Editor's Notes

Patricia Ki (RCAT, RSW, Doctoral Student)
Toronto, ON

When was the first time you learned about liberation?

This was a question asked in a recent workshop led by Virginia Jahyu on liberation healing.

The first thought that came into mind was a memory of being introduced to bell hooks’ writing in a second year social work class. But then the question came back to me hours after the workshop, while I was folding laundry.

I thought about my mother, when she was deciding which school I should go to in grade one.

I grew up in colonial Hong Kong. It was (and still is) supremely important for many parents to send their children to prestigious schools from a very young age to maximize the likelihood of acceptance at prestigious universities and to secure future career success. It is a straight and narrow path to a supposed happy end.

My mother took a few walks down various winding paths and side streets in our neighbourhood. She then announced to me and my father at dinnertime that I should go to this small school at the top of the hill, because she liked the school’s uniform (nearly all schools in Hong Kong had uniforms). “All the school children, boys and girls, wear pants,” she said, “I watched them running around in the schoolyard. You can run around more easily when you wear pants. And you won’t get cold in the winter if you don’t have to wear skirts” (nearly all school uniforms in Hong Kong had girls wearing skirts).

Even though I didn’t particularly like running around with other children (I still don’t), I felt quite proud of going to a small and unassuming, certainly not prestigious school at the top of the hill with the unconventional uniform.

My mother is an outspoken woman. If she finds something ridiculous or she can’t agree with, she will be sure to let everyone know. I have seen/sensed the tension in family gatherings when my mother spoke her mind. The nervous laughs, the quick subject change, my well-meaning aunt nudging my mom gingerly and muttering, “it doesn’t matter…”

Growing up I have found myself to be someone who has a hard time letting things go sometimes. Things that need to be said. Things that need to be done. Things that need to be persistently pushed forward and brought back up. Things that many people would say don’t matter. But they matter to me. And I know, am convinced, that they matter not only to me.

At times I worry about becoming my mother. The tensions at family/social/workplace gatherings. The nervous laughs, the quick subject change, the annoyed accusation: “why must we always be so politically correct around you,” and the verdict that aims to shut things down: “it doesn’t matter.”

Over time I realize it takes a lot of courage to be like my mother, and I worry that I don’t have what it takes.

My mother showed me from a very young age that to experience liberation — from being able to run around freely, unrestricted by a piece of clothing that is imposed only on girls, to calling out racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism and bullying at the dinner table and staff meetings, I must speak my truths. Even if it makes people uncomfortable. Even if making people uncomfortable makes me uncomfortable. Even if it kills all the joy in the room. Insisting that some things matter will make some people unhappy. Subjugation will not be dismantled by making happy. Understanding at the same time that being able to talk back and push forward is enabled by multiple privileges that I enjoy.

My mother is the first feminist killjoy I know (though she probably wouldn’t identify herself as feminist). She is the first person to teach me liberation.

The contributors in this issue offer tremendous gifts in truth-telling. The struggles and learning in persisting through the uncertainties of the ongoing pandemic, through disconnections and reconnections, through finding new ways forward with creativity, imagination, and hope. The courage to be with their own discomforts, shortcomings, confusions, experiences of pain, edges for growth. The spaces we create to witness each other, even in our unhappy truths, can be healing and liberating.

Note: This discussion about happiness/unhappiness and the reference to the “feminist killjoy” are informed by Sara Ahmed’s The Promise of Happiness.