RELATED: What to Wear to Pride

We’ll be updating this list all summer long. But in the meantime, peruse our calendar of must-see Pride events happening in Toronto, Edmonton, Halifax, Vancouver and Montreal.

Toronto, Ont.

Lavender Wild

New this year, Lavender Wild is a one-day festival celebrating queerness. Musical performances include queer pop sensation Hayley Kioko and Juno nominee Shawnee Kish, plus drag from The Virgo Queen and Gay Jesus.

When: June 4, 2 p.m.
Where: Echo Beach

Blockorama 25: Legacies

Blockorama has officially been around the block. Organized by Blackness, Yes! Blockorama is Pride Toronto’s longest-running stage and this year it turns 25. Born from the lack of representation for African, Black and Caribbean LGBTQ community members, Blockorama has put Black excellence on stage for more than two decades. This year’s stage is headlined by Trinidadian singer Nadia Batson.

When: June 25, 2 p.m.
Where: 15 Wellesley St East

Pride Prom 2023: Outcast Paradise

Queer folks experience high school differently from their heterosexual peers. In recent years, queer proms have become a phenomenon, creating safer spaces for queer youth to celebrate the end of school — and themselves! — with other queer youth. This alcohol-free event is for 2SLGBTQ youth aged 21 and under.

When: June 20, 7 p.m.
Where: Buddies in Bad Times Theatre

Drag Ball

Hosted by local staples Sofonda and Ivory Towers, this annual outdoor drag extravaganza includes a who’s-who of Drag Race talent, from Sasha Colby to Miss Fiercalicous, Kimmy Couture, plus Dragula winner Landon Cider and Call Me Mother’s HercuSleaze.

When: June 24, 6 p.m.
Where: TD Main Stage (Nathan Phillips Square)

Alternaqueer: FLUID

The queerdos will be out in full force for Alternaqueer, an annual Pride staple that celebrates bizarre, outside the box drag and queer performance. Dragula’s Yovska is headlining along with performances from Craven Blood, Mx. Quest and Allysin Chaynes. This year’s theme is FLUID, so bring a raincoat.

When: June 23, 7 p.m.
Where: Bud Light Wellesley Stage

Shut Up Flag!

West End performance collective Kunst Kids is celebrating flags, from hanky codes to the community’s ever-evolving set of Pride flags. Performances by Full Blown Father, Angell Morana, MS. G and Delirios.

When: June 23, 10:30 p.m.
Where: The Baby G

Chaotica

Hosted by drag queen and supermodel Bombae from Canada’s Drag Race, Chaotica is a performance art cabaret that pulls together drag, burlesque and queer messiness. Featuring Miami Dolls star Fantasia Royale Gaga, Feather Talia, Gay Jesus, Cyril Cinder and more. [Ed note: I’m stage managing and if you come, you’ll see me sweeping up feathers.]

When: June 24, 7 p.m.
Where: Buddies in Bad Times Theatre

 

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Lady 5 In The Hole

Lady 5 is a night all about taking a chance. It’s a drag competition, but the organizers encourage the audience to dress up too. Hosted by Molly Farton with music by Toronto icon DJ Regina Gently and the whole night is in support of Rainbow Railroad.

When: June 8, 8 p.m.
Where: Buddies in Bad Times Theatre

Cherry Bomb

Despite being the largest city in Canada, Toronto does not have a single bar that caters specifically to queer women. Cherry Bomb helps fill that void. It’s also an absolutely legendary party with a sweaty dance floor full of queer women, trans and non-binary people, plus their friends and allies. This year’s Pride edition features Cherry Bomb resident DJs Cozmic Cat and Denise Benson, plus DJ Sam from Montreal and more.

When: The Axis Club
Where: June 24, 9 p.m.

Sober Oasis

Pride’s not all about partying: The Sober Oasis was created as a safe space for sober folks at Pride. The tent will host meetings, from 12-Step Groups to SMART Recovery, throughout Pride weekend.

When: June 23-25
Where: Paul Kane Parkette

Edmonton, Alta.

The Edmonton Pride Festival takes place August 18 to 26 but the city has a cascade of queer programming taking place during June for Pride month.

Edmonton Drag Festival

The Edmonton Drag Festival is like Coachella, but for drag in Alberta. It will feature a bunch of Canada’s Drag Race faves  ncludingJada Shada Hudson, Anaquway and Chelazon Leroux are performing, along with rising Call Me Mother star Makayla Couture and loads of local talent.

When: June 17, 11 a.m.
Where: Louise McKinney Riverfront Park

 

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Edmonton Queer History Project Walking Tours

Edmonton Queer History’s summer walking tour series has three tours during Pride Month, including a tour aimed at creating a welcoming city, a tour of the city’s queer night life history and a tour geared at the history of queer politics and protest in Edmonton. Visit the group’s Eventbrite for details about its full suite of summer walks.
When: June 1, 5 p.m.
Where: Churchill Square

Pride Corner on Whyte

The corner of 104 Street and Whyte Avenue, in the heart of Old Strathcona, has been dominated by homophobic street preachers for years. For the past two years, a group of queers and allies have been meeting to drown out the hate with music, dancing, education and love. This Pride, the group is asking queer folks and allies to join them every Friday night.

When: Every Friday in June (and ongoing)
Where: 104 St and Whyte Avenue intersection

Pride Church Service

McDougall United Church has been providing same-gender unions since before they were recognized by Canada. For Pride, the church is offering a special sermon on Sunday, June 4, for the LGBTQ+ community complete with a musical performance.

When: June 4, 10:30 a.m.
Where: McDougall United Church

2S Powwow

On August 24, the Edmonton Pride Festival is set to co-host Alberta’s first ever 2-Spirit Powow in collaboration with the Indigi-Queer performance collective Indigi-Hauz Of Beaver Hills — a group of drag artists that features “kings, queens and everything in between.”

When: August 24
Where: Churchill Square

Y2K

Edmonton queers are dialling the clock all the way back to a time when Electric Circus ruled MuchMusic with a nostalgia-dipped ‘90s dance party, Y2K. The turn-of-the-century-style celebration is being headlined by Canada’s premiere eurodance group, Love Inc., and its most famous cartoon duo, Prozzäk. Get ready to scream “You’re a Superstar” and “Strange Disease” at the top of your lungs.

When: August 25
Where: Churchill Square

Pride @ Churchill Square

Pride Edmonton’s big Saturday night outdoor party features drag by Call Me Mother’s Pepper, plus a performance by Filipino-Canadian producer and performer Ronald Morrera (a certified snack, check their Instagram). The night will be rounded out with Ria Mae, fresh off the release of her new single ‘Please Don’t Go,’ and hometown heroes Stereos.

When: August 26
Where: Churchill Square

 

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St. Albert, Alta.

The city of St. Albert has Pride programming scheduled throughout June.

Queer Prom

Out Loud St. Albert is putting on a queer prom for students in the Albertan city. The early evening dance party is aimed at students grades seven to 12 and will run until 11 p.m. The group is even providing hair and makeup help for anyone who needs it or can’t get ready at home.

When: June 23, 7 p.m.
Where: TBA

Pancake Breakfast

The St. Albert Community Hall is hosting a pride-themed pancake breakfast for early risers at 9:00 a.m. on Sunday June 18. Rainbow pancakes promise to be the star of the show.

When: June 18, 9 a.m.
Where: 17 Perron St. St Albert, AB

Fort Saskatchewan, Alta.

Fort Saskatchewan Pride Week is June 9 to 16. Fort Sask Pride includes an All Bodies Swim, drag bingo and a HIV health care providers workshop. Get the full calendar of events here.

Halifax, N.S.

Last year’s Pride festivities in Halifax included a charming mix of events from friendship speed dating to a BBQ for queer refugees, comedy and drag shows and even a walk for queer dog owners. Then in late 2022, Halifax Pride posted and then deleted an announcement that Pride 2023 wouldn’t be happening. According to reporting in The Coast, what followed included claims of workplace abuse, changes to the board of directors followed and a “smoulder of gossip” that “became wildfire.”

Last month Halifax Pride issued a press release that Pride will, in fact, take place this summer from July 20 to 30, but didn’t provide any event details. The organization is, however, hosting a community meeting on June 2 to answer questions about the festival.

Vancouver. B.C.

The west coast’s biggest Pride celebration, Vancouver Pride, takes place August 5 to 6. The full programming lineup is TBA, but the Vancouver Pride Society just announced a new parade route and a week of wellness events in June.

Queering Sex Education

The quality of sex education Canadians receive as students varies wildly and research has shown queer youth find it difficult to access sexual health information that is relevant to them and their sexual lives and futures. To spread community knowledge, the Pride Society and The Allura Centre are hosting a workshopwith a counsellor, Daniel Oommen, on topics ranging from the spectrum of types of consent, self-pleasure, desire and pleasure-focused sex.

When: June 4, 1 p.m.
Where: cmmngrnd.ca

QTBIPOC Meditation

Cmm Grnd, a fitness and social wellness collective, is also hosting an evening of guided meditation with Eman Salem, an empowerment coach who’s also a documentary producer (one of their films was just at the Seattle Black Film Festival). The event’s aim is to provide QTBIPOC folks a space to rest, heal and be in community.

When: June 8, 8 p.m.
Where: cmmngrnd.ca

 

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Pride Parade

Vancouver’s annual Pride parade is the festival’s signature event and typically pulls in more than 100,000 attendees. This year the Vancouver Pride Society is hoping to pull even more from all over British Columbia and beyond with a new, more accessible parade route, 12 hosts, three accessible viewing zones and a special VIP area.

When: August 6
Where: Davie Street and Denman Street

Montreal, Que.

Fierté Montréal, easily one of the country’s biggest Pride festivals with attendance in the millions, takes place August 3 to 13.

A Family Affair Kiki Ball

This Kiki Ball is a celebration of all kinds of family, from birth to chosen – and even famous families from pop culture. Trophies and cash prizes are both up for grabs.

When: August 5
Where: Le Club Soda

The Aesthetic Activism of ACT UP MONTRÉAL

Montreal was a hub of HIV/AIDS activism in the early 1990s and the site of a monumental protest in the movement in 1989. Gay rights activism and photographer René LeBoeuf, who was also a major player in the fight for marriage equality in Quebec, documented the height of HIV/AIDS activism in Montreal and his photographs from those years will be on display along with banners and signs from protests throughout Pride at Québec’s Gay Archives.

When: Opening August 4
Where: Archives Gaies du Québec

The High Heels Obstacle Race

Ready, set, strut! A flock of drag queens are getting dolled up to compete in a sure-to-be hilarious obstacle race in support of RÉZO, a longstanding local non-profit community organization that supports LGBTQ+ men.

When: August 7
Where: Sainte Catherine Street East, between Alexandre DeSève and de Champlain streets

Drag Superstars

Headlined by Quebecois drag icon Rita Baga, this event features laundry list of fan favourites from Drag Race like Aquaria, Kerri Colby and Heidi N Closet, two Canada’s Drag Race winners – Icesis Couture and Gisèle Lullaby – and top tier drag king talent like Quebec’s own Will Charmer and Dragula winner Landon Cider.
When: August 10, 6 p.m.
Where: Esplanade du Parc Olympique, Scène TD

 

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Pride Parade

Fierté’s parade runs a nearly three kilometre stretch from the city’s former 2SLGBTQIA+ neighbourhood in the west end downtown Montreal to the heart of the current village in the east.

When: August 13 1 p.m.
Where: Boulevard René-Lévesque

Afro Pride

This year’s Afro Pride, which takes the form of a section of the parade, is a special tribute edition honouring Carifiesta, the city’s annual Caribbean Carnival. The queer honouring of the Carifiesta comes after the carnival announced it would not take place in 2023 due to funding issues.

When: August 13 1 p.m.
Where: Boulevard René-Lévesque

Whitehorse, Yukon

Yukon Pride is split across three cities over the course of a month, kick off in Dawson City from July 27 to 30, then Whitehorse from August 5 to 13 and, finally, Watson Lake on August 26. The full schedule is TBA, but Queer Yukon is promising parades and picnics in all three cities, a pop-up Queer Café, musical performances and more. There’s even a Pride Parade Bike Float Making Workshop in Whitehorse on August 1.

Pride Dance Party

Canada’s Drag Race star Ilona Verley is headlining this dance party, which also features performers from the IndigiHauz of Beaver Hillz, DJ SNAXX and Josephine. If you’re not an early riser, Verley’s also performing the next morning at an all ages brunch at The Legion.

When: August 12 9 p.m.
Where: The Local Bar

Queers & Beers

Winterlong Brewing Co. is hosting a Pride patio party for queers and their allies with a special limited edition Rainbow Bright craft brew.

When: August 10, 6:30 p.m.
Where: Winterlong Brewing Co.

Saskatoon, Sask.

Pride Saskatoon takes place throughout all of June, with events ranging from a queer art exhibit to drag shows, dance parties and mini lawn bowling.

What Is Love?

Dance Mix ’95 was a near-perfect collection of songs. The MuchMusic compilation album opens with Whigfield’s “Saturday Night” and closes with Haddaway’s “What Is Love,” taking the listener on a journey through a capsule of mid-90s dance history. The album is the inspiration for this party, which is serving up city views and an open bar.

When: June 1, 6 p.m.
Where: The Winter Garden at Nutrien Tower

Fabulous Feathers

There’s plenty of peacocking at any Pride festival, but only Pride Saskatoon would have an actual bird walk. Hosted by a pair of queer birders, Ryan Bradshaw and Ryan Dudragne (yes, they are adorably both named Ryan). It’s BYOB — bring your own binoculars.

When: June 11, 8:30 a.m.
Where: Donna Birkmaier Park

Victoria. B.C.

Victoria Pride hosts events from June 29 to July 9.

Memorial Drag Ball Game

This annual event has become one of Victoria Pride’s signatures over the years, with its roots dating back to 1993 when a group of friends got together to distract themselves from the community mourning of the HIV/AIDS crisis. The event now draws up to 1,000 attendees and a whole new generation of fans and drag performers.

When: July 1, 11 a.m.
Where: Victoria West Park off Wilson Street

Big Gay Dog Walk

The perfect event for any queer with a four-legged friend. The Big Gay Dog Walk is exactly that – a chance to stroll with your pup and meet other dog owners in the community. Prizes for best costume and best trick are up for grabs.

When: July 8, 4:30
Where: Clover Point

 

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Ottawa, Ont.

Capital Pride / Fierté dans la Capitale takes place from August 19 to 27. The organization has yet to announce its Pride lineup, but it’s hosting a Pride drag show in June.

Celebrate Pride with Marcia Marcia Marcia

Drag Race star Marcia Marcia Marcia is headlining Ottawa’s pre-Pride bash along with Call Me Mother’s Kiki Coe, Mx. Capital Pride 2020 Jelly and TikTok sensation Saltina Shaker.

When: June 17
Where: The Bronson Centre Music Theatre

Winnipeg, Man.

Winnipeg helps kick off Canada’s Pride season. The festival has already begun and runs through June 4.

Pride Hike

Backcountry Women are putting the “out” in outdoors with their Pride Hike. The group has arranged a beginner-friendly 1.5 hour hike open to all corners of the 2SLGBTQ+ community. Snacks and a fire to follow!

When: June 1, 6:15 p.m.
Where: Birds Hill Provincial Park

Miss Club 200 Alumni Pride Spectacular

Club 200 has been the heart of Winnipeg’s queer community since 1988 and along the way has crowned many local rising stars as Miss Club 200. On the Friday of Pride weekend, alumni from the pageant dazzle the always-packed crowd.

When: June 2, 10 p.m.
Where: Club 200

The Sunset Pride Lounge

Gorge Festival and Cluster Festival have teamed up once again for 20213 Pride programming that features musician Zaki Ibrahim alongside local legends like Purple Haze and Zoleil Midowne.

When: June 2 7:30 p.m.
Where: The Forks Room 201

Gimli, Man.

This small, lake-side town in Manitoba hosts a one-day Pride festival every year. This year festivities throughout town take place June 10.

Pride Gimli Drag Show & Dance Party

Headlined by Breyanna Burlesque and Poison I.V., Cyan Hyde, and Miss Club 200 2022/23 Zova, this party promises drag, dancing and bar games.

