Strolling in a Rich Neighbourhood

My mood was as sweet as a lemon. A cold was hovering in the wings, waiting to take centre stage. I was tired from being out every day in the past week. And my weekend was going to be busy too with a Black History Walk and then the hike for my outdoor club. And I still had tons of school work to do.

I had to do the pre-hike as I already had a dozen e-mails confirming attendance. If the weather was fine, more people would show up. As the leader, I had better know where we were going. I had walked a kilometre and had nine more to go.

From Lawrence subway, I meandered south to Duplex Park. As I walked through the green-land, a parliament of pimply schoolboys, in uniforms, lounged and smoked on a bench. We ignored each other. The park was shaped like a bowl with a flat bottom and steep sides. This was a good indicator that it was probably once a brickworks, and if such, a stream was nearby, either still flowing, or channeled underground and landfilled with trash a century or so ago.

Houses backed onto the steep edges on the east side of the park. Their fences were covered with billboard-sized photographs, graffiti art and murals. I loved the picture of a black cap chickadee, painted by a thirteen year old Chinese girl.

Leaving the park I climbed up the wooden steps which were nestled into the ground. The decaying wood was already enriching the earth, as we all will, one hopefully distant day. Crossing the road, I descended into Chatsworth Ravine. The tarmacked path was steep. I mumbled under my breath that I was really turning into an old fart; I was wary of falling even though there was no ice on the ground. What happened to sprinting down such a slope for the sheer joy of it?  My legs refused to take more than mincing baby steps. My shame was as bright as the pink oak leaves.

The gully was secluded. The absence of litter meant that it was regularly cleaned up or it was not frequently used. Little hairs pricked up on the back of my neck. Where was the fearless explorer eager for adventure? Who was this little old Black woman in the woods?

strolling in a rich neighbourhood fence

I soon forgot about the shivers, seduced by the beauty of the autumn leaves and the sleepy brook flowing into an underground channel. The ravine was steep and narrow. About twenty feet from its lips, houses were perched on both sides. Through the autumn leaves I glimpsed patios and large picture windows overlooking the forested crevice. I would love to wake up to that view each morn. Unfortunately the five million dollar price tags were just a tad beyond my means.

I walked through the valley in fifteen minutes. I never saw another soul. Not even a blasted dog walker.

The ravine ended abruptly in a school playing field. Either the brook meandered north, or it was encased in concrete under the field. I crossed the road. The gully continued on the other side, but the access gate was locked, with a sign saying private property. I strolled around, seeing a street of houses backing onto the ravine, but I could find no entrance into it. I will look for it on my next walk in the area.

I strolled south following any street that looked interesting. All the houses were detached or semi-detached, with large windows and lovely front yards. Most were built in the 1930s when Forest Hill was developed as yet another bloody ‘little England in Canada.’

The streets were quiet. Too quiet.

Many times I stopped and checked the map to make sure I was where I thought I should be. My heart raced at these stops. I was in the mid-town area of the city. Yet it was unnerving walking through a neighbourhood where no one was on the streets. The cars in the driveways and the lights in the houses indicated people were at home, yet I saw no one peeking through the windows. It felt like I was walking through a ghost town. Climate change or the apocalypse had killed all the people, leaving me the sole survivor to try and figure out what the fuck had happened.

I walked for an hour before seeing anyone in the rich enclave. Two roads before Eglington Park, Filipino nannies and their white charges were outside. Two decades or so ago the nannies were Black women from the Caribbean. They were replaced by white Eastern European women reeling from the fall of communism. Where will the nannies of tomorrow come from? Under capitalism it is anywhere labour becomes cheap due to war, recession or social conflict. Add the effects of climate change to the list.

I passed a Black woman chatting on her phone in her driveway. The car door was opened. Three white teens walked by, each with a puppy. One puppy ran towards the woman, wagging its tail like its life depended on it. The woman went gaga over the whippersnapper, bending down to hug, and oh my god, kiss it. She then stood up and greeted each dog and its leashed child by name.

The playground in the park was filled with white children, either with their parents or mostly their Filipino nannies. I headed straight for the washroom in the skating arena, as it was a rest stop for the group hike. Classical music drifted from upstairs in the arena. I had to have a look. The rink was filled kids and their coaches figure skating. The learners were mostly white or Chinese girls, practicing their jumps, twirls and flowing arabesques. One was Black. I hoped she knew of Surya Bonaly. I remembered watching her on television, astonished that a Black woman was on ice. The French star won the European Figure Skating Championship five times.

