presents).
I am sharing this now because, over the past 8 months I have been highly focussed and committed to supporting the people of Palestine during the continuing brutal Zionist occupation (that began with the NAKBA in 1948, initiated by the Balfour Declaration of 1917 under the British Mandate) and Israhell’s ongoing campaign of GENOCIDE that the world appears to be unwilling (as opposed to unable) to stop, or is indifferent to, or ignorant of or, worse, complicit in. What I have to say is deeply informed and reflects a long history of engagement with the occupation of Palestine, long before October 2023. I know that I carry accountability from my roots in Britain (Birmingham, England and Glasgow, Scotland) and as a reluctant citizen of Apartheid Canada. But I also carry resistance and generational trauma; the ancestors of my Scottish grandparents (Glasgow born Marion Crawford, 1899-1981, and Milngavie born Thomas N. Hunter, 1896-1963) were colonized by the English. Both of my grandfathers fought in the First World War and came home traumatized and disheartened by the human waste and manipulations of the ruling classes. My English grandmother Florence “Flowery” Hurn (born Norwich, England in 1899 - died at Port Colborne, Ontario, 1981) was raised in North Walsham, near Norwich, a weaver/mill town that was a flash point in the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, and a centre of rebellion during the Swing Riots of 1830. Florence Hurn, Marion Crawford, Thomas Hunter, Herbert Allen, my grandparents, all came to Hamilton after the First World War, they were working poor, factory workers, domestic servants, florists and waiters. My Mum’s parents were extremely independent, market gardeners, foster parents; Herbert helped start one of the first credit unions in Ontario. My Mum was a registered nurse who trained at Hamilton’s General Hospital then worked in industry and palliative care; my Dad was a tool and die maker who rose to Chief Inspector of Quality Control in a factory making air brakes for trains. None of them attended college or university, none of them had much to pass on in their estates. They all worked HARD, all experienced significant loss and failure, they were all very human.
I have been deeply committed over an almost four decade career as an artist, writer, curator, educator and activist, to excavating forgotten and erased histories, challenging traditional narratives and symbols of identity and nationalism, and the legacies of the British Empire. This work has taken me all over the world and I have collaborated with and supported the work of many. I have held significant positions in museums and art galleries, believing I could make change from within; I was wrong, cultural institutions in Apartheid Canada are colonial to the core, they cannot be sustained through “decolonizing,” because to truthfully decolonize would be to dismantle them and I am all for this. These spaces should be handed over to all those who have been excluded to activate in any way they see fit, no one should be required to conform to colonial academic or institutional models in order to be present in these spaces.
Too much of the so-called “progressive” energy in the contemporary world continues to rely on colonial definitions, theories and ideas of race, gender, class, species, culture… the world will not break from the burden of these toxic models by simply shifting who is in charge or by adding more categories to the colonially predetermined categories and hierarchies. This position often puts me at odds with many individuals and groups, but I stand by this, I have witnessed too much marginalization and cancelling based on perpetuating these models and categories.
An invented past can never be used; it cracks and crumbles under the pressures of life like clay in a season of drought. - James Bladwin
James Baldwin and William Shakespeare
In the 1980s, I was fortunate to be able to live briefly in NYC at the time of HIV/AIDS crisis and ActUP, the emergence of Pride; it was a time of artists challenging and critiquing institutions. I met Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat (whose inclusion in current branding by the likes of UNIQLO I find problematic—far too many sporting their imagery today know nothing of Haring and Basquiat’s histories or legacies), Leon Golub and Nancy Spero, Edgar Heap of Birds, Nancy Holt, Laurie Anderson, among others, and it was in NYC that I was introduced to the writings of James Baldwin. The author of such classic books as Go Tell It on the Mountain, The Fire Next Time, Notes of a Native Son, If Beale Street Could Talk, became my primary influence as a writer (along with Herman Melville, Mahmoud Darwish, Rebecca Solnit and Iain Sinclair). People have challenged me for identifying with a Black writer, my response is that, first and foremost, I am responding to him as an author and his powerful demands of whiteness to be accountable; Baldwin wanted to be engaged by folks like me. I write to him in response to so many of his still deeply relevant questions and positions on race, queerness, power, memory, history, faith, and his humanity; I quote him often in order to initiate new writing and paths of inquiry. If you criticize me for doing things, call it appropriation, then you are ignorant of James Baldwin’s legacy and significance. I choose to honour him by continuing to respond to his calling out for humanity, compassion, empathy and critical thought. I will constantly “begin again,” as he instructed, and I have these words inked into my skin:
Not Everything is Lost…One begins AGAIN, James Baldwin