When: June 10, 9 p.m.
Where: Ship and Plough Tavern

The post The Ultimate Canadian Pride Events Guide for Summer 2023 appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Every year at the start of May, red dresses can be seen hanging from trees, statues and front doors across Canada. These hollow vermilion silhouettes make a sartorial statement on the epidemic of missing and murdered Indigenous women, girls and two-spirit people.

The National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls and Two-Spirit People (MMIWG2S) is widely recognized as Red Dress Day, and Canadians are encouraged to hang and wear red as a means of drawing attention to gendered and racialized crimes against Indigenous peoples.

@resilientinuk May 5th – Show Your Support #may5 #reddressday #wearred #showsupport ♬ original sound – Resilient Inuk

“The red dress itself is a visual reminder of the staggering number of Indigenous women who are no longer with us,” explains Cory Hunlin, a two-spirit Tsilhqot’in artist. “I have been raised by powerful Indigenous women: my mom, grandma, aunties and relatives. [They] have all been affected by the residential school system. So for me, to see what’s still going on today is heart-wrenching and hits close to home.”

The annual observation of Red Dress Day came from The REDress Project, an art installation created by Métis artist Jamie Black in 2010. The exhibit of empty hanging red dresses has since traveled to different cities across North America. Over a decade later, Red Dress Day remains a means of recognizing those that have been lost while raising awareness around ongoing calls for justice.

In 2019, the Canadian government released the National Inquiry into MMIWG2S. ​​The report gathered the stories of nearly 2,400 people, including experts, survivors and family members of those who have been lost. It stated that systemic violence towards Indigenous women has resulted in a lack of safety and security, leaving them disproportionately vulnerable.

The report outlined 231 individual Calls for Justice, which include addressing intergenerational trauma, marginalization and the disregard for Indigenous women, girls and 2SLGBTQ+ people.

Indigenous women make up only 4.3 per cent of the population in Canada, but comprise 16 per cent of all female homicide victims and 11 per cent of missing women. Despite growing awareness of these alarming statistics and national calls to action, systemic barriers have continued to worsen for Indigenous women, who, as of April 2022, make up half of the female population in federal prisons.

This is why understanding the significance behind occasions like Red Dress Day is so important. “Red Dress Day means that we’re closer to finding justice and peace for these families affected,” says Michelle Chubb, a Swampy Cree artist and content creator located in Winnipeg. “It means a better future for my daughter so she doesn’t have to live in fear, like most of us.”

Red has become a symbol for MMIWG2S across Canada. It represents blood, earth and strength, but it also holds sacred symbolism. “It is said that red is the only colour spirits can see,” explains Vanessa Brousseau, an Inuk and Ojibwe artist, in a TikTok video. “The red dress represents a calling back to the spirits of these women; allowing them a chance to be among us and have their voices heard through family members and community.”

@indigenous_baddie National Day of Awareness for Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women & Girls. Please educate yourself & be aware of what Indigenous Women & Girls have to face everyday. I want to have a better future for Pîsim & acknowledging about this crisis is a step forward to finding justice & peace. #MMIWG #awareness #may5th ♬ Eyabay – Jingle Dress

Violence against Indigenous peoples remains urgent and under-discussed. “I encourage everyone to wear red, hang a red dress, and donate to organizations [working] directly with [victims’] families,” says Hunlin. But that’s just the beginning. “Read the report from National Inquiry into MMIWG2S+. Attend virtual discussions, vigils, walks and any space where families and advocates are taking the time to organize and educate.”

Learning about these issues, donating to organizations and supporting Indigenous artists, creators and small businesses are vital steps non-Indigenous Canadians can take towards reconciliation. “Education is violence prevention,” Hunlin concludes.

Below, find some resources and small businesses to support on Red Dress Day and beyond.

Resources:

Kairos Canada: Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls Information Hub

National Inquiry Into Missing Indigenous Women and Girls

The Native Women’s Association of Canada: MMIWG & Violence Prevention

What Their Stories Tell Us: Research Findings From The Sisters In Spirit Initiative

Indigenous small businesses:

This Claw

Inuk360

Assinewe Jewelry

Resilient Inuk Creations

Cheekbone Beauty

Renee Bell Designs

The post Here’s What You Should Know About Red Dress Day appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

RELATED: Fashion Week Still Has an Ableism Problem

“When you watch a runway show, it’s made for people who are walking,” she says. “And when you’re forced to sit down 24 hours a day, you don’t feel as good in that clothing because it’s not built for that.” She sometimes gets overwhelmed not knowing if a style will flatter her body, and common adornments like studs can cause pain or pressure sores, she explains. “It’s not just about throwing on an outfit. It’s, ‘Will this outfit work for my body and be…safe for my body, since I’m sitting all day?’”

“For a really long time, I’ve had fashion kind of control me,” she continues. That’s why, on March 21, she welcomed stylist Shayelle Smith into her closet to help overhaul her wardrobe and revive her confidence. That same day, she went viral for her response to ableist comments made by Candace Owens.

On a recent episode of her podcast, the right-wing political commentator criticized Kim Kardashian’s shapewear label Skims for featuring disabled models to advertise its Adaptive Collection. “I don’t really understand how far we’re gonna take this inclusivity thing,” she says in the video, referring to an image of a model in a wheelchair, before adding, “It seems ridiculous.”

Lindsay-Noel says her “jaw dropped” after seeing the clip, which has been making its rounds on social media this week. “Disabled people are here to stay, whether you want them to be here or not,” she said in a TikTok directed to Owens. “And we deserve to be seen in all forms of media, including lingerie and shapewear.”

@accessbytay Candace Owens your ableist views are BEYOND unnecessary and out of pocket. Accessible & Adaptive fashion is NECESSARY and inclusivity is imperative. What @SKIMS has done with this line is NEEDED and your ableist nonsense is exhausting 😒 – #skims #skimsadaptive #ableism #ableist #disability #disabled #disabilitytiktok #candaceowens ♬ original sound – Taylor LN | Creator ♿️

Unlike most clothing, adaptive fashion is designed specifically for people with disabilities and health conditions for which getting dressed can be challenging. Nearly 22 per cent of the Canadian population has a disability, but adaptive clothing is still not the norm among mainstream brands. “Seeing people with disabilities in clothing campaigns and media outlets is the difference between a good day and a hard day for me,” says Gabby, a student at the University of Pennsylvania. After becoming an amputee at the age of 18, shopping for clothes became exhausting.

​​“I had to worry about things that I had never worried about before,” she explains to FASHION. “‘Is this dress too long for a wheelchair?’ ‘Will my prosthetic rip this fabric?’ ‘Will my artificial foot fit into these shoes?’ are all questions I had to ask myself.” Gabby, too, made a video in response to Candace Owens, explaining the importance of Skims’ adaptive design elements, like underwear with snaps that can be seamlessly slipped on and frontal bra hooks that can be done up by those with lower hand function.

@habibtitime Sending you love & light bc you need it ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ #disabilitytiktok #selenagomez #candanceowens ♬ original sound – Gabby🌸

“Those little things go so far and help with people’s independence,” says Lindsay-Noel. “We fight so hard in our everyday lives to get back independence, and dressing is a huge part of that. Finding something that is not only easy to put on but is comfortable and stylish is a triple win.”

That’s what 33-year-old designer Jillian Maddocks is working to do. At 19, Maddocks was diagnosed with Ankylosing Spondylitis, an autoimmune disease that affects the bones, joints, and muscles. After landing her first job as a designer, her health wouldn’t allow her to keep up with the physical demands of the role. So, she started her own label, 323, in 2015.

When making clothes, Maddocks considers those who are hypersensitive to the touch of clothing. She tries to avoid tags, tight waistbands, and zippers, and many of her pieces can be easily pulled on. With a colourful palette and breezy, soft fabrics, 323 conveys a decidedly joyful aesthetic while also being functional. “It didn’t even occur to me that I was making a disability-inclusive line until recently, long after starting 323,” she says. “As a disabled designer, I was really just making clothes for me.”

Maddocks is among a growing minority of disability-inclusive designers, but navigating an industry rife with ableism has not been easy. “You need to have the energy to put in an enormous amount of hours just to hold your job. You need to be able to lift heavy rolls of fabric. You have to be able to sit hunched at a sewing machine all day. Then you also need to have the energy to network constantly,” she says. And while representation is important, she wants to see more disabled people working in creative roles behind the scenes, too.

“Everyone is just an accident or illness away from becoming chronically ill or disabled,” Maddocks says. “If [Candace Owens’s] behaviour wasn’t so harmful and dangerous, I would feel sad for this person. Then again, she is reflecting the ableism rooted deeply in our culture.”

As for Taylor Lindsay-Noel, she finds it ironic that this social media conversation is taking place now — at a time when she’s working to reframe her relationship with clothes. Going forward, she plans to document her personal style discovery, she says, so that she can offer more representation of fashion on a seated body.

“[Owens] says, ‘How far are we going to take it?’” Lindsay-Noel notes, referring to Owens’ comments about inclusivity. “And to that, I say, all the way. Until every single person feels represented. Then our work is done. Obviously, that’s not the case, so we have a far way to go.”

The post We Will Always Need More Disability Inclusion in Fashion appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

RELATED: Four Canadians On What Their Signature Locs Mean to Them

If you pay attention to TikTok and social media, you know that age isn’t just a number, it’s a sometimes painful marker of identity. Whether it’s Gen Z-beloved straight jeans vs. millennial-favoured skinny jeans, there’s a huge pressure to both look like the group you belong to but — if you’re older than, say, 25 — never look your age. In the past year, almost every member of my late-twenties girl gang has freaked about fine lines, grey hairs, or the nebulous sensation of “feeling old.” For me, even though getting older has its scary moments, my Jamaican background helps keep things in perspective.

Jamaica is a small island with a big impact, especially in Toronto. You can smell Jamaican patties from Islington to Warden Station and hear the echo of Jamaican Patois in Toronto slang. Every summer, you can even see Jamaicans and other West Indians celebrating our communities in bright costumes at Caribana. But Jamaican culture is more than the food we eat and the way we talk: it’s who we are and who we choose to be at any age.

For as long as I can remember, my family members have expressed themselves through appearance. From my cousin Marsha’s blonde buzzcut to my brother’s tattoos, many Jamaicans enjoy being seen, period. While visiting my dad in New York last summer, we decided to take in a Mets game, each donning outfits that were quintessentially us. Even though I was feeling cute and summery in shorts and a crop top, I was 27 at the time and worried that a bare midriff was slowly becoming unbecoming. My dad’s outfit, however — a green mesh marina and baggy jeans with a green bandana tucked into his pocket — reminded me that my only job was to be myself.

“I don’t feel different or dress differently than I did in my thirties or forties” my dad says. Even though he’s approaching 60, you wouldn’t know it by looking at him. That’s because Jamaicans care about proudly being themselves than “respectably” being themselves. My dad’s commitment to this is a constant reminder that hiding your sense of style to gain acceptance is self-betrayal. So, instead of trying to look my age, I try to look like myself at whatever age I am, which means leaning into my imperfect aesthetic, my hyper-fixation on crop tops, and my collection of candy-shaped earrings.

Jamaicans are also known for taking their self-expression to the dance floor, no matter their age. Whether it’s the length of a skirt, a night at the club, or both, Jamaicans never feel “too old” to do something. My sisters and cousins are mothers and fathers in their thirties, and yet they still make time to show up and show out at their favourite clubs. This puts things into perspective for me and other over-25s who wrongfully dub “clubbing” as an undergrad thing that we’ve grown out of doing.

“In Jamaica, women still flaunt themselves and describe themselves as sexy regardless of their age,” my sister tells me. “They wear what they want, date who they want, and have fun how they want.” That’s because music, motion, and sex appeal are such important parts of Jamaican culture, which only get more important with age. It shouldn’t matter if you’re 25, 35, or 45, a night of music and dancing is always good for the soul. So rather than suppressing the part of me that misses dressing up, taking selfies, and going out to dance for hours, I’m going to honour it more and more with each year that comes.

Even though my pre-30 crew (and many others) might sometimes worry that the upcoming chapters of our lives will be more about “surviving” rather than “thriving,” I’m relying on my Jamaican sensibilities to guide me. It’s taken me so long to get to a place of pride and self-acceptance, and I’m not at all interested in losing it just because the TikTok police say 30 is too old to have fun. Instead of letting the internet tell you what to do, take advice from Jamaicans, and me in particular: Don’t wind down with age — turn up!

The post How My Jamaican Culture Has Helped Me To Not Fear Aging appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

It was Lunar New Year — better known as Tet in my Vietnamese household — and a typical frosty Canadian morning. I was sent off to school, bundled in layers and wearing my qipao, a celebratory Chinese dress, underneath. Once I got to class and unzipped my coat to reveal my red silk dress, I turned around and met the eyes of three classmates glaring at me.

“What are you wearing?” they laughed. My eyes began to water, matching the puddle of slush from my winter boots, my face turning as red as my dress. I might not be seven years old anymore, but the sting of the embarrassment of not fitting in with my white peers has stayed with me until this day.

I was raised by my Vietnamese father and Filipino mother who wanted to blend in with Canadian culture, which resulted in much of my upbringing spent trying to appease the white standard. Every exclamation of our Asian pride was calculated through a westernized lens, hence why my parents sent me to school in a qipao, the more well-known Lunar New Year garment, instead of an ao dai, the Vietnamese version. Growing up, my fractured connection to my identity — and Lunar New Year — stemmed from being told I was “too Asian” at school, attending Tet celebrations in the wrong garment, and then ironically being told I wasn’t Asian enough by that community.

While my past experiences have negatively shaped my outlook on identity, I’m slowly working towards improvement. Representation in the media has helped. From watching Michelle Yeoh win a Golden Globe to Canada Goose collaborating with Angel Chen, I’ve relished finally seeing myself reflected in (and accepted by) the media surrounding me. But with that realization has come another thought. I don’t want my self-worth to only be measured on how accepting society is of my identity — I want to be accepting of it myself. With the painful awareness of how disconnected I’ve long felt from feeling at peace with my identity, I’m on a journey of acceptance on my own terms.

My first step was to rewrite my past and embrace what I thought at the time was a fashion faux pas, and what better way to do so than with the upcoming Lunar New Year. For those unfamiliar, rule number one for dressing for Lunar New Year is you must wear something new (to welcome a fresh start), something red (to promote good luck) and an additional lucky colour based on you the year of your birth. (This year, my lucky colour is white, which I’ll wear the week before while getting a haircut or cleaning my house, as it’s encouraged to do this before festivities begin so you don’t sweep away or cut your luck off.)

That red qipao symbolized so much confusion in my youth, but I’m taking power from it instead of letting it hinder me in 2023. This year, I’ve chosen a dress from Reformation as an homage to the garment that caused me so much pain as a child. The red silk and high neckline are reminiscent of what I wore when I was seven, but stay true to my western upbringing. While it may not be the most “traditional,” I’m empowered by owning what’s familiar to me while honouring my heritage.

To top this outfit off is a ring I purchased during 2021’s Year of the Ox. It’s said that the year of your sign requires more protection, and it’s now one of the most sentimental pieces I own. This ring represents the start of no longer giving a damn. All my life, I’ve been told in different circles that I was too Asian or wasn’t Asian enough, and that conflict prevented me from embracing either part of my identity. The reality is that I’m a part of the Asian diaspora, and my identity is fragmented. Instead of seeing it as broken pieces that I’m trying to force together, I now see my identity like the garnet that adorns my finger — a reminder that there are multiple sides to me and all of them are equally significant.

When I look into the mirror, the red in my cheeks from embarrassment when I was younger is replaced by a bright scarlet hue proudly worn on my lips. I no longer shy away from the question, “What are you wearing?” and instead take it as an opportunity to share my multicultural outlook on the holiday. And while Lunar New Year is about encouraging luck to flow to you, I’ve found power in making my own luck and rules.

The post How Fashion Broke, and Then Repaired, My Relationship with Lunar New Year appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Whenever new reality dating shows are announced, I cross my fingers for fat contestants. As a fat person, I’m used to not seeing myself on TV unless the role upholds the tired tropes of fat folks being sad, lonely, sexless and unloveable. But still, I hope that we’ve come far enough that we’ll finally see ourselves on reality TV finding love, loving ourselves, and having sex (because news flash: we do) like everyone else. I thought Love Is Blind might be the show to change that, considering its entire premise is supposedly about the unimportance of appearance. I was wrong.

