Despite the cold of Toronto’s first snowy day of the winter, I, along with about 2,000 others, took to the streets on January 19 for the Women’s March on: Toronto—one of hundreds of similar marches across the U.S. and Canada.
Growing up in a Vancouver suburb with a very diverse population, I remember a few racist taunts on the playground, but they were few and far between.
Ironically, it was only when I moved to Asia that I began encountering serious discrimination as well as “yellow fever” (fetishes over Asian women). When I first moved to China
As a Muslim woman who practices hijab—the wearing of modest clothing and covering my hair—I spend a lot of time navigating. I navigate the politics of being a Muslim woman in Canada and the politics of finding modest, yet
stylish clothing. I also navigate the politics of buying clothing that’s not only ethical for the
I’m supposedly a funny feminist. Even my psychiatrist said, “You are really funny. Why don’t you do stand-up comedy?”
“Anxiety,” I said, omitting the “that’s bloody well why I’m here” part. This week especially, I do not feel funny. I feel cowardly. I blame it on the man on the
Judy Rebick
Despite the cold of Toronto’s first snowy day of the winter, I, along with about 2,000 others, took to the streets on January 19 for the Women’s March on: Toronto—one of hundreds of similar marches across the U.S. and Canada.
Joanna Chiu
Growing up in a Vancouver suburb with a very diverse population, I remember a few racist taunts on the playground, but they were few and far between.
Ironically, it was only when I moved to Asia that I began encountering serious discrimination as well as “yellow fever” (fetishes over Asian women). When I first moved to China
Ayesha Mian Akram
As a Muslim woman who practices hijab—the wearing of modest clothing and covering my hair—I spend a lot of time navigating. I navigate the politics of being a Muslim woman in Canada and the politics of finding modest, yet
stylish clothing. I also navigate the politics of buying clothing that’s not only ethical for the
Lyn Cockburn
I’m supposedly a funny feminist. Even my psychiatrist said, “You are really funny. Why don’t you do stand-up comedy?”
“Anxiety,” I said, omitting the “that’s bloody well why I’m here” part. This week especially, I do not feel funny. I feel cowardly. I blame it on the man on the