[URBAN NOTE] "How Black Torontonians are Creating Their Own Spaces in the City"

[rfmcdonald]

At Torontoist, Jean Boampong describes a conversation that I am glad is occurring in Toronto.

Living in Toronto means hearing the word “multiculturalism” a lot in the context of progress. It is often touted as the most diverse, most friendly, and most livable city in the world. In 2017, Toronto will be made up of at least 50 per cent “visible minorities.” “Diversity is our strength,” reads Toronto’s Coat of Arms. Cultural events and months—such as Caribana and Asian Heritage Month—feature boutiques of colourful ethnic food and music that media outlets capture year round in coverage and advertisements.

But through this appearance of harmony lies barriers, hardships, and the disappearance of people of colour—especially Black Canadians.

Growing up as a first-generation Black Canadian girl, I didn’t have a lot of spaces that told me I belonged. In elementary school, my white teacher told me that Ghana, my family’s country of origin, didn’t exist. In junior high, I was reminded that my Blackness is seen as a threat when an employee at a gas station (who was Brown) accused me of stealing because I bent down to grab a granola bar to pay for. In high school, I didn’t learn about indigenous Black Canadians and their 300-year history in Canada. Instead, I was told that we didn’t exist until the 80s wave of African and Caribbean immigrants entering Canada.

By “we,” I mean all of us: all Black people. We are not, never have, and never will be a monolith that is easily digestible and consumable for everyone else. We are queer, disabled, African, Caribbean, Asian, European, trans, Muslim, women, and many more identities all at once. Existing in multiple intersections means that our experiences are layered and complex. But somehow, Black Canadians are often told to leave parts of us behind at the door.

This was my experience while attending university. When I wanted to enter progressive spaces to grow my understanding of social justice, I was expected not to make anything “about race.” When I hosted an event about food justice, I was told that if I kept talking about race, nothing would get done. In Black student spaces, gender was considered a distraction. In feminist spaces, race was considered a distraction. While I studied Criminal Justice at Ryerson University, I deliberately skipped classes about race and the criminal justice system because I knew I would be erased. For four years, I was repeatedly given an ultimatum: either advocate for issues about my race and lose, or advocate for issues about my gender and lose.