I had a glimmer of hope when I realized that Alexa Alfia, the first not-super-skinny main character on the show, would be a fixture in season 3. It’s a welcome change after Love Is Blind previously baited us in previews and didn’t deliver, by including plus-size women in the season 2 trailer only for them to not make it past the first episode. To be clear, Alfia is by no means fat, and yet her early storyline revolves around that supposed fact. During her introduction episode, she says, “I’m curvy; I’m not for everybody,” and that she could “stand to lose some weight.” Casting Alfia is presumably the show’s response to being called out last year for lacking size-diverse contestants, to which co-host Vanessa Lachey blamed fat people for being too “insecure” to put ourselves forward for casting.

Love Is Blind’s treatment of fat people isn’t a surprise, considering the reality TV genre makes buckets of money by poking fun at fatness. Just look at shows like The Biggest Loser and My 1000-Pound Life that serve to both humiliate and degrade fat people. There’s even an entire Reddit master list of unscripted shows about larger people. Knowing what we know about how society feels about us, it’s not shocking that we wouldn’t be included in shows about finding love. Who would love us, after all, when according to influential people like Lachey, we don’t even love ourselves?

While Alfia has gone on to speak favourably about her body, leaning in to her love for food and the validation from her fiancé Brennon Lemieux (who *gasp* still liked her after seeing her), it left me wondering why there is still so much resistance to size-diverse casting in the unscripted world — and if we really want to be included in it at all.

Amanda Gardner, 25, has the same question. A popular TikTok creator, Gardner has become a fan favourite on the platform for her pop-culture commentary and calling people out on their fatphobia. Along with loving fashion and beauty, she also loves reality TV, Temptation Island and The Bachelor, specifically — two shows notorious for excluding fat people. (After 44 seasons of The Bachelor and Bachelorette, there have only been two plus-size contestants, prompting the Roses for Every Body campaign.)

Back in February, Gardner posted a TikTok about this very issue, explaining how she’s glad fat women aren’t included in love-based reality TV shows. “Not only would they not get picked like they do Black women,” she says in the video, “it would literally turn into how to lose weight, it’s going to turn into fitness 101 real quick. [Directors and producers] don’t know how to work with fat bodies. They think the only thing associated with fat is losing weight.”

@amandapleeze HOPE IT NEVER HAPPENS!!!! #fyp #foryou ♬ original sound – I Must Meet Amanda!!

In a perfect world, everyone would be included in these shows. But the world isn’t perfect. Fat is still seen as undesirable and so fat people can’t find love until they’re thin, of course. Instead, they take side roles. “The reality is that we have so many people [who] tell stories of being the fat friend that guys avoid,” Gardner says in an interview with FASHION. “I don’t think it would be an enjoyable experience and I don’t think they’d find what they’re looking for.”

If fat women were included in reality dating shows, three things would happen, she continues: the most palatable fat women (read: white, small waist, flat stomach, big butt) would be cast, they wouldn’t get picked as love interests, and many media voices and viewers would have a fit, claiming the show was “promoting obesity.” We’ve seen it before. In season 2 of Love Is Blind, plus-size characters Chassidy Mickale and Hope Antoinello-Foley were included in previews and quickly dumped — but not before fielding crappy questions from their fellow contestants, like last season’s villain Abishek “Shake” Chatterjee who slyly asked Foley if she likes working out, presumably to rule out the fatties.

But there are television producers trying to do it right. Louise Green, a weight-neutral fitness instructor and author of Big Fit Girl, has been pitching her own reality show about fitness for all body types for two years, even meeting twice with one of the biggest subscription streaming services in the world. “At this point, we’re now in redevelopment because we can’t land a deal under the current concept,” she says. “People can’t wrap their head around an empowering show where people are challenging stereotypes without it being about weight loss.”

Aisha Fairclough, TV producer and co-founder of Body Confidence Canada, dedicates her time to advocating for body-size diversity in the unscripted world. One of her latest projects 1 Queen 5 Queers is proof of that. For her, it’s imperative to include fat folks in this space, but she says it’s up to the people behind the camera to make it happen. “[They] have to be diverse,” Fairclough says. “They have to be advocating in their writing; writing nuanced characters that ensure their storyline includes all aspects of their life,” not just their fatness.

“You have to make an effort to write casting calls that are inclusive, that will make somebody who isn’t a size eight feel they can apply,” Fairclough adds. But sadly, viewers at large are comfortable with not having their beliefs about fat people challenged. “We are often comfortable with these storylines because a lot of people see fat people as the underdog.” Society wants to believe in the fantasy that being thinner is better. Without a world in which this is true, how can we justify the lengths we go to bend to society’s standards of beauty, a constantly moving target that entire industries, careers and lives are built on? And who better to uphold that than a stereotyped fat character?

But Fairclough points to shows like Lizzo’s Watch Out for the Big Grrrls, Grand Crew, Thick House, Supersize Salon and BET’s First Wives Clubs as ones that do it right. By having size-diverse casts whose stories don’t hinge on their bodies and make “being fat” their only personality trait, we can celebrate them in their wholeness. In other words, Fairclough says, see fat people as actual human beings.

Everyone loves a good story. (I know I do.) When it comes to reality television, we know it’s not actually real. But shutting off our brains and going on a watching spree of our favourite reality show feels good. The characters are distilled into easy-to-digest packages, unlike the real world where people are complex, deep, and require thought and care. But viewers are asking for more. We want to see what’s real.

I want to see people who look like me being valued for who we are as people. We want our stories to be given the same depth afforded to thin people, and be seen as human beings who are desirable, deserving, and capable of love, rather than as a weight-loss project or a before photo. It’s time for reality TV to start reflecting — oh, I don’t know — reality. Because in the real world, outside of the fatphobic cultures we live in and the shows that tell us otherwise, we are. And that’s a damn good story.

The post <em>Love Is Blind</em>’s Attempt At Size Diversity Was a Flop appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

I too am a token Black girl and knew I’d be in for an insightful read. Five pages in, I was in tears, replaying buried scenes from my youth. (Hello, therapy? I’m back!) Her experiences mirror so many of my own; from always being assigned Scary Spice and developing a disdain for water in regards to my hair, to often feeling weird but not having the tools or language to identify what a microaggression was.

Token Black Girl is essential reading for anyone hoping to understand how proximity to whiteness affects Black people. Here, my chat with Prescod about how a journey of healing forced her to question the origins of her belief systems and ultimately led her to write the bestselling memoir.

Token Black Girl is both a memoir of your life and an exposé on the fashion industry. What was the catalyst that led to you writing this book?

I wanted to write a book for a long time. I love memoirs but I thought that writing [one] meant you had to have something horrific happen that you’re on the other side of. I’ve got two parents who really love me, a sister who loves me, and I have good friends and a job — my story is irrelevant in this genre. But I froze my eggs when I turned 30. And because of that, I gained a bunch of weight. And that accelerated a healing process from my eating disorder. So actually, this entire book started from me trying to heal from [my eating disorder].

Working with my therapist she would always say, ‘self-love, self-love, self-love.’ And I’d tell her ‘I love myself so I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But really, what I had was a framework of loving myself that was conditional. I only love myself if I look like this, I only love myself if I have this job. I only love myself if I live in this kind of apartment. I thought, where does that come from? Why have I always thought this? I think a lot of people don’t ever question the origins of their belief systems. But I had to.

I started working backwards, [asking myself] ‘why do I have to be skinny to be successful? Why does my hair need to be done all the time?’ And the answer was white supremacy and the crazy influence white supremacy had over my life for so long. Once I figured that out, it became so much easier to put the other pieces together.

How did you navigate traditional beauty standards as a Black woman working in media and shift away from them now that you’re no longer in the industry?

Very few people really exist free from the pressures of beauty standards. Personally, I am not [free from beauty standards] but, in the book, I make a big effort to try to figure out their origins and who is most served by adherence to them. Now that I operate somewhat on the fringes of fashion, I’m able to be a bit more flexible in what I choose to do but while I was actively operating in the industry, I had a lot of people to answer to who often assumed that thin and white was the pinnacle of beauty. Even if they dropped the racial requirement, thin was still the standard. It’s something I have to work on every day and it is not easy.

For those who want to work in fashion, beauty, or media, how can they be agents of change in those spaces from the start?

You aren’t going to change anything from the start. Even things that seem to happen overnight take years of preparation. Plus, in the beginning of your career, the worst mistake you can make is thinking that you know best. When you’re starting out, it’s a time to observe, learn and understand.

For ways that individuals can make personal shifts in their mindsets, diversify the media you consume and invest in materials where you might not be the target audience but still can find value in them. The internet and streaming networks make this pretty easy but you have to stay engaged. Like posts by creators of colour, make sure you follow them. Watch shows that star someone of another race and try to see yourself in the experience rather than evaluating it as separate from you. This helps foster empathy and decenter whiteness, which should always be the goal.

This book offers a level of authenticity that I would have killed for growing up. If you were given this book at 16, how do you think it would have impacted you?

I would have loved to have this book at 16 because it would have given me, if nothing else, vocabulary. You know something makes you feel weird, you know something is not right, but I didn’t have any vocabulary for what a microaggression was. Just being able to have language to address things specifically would have given me more confidence.

Growing up, I had dial-up internet, we didn’t have Twitter, or TikTok, or hashtags. Black Girl Magic was not a thing. You felt very alone. I was writing in my diary, all by myself, and thinking that there was no one else who could possibly understand. This book is an exercise in community building, because as soon as I say, ‘I’m a token Black girl,’ other girls are like ‘me, too, me too, me too.’

Token Black Girl: A Memoir, $35, amazon.ca

The post Danielle Prescod’s Memoir <em>Token Black Girl</em> Confronts the Uncomfortable appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

This year, over one hundred brands showcased their designs at locations across the city. And amid the days-long fashion frenzy, there was an increased sense of accessibility. Labels like Collina Strada, Studio 189, Foo And Foo, Guvanch and Hester Sunshine sent models in wheelchairs down their runways. Not to mention, the non-profit organization Open Style Lab produced a first-of-its-kind show dedicated to disabled models.

In an industry known for exclusion, these standout points of representation are worth celebrating. But at the same time, they draw attention to the fact that New York Fashion Week—and the industry as a whole—is still overwhelmingly ableist.

“This season, I saw more brands put more visibly disabled models on their runways than ever before,” says Bri Scalesse, a model and disability advocate who wheeled at Studio 189 and Guvanch. “But with one in four [Americans] being disabled, we are still massively underrepresented on the runways, and the audience spaces are still mostly inaccessible.”

 

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That’s because, in order to even attend a fashion show, there are often baseline physical requirements. It’s not uncommon for guests to wade through packed crowds, walk up flights of stairs or traverse narrow corridors. Seating arrangements are not exactly disability-friendly either, with many presentations requiring attendees to gather on bleachers or squeeze together in standing masses.

“Disability is an integral, beautiful, meaningful, massive part of humanity,” says Scalesse. “Inaccessibility is just not acceptable with the resources we have in 2022.” Despite that, these ableist conditions are still the norm. But that should come as no surprise.

For so long, fashion has ignored people with disabilities. Even simple vocabulary terms like “catwalk” and “runway” imply that you need to be able-bodied to be a model. And shows often rely on this type of physicality. Take designer Victor Glemaud, who opened his New York Fashion Week show with roller skaters playfully parading down the runway. “Glemaud makes clothes you can truly move in,” Vogue said of the show. But what if your body can’t move in that way?

It’s not that brands shouldn’t incorporate performance aspects into their presentations. But it should be standard practice for designers to showcase people of all abilities at their shows. And right now, that’s just not the case.

For those who aren’t able-bodied, physically entering a venue can be half the battle. When attending a fashion show, there are multiple accessibility aspects disabled people have to think about, Scalesse explains. Can they enter through the door and move around the space? Can they get on the runway? Can they use the bathroom? “And can we do all of this without someone having to take us through a back entrance; a garbage disposal entrance; a lift we cannot operate on our own?” she adds. According to her, more often than not, the answer to at least half of these questions is no.

“I think this majorly discourages designers from using disabled models in an industry that already uses so few disabled models,” she continues. In turn, this lack of representation perpetuates the idea that the garments on display are made for the able-bodied people wearing them and no one else. But truly innovative clothing can be both functional and fun.

Enter Open Style Lab. The organization’s show presented an entire collection of adaptive fashion—a.k.a. non-restrictive designs made for people with disabilities. Whether it’s user-friendly fasteners, inclusive size ranges or garments that work with artificial limbs, the mindful sartorial approach pushes back on fashion’s longstanding one-size-fits-all ideology. Beyond that, it supports the idea that clothes should be adapted to fit the wearer and not the other way around.

 

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More and more, disability and fashion are intersecting. Style icons such as Selma Blair have shown that changing health conditions don’t have to limit sartorial statements, and highly-coveted labels like Collina Strada have made wheelchair-using models a staple of their runway shows. While these landmarks of representation show the progress we’ve made, they also remind us of how far we have to go. Ultimately, the pervasive lack of accessibility in high-fashion spaces forces us to reckon with tough questions. Like, who does this industry really belong to? And why should it belong to anyone at all?

At Fashion Week, Bri Scalesse wants to see things change for disabled people. “We have been, as a whole, largely excluded from fashion for too long,” she says. “We are some of the most creative, adaptive people, and we deserve more space on and off the runway.”

The post Fashion Week Still Has an Ableism Problem appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Pageants were never on Bearchell’s radar. A straight-A student, athlete and dancer who grew up in Moose Jaw, Sask., she was 15 and heading toward medical school when a candle in her family’s apartment set a tissue box on fire. “I was the first to call 911,” she says. “We lost everything. We didn’t even have renters insurance to help us recover.” Instead, the community rallied around her family, launching fundraising efforts and even putting them up in a hotel while they searched for a new home.

A Facebook ad for the Miss Teen Saskatchewan pageant caught Bearchell’s attention in the aftermath of the fire. “It said, ‘Be a leader in your community today,’ and it appealed to me as I was blown away by the help we had received from our neighbourhood,” she recalls. Shortly after, she entered the competition, winning the title of Miss Teen Saskatchewan, followed by Miss Teen Canada.

Bearchell’s glossy good looks, academic success and desire to make a difference in the world made her perfect pageant fodder. Using her newly public profile, she became an ambassador and volunteer with the Red Cross, speaking at schools and events about disaster preparedness and fire relief, drawing on her own experiences. “It was an opportunity to have a global platform that a girl like me from Moose Jaw would never have had otherwise,” she laughs, adding, “That sounds so hillbilly.”

While Siera Bearchell celebrates Saskatchewan’s sense of community, she has conflicted feelings about the small-town attitude toward anyone “different” as her family felt they couldn’t discuss their Metis heritage. “In Moose Jaw, being Indigenous is something you want to hide,” she explains. “I’m still learning about my ancestry. I feel like I’m an imposter as I’m visibly white but my mom is darker and has more obvious traits. I’m trying to find a way to make it authentic to me.” Even though Bearchell is still exploring her Indigenous identity, she is thrilled to be the first person of Indigenous ancestry to place in the Miss Universe competition. Since leaving Moose Jaw, she has become much more aware of how she can use both her law degree and her public platform to make positive changes for Canada’s Indigenous population.

 

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Authenticity has become a driving force for Siera Bearchell and is something she struggled with as she transitioned from national to international stages and her body began to change. “I went from being that teenage girl who was so skinny that people would tell me to eat a cheeseburger to becoming more athletic and curvy in my 20s.” When she entered the Miss Universe contest in 2013, Bearchell was told she had a good chance of winning if she lost weight. “I was instructed to eat as little as possible, and if I was really struggling, I could have a chicken breast with some greens once a day.”

At the time, Bearchell was balancing her pageant life with her law studies at the University of Saskatchewan and reveals that she often had trouble focusing because she was running on empty. “Some days, I would have a single protein bar, half in the morning and the other half later, and then do hours of workouts,” she recalls. “I was so hungry that I had trouble falling asleep at night. But I believed this was what I had to do to succeed.” And after all that, Bearchell didn’t even make it to being a finalist.

When she looks back at photos of herself from that time, all Bearchell remembers is feeling miserable, despite her megawatt smile and size 0 figure. Naturally competitive, she decided in 2016 that she wanted to enter the competition once again—this time as a healthy, strong size 8, having just completed her first marathon. “I thought, ‘I’ll do this my way,’ she says. “My body might not have been what the pageant world wanted, but I was proud of it. I wanted to be a person people could look up to and wholeheartedly be myself.”