Leaving the arena, a little Black boy, aged about four, darted in front of me. A voice commanded that he stop. I looked up, the dad was the spitting image of the boy, barring his blonde hair and green eyes. We exchanged nods.

strolling in a rich neighbourhood hike

Crossing an avenue I meandered through the side streets and parks until I found the Beltline Trail. The former railway track was converted to a linear tree-lined park. The trail was packed with runners, dog walkers and rude cyclists who refused to slow down. I put away the map. I knew this path well, and it was important that I took my time to simply stroll along it, enjoying the autumn tinted forest that was right in the city.

Soon, too soon, I was back on Yonge Street, walking around checking out the best café. I like to end my hikes with tea and chatter around a table. I treated myself to chai and two ginger cookies. Finally, my mood was as sweet as the honey in the tea.

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Who Do You Cite?

What’s citation got to do with politics, race and creating knowledge? I assumed that one simply cited the writers who were important to the essay one was trying to write. When your work is cited it means your knowledge is legitimate and valued. You have joined the academy. The more people who cite your work the higher the value of the work.

Before drafting an essay you do a literature review. That is look up who has written on the topic, what claims they made and how your views are similar or different. The essay’s bibliography shows that you have done the necessary slogging through the books and journals. You have acknowledged and paid your dues to the other thinkers in the field.

Creating knowledge, like every other human activity, is not neutral. Citations reflects who has the power in academia. That power is hidden behind claims that citation is simply showing the experts on the topic. The long list of references in an essay and in the bibliography creates the canon of the field. It encapsulates the writers who are the most influential. It is remarkable that those experts are still mainly white men and white women.

What happens when other experts are left out of the citations? It is a good indication that their knowledge creation is not valued. This leads to some interesting questions.  What do we mean by knowledge, how is it created, and who decides which knowledge is valuable and which is not?

Here, I am more interested in the third question. I am not a philosopher, just prone to philosophizing.

A few decades ago, not many women were cited in academic journals. The feminist movement upset the academic old white boys’ club by insisting that women’s experience, values and ways of knowing were legitimate sources of knowledge. The number of female thinkers cited shot up like a rocket. However, the space was unequally allocated. Black women were left behind or shoved off the rocket. In the world of citing women, it is white women (dead or alive) who dominate the references and bibliographies.

How can knowledge creation be neutral when it mirrors the racial and gender hierarchy in society?

As a PhD student I am being trained to create new knowledge. One day my research may be published in books and journals, and quoted in newspapers. Or, it could be completely ignored, buried in dusty academic journals that few read. Who will cite my work?

Citations are powerful. I am now using them intentionally now to make space for Black academics and their expertise. Nelson Mandela once said ‘if you want to change the world, you must first change yourself.’ I am doing so by challenging the white-bias-but-passing-for-neutral citation status quo. That means finding, reading, quoting and citing the long and rich tradition of Black intellectual thought.

Black History Walks Toronto

Black Thinkers Matter, Too

I have worked at two academic journals as an editorial assistant. This has given me some insider knowledge on how the process works. Journals are written by and for academics. It is rare that their contents hit the newspapers or create a storm of protest on Twitter and Facebook.

Two journals managed to do that in the last decade. And both journals were forced to give a public apology for their ‘oversight.’ In 2017 the Journal of Political Philosophy published a special issue on Black Lives Matter. Without a single article by a Black academic. About decade earlier, in 2006, PMLA, Journal of Modern Language Association also published a special issue. It was on “Feminist criticism today: In memory Nellie McKay.” McKay was African American. There were no Black authors in the issue.

How was the ‘oversight’ possible in both journals, given the long and extensive process of planning ordinary and special issues?

Journals are the foundations of creating, curating and distributing academic knowledge. They are inherently conservative in outlook. A journal’s editorial board functions as its gatekeeper. It decides the theme of each issue. Oftentimes this is publicized in a call for papers, other times a select group of authors are invited to write for the journal. Once an article is submitted, the editorial board does an internal review of it. If the essay is seen to have merit, the editorial team then decides who to ask to do the peer review.

Like the editorial board, the peer review board is made up of fellow academics who are experts in the knowledge field covered by the journal. Typically an essay is critiqued and assessed by four people from the peer review board. They recommend whether to accept or reject the essay for publication.

As you can see from this brief overview, a journal’s editorial process is long. It can take a year or more from submitting an article to hearing back if it will be published or not in the journal. Most times parts of the essay may have to be re-written to reflect the feedback from the editorial and peer review boards. The essay is then reviewed again. Special issues of the journals are planned up to two years in advance.

So how was it possible for the journals to publish special issues on Black lives all of which were written by non-Black writers? To me their ‘oversight’ is a good example of hegemonic whiteness in action.