Despite her positive outlook, Bearchell faced an immediate backlash. In the world of pageants, where extra small is the only acceptable size, her mid-size frame (which is largely considered a medium by most retailers) garnered her comparisons to a whale on social media. Body shamers mockingly circulated photos of her in a swimsuit, and she was even accused of promoting obesity. “It was so intense that the Miss Universe committee checked in with me to see if I was OK,” she says.

But rather than breaking under the pressure and negativity, Siera Bearchell decided to combat it on social media by posting affirmations of self-acceptance and body positivity. And while she’s the first to acknowledge the absurdity of a 30-inch waist being considered plus-size, her mission was to shine a light on the unhealthy body standards of the competition and encourage future beauty queens to adopt greater self-worth and self-love.

That year, she won Miss Universe Canada and placed ninth in the global competition. “Body positivity and body confidence became my unintentional platform,” she says. “Yes, I had trolls and faced many nasty comments, but I also had so many people supporting me and thanking me for being myself.” She feels that her success directly reflects the changing values of society. “Now, when you go to the beach, you see all different body types.”

As Bearchell crossed another stage—this time to collect her law degree—she was newly pregnant and knew she wouldn’t be able to pursue law right away. Instead, she started sharing her pregnancy with the social media audience she’d built up during her years of pageantry. “I took on the expectations surrounding women and their bodies during pregnancy,” she says. “I was struck by the fact that after you spend nine months growing a human being, the first thing people start talking about is your body ‘bouncing back.’ You’ve become a mother! You have to love yourself and your child, not worry about losing the baby weight.”

As her baby bump grew, so did her followers, and offers for paid partnerships began to materialize. Bearchell put her law degree to good use, negotiating contracts and brand collaborations. One hundred seventy-six thousand followers later, she has published three e-books, runs mentorship programs with catchy titles like “Do You Want to Win the Crown?” and is a successful entrepreneur. And in the process, she has unwittingly become a fashion icon for her fans. “It took me a while to find my style,” she says. “I’m from a small town where you are scared to stand out.” Citing Victoria Beckham as her style inspiration — “she’s feminine but with an edge” — she loves shopping for timeless pieces and has recently discovered resale, thanks to websites like Poshmark.

Siera Bearchell believes she is making a better, more inclusive world for her three-year-old daughter, Lilly, her baby on the way (in March, she announced that she is pregnant) and the generations of girls growing up with social media. And, indeed, gains are being made everywhere—from the body-conscious world of surfing, where @curvysurfergirl is flipping the bird to the sport’s accepted physique, to high fashion, where brands like Erdem are creating clothes up to size 22. And, yes, Bearchell realizes her current size 6 frame is considered thin. Still, she knows what it’s like to be very publicly criticized for her body’s shape and believes that no one should have to experience the abuse she once did. “The underlying thing I’m passionate about is for women to feel they can truly be themselves, whatever that looks like,” she says. Because no matter our height, weight or size, we’re all so much more than a swimsuit photo.

Swipe through the gallery below to see some of the items on Siera Bearchell’s must-have list, including heritage handbags and brightening beauty products.

1/8

Smythe

Duchess Blazer

($725, Smythe)

Buy Now

2/8

Common Projects

Combat Boots

($1,050, Common Projects)

Buy Now

3/8

Iconic London

Prep, Set, Glow Hydrating Spray

($39, Iconic London)

Buy Now

4/8

Summer Fridays

Heavenly Sixteen All-in-One Face Oil

($71, Summer Fridays)

Buy Now

5/8

Tula Skincare

Glow + Get It Cooling & Brightening Eye Balm

($39, Tula Skincare)

Buy Now

6/8

Jenny Bird

Lido Triple Stand Necklace

($150, Jenny Bird)

Buy Now

7/8

Fendi

Baguette bag

(, Fendi)

Buy Now

8/8

Levi’s

Jean jacket

(, Levi's)

Buy Now

This article first appeared in FASHION’s October issue. Find out more here.

The post Siera Bearchell Recalls Starving Herself for Miss Universe Canada appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

A successful career in fashion had taken me all over the world, from London to Paris and New York to Los Angeles. My resumé boasted work with leading brands and publications, with my most-talked-about position being first assistant to a renowned editor at an international edition of Vogue. In theory, I was living the dream: sourcing haute couture gowns, spending time with supermodels and jetting off to exotic photo shoot locations. But in reality, the fashion industry was cutthroat, and low self-esteem, constant comparisons to others and endless criticism led to a severe increase in eating disorder symptoms.

Growing up in Belfast, I spent the majority of my teenage years engaging in restrictive diets, compulsive exercise and self-induced vomiting. What initially started as an effort to maintain my Irish-dancing physique became a coping and distress-tolerance tool, allowing me to numb out and dissociate from the daily homophobic abuse I was subjected to in the hallways of my Catholic high school.

 

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I was 12 when I asked my parents to take me to my family doctor. By that point, school had become unbearable and I had been engaging in eating disorder behaviours for over a year. The doctor performed a physical, took note of my weight and calculated my body mass index (BMI), which was still within the normal range. He told me that boys didn’t get eating disorders and recommended exercise as a cure for what he assumed was adolescent depression.

My symptoms had fallen on deaf ears, and because of my gender and “normal” weight, I slipped under the radar of an uneducated practitioner and went back out into the world with no words for what I was experiencing. Shame was all that I felt.

Fourteen years later, I was living in Canada, and despite my many attempts to “fix” myself through yoga and meditation, my untreated eating disorder was still consuming my every day. Between my compulsive exercise, stimulant and laxative abuse and extensive periods of fasting, it wasn’t long before I hit rock bottom. Gaining the strength to ask for help as an adult wasn’t easy, and it was even harder when I learned that some facilities only accepted women and others had significantly low BMI requirements for admission. Over a decade had passed since that initial appointment with my GP, but I still held a deep belief that I would be turned away again and deemed not sick enough to receive help.

Luckily, I found a treatment centre in New York and was admitted within a couple of weeks. I was diagnosed with anorexia nervosa and stayed in the program for three months. As the only man there, I struggled to fit in and often questioned whether I really had an eating disorder or not. The process was intense, and I couldn’t relate to a lot of the recovery material or what my female peers were going through, but the treatment saved my life.

The vast majority of people with eating disorders experience a distortion in the seriousness of their condition,” shares Dr. Jennifer Gaudiani, medical director of the Gaudiani Clinic and the author of Sick Enough. “This results in individuals constantly thinking ‘I’m not sick enough to warrant a treatment team/changing behaviours/being kinder to myself/resting/allowing myself to decide this has to stop.’”

I’ve been fortunate to receive ongoing care and support from an excellent multidisciplinary team in Vancouver, but it’s challenging to return to the hospital each time and find that I’m the only man there. Men account for roughly one-third of the 70 million people worldwide with eating disorders, yet so few receive treatment. There are many reasons for this. “The medical firmament often shares society’s misguided and narrow stereotypes about how to identify someone with an eating disorder,” explains Gaudiani. “If a person is not cisgender, white, female, heterosexual, visibly underweight, able-bodied, young and financially resourced, they fail to ‘trip the wire’ of clinical diagnosis and attention.”

 

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With this stigma attached, many men like me feel that there are barriers to receiving treatment. Eating disorders in men are also sometimes misunderstood and not always visible. While some men might be trying to lose weight, others are trying to increase their body size. We live in a diet-culture-driven society where disordered-eating behaviours are positively reinforced and oftentimes learned at a young age. Eating disorders thrive in secrecy. We need to talk about them openly, educate health-care practitioners and change the narrative within treatment centres so they’re more gender inclusive.

Looking back over the past three years, I’m proud of how much I’ve accomplished. It can be challenging at times to acknowledge your victories, especially when there’s often so much to process—both physically and mentally—in eating disorder recovery. The pandemic was especially difficult to navigate, and I spent most of last year in the hospital for medical, psychiatric and in-patient admissions. While there, I found solace in reading and started a book blog called Avocado Diaries. It has since grown to become one of the most popular literary review websites in Canada. I also enrolled in school and earned a mental health worker certification. I’ve learned that my voice is my biggest asset; I’m using it to empower myself and others. And I’m currently writing my memoir. By sharing my experience, I hope that more men like me will seek the treatment they’ve always deserved.

This article first appeared in FASHION’s October issue. Find out more here.

The post Why Aren’t We Talking About Anorexia in Men? appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

The U.S. Supreme Court reversed the 1973 landmark ruling that legalized abortion nationwide on June 24. As a result, abortion rights will now be determined at state level, with several anti-choice lawmakers already moving to have the procedure banned.

It shouldn’t be lost on us that while reproductive rights have regressed 50 years, fashion has never been more pro-choice. From unconventional combinations to open displays of sexuality, today, freedom is central to the fashion landscape.

Take the recent runways at Men’s Paris Fashion Week, which were a celebration of unrestricted dressing. Louis Vuitton’s vibrant yellow catwalk referenced experimental styling with models in cartoonish illustrations and 3D-embroidered designs. Designer Thom Browne’s collection was an ode to wild self-expression with low-slung pants and exposed jockstraps. And labels like EgonLab and Prada made similar statements on genderless fashion with the use of micro-mini shorts.

The SCOTUS decision to limit bodily freedom comes at a time when expressions of sexuality are heavily referenced on the runway. Whether it’s Blumarine’s ultra-cropped skimpy silhouettes or Miu Miu’s wholehearted embrace of the micro-mini skirt, sensuality is central to modern-day fashion imagery. Designer Mowalola Ogunlesi took this theme to the next level with her Spring 2023 ready-to-wear show. The collection reclaimed unabashed sexuality and censored body parts, starring restrictive fetishwear, low-rise bottoms and explicit cutouts.

As far as fashion is concerned, bodily autonomy is “in.” We’re in the age of unrestricted maximalism, with popular aesthetics rejecting the constraints of traditional rules and embracing the experimental nature of personal fashion.

This type of more is more dressing — filled with colourful patterns, mixed textures and kitschy accessories — champions the idea that your body is your own, and you can dress yourself up however you want. In our current political climate, this mindset now seems radical.

 

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Even before Roe v. Wade was overturned, fashion had been in a flirtationship with freedom. Over the past few months, catwalks referenced the restrictions of COVID-19, the physical impacts of climate change and the human rights disaster that is the war in Ukraine.

And now, as the world continues to open up, designers are embracing the symbolism of freedom even more. But with this loss of reproductive rights, the concept of liberation in pop culture has taken on a deeper meaning.

In music alone, the biggest names are those who represent unapologetic authenticity. Harry Styles is praised for his gender-bending style. Lizzo is known for her ultra-glamorous red carpet looks and self-empowerment anthems. Lil Nas X is always pushing the fashion boundaries as an openly queer rap artist.

Despite how grim things may seem, fashion’s unflinching freedom train reflects larger cultural attitudes. In fact, recent polls found that most Americans and Canadians are pro-choice, proving that this political ruling does not reflect the majority of the population.

Of course, this archaic decision won’t end abortions. It will just limit access to safe abortions, specifically for those who are low-income, single mothers, trans and racialized. And the impacts are far-reaching. In Canada, though abortions are effectively legal, they’re far from equally accessible. With a reportedly substantial number of anti-choice MPs across the country, the decision to overturn Roe v. Wade has already rekindled conservative talking points around abortion here, too.

This decision is rooted in restricting freedom, with suggestions that same-sex marriage and access to contraception could be on the chopping block next.

As reproductive rights take a heartbreaking hit, fashion may seem frivolous. But using clothing to express bodily autonomy is in and of itself an act of resistance. Because while fashion reflects reality, it also has the ability to harness the power of imagination. In this case, fashion is presenting the fantasy of freedom. Hopefully the real world will catch up.

The post Roe v. Wade and Fashion’s Fight for Freedom appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

 

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I was at a powwow when I first heard about Two-Spirit people. The term was created at an Indigenous lesbian and gay inter-tribal gathering in Treaty 1 back in 1990, five years before I was born. Broadly speaking, it describes the many gender, societal and ceremonial roles carried out by people in different nations. Two-Spirit people send messages, tell prophecies and ensure that our histories are never erased. But we are not a monolith; each Two-Spirit person has their own unique gifts. My own Two-Spirit identity is rooted in Eeyou and Swampy Cree culture. Niishuudehiiyuu is an Eeyou Cree word that translates to “the person with two hearts.” As niishuudehiiyuu, we bring balance and harmony to our communities. Another word, muydeow, loosely translates to “medicine person” or “shaman” — someone who can speak to the creator and other realms.

As a child, I wasn’t ready to identify as Two-Spirit. Being both Indigenous and effeminate, I already had dual targets on my back. I’d wear my mom’s T-shirts and pretend they were dresses; I had long hair, shopped in the girls section at Value Village and was always singing along with my Britney Spears CD. I dealt with discrimination by non-Indigenous people and bullying by some members of my own community. But I found refuge at powwows, where I was celebrated for who I was. Even today, when I hear the drums and singing coming from a powwow, I want to run toward the noise and dance in the beautiful, healing energy. Later in life, I sought out that same energy in the queer community.

In 2017, I moved to Toronto. At that time, I was trying to understand what it meant to be gay, non-binary and Two-Spirit, but I was still figuring out how I identified. I met a mentor who gifted me the phrase “My queerness is traditional.” They told me, “Whenever you’re feeling in doubt about your queerness, or when someone tells you to separate your queerness from your Indigeneity, remember that you come from a bloodline of Two-Spirit people, of ancestors who had queerness within.”

 

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That year, Two-Spirit people led the Toronto Pride parade, and I walked with them. I was reminded of how I felt at the powwows, surrounded by my community. In that moment, at the intersection of my queerness and Indigenous identity, I knew that I was Two-Spirit. I didn’t “come out” in the traditional sense; rather, I came into myself as a Two-Spirit person.

I always think of future generations of Two-Spirit people. I feel I have a role in my community to ensure that Two-Spirit youth don’t feel the need to sacrifice their Indigeneity or their queerness to achieve their dreams. As a stylist and the creative director of my genderless clothing label, Wabano, I’ve traded in my mom’s T-shirts for high fashion. Many of my designs are inspired by the Two-Spirit and Indigiqueer people I work with. My 2021 collection included a graphic shirt with the phrase that helped me embrace who I am: “My queerness is traditional.” I wanted to remind Two-Spirit people that these roles and identities have always been a part of our cultures. But the shirt is not just a piece of clothing; it features an affirmation that can be repeated whenever we need it.

My queerness is traditional.
My queerness is traditional.
My queerness is traditional.

This article first appeared in FASHION’s Summer issue. Find out more here. 

The post My Queerness is Traditional appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Things changed once RuPaul’s Drag Race (which premiered in 2009) took off like a cultural supernova. The rise of the VH1 competition series ushered in the “golden age of drag,” but it’s queens rather than kings or other gender diverse performers who’ve reaped the financial benefits of the drag boom.

 

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There’s a gendered pay gap in drag from large-scale theatre tours all the way down to local gay bars. For this year’s Pride festival in Toronto, for example, MRG Live announced the event “Kings & Queens,” but selected a queen, Sofonda Cox, as the event’s main host, offering kings the opportunity to perform for free on an “open stage” rather than a paid gig. After backlash, the company quietly added a king co-host. (MRG Live didn’t respond to a request for comment.)

The best paying jobs – corporate gigs like performing at store openings or branded Pride parties – usually go to queens. Big drag management firms like Voss Management (home to Drag Race’s Aquaria) and PEG have king-free rosters. According to Dick, there’s a handful of famous kings who earn $2,000 to $5,000 (USD) per performance while Drag Race queens can fetch $16,000 to $20,000 (USD).

But it hasn’t always been this way. Depending on how it’s defined, drag kinging dates back as far as the Yuan Dynasty, a period from 1279–1369 A. D. in which women played male figures in Chinese opera. Women have been paid handsomely for playing male roles throughout theatre history. Broadway’s first Peter Pan, Maude Adams, was a bankable star in the early 1900s and male impersonators like Bert Whitman, known as “The Ebony Fred Astaire,” were wildly popular in the Vaudeville era. “They were making gobs of money,” says Dick, who digs into the drag archives on DragKingHistory.com. “They were making bank at a time when women struggled to own their own property, couldn’t easily get credit and couldn’t travel alone.”

Fast forward to 2009. Once Drag Race took off, promoters learned performers with TV exposure sell more tickets. “That’s basic business sense and it’s not about discrimination or unfair practise,” says renowned British king Adam All. But when kings are excluded from drag’s biggest TV show, it trickles down, leading to lower billings — and pay — for kings.

“It’s its own perpetuating cycle, as it tells the audience how to view kings in comparison to queens,” All says.

While some see TV as the driving force behind pay disparity, Dick says it can be boiled down to one acronym: “PMS…Patriarchy, Misogyny, Sexism.”

Kings are commonly cis women, trans men or other gender non-conforming individuals. There are, of course, many exceptions, but the lack of opportunities for kings is linked to wider struggles for women and assigned female at birth (AFAB) people in the workforce.

“Even as trans masculine people, we’re still perceived as women,” explains Ricky Rosé, a Latinx king from Washington, D.C. who started out working for as little as $25 (USD) per gig. Rosé would also often do “tip spots,” performing for tips rather than a booking fee. “A lot of promoters, venue owners and managers are cis men. Being perceived as a woman plays a huge factor,” Rosé says.

 

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Race is another. “Being AFAB or trans or both, and being a person of colour — it’s all these added layers that continue to knock your pay down.”

This is something drag king Krēme Inakuchi knows well. Inakuchi works in Toronto’s gay village, which he says is populated “almost 100 per cent by queens.” Inakuchi is a local staple, but had to overcome many obstacles to win over audiences and promoters and, even still, he sometimes feels tokenized. “Because I check so many boxes — I’m a king, I’m AFAB, I’m trans non-binary and I’m a person of colour. It feels like because one bar owner decides to book me, one is enough. Everyone in the village pats themselves on the back, like: ‘We did it. We’re diverse.’”

Parity is less of an issue in some cities like Chicago, where Rosé says the advocacy work done on behalf of Black performers by a group called the Chicago Black Drag Council has led to more equitable treatment for all types of performers. New Zealand is another place where kings prosper. “You wouldn’t be able to get away with paying kings any less than queens,” says Hugo Grrrl, who is the winner of the TV show House of Drag and one of New Zealand’s best-known performers. Part of the reason why is the country’s long love affair with drag kings. New Zealand has a nationally-beloved duo, The Topp Twins, whose act features kinging, and the troupe The Drag Kings has been active for 25 years.

As for North America, there have been some positive changes for kings in recent years. Landon Cider’s Dragula win in 2019 smashed a glass ceiling for kings on TV and Cider’s gone on to tour extensively through the U.S. and Europe, appear on HBO’s We’re Here and garner a massive online fanbase. In Canada, Call Me Mother featured Hercusleaze and Drag Heals featured Cyril Cinder, providing drag fans more exposure to kings.

But despite drag’s gender pay gap, Dick is inspired by the new generation of kings fighting for their fair share of the stage in this queen-dominated era. “I am keeping faith,” Dick says, “That there’s a possibility that we’ll have a springboard and be seen.”

The post Drag Has a Gender Pay Gap Problem appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

The 27-year-old’s dream to be a model began after she became a wheelchair user at age six due to a car accident that left her legs paralyzed. She recalls flipping through pages of magazines and seeing articles titled “How to Dress for Your Body Type” that were accompanied by photos of women who were tall, short or petite but none of the models were disabled. “There was no body that looked like mine,” she says. “I realized there was this hole that made me feel like I didn’t know where I fit.” Up until she saw disabled actor and model Jillian Mercado featured in a 2014 clothing campaign, Scalesse hadn’t considered modelling to be a real possibility.

“I grew up feeling like my body wasn’t desirable, so I wanted to change that for myself but also for other people in chairs,” she explains. In 2019, two years after moving from Connecticut to New York City, she landed her first job in a campaign for Ffora, a wheelchair accessories brand. It was “a dream situation,” she says, as everyone on-set understood the importance of accessibility. Since then, Scalesse has wheeled in New York Bridal Fashion Week and on Project Runway and has appeared in global campaigns for brands like Nars and Ugg.

As her modelling career has grown, so, too, has her social media presence. Scalesse has cultivated nearly a half a million followers on TikTok, where she posts snippets of her life, promotes her work and raises awareness about issues affecting her community — including representation in the fashion industry. In one viral video, she starts by listing discouraging comments directed toward disabled aspiring models and follows them up with a slide of photos from her many campaigns, captioning it “Never say never.”

“Only now are we seeing people with visible disabilities start to be included in the body-positivity movement,” she says, noting that brands often feature disabled models for one-off campaigns or brief moments. “I think equality will come when we see disabled models alongside models of all different body types all the time. I want more for my community.”

Since she started modelling, Scalesse has experienced firsthand the ableism that exists within the industry. One of her very first gigs was held at a venue that was inaccessible. The models’ designated dressing room was located down a flight of stairs, with no way for her to descend safely. The only wheelchair-friendly spaces for her to get ready in were the main-floor bathroom and kitchen, where she was completely removed from the other models. “I felt like I just didn’t have a place, quite literally,” she says.

Back then, Scalesse often suffered silently when faced with ableist working conditions. Now, she always speaks up for herself. But she shouldn’t have to. “I don’t think it should be on the model to have to fight so hard to exist somewhere in the same space as other models,” she says. “Accessibility should be the standard, not an exception.”

 

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The model’s bond with her wheelchair is one of pure love and intimacy. Years ago, she named her chair Aphrodite, or Aph for short, to symbolize that it’s a part of her, not just a tool she uses. But this past summer, that part was taken away when her chair was broken during a plane ride. “I knew I had a connection to Aphrodite, but when she was broken beyond repair, I realized how deep that connection was,” she recounts. “It was like this loss of my body — and a loss of me in many ways.” Having wheelchairs broken by airlines is a common experience for the disabled community, says Scalesse, and it can be life altering. “At that moment, I was like: ‘How am I going to model? How am I going to go to work? How am I going to live my life?’” It took about six weeks for her to get used to her new custom chair. She named it Onyx, inspired by Greek mythology (just like Aphrodite). Scalesse cites a creation myth in which the ancient goddess Aphrodite’s nails are cut and transformed into the onyx stone. “It really resonated with me, because Onyx was kind of birthed from Aph.”

In addition to modelling, Scalesse has a passion for storytelling. In 2020, she earned a master’s degree in non-fiction writing from Columbia University. For her thesis, she began working on a memoir that she hopes to one day see published. “I want to show the immense intricacies of being a disabled woman in the world,” she says. “I just want people to see the nitty-gritty of it, because I think sharing my story will help further my message about my community.” For her, modelling and advocacy will always be intertwined. “I’m going to continue to push for representation for the rest of my life,” she says. “I want to be in castings, in rooms and on runways with other people in chairs. I don’t want to be the only one at the table.”

This article first appeared in FASHION’s May issue. Find out more here. 

The post Bri Scalesse Wants to See More Disabled Models appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

After months of painstakingly perfecting the guest list and seating chart, marrying the right designer with the right star, curating on-theme place settings, floral arrangements and decor, and overseeing the actual exhibition, in the end, it didn’t matter. None of it did. All anyone will remember about last night’s Met Gala was the news that the Supreme Court may overturn Roe v. Wade, the landmark ruling that legalized abortion nationwide in America.

 

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If the news wasn’t so profoundly disturbing, the irony would be funny. And in a really dark sense of the word, it is. The theme of this year’s two-part exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was American fashion. First came September’s “In Americana: A Lexicon of Fashion,” and then last night we were introduced to “In America: An Anthology of Fashion,” with the dress code of “gilded glamour.” Where the first part had a more emotional tie-in, this new exhibit focuses on American fashion in the Gilded Age, a period from 1870 to 1890 that saw extreme industrialization, growth and, in some cases, prosperity.

When the theme was announced in April, it was already garnering criticism for evoking a “let them eat cake” mentality to a world clearly in crisis. This Twitter user perhaps says it best in the tweet.

Am I the only one who thinks this years #MetGala theme is out of touch? inequality is at the highest levels since the Gilded Age, a pandemic & economic meltdown wrecked us, inflation is out of control… but cool, let’s wear #GildedAge themed dresses & laugh about inequality

— Kelsea Marie Pym (@KelseaMariePym) April 30, 2022

Fast forward to the night of the gala, and digital outlet Politico leaked the news of the possible overturn of Roe v. Wade, and the parallels between the politics of the late 1800s and the 2020s were impossible to ignore. Wealth inequality? Kim Kardashian’s Marilyn Monroe dress literally cost $5 million and Amazon workers are fighting to make minimum wage so, check. A widespread pandemic that affects millions of people? Check. (Although the Spanish Flu was more prevalent in Europe, it still counts.) And then women fighting for basic human rights, such as the right to control their own body? Check.

But even before the 2020s began, the United States was having a major image problem. For a country that was once so proud of its sparkly “American dream” image, the shine turned to rust pretty quickly, as an orange-haired President put a spotlight on all of the deep-rooted problems that many people of privilege had turned a blind eye to. In the wake of the political aftermath, the world’s perception of “the land of the free” had fundamentally changed — and is not likely to ever recover.

So to have not one, but two Met Galas celebrating it, was a bold choice to say the least. But Anna Wintour has never been afraid of controversy — putting jeans on her first cover, inducting Kim and Kanye into the fashion world, cropping Lena Dunham’s larger-than-a-size-zero body off the cover, white-washing Kamala Harris and many more — and so I can’t say I’m surprised.

For the Met Gala to both survive and thrive, it needs to better tap into the zeitgeist. Fashion is a mirror of what’s happening in society and for good and bad, the Gilded Age, and by extension the theme, “gilded glamour” inadvertently proves that history does indeed repeat itself. But to specifically celebrate the wealthy patrons of this period is in bad taste. For every heiress (or Kim K), there were, and are, hundreds of workers trying to escape poverty, inequality and other hardships, which Riz Ahmed so beautifully paid tribute to at the event. Vogue and the Costume Institute at the Met might want to take notes from London, England’s Victoria & Albert Museum, who masterfully curated the new exhibit, Fashioning Masculinities: The Art of Menswear. The show both brilliantly brings to life and questions the once rigid lines of gender, and is unquestionably relevant in today’s society.

As we anxiously await more information on the overruling of Roe v. Wade, the future of both the Met Gala and women’s autonomy over their bodies is looking very fragile — in the U.S. and here in Canada, too.

The post Roe v. Wade Overshadows Gilded Glamour of the Met Gala appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

While hair is certainly associated with a sense of pride for a Sikh, it’s also believed that keeping it uncut and uncoloured is part of leading a humble life. To protect their ever-growing strands, men often choose to wear turbans. Women are welcome to wear them as well, but it’s much less common. Here, two Canadians shed light on their daily connection with their growing hair.

She says…

Gurpreet Ahluwalia says that she can count on one hand the number of times she has gotten a trim in her 36 years. And it shows: The Sikh Toronto-based wife and mother’s hair falls all the way down to her knees. “I haven’t taken my Amrit yet, but I’m on that path,” she says.

Although she has yet to be baptized, leaving her strands in their natural state is a custom that Ahluwalia grew up with. “My parents kept my hair long and untouched,” she says. “I was kind of a tomboy growing up, so leaving it uncut didn’t really bother me.” Ahluwalia, who has a background in fashion marketing, didn’t realize how dramatic the length looked until she was in high school. “It wasn’t that I had to keep my hair uncut, but I was worried about disappointing my parents if I didn’t. I dabbled with trimming it, but it was always under the pretense that it would make my hair healthier,” says the Parsons The New School graduate, who has worked for both Holt Renfrew and Saks Fifth Avenue.

Ahluwalia’s long hair obviously requires extra care. The weight doesn’t bother her, but she braids it from top to bottom before bed to keep it in place and simply twists it into a bun for day-to-day wear. “My daily hair routine is simple, but I do consider it spiritual,” she says. “Just brushing my hair is a daily reminder that I’m working on connecting to a feeling of oneness and universal energy.” She used to shampoo it every day (like with many faiths, cleanliness is associated with godliness in Sikhism), but after suffering considerable breakage postpartum, she cut back to twice a week. One thing that has helped with the quality of her hair after giving birth is returning to the practice of oiling, a traditional Indian custom. “I hadn’t oiled my hair since I was young, but I’ve found it has really helped improve its strength,” says Ahluwalia.

As she’s gotten older, Ahluwalia has not only come to appreciate the spiritual significance of leaving her locks uncut but also forged an emotional attachment to them through her commitment to her cultural identity. “I have a career in fashion, so I have a lot of vanities, but my hair isn’t one of them,” she says, laughing. “Hair isn’t just physical for me; my hair is my biggest confidante. We’re in it together, for everything.”

He says…

Rup Magon finds himself talking about his turban all the time. “It’s the first thing people see even before they see me,” he says. The Toronto-based singer-songwriter wears his turban out of a sense of cultural identity. “I’m proud to be Sikh, but I can’t say that I’m particularly religious,” says the co-lead of Josh — a fusion band that has been on the South Asian music scene for 20 years. “It’s interesting how the turban automatically gets connected to religion. Many cultures have been wearing the turban for centuries. I wear mine as a way of preserving my own.”

While most first-generation Sikhs in Canada come from Punjab, India, Magon’s parents — both practising Sikhs —  were born in Nairobi, Kenya, and immigrated to Saskatoon in the late ’60s. Magon himself was born in Montreal and grew up in the ’80s getting regular haircuts. “I was 10 years old and going to a French school when I decided to grow my hair long and wear a turban,” he says. “I have always been someone who likes to do things off the beaten path, and connecting to my family’s culture was, in a way, uncharted territory for me.”

Making the lifestyle change definitely turned out to be a bit of a culture shock. The singer, who became the first Sikh to be a lead on a Canadian comedy series — Decoys, on CBC Gem — says he went from having a typical haircut to going into Grade 5 with a patka (a bandana teenage Sikh boys usually wear in place of a turban). “You can imagine that wearing a patka in 1980s French Canada would be brutal,” he says. However, Magon says that while his cousins, who went to nearby schools, experienced having their patkas ripped off, he was fortunate that he didn’t encounter any overt racism despite being one of two visibly Sikh students in his school.

Tying his turban every morning has become second nature for Magon. However, he notes, Sikh men who wear turbans on a regular basis often suffer from alopecia, a type of hair loss, at some point in their lives. “Having your hair tightly wound into a bun or joora every day for years or decades is definitely hard on the hair, but we consider it a noble commitment and sacrifice,” he says.

Magon says that for the most part, he has more of a relationship with his turban than the length of his hair. “I’m proud that we live in a time where the turban is becoming more celebrated, especially in our broader Canadian culture,” he says. “More high-profile Sikhs are showing themselves as cool, fashionable guys who honour their heritage with their turbans — each in his own way. It’s not ‘Oh, we wear a turban and we do all these other things.’ We’re people first. I’m Rup, and I happen to wear a turban.”

This article first appeared in FASHION’s April issue. Find out more here. 

The post Two Sikh Canadians on How Their Hair Connects Them With Their Identity appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Six years ago, his experience in fashion, music and entertainment intersected in a way that makes one feel that life’s dots eventually all connect. Along with his friend and fellow DJ Phil Villeneuve, he co-founded Yohomo — a hub and safe space for the LGBTQIA2S+ community to come together and share information on pre-vetted art, culture and nightlife events. “Yohomo came from the #nohomo hashtag trending on Twitter at one point,” says Digdoyo. “We wanted to reclaim it and turn something so homophobic into something positive.”

Digdoyo and Villeneuve have since branched into producing their own Yohomo events, podcast and curated playlists as well as a collaboration with Spotify during Pride, which landed them on a billboard in the middle of Yonge-Dundas Square. They’ve also introduced a line of custom Yohomo merchandise, often designed in partnership with local artists, including T-shirts, sweatshirts and reusable grocery bags, which they print in limited batches in Toronto and ship without tags in compostable mailers in order to avoid as much waste as possible. Expanding the Yohomo model beyond events has also helped them keep the party and community support going virtually during the pandemic. “I think these queer experiences that turn themselves into art really need to be highlighted, especially because of the mindfulness it creates,” says Digdoyo. “It inspires young people to know they can thrive.” During the initial lockdown of 2020, they collaborated with designer Tim Singleton and donated five dollars from the sale of every shirt to The 519 — a major LGBTQIA2S+ support and activist centre in downtown Toronto. Since then, they’ve continued to raise proceeds for multiple community groups, including LGBT Youthline, Pieces to Pathways and FoodShare.