This mean the journals’ editorial boards equals a group of white men and white women around the table. They send the articles for review to another group of white men and white women on the peer review boards. Both boards function as guardians in two respects. First, they are guardians for whiteness.  Second, they are keepers of the field of knowledge.

The guardians ensure that whiteness is the default for entry through the journals’ gates. It’s as if they wear special glasses that enables them to see only in shades of white. Black authors become invisible at the gate as they cannot meet the basic criteria for entry. What they have to contribute to the journals’ area of knowledge becomes irrelevant if they can’t even be seen.

Dr. Chris Lebron is an assistant professor of African-American Studies and Philosophy at Yale University. In an open letter to the Journal of Political Philosophy, he pointed out it had published an article on race or by a Black writer in the past five years. Race is at the heart of politics in the USA, yet a political journal systematically failed/refused to cover it. The journal can only have its head stuck way up in its own arse.

Protests forced both journals to plan special issues that include Black thinkers. In my view, this sop is defensive and rather tokenistic. One time entry into the journal means the white blinkers will be put back on, once the fuss fades. It does not challenge the centrality of whiteness embedded in the core of the journals.

50 Places: A Black History Travel Guide of London

Pictures and the Stories They Tell

The pictures on the walls tells a story. In my department portraits lined the long hallway leading to the busy student lounge. All were large, about half the size of a poster. Most were black and white photographs, with a few in colour, and a couple of oil paintings.

The pictures were of the deans of the department. It commemorated and celebrated their hard work in starting and maintaining such a prestigious department. No doubt it massaged their egos as well.

The people usually smiled in their portraits. Yet, I never felt the warmth implicit in their expressions. You see all the pictures were of white men. And of one white woman. Walking the gauntlet of their faces I always felt cold.pictures and the stories they tell 2

The students in my faculty reflect the multicultural reality of Toronto. So half of them are Indigenous, Black or other people of colour. None of us were reflected in the large pictures on the wall.

The pictures were a cultural dissonance in the department. In all our classes we address the core foundations of critical studies. That is we read, talk and write about how gender, race, and class, shape our worlds. Yet, each time we trekked to the popular lounge it was along a wall lined with mostly dead white men. The art collection clearly illustrated who had the power, and who mattered.

The picture were changed over the summer. On my first trek up to the lounge this term colour bubbled from the staid walls. They were filled with landscape paintings by Indigenous artists. I liked the colours, the nature scenes and the play of mythical characters.

Students paused to look at the pictures. They commented on which was their favourite and what was the meaning of the characters. People noticed.

The previous art collection memorialized and celebrated the dominance of white people in Canada. The new collection is a reminder that the country is an ancient land. It had a long past before European colonization. The new pictures show that it has a new future – one based on acknowledging the true owners of the country.pictures and the stories they tell 3

Sailing on a Half Moon

Biking by the Lake at Night

The road home seemed longer in the dark. Full of shadowed bends and turns it plunged me into puddles of blindness. I was on the Waterfront Trail. Shrubs and trees morphed into shadow beings, eating the light. Rustling leaves sounded like the crunching of small bones.

My back was soaked and still more sweat dripped down my face. There was no time to reach into my pocket, grab the rag and mop my brow. The night was here, like the fear, it was too near. I could not peddle fast enough to outrun the blanket of obsura.

The lake shimmered on my right. I found no comfort there that night. Following that silvery shine seemed to be leading me to the underworld. I should have taken the bus home.

Spending the afternoon with a friend was fun. Caught up in the moment we decided to go out for dinner. The autumn evening was warm and dry. I came out on my bike and planned to return home the same way; but this time cycling on the pavement and only using the bike trail where it ran parallel to the street. I would be home in an hour, about the same time as taking a streetcar and a bus.

The main road was on my left. The cars seemed to go faster in the night. Were they too trying to outrun the dark? Two cars weaved across the lanes, no indicators, too fast they cut back into the right lane. Tires squealed as the cars speed into the lakeshore parking lot. One car overtook the other on the bend, accelerated and raced to the end of the lot. The brakes screeched again.

I pushed harder as my heart hammered in my chest. I had to go pass the parking lot. What if the guys in the cars need more fun? The doors flung the open, rock music blared, and four men emerged from each car. Cigarettes and white skins glowed in the liminal light.

I was almost near them. The men gathered around one car and examined its back under the streetlight. Beer cans were in their hands. Deep voices cursed. Then laughter. Marijuana perfumed the air. As I flew by, I saw that the bumper was hanging off the back of the car. There were four more parking lots to go.