 

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Like for many of us, Digdoyo’s goal with makeup is simply to present the best possible version of himself. Looking more polished for special events is a must, he says, as is appearing in the obligatory snapshot and IG Live. “I’m turning 40 this year, so I want to feel like I look a little younger and well rested.” To help achieve this, a little well-placed MAC Studio Finish SPF 35 Concealer and Charlotte Tilbury Airbrush Flawless Finish setting powder as well as filled-in brows go a long way. “I try not to go too dark with my brows because I want to keep them in balance with my beard,” he adds.

Digdoyo says that after experimenting so much with dynamic, drag-inspired looks when he was a member of Fritz Helder & The Phantoms, he went through a phase in which he wanted to keep his appearance as pared down as possible. However, the restrictions and isolation of the past couple of years have inspired him to bring back some of those styles and techniques, such as dramatic lashes and other facial embellishments, in an effort to have more fun and take everything a little less seriously. Digdoyo especially appreciates how social media and beauty influencers have made various beauty looks more accessible to everyone, regardless of gender norms. “You can play to how you feel, and you don’t have to put yourself in any box,” he says. “It’s really encouraging to see how non-binary and trans folks are expressing themselves while also achieving a lot of success.”

One influencer who has been a particular inspiration is Bretman Rock, a Filipino-American living in Hawaii who posts beauty and lifestyle videos for his more than 18 million followers on Instagram and nearly nine million YouTube subscribers. After friend and fashion photographer Tommy Ton pointed Rock out, Digdoyo admitted he became hooked on the influencer’s authentic point of view and how he uniquely represents fashion- and beauty-loving queer culture. “I wish I had seen somebody like that when I was growing up as a gay Asian kid. Maybe I wouldn’t have put so many restrictions and insecurities on myself in terms of how I wanted to look or dress or how I felt I had to present myself as a queer person.”

While Digdoyo’s mother’s love of fashion and beauty was an early source of encouragement for his own passions, growing up in a Muslim family also helped inform his perspective on building safe spaces and encouraging all forms of expression and representation. “It has helped me know what it’s like to be an outsider within a group of outsiders and allowed me to be mindful of how people can feel marginalized at different intersections,” says Digdoyo. “It has definitely affected my drive to create community where I don’t see it because I know how hard it can be to feel not included and not seen.”

This article first appeared in FASHION’s April issue. Find out more here. 

The post Yohomo Co-founder Armand Digdoyo on Queer Culture and Beauty appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Only in the last handful of years have I been able to truly listen to and understand my emotions. I’m a 42-year old mother now managing life on my own, one that I’d been brave enough to explode and completely transform with no guarantee of success. I came out as queer from a straight marriage in my late 30s after years of ignoring and intellectualizing the feelings my mind had worked for years to override.

Don’t get me wrong, I was still emotional. I just wasn’t actually processing my feelings. They stayed there inside me, bouncing around and inevitably surfacing at an inopportune time. I used to view my emotions as enemies, as intruders I needed to not let through, but now I see them as the messengers that they are.

In her now-famous Ted Talk, researcher and academic Brené Brown explained that vulnerability is in fact a deeply courageous act of emotional exposure, one that’s required for true connection. Yet, feelings are still often considered a weakness, and reclaiming their validity is still often met with resistance.

A few people I’ve dated have implied that I’m too emotional. But I’m not afraid of a few tears. One girlfriend, while I was tearfully processing some sad news, diverted the conversation to detail all the reasons I should not feel that way. I was left a bit stunned at how quickly she’d tried to sweep my sadness under the rug. She also read my desire for intimacy with her as insecurity. Emotional connection was, to her, a visceral threat to her independence.

Years ago, I would have been mad at myself for not being able to shapeshift into the person she had wanted. I would have swallowed my needs if I was even able to identify them at all. I would have felt small, like I had gotten in trouble for having any feelings at all.

But this time, there was nothing for me to change about myself. I no longer needed anyone else to tend to my feelings for me. I’d spent the last few years healing my relationship to myself and had never felt stronger or more centered.

Historically speaking, women’s emotions have been pathologized – treated as abnormal and unhealthy – beginning as far back as ancient Egypt. Hysteria, as doctors called it even up until the 1950s, was the first mental disorder attributed to women and there’s been a whole slew of “cures” proposed for it over its 4000 year history.

This history is one of the reasons a woman might fear crying at work, something that apparently 45% of all people have done at some point. This history is also the reason that men are more likely to be seen as passionate rather than emotional when expressing the same level of sentiment as a woman – a perception that threatens the very credibility of her idea. This history is part of the reason that Novak Djokovic is allowed an emotional outburst, whereas Serena Williams is not.

Even though studies show that those who identify as men and women are equally emotional, society still largely holds onto the stereotype of the (overly) emotional woman. Black women operate under even stricter limitations than their white counterparts, always fighting the still-prevalent “angry Black woman” stereotype. Society is particularly bad at holding space for women’s anger, especially women of colour.

And yet, when I reflect on our history, I suspect that every great movement was sparked by an emotion – a feeling of injustice, anger, grief, pain, fear. As the 13th-century Persian poet Rumi told us about emotions, “These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them.” Thankfully, our past is filled with those who have listened to their messengers – something that remains a revolutionary act even today. They knew that their personal feelings were not just their own but were in fact deeply connected to something more universal. They were able to make the crucial leap beyond themselves to feel a collective emotion.  Maybe that’s why emotion has been so consistently labeled as a weakness, because of its power.

I will unashamedly admit that sometimes I still need a good cry. In fact, I recently got a tattoo of a crying cherub holding a banner that says “cry baby.” Every time I see it, I’m reminded of a few important lessons: that I can ride any wave of emotion and have survived huge ones already; that if we don’t listen to our emotions, they’ll find a way to make themselves heard anyway; and that feelings are not something to fear, but can provide great wisdom. I wear this tattoo as I wear my emotions, like a badge of honour.

The post On Being A Cry Baby appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

For Sherzad, Zarif Design is more than just fashion — it’s fashion with a purpose. It’s a deep-rooted desire to help her fellow Afghans economically while creating pieces that embrace authentic Afghan craftsmanship. But in August, after 16 years of effort, investments and sacrifices evaporated in a matter of hours as the Taliban came back into power.

During the first Taliban regime, which began in 1996, women virtually disappeared from the public eye. They were banned from working and were not allowed to travel without a male guardian. The violation of these rules resulted in severe punishment.

That all changed for the better when the Taliban were overthrown in 2001, inspiring Sherzad to help Afghan artisans apply their skills in an industry that would allow them to grow and take advantage of economic prosperity that had been previously inaccessible (in fact, some of the female workers in her Kabul workshop are the primary breadwinners for their families). But two decades later, in the aftermath of the Taliban’s resurgence, Sherzad’s main concern is her team back in Afghanistan.

“The first month everything was just upside down. Emotionally too,” Sherzad says. “Nobody knew what was going to happen…everything just stopped… I worry about how long I can help these people get through this challenging time, and hope that things will soon change.”

Prior to August 2021, the team consisted of 52 weavers, tailors and embroiderers. Within months that group fell apart as some members fled the country and others are now too afraid to work. Production has significantly slowed down and Sherzad is no longer able to export pieces from Kabul. To keep spirits alive despite the situation, Sherzad assigned some of her team members to focus their efforts instead on intricate embroidery, which generally takes longer to create.“I wanted to give them something that they would enjoy during the day, from tailoring to embroidery,” Sherzad says. “So that when they see those pieces they feel a sense of accomplishment.”

Sherzad sources all of her fabrics from Afghanistan, including the impeccably detailed handmade embroidery. She also employs and trains Afghan women and men to practice “slow production” in the form of hand-crafted work and detailing. Slow production, also known as slow fashion, is the approach of producing clothing that takes into consideration all aspects of the supply chain. It means spending more time on the design process to ensure that each garment is high-quality. It’s the opposite of what we consider fast fashion, in which the clothing quality is cheap, mass-produced and the environment and employees are exploited. Instead, at Zarif Design, tailors, seamstresses, embroiderers and weavers are given a place to train and master their skills to preserve cultural designs.

“What I love is that we are all interconnected, no one is doing anything alone,” Sherzad says. “The purpose of this project was not just the jacket itself. It’s how the jacket comes together.”

In addition to the brand’s signature jackets, Zarif Design also produces modest and gender inclusive unisex pieces. “It’s more about the character of who you are, so therefore gender is not something that pushes my design,” Sherzad explains, “It’s the fabrics, the flow, the details, the shapes, and the sense of freedom.”

Take for example the signature waistcoat. Although the waistcoat is listed separately for both men and women, the design is almost identical. The straight lines, silk trim detail and hand-made buttons (replicas of antique coins) give off an adrogynous feel. In fact, some of her fashion inspiration comes from Japanese-based designer Yohji Yamamoto who, similar to Sherzad, creates timeless androgynous pieces. “I don’t follow the seasons, I don’t believe in that,” says Sherzad, who actually lived in Japan for little over a year. “Yamamoto is a designer that I really respect for how much he has been able to carry the essence of the culture, the tradition and connecting the times.”

Sherzad is doing exactly that — carrying the essence of the Afghan culture and tradition in a timeless manner. The one of a kind signature jackets, traditionally worn by men, are recreated in a modern way for women while still staying true to traditional design. The jackets come in red, navy, and in multi-colours and are all handwoven. “It’s all connected to the past,” Sherzad says, “I was using some of those traditional fabrics and cutting them in a certain way and it became very modern, so there was this juxtaposition between past and present.”

 

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In New York, Sherzad is currently setting up pop-up shops to help sell some of the garments. For further exposure, The Chopra Foundation, led by Dr. Deepak Chopra, set-up a GoFundMe page to donate money to send emergency relief to artisans and their families in Afghanistan. The page has already raised a quarter of its $100,000 goal.

While the future of Zarif Design is unclear, Sherzad continues to use her platform to ensure that the brand continues to inspire, and empower Afghan communities.

“Fashion, for me, is really the people behind the craftsmanship,” Sherzad says. “It is the artisans that really matter the most.”

The post Zarif Design is All About Empowering Afghan Artisans appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

That’s what I’d allow myself in the middle of the day. I remember staring at it, although at times it felt more like it had its gaze on me. I don’t remember what I’d had for breakfast, but I’m sure it wasn’t much, even though I was obsessed with food or, more accurately, denying myself of it. The calories I did consume in a day were burned off in high intensity workouts. I thought that I was treating my body like a temple, but it would be more accurate to describe it as a torture chamber.

I was in my early 20s and the skinniest I’d been in my lifetime. My sister tried to talk to me about it once. “You’re quite thin these days,” she commented out of concern while we were driving in the car together. I responded dismissively while swallowing a smile, because some part of me was proud that she’d noticed.

Looking back, with 20 years of hindsight, I can see how much my unhealthy relationship with my body was about control and stemmed from low self-worth. Both of these things, however, were part of a much bigger problem: perfectionism.

I didn’t notice my own perfectionism until over a decade later, though, when I had my own child. When she was about three or four years old, she’d sometimes destroy her drawings in a rage, desperately upset that she’d made a mistake or that it “wasn’t good enough” — she’d rip it up like a ravenous animal, sometimes even with her teeth, as though she truly hated what she saw. She was so unkind to herself and I feared she’d learned that from me in some way. “But how?” I thought to myself. “I’m easy going and personable.”

Witnessing my daughter’s behaviour challenged this narrative at a time when I was no stranger to deep and painful self-discoveries. I came out as queer from a straight marriage over 5 years ago, and then just over two years ago realized that I had been a people-pleaser (which resulted in a full breakdown).

My perfectionism, in fact, made a lot of emotional sense. As a people-pleaser, I had expected so much from myself, to be able to shift to fit the image expected of me, the one that I thought would win me what I wanted: a feeling of worthiness. It’s a feeling that my perfectionist habits also provided — I was a chameleon with no core colour of my own, trying to perfectly adjust to other people and places.

Not only people-pleasers suffer from perfectionism, though — its reach is much wider than any single personality type. Although people can become perfectionists for different reasons, such as highly critical or rigid parents, receiving a lot of praise as a child for accomplishments or, more generally, low self-esteem and feelings of being out of control, the inner narrative that goes along with it is the same: you’re not good enough, try harder.

“Perfectionism is a constant state of wanting.”

Like many unhealthy mental traps, perfectionism shares the important commonality of external validation. Behaviours that accompany perfectionism, like being competitive or having high standards, can appear admirable — but therein lies the trap. Perfectionism keeps us living in a world of comparison, not necessarily to others (although this can be the case), but to an idealized standard we’ve set for ourselves. The goal is a moving target because once we get there, it just moves again.

Perfectionism is a constant state of wanting. It can look like the urge to fix something — to more precisely fold it, make it look more exact — to agonize over a small detail, destroy an imperfection that you can’t ignore. It also means fixating on achievement over process, because only the former gives you a sense of self-worth.

But it can also look like procrastination, because the pressure to do something perfectly creates such a state of anxiety and fear (of failure) that you’d rather delay, or avoid the task entirely and not do it at all. And even when you do achieve your goal, what you feel might be closer to relief that you haven’t failed rather than a sense of joy at what you’ve accomplished.

I’ve definitely run from failure due to my own perfectionism. Someone recently asked me what my most embarrassing moment was and I realized that I didn’t have many, if any. For as long as I can remember, I’ve feared situations that might result in failure or embarrassment. I’ve avoided so many game nights with friends because there would be too many opportunities there for me to be wrong or to feel stupid, too many unknowns outside of my control.

The underlying message of this perpetual striving is always that who I already am isn’t good enough. It’s like trying to walk up an endless escalator that’s going down — you’ll never really get anywhere, but you’re always trying extra hard.

Perfectionism is incredibly hard to overcome because it can infiltrate even the most innocent of activities. For example, when I had my spiritual breakdown a few years ago and enlisted the help of a reiki counsellor, I tried to ace my healing.

“You’ve been so committed to exposing illusions held at self and rewriting the narrative. Your drive to do the work is so very commendable,” she wrote in a report after my first session. I felt myself inflate a little bit from the praise, but then I read the rest of the sentence: “But this in and of itself is problematic.”

Here I was, still striving, trying to be perfect even in my healing, to make it into an achievement. I was still going the wrong way on the endless escalator.

Unfortunately, I can’t say that I’ve managed to fully extinguish the perfectionist in me, and now that I’m in my early 40s, aging is presenting a new challenge to the inner critic, with more evidence of perceived imperfections presenting themselves almost daily.

Truly, I thought I was more recovered until I started writing this piece.

I kept finding reasons to do something else, getting easily distracted, going on Tiktok, deep cleaning my house — a task that I both don’t enjoy and only rarely do. I was telling myself that these things needed to be done in order to start writing, as though it was part of my process. I’d feel better when the floor was washed and no longer had dog paw prints on it, I thought to myself. “After the carpet is vacuumed I’ll feel mentally ready to dive right in.”

I was avoiding writing because I was struggling. The words weren’t coming as easily this time, so I was avoiding facing those feelings of not being good enough. I can normally get lost in the process of writing, deriving most of my enjoyment from that, but I was worried about the end result and how far I felt from something I could be proud of.

Ironically, healing my perfectionism might be the one goal that I never fully achieve. But, maybe this is actually quite fitting, since the opposite of perfectionism is self-acceptance, no matter the state of imperfection.

The post Perfectionism Trapped Me in a World of Comparison appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Can you blame me? Growing uncertainty about the future mixed with my inclination to overthink make it increasingly difficult to be at peace in my day-to-day life. And I’m not alone in feeling this way. Lately, the thought of rebranding as a bimbo is more attractive than ever.

On TikTok, the bimbo renaissance has been happening since 2020 — right around the time the pandemic started. (Coincidence? I think not.)

Along with the revival of Y2K fashion has come a new cultural appreciation for the bimbo lifestyle. Toronto-based TikTok creator @gsgetlonelytoo is one of many self-proclaimed bimbos who dives into the benefits of embracing bimbohood, such as avoiding embarrassment in social interactions, not caring what others think and eschewing toxic relationships altogether.

“It’s a lot easier to act stupid, because people will try to cross the line with you, and they won’t be so sneaky about it. You’ll be able to see people’s true colours a lot faster,” they explained in a recent TikTok. “The truth is that bimbos are going to take over the world. So just be prepared. Hate it or love it, it’s going to happen.”

We all have preconceived notions of bimbos, and they’re probably not great.

In the United States, “bimbo” was first used to describe objectively beautiful women in the 1920s. The term grew in popularity through to the early 2000s, and was flung at figures like Anna Nicole Smith, Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan. Merriam-Webster defines bimbo as “an attractive but stupid woman,” and that sums up the extent of it — until recently. Thanks to what’s been dubbed New Age Bimbohood on TikTok, the word’s derogatory connotation has faded.

As writer Laura Pitcher points out in The Cut, 2000s figureheads like Hilton and Lohan who were once ridiculed for embodying the bimbo trope are now making a comeback. Today, there’s a larger cultural recognition that women who were once demonized for being “bimbos” did not deserve the mistreatment they received years ago.

Bimbo has evolved from describing a type of woman to encompassing an inclusive mindset of self-empowerment. The fashion aesthetic comprises the Y2K McBling era of hyper-feminine silhouettes, hot pink hues and sparkly accessories, but the bimbo philosophy today is about interpreting femininity in your own way.

The best part? Modern-day bimbohood masters the art of satire. While the concept of avoiding thoughts altogether is certainly attractive, today’s bimbos strategically present a facade of naivety to keep people at arm’s length. Bimbos simply don’t invest energy into those who don’t deserve it. And that’s a mindset I can get on board with.

This is the energy for 2022, we gatekeep our intelligence and quick wit, sharing only sparingly and with likeminded people, everyone else gets bimbo 💕 pic.twitter.com/cSMFS6l1zZ

— Pearl (@perlelunair) January 2, 2022

Modern-day bimbos are inclusive and accepting, while not backing down from the stereotypical image of ultra-femininity that they have become known for. Perhaps this resonates, perhaps it doesn’t, but in the spirit of my newfound bimbohood: I don’t care.

The post Here’s Why I’m Tempted To Be A Bimbo appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

It’s a policy that has been widely condemned for its disproportionate impact on Indigenous and Black women. And while Diggstown is scripted TV, the show’s creator/showrunner Floyd Kane and episode director Juanita Peters want viewers — and Canadians — to know that this is not a fictional policy, nor is it something from the distant past.

Nova Scotia (where Diggstown is set) and Quebec still practice birth alerts, while British Columbia, Alberta and the Yukon ceased the policy in 2019. Manitoba and Ontario only stopped issuing birth alerts in 2020, although recent reports show the practice is still ongoing in Manitoba, primarily affecting Indigenous mothers. Prince Edward Island and Saskatchewan ended the practice in February of this year, followed by Newfoundland and Labrador in June and New Brunswick just this week.

Diggstown’s Amber Sekowan-Daniels, an Oji-Cree writer and filmmaker, pitched the idea for a storyline on birth alerts after hearing conversations about the policy in her home province of Manitoba, sparking a desire to shed light on the issue.

The show’s writing team dug into the history of birth alerts in Nova Scotia, and Floyd reached out to legal aid lawyers with clients impacted by the policy to help inform the writing.

“I am certain there are people in my family who have been impacted by this,” says Kane. “But it’s something that I didn’t understand was a formalized policy until we started getting into the episode.”

Titled “Ivy Maloney,” the episode begins with a poignant documentary-style video of Indigenous and Black actors who have experienced birth alerts in real life, reading from a script about the trauma inflicted by the problematic policy. The series’ lead character, lawyer Marci Diggs (Vinessa Antoine), represents those women in a class-action suit against the Nova Scotia government.

Peters recalls one of the actors, after reading her lines from the introductory monologue, telling her, “Oh my gosh, that’s my story,” which made the director recognize the power of the episode.

“When this practice happens, the women who this happens to are embarrassed, so they don’t talk about it with colleagues or with friends, because the system is set up to make you feel embarrassed,” she says. “So here finally was a moment in their life [where they felt], ‘We’re not wrong.’”

Including women from those communities impacted by birth alerts in the series was a deliberate choice, just as the very pointed dialogue aims to educate the viewer.

“When I read the script, I was really thinking about making sure that the audience wouldn’t forget these faces,” says Peters. “The really hurtful thing about traumatic events is that someone tells you their story and people say, ‘That’s a shame,’ and then they walk away, and their lives go on, and you’re still dealing with that pain and that issue.”

In addition to educating viewers about this problematic practice, Kane is hoping that the Diggstown episode has further real-world implications.

“Personally, I would just love to see the Nova Scotia government simply say, ‘We’re going to ban the policy,’ like the other provinces have across the country,” he says.

Diggstown also doesn’t shy away from providing some of the context behind the relationships between Indigenous people and these institutions. The episode is named after an Indigenous character, Ivy Maloney (Dana Solomon), whose baby has been removed from her. In the episode, a relative of Ivy’s (Sera-Lys McArthur) gives a devastating speech in her trial, drawing the line between birth alerts and past racist government policies.

“It was really important to make sure that we don’t talk about birth alerts as a separate thing,” says Kane. “We have to think about it as if it’s all a piece of one story. If the Sixties Scoop was bad, if residential schools were bad, then we have to acknowledge that the birth alerts policy is bad, and it needs to be abolished.”

While it could just be a well-done one-off episode of television, Kane feels that there are too many real world implications for it to exist solely as a piece of entertainment.

“When George Floyd died, I would have all these conversations with white colleagues, [who’d say] ‘I didn’t know that things were this bad,’ and you’re looking at this person like, how did you not know? Is it just that you didn’t want to know?” asks Kane. “Sometimes you have to lay it out in the simplest of terms, so that no one can look at the show and say, ‘I didn’t understand this was happening.’ These women were going to hospitals where they were expecting they would be cared for, have their child and take their child home, and [instead] the hospital calls the social worker that the child will be born, the child is taken from them, and then they have to go to court in 30 days to justify why they should have their child back. I don’t want people to leave this episode of Diggstown and not be able to say, ‘Well, I didn’t know.’ Because then that’s bullshit.”

The episode premieres tonight, November 3, at 9 p.m. ET on CBC.

The post <em>Diggstown</em> Tackles Birth Alerts and the Policy’s Disproportionate Impact on Indigenous Women appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

While she is most well known for her work on the runway as a model in the ‘90s and early 2000s, Connie began drawing at a young age, “Being a trans kid was super hard, it was violent both verbally and physically. But drawing was something I was rewarded for and it gave me hope for the future,” she explained.

The exhibition is featured at Never Apart’s art gallery in Montreal and will be on display until December 18. Those unable to travel to Montreal can tour the gallery virtually on Never Apart’s website.

Never Apart is a non-profit organization that aims to educate folks on equality and social movements by highlighting art and music from a diverse group of artists.

Inspired by the work of Antonio Lopez, George Stavrinos and George Petty, among others, Connie has drawn a variety of black and white portraits and figures for this collection. Some subjects are featured with their natural hair, others with durags and nearly all of them are heavily tattooed.

“Hopefully this is part of the progression of society,” she said, “now that the beauty of African features and hair is really being seen and not just pawned off immediately as unprofessional or ugly.”

When did you first begin illustrating?

It was always a part of my life. I remember even before first grade I was always drawing. When I was little in Jamaica my mom was a teaching assistant and when I was two or three she taught me how to write my name and my numbers and I was obsessed. I always had a pencil in my hand, I was always doodling and drawing. Illustration has remained [into adulthood] my solace, and is a safe space for me.

What was it like making art during the pandemic?

It really saved me from going crazy. It saved me from falling into TikTok and Youtube rabbit holes. I had already seen everything on Netflix and I just felt an atrophy in my body and my mind. I needed to get out and do something.

How did the pandemic inspire this exhibition?

A really good friend passed during the pandemic, Nashom Wooden aka Mona Foot, and then I had another friend who passed as well, and between that and the daily COVID death tolls it was really dragging down my spirit. I felt really drained by the idea of connecting through death and I wanted to contribute some beauty to the world. So I started to post my art online and I got a really great response. I was like, “Let me just keep putting out some beauty and life into the world,” and that became the direction. I never expected it to turn into anything.

Why did you choose to use a mostly black and white colour palette for these illustrations?

I wanted to get that tonal richness that you can get from black and white. Like film noir, that sort of quality. I also really wanted to get the depth of African American skin without using colour, to show how light played off black skin.

I notice that many of the subjects in your pieces have tattoos, what was the inspiration behind that?

With the political atmosphere with George Floyd and the Black Lives Matter movement I was seeing Black bodies being criminalized and I wanted to show the beauty instead. I wanted to show that tattoos aren’t about being a thug or a criminal, but that it’s about expression. It’s almost like you get to be your own personal billboard.

But I also wanted to honour the history of tattooing because it connects us all in a way. Today we may be immersed in technology with our phones always in our hands but we still need human connection. To begin with tattoos were symbolism, whether it was your tribe, or religion or a rite of passage, it was a symbol that we were all part of humanity. I think these aesthetic expressions are important.

What would you say you are most proud of from this entire process?

Two things, first is highlighting the beauty of African and Black features and second is pushing myself as an artist and really honing my craft. I want to pat myself on the back, I learned that I have the ability to create and mold, a little like some of my heroes — but don’t tell anybody I ever said that!

The post Connie Fleming’s Exhibition is About Embracing Universal Beauty appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Jennifer’s Body, from screenwriter Diablo Cody and director Karyn Kusama, tells the story of a teen girl who is possessed by a demon after a ritual to make some hipster indie rockers famous goes wrong. We see Jennifer’s transformation into a literal man-eater (or boy-eater to be absolutely precise) from the perspective of her BFF and sometimes-lover Needy, who wants to save not just the boys Jennifer is snacking on but also Jennifer herself.

As has now been very well-documented, the film was a major miss both critically and commercially upon release, later building a cult following over time. But Jennifer’s Body wasn’t just rejected. Its core themes were ignored, thanks at least in part to an abysmal marketing campaign and dual backlashes against Cody and Fox. Among those core themes was the film’s exploration of queer love. And it wasn’t a neat and tidy exploration of queer love. It didn’t give us purely evil queers, or happy-go-lucky flawless queers. It didn’t tell us what to feel or how to feel it. It didn’t even label Jennifer and Needy as a couple.

Instead, it gave us three-dimensional queer characters — flawed, conflicted, beautiful, passionate, hurting, repressed, liberated — and let them exist onscreen as they were, leaving it to us to tease apart what it all meant on our own.

This isn’t some act of queering by way of subtext, though. The Jennifer/Needy dynamic is explicitly both platonic and romantic, with the line between those often blurring. Needy introduces Jennifer via voiceover, watching admiringly as her lifelong bestie performs on the flag team. “Sandbox love never dies,” she says, as the Black Kids’ lyrics “you are the girl that I’ve been dreaming of ever since I was a little girl” play on the soundtrack. If you need an extra nudge, a fellow student, noticing Needy’s fixation, leans in and says, “You’re totally lesbigay.”

That’s one of the opening scenes. Later, we see a possessed Jennifer kissing Needy, who, despite growing suspicions about her friend’s crimes, leans right into it. “We always share your bed when we have slumber parties,” Jennifer says, before reminding her of their history of “playing boyfriend/girlfriend.”

When I interviewed Karyn Kusama for my book on Jennifer’s Body, she told me it was important to her that the film’s queer elements be protected, that the relationship between Needy and Jennifer be explored in all its rich dimensions. Sadly, the kiss in particular was largely written off as fodder for the titillation of straight teen boys.

The film’s enduring appeal, and its continued elevation as an underappreciated classic, is nearly impossible to read outside the complex humanity of its heroines, and the deeply layered intensity of their bond. “When I think of myself as queer, I like to think about all of the possibilities my humanity might entail,” Kusama told me.

When we talk about capital-R Representation, the implication is that there’s a right way and a wrong way to include certain identities on screen. After decades of some groups being treated as either one-dimensional, non-existent or disposable, the wrong way is fairly easy to spot. We know it when we see it. But the right way is harder to pin down. It either works or it doesn’t. It feels either truthful or not. Jennifer’s Body feels truthful.

At a time when the CEO of Netflix is suggesting that entertainment has no bearing on the real world, I’m reminded that Jennifer’s Body very much helped me imagine all of the possibilities my humanity might entail.

The post How <em>Jennifer’s Body</em> Captured the Rich Complexity of Queer Love appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Of all the countless musical strolls I went on during those 12 months (and there were many), one will always stand out in my memory. As I was walking back from my job as a French-language assistant, I passed the various clothing stores along Glasgow’s Buchanan Street with my headphones on and was surrounded by women’s clothing. I passed window after window, each filled with countless pairs of shoes, oversized hats, skinny jeans…. You name it, it was there.

And then there was this black dress — an elegant tight black dress with long sleeves — from a well-known fastfashion chain. It looked as gorgeous as it looked comfortable, and for a second, I could see myself in it.

But I didn’t end up buying it. I never even bothered to step into the store — not because it was outside of my budget or because it didn’t have my size. The truth is, I was a woman only in spirit; I wasn’t out yet to the outside world. To my co-workers, my roommate and the staff in that shop, I was a boy — a boy who couldn’t wear dresses.

At that point, early in my gender transition, the thought of buying a “women’s garment” was terrifying. Every step I took toward femininity felt like advancing into the unknown. Part of me wanted to scream my womanhood to the world, but the rest of me still wanted to keep everything secret inside

In my Scottish apartment, I found refuge. I had a giant poster of Lana Del Rey that towered over my bed, and I liked to imagine that, from her spot, she could feel my pain. Like the big sister I never had, she would let me borrow her jean shorts or help me knot my T-shirt. Or maybe — in the most Lana Del Rey move possible — she would gift me with a flower crown, like the one from the cover for her breakthrough single “Video Games.”

Flower crowns are full of symbolism — nature, purity, weddings, a free spirit. But to me, they represented my idol, Lana. I identified with her; I wanted to be her. And the closest path to that was a flower crown.

Coming out really is a process — a long, gradual, tumultuous one.

Because of this, I’d often find myself lying on my bed late at night browsing for the cutest flower crowns online. It felt less scary to buy one of those instead of a dress. And by “less scary,” I mean that it was still very scary. Unlike with IRL shopping, I could take the time to look at every item in secret without worrying about the eyes of perplexed customers. However, when I returned to Canada, there was no flower crown in my luggage. For all the time I spent falling in love with the romantic accessory during emotional bouts of insomnia, I never managed to find the courage to click “Buy.” Not while I was in Scotland, at least.

Instead, it would take another year and a trip home to the province of Quebec before I could do it. Through university, I had the chance to make new friends with whom I grew quite close — so much so that when I finally revealed my secret identity, and my gender transition was met with enthusiastic support. Their positive reactions not only bonded us but also helped boost my confidence. And with this new-found confidence, I finally went for it. I got myself a heavy bright-red flower crown to sit atop my long hair. It showcased my feminine side, but it also represented the point of no return. I knew that the first time I wore it in public, people’s perceptions of me would change forever.

There is this idea that the process of coming out as trans is this single giant life-altering event. But coming out really is a process — a long, gradual, tumultuous one. The first time I wore my crown, the experience wasn’t as dramatic as I had anticipated. Surrounded by friends at a party, I felt safe to debut the accessory. I was still identifying as he/him, but a kernel of truth was out there for those who had witnessed it. During the next few weeks, I wore my crown to other events, often with new people who had yet to see it. My confidence increased ever so slightly each time, as I worried less and less about what others thought.

Five years and some hormone replacement therapy later, my wardrobe looks nothing like it did in my Glasgow days. I own dresses in all colours — not just black — that make me feel good about my body. I also own jean shorts like the ones I wished Lana would have let me borrow. I have been out, proud and legally named Estelle, for three years now.

I don’t wear my flower crown anymore. Its elastic is so old now that it barely stays on my head. But in my journey to become the confident skirt-wearing, curve-flaunting, free-spirited woman I am today, this crown was the first step. It didn’t just make me feel slightly more like Lana Del Rey; it helped me get closer to being myself

This story was first published in FASHION’s November 2021 issue. 

The post How Lana Del Rey and Flower Crowns Helped Me Come Out as Trans appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

As the host and judge on Canada’s Drag Race season two  — which premieres October 14 on Crave — being judgemental is quite literally her job. While many in and out of drag already read people for free (see: all of social media), being paid to critique contestants seems like a dream job. And don’t get her wrong, it is Brooke Lynn’s dream job, but sometimes her “Canadian-ness” gets in the way.