I knew the route. I had cycled up and down that section of the Waterfront Trail hundreds of time. But never near midnight. I could not sprint home. It was too far.

The lights of the Palais Royale twinkled ahead. My legs and heart slowed as the warm bulbs drew near. Two women smoked on the steps of the banquet hall. Three men leaned against the railings, also smoking. They were the first pedestrians I had seen near the bike trail. Inside the hall people chattered in little groups, wine glasses in hand. A portrait of Billie Holiday caught my eye. I knew that one well. Mouth opened in ecstasy she sings in front of a microphone with white gardenias glistening in her hair. I heard her singing Strange Fruit in my head. Then I shuddered as I saw them hanging from the poplar tree.

Half way home I got off the bike trail. I was too jumpy to enjoy the lake breeze and the starlight shimmering through the trees. I reminded myself I had nothing to prove. I cycled home on a main road filled with cars, bicycles and more importantly people out walking in the autumn night.

Sailing on a Half Moon

Hate, Freedom and Academic Crowdfunding

In my mind academics don’t do crowdfunding. They think. They lecture. They write. Academics don’t beg. At least not in public.

Crowdfunding is the latest spin on an old idea – use other people’s money to fund your dream research, inventions or business ideas. In the old days artists depended on patrons – a fat lord of the manor, a duchess with a social conscience or a scheming archbishop – to supply their projects. These days they turn to the internet.

The technology has made it easier to match money seekers with money givers. And it has blurred the lines between begging and investing.

The three most popular crowdfunding sites are Kickstarter, Indiegogo and Patreon. Each caters to a different market. Kickstarter is best for entrepreneurs with a business idea. Indiegogo is for people, especially artists, looking to fund a particular project. Patreon is geared towards creative types looking for long term patronage.

Some academics have climbed out of their ivory towers and entered the world of crowdfunding. When research grants are hard to get, crowdfunding can fill the gap.

Ask Jordan Peterson.

This University of Toronto professor has raised a staggering $61,000 per month on Patreon. That is over half a million a year. His goal is to reach a million dollars a year. Peterson is using the money to fund his research against the use of transgender pronouns and political correctness on campus. In other words why social justice, sexuality studies and feminism are an attack on white people, specifically straight white men.

So far Peterson has 5,500 people donating to his research. His biggest backers are those longing for the days of empire and white Christian supremacy. Under the guise of freedom of speech, they want the freedom to attack anyone – especially Black and other people of colour – who don’t agree with their view.

Jordan Peterson is white privilege in action.

I have launched my own Patreon site. On the other side of my life I write adventure stories about travelling while Black. It’s probably the kind of thing that would make Jordan Peterson twitch. It takes time and money to do the research and to travel for the adventures. My PhD scholarship does not stretch that far. How many patrons will fund me? Will you be the first?

Patrons will get recognition. The dedication page of my new book will record the names of all the generous souls who donated for a year of more. They are investing in the success of a student and a Black travel writer.

50 Places: A Black History Travel Guide of London

Black, Male, and in the Woods

It was one of those summer days when the wind refused to move, the clouds were on strike and the sun had the sky to itself.

Sunlight shimmered off the river and the horizon. Sun-heat baked the grass, the cars and our information tent. An endless flow of people came and asked where they were exactly, were the hiking trails marked and where were the picnic areas in the park.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw him.

He was as lovely as a moonbeam. And as rare as snow in summer. He hung around waiting for the crowd to ebb so that we could talk. The man was Black, handsome, and as tall and solid as a basketball player.

With a single glance I knew that I was excited by his hiking pole. The one in his hand.

He lived in the area and knew the park like the smile of his mother. Every week he hiked a different trail. Today it was just a simple stroll up the old ski hill to sit in the shade of his favourite tree and play with his new phone.

Alone.

Each of us was surprised to see the other. He mentioned that he liked to be active and outside. He was tired of meeting people who always wanted to go out to dinner or go shopping downtown. He did not canoe or kayak, but he loved skiing.

Over 300 people passed through the information booth that day in Rouge National Urban Park. He was the first Black visitor we had seen. By the end of the day about five more would pass by.

I offered him a map of the park. He refused it. He said a phone number was better.

Another surge of people invaded the booth, impatiently waiting to ask more questions, collect more maps or ask about the fox, mink and beaver furs on the display table. Children wanted more crayons and colouring sheets. My summer job was to serve them. And I did, while watching my perfect research subject disappearing along the river.

I longed to have an in depth interview with him about his experience as a Black man in the woods. Where did he hike, did he belong to any outdoors club, how does race, space and gender affect his perception of the wilderness? He was the informant that got away.

50 Places; A Black History Travel Guide of London