“We’re not naturally judgemental people,” she says over the phone. “Well, we actually are, but we have this politeness in us that thinks, ‘How do I say this nicely?'”

 

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The runner-up on season 11 of RuPaul’s Drag Race, the “Queen of the North,” is in the unique position where she understands both sides of the Main Stage. As she quickly became a front-runner for her fashion (hello, glittery Mountie uniforms!) and runway walk (thank you, National Ballet School of Canada), the L.A.-based, Toronto-born queen was never one to shy away from her Great White North roots. So when the Canadian edition of the series was announced in 2019, fans knew only one performer could sash-eh (get it?) into the spotlight.

“I can say being a contestant and a judge are both very stressful,” Brooke Lynn says of her Drag Race history. “I know how much these queens want it and how much they put into it.  It’s hard because drag is such a deeply personal art form, so having to critique that can be difficult. I think I find it more emotionally challenging to be a judge.”

We kiki’d with the Canadian queen to untuck a few Canada’s Drag Race season two secrets and get her thoughts on LGBTQ2S+ History Month.

What have you learned from the first season that you are applying to Canada’s Drag Race season two?

I think the biggest lesson that I learned was how to give good critiques in small sentences. Michelle Visage has really mastered it because she’s been doing this for so long. I have a tendency to ramble and go on these tangents about things, but you have to stop yourself and be like, “No one’s going to hear any of that because this is an hour-long TV show, and they have to edit all of it down.” So, learning to say what I needed to say in smaller sentences, I think, was my biggest takeaway.

There are a lot of new faces on the judging panel. How do you think this group differs from last season?

 

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Our judges were so great in season one, and I think this season has more of the same — we have a really well-rounded group of people! This year we have Brad Goreski, a bonafide fashion expert, and he used to be a drag queen himself, way back in the day. Then there’s Amanda Brugel, an incredible actor on Handmaid’s Tale, Kim’s Convenience and many other things. And we have the wonderful Traci Melchor, who has 20 years of broadcast experience under her belt. And then we have an actual drag queen — me! I think we really have all of the bases covered, and everyone comes together really well. I can’t say enough how much fun we had!

From a viewer’s perspective, the vibe of Drag Race is delightful chaos. Is that the way it feels on set?

Chaos is the perfect word [laughs]. Like it’s obviously chaos, but it’s beautiful, and it’s wonderful too. I always say we’re making a TV show, and the whole point of a TV show is to entertain people. And I think that’s what we did — we put out a very entertaining season, and I can’t help but be proud of that.

What do you think would surprise viewers to learn about the show?

It takes a really long time to film. I have to be in drag for about 14 hours a day. I think people think you show up; everything’s ready, bam, bam, done. But no, it’s not: I wish it were that simple. I am not a patient person, so it was a real test for me.

From the previews, it looks like an amazing group of queens. Can you tease anything about what we can expect from Canada’s Drag Race season two?

 

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You can expect some legendary iconic looks, for sure!

Through Drag Race, Canada is finally getting the drag recognition it deserves. How do you think the Canadian drag scene has evolved over the years?

It’s changed so much, and I think that’s really due to RuPaul’s Drag Race. Before that, there wasn’t much to do for queens. You could have your shows at the bars and maybe get a corporate gig here or there, but there was nothing to do in terms of taking your career to the next level. Then suddenly, there was this platform, and it pushed drag queens and inspired them to work harder and be more creative. And I think that’s exactly what happened in Canada. We had season one, and then for season two, we’re seeing all of these blossoming, fabulous queens coming out of the woodwork and being inspired to get on the show.

How does it feel to be premiering during LGBTQ2S+ History Month?

I think it’s amazing! I love that we’re premiering during this time, and I think it provides an opportunity for people (and me) to learn more about our history — there’s just so much that we don’t know.

How will you be celebrating?

I am going to read a book [laughs].

Congrats on your other hosting gig for 1 Queen 5 Queers. What can you tell us about the new show?

 

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We’ve had so much fun making it! It’s basically a revamp of [the 2009 show] 1 Girl 5 Gays, and I just wanted to make something more inclusive and that had more representation where it wasn’t just gay men. So trans people, non-binary, two-spirited, masc, femme, you name it. We tried to get as much diversity in there as possible.

The post Brooke Lynn Hytes: “Expect Some Legendary Looks From <Em>Canada’s Drag Race</Em> Season Two.” appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

“Coming out is something that is constantly changing and evolving. I feel like every week is different,” they say, “but that’s just part of being fluid — there are lots of layers to it.”

In honour of National Coming Out Day, Salad shared their coming out story and how they went from an only child who loved picking berries and hunting in the Yukon to a renowned tattoo artist working in some of Canada’s largest cities:

Photography by Salad

Photography by Salad

Photography by Salad

Photography by Salad

In reference to Yeha Leung (@creepyyeha on Instagram). Photography by Salad

Photography by Salad

Salad in their Montreal tattoo studio. Photography by Salad

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Salad: “I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, and I lived just out of town. I was an only child, and I didn’t grow up with a TV, so I didn’t have much exposure to what life was like outside of my province. I also went to a Christian elementary school, but I switched to public school in grade nine because I threw an absolute fit. It’s not like I was super outspoken as a kid, but the way I dressed and the music I listened to and what I was drawing were the only things I felt in control of. It was the one thing that I was like, ‘No, you can’t take that away from me.’

“In elementary school, one of my uncle’s friends owned one of the only skate shops in the Yukon, and he gave me this Playboy Bunny hat, and I wore it to my 6th-grade class. My teacher was going to take it away, but my mom was like, ‘No, this is expensive,’ she was like ‘expel us, we don’t care,’ and I was like, ‘Wow, my mom is so cool.’

“I told my parents I was bisexual when I was 15 or 16, and they were cool with it, but I think they kind of pushed it to the side because I had a boyfriend in high school. It took me leaving the Yukon and moving to Vancouver to start exploring who I was, and I felt like I could actually introduce myself as who I was. My family wasn’t physically there, so they didn’t see me grow into my sexuality. There’s still a lot of things that I’ve tried to explain to my parents, and they don’t really understand, but I just have to be patient with that. I have a tight-knit group of friends from the Yukon, and they all already knew. So when I told them, they were like, ‘Yeah, I know. Cool,’ and we just moved on.

“I remember back when I left the Yukon and moved to Vancouver in 2013, I went to this clothing swap, and I only knew one person there. We all took photos of each other dressed up with this Polaroid camera and wrote something nice on the photos. This random person wrote on my Polaroid, ‘Looks good as f— dressed as a boy or a girl,’ and I don’t tie fashion or looks to gender, but I felt very seen; it felt good to read. After Vancouver I moved to Toronto and went into tattooing.

“I came out publicly as non-binary during the pandemic, so I went from @sadgirlsalad to @sadbabysalad on Instagram. A lot was going on; I quit my job in Toronto and moved back to the Yukon for a bit; I spent a lot of time alone in nature; I deactivated all of my social media. I felt like I had been conditioned to see myself in a certain way that wasn’t actually authentic. It felt like I was putting on a show for a long time, but I never really questioned it because I was just so busy working. With esthetician school and then tattooing, I had associated success and love with hyper-femininity for so long. But then, after seeing people living their lives without labels, it inspired me to stop putting so much pressure on myself to feel super feminine or masculine.

“I came out in stages, in environments where I felt safe and accepted. I came as non-binary out to my roommate, and once she was okay with that, I was like, ‘Okay, now I can tell my best friend.’ Once I was comfortable with that and knew that I was moving to Montreal, I came out publicly.

“I think moving to Montreal made it easier in a way — I did feel safe around the people [I worked with in Toronto], but they’d known me a certain way for so long. I just felt like I would have to keep showing them who I was to reinforce that, and it was a lot easier going to a new group of people and introducing myself like, ‘Hi! I’m non-binary.’

“The biggest thing in the past year that I’ve had fun with is just dressing myself and just letting go of any shame that I have tied to clothing. And it’s okay if something feels right one day and then doesn’t the next.

“I felt a lot of pressure and anxiety coming out later in life as non-binary, especially because I felt as if it’s something I should have known as a child. I had to really see past that and realize that there is no time stamp on coming out or becoming who you are — it’ll happen when it’s supposed to.”

The post Montreal-based Tattoo Artist on Coming Out — for the Second Time — During the Pandemic appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Knowing your boundaries is one thing, but maintaining them is another. At the time, I wasn’t good at either. 

My ex, on the other hand, had such clear boundaries that she seemed like an impenetrable fortress. She unapologetically asserted her needs and maintained emotional walls that my inner anxious child was unable to scale, but tried desperately to. While taking stock of that failed relationship, I tried to understand the radical contrast between us. How was she able to maintain that emotional distance? To stay so emotionally affixed while I rode a rollercoaster of ups and downs? How had I let myself feel so broken by the end, as though she herself was the conductor of my emotional demise?

Was it possible to have too much empathy, to feel too deeply, I wondered? I googled “what is a people pleaser?” and immediately saw myself in the handful of characteristics that popped up: feeling responsible for other people’s feelings, not being able to say “no,” over-apologizing, being uncomfortable if  someone is mad at me, acting like the people around me, avoiding conflict.

In that moment, it all became clear: I was the opposite of my ex. I was a squishy, permeable amoeba — a people pleaser.

When it hit me, I felt stunned, outside of myself. It was like a kind of heartbreak and I went a bit numb from sadness. I started to come out of the closet about five years ago in my late 30s, after marrying a man and having a daughter. But this revelation felt even bigger to me than realizing that I was queer. I had unknowingly been performing a role for so long, so who was I, really? Knowing that my deep need to appease others was the underlying reason that coming out had taken me so long took a heavy emotional toll.

I was catapulted into a full breakdown, the crying-every-day kind, as I was very suddenly forced to confront myself again. I could finally see the logic that I subconsciously used as a child to decide that this was the person I should be. Growing up, my mother had been preoccupied  (understandably) with my older sibling’s health issues. Their needs seemed all-consuming and as the youngest child of three, I didn’t want to add to my mom’s pressure. In some ways, I had made myself invisible, even though deep down I had a desperate need to be seen. 

I remember getting in trouble with my mother once for drinking in Grade 9 and I didn’t even consider taking a sip again for years. I was a rule-follower. Nobody needed to tell me to behave; I had already internalized that message.

I felt the need to be a “good kid,” to not rock the boat. In grade school I earned the nickname “miss perfect” by a bully who must’ve seen how fully formed my perfectionism was at that young age, another effort at proving self-worth that plagues many people-pleasers. In high school I excelled academically and athletically, and continued  to do so in university, graduate school and beyond. 

Looking at myself with this fresh, objective lens, I truly hated the people pleaser I saw: a push-over; a scared little girl; someone who didn’t stand up for herself, who didn’t value herself and communicate that value to others; someone who put up with pain and disrespect for the sake of closeness and keeping a connection alive. 

I thought about how this had played out in my life, again and again, like the time a woman I was dating was a no-show at my 40th birthday. Not only did I accept a glib apology from her afterward, but after I angrily expressed how hurt I was, I was so worried that my honesty would push her away that I ended up gushing about the things I did appreciate about her. I couldn’t handle the discomfort of the conflict. But now, I can recognize that behaviour as something called “fawning,” a trauma response where a person by-passes their own needs or boundaries in order to create a sense of safety by avoiding conflict. At the time I feared that my true feelings might cause her to leave me. I had to pad my emotions with positivity, despite still being hurt and resentful. 

Dodging or reconciling disagreement is very typical for a people pleaser, who tends to use agreeability as a way to avoid stress. Apparently I was a textbook case, a fact I learned from reading about people-pleaser behaviour that basically outlined much of my personality and described these unhealthy relationship patterns. 

Books helped me to intellectually understand my people-pleasing behaviours and gave me practical tips for changing them, such as ways to stall a decision rather than saying “yes” immediately out of instinct, or how to phrase and repeat a boundary when it’s being challenged. But what helped me the most was counselling with my reiki practitioner. She helped me to get in touch with and finally listen to myself (meditating was a part of this), and to expose the stories I’d been telling myself my whole life that had made me repeat these patterns: that I shouldn’t have needs, that I should be who other people want me to be, that being worthy of and receiving love requires trying really hard for it. 

It might sound cheesy, but what I needed wasn’t so much psychological healing, it was spiritual healing. I couldn’t think myself out of this pain, I also needed to feel it. I had to revisit that child inside me who was still offering her emotional response to my adult experiences — emotions that I had numbed or did not understand how to process at the time, and had therefore become part of my unhealthy programming. 

It was like I had been walking around in a cloak of invisibility since childhood. Back then, it had protected me but, as an adult, it was suffocating. I had to let that younger version of myself know that she didn’t need to hide behind it anymore. It was safe to come out; I could protect her. It was scary to take it off, but that was the only way to finally stop ignoring and abandoning myself for other people. It was also the only way to finally be seen.

I’ve had to practice and redefine so many things that scared me before — all those things that signalled a lack of trust in, and love for, myself: from something as small as speaking out in a meeting without first worrying what other people might think, to bigger things like setting a boundary or having a difficult conversation with someone I’m dating. I realize that being a people pleaser has plagued me the most where the threat of loss is greatest — in those relationships where I fear that my needs will be too much. But as much as conflict and boundaries still might make me uncomfortable, I can now see them as things that can create intimacy and trust, rather than as a threat. I now know that having needs doesn’t have to mean the end of a relationship and if it does, then it’s not a healthy one anyway. I don’t hold on so tight anymore because I know that I’m OK on my own and that I will never abandon myself again.

It might sound strange, but I’m oddly looking forward to the first fight with my girlfriend, whom I’ve been with for the last few months. I joke with her about this, but it’s true — I want to take up space that I’ve never occupied, to make myself heard when I used to remain silent, to hold boundaries where I used to be porous, and to finally be seen after so many years of blending into the background. When that argument does inevitably happen, it will have to be in person, or else I won’t let it happen at all.

The post People-Pleasing Made Me Invisible appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

Khan is a storyteller, among other things. As co-founder of Black Lives Matter Toronto and an international ambassador for the Black Lives Matter Network, they’re no stranger to hard conversations. Last year, after the COVID-19 pandemic hit, the Toronto-born advocate began using their Instagram as a space to talk about complex issues. Their weekly live streams, dubbed “Sunday Sermons,” range from more personal topics like self-worth and anxiety to commentary on pop culture and political discourse. And during an undoubtedly isolating time, Khan has nurtured an online community dedicated to growth, self-discovery and multi-faceted activism.

As in-person events have picked up again, Khan’s influential presence has manifested itself in physical spaces, too. Take London-based contemporary brand COS, which enlisted Khan for its Fall/Winter 2021 campaign and runway show. In keeping with the brand’s laidback aesthetic, the collection highlights loosely-fitted, layered styles. In an official release, COS states its latest collection is also crafted toward sustainability and circularity, using repurposed materials and recycled fabrics. Khan’s partnership with the clothing brand makes sense — as they tell me, fashion is a mode for activism, and COS’s relaxed fits represent the space and possibility needed to advance the fashion world in a sustainable direction.

As a non-binary person in the fashion industry — which has historically enforced the gender binary — Khan is helping to break down traditional barriers surrounding clothing. When asked if they ever deal with imposter syndrome, Khan responds, “I decided to step out of the story I was born into and write my own.” Below, FASHION speaks with Janaya Future Khan about the intersection of fashion and activism, dressing as a means for empowerment, and the future of sustainability.

How has your work in fashion connected to your role as an activist?

Fashion is art, and any artistic expression can be activist in nature. The society we live in requires an adherence to a mythical norm that dictates everything from haircuts to clothes to jewelry and shoes. But fashion pushes against the limits of our imagination and invites us to pursue authentic expression that transcends limits and embodies the liminal. Growing up, I never fit in. There were times when it didn’t even feel like my body was my own because I was so policed by the world around me. Fashion provided the creative space to build agency, and agency is about choice. Choice is infectious, and this newfound power informs every aspect of my life, especially activism.

How does COS’s collection align with your personal style?

COS is fluid. Streamlined, elegant and durable. I can be at a protest, in a studio, or on a stage in anything COS makes, and this is perfectly aligned with my personal style.

The COS collection embraces fluidity through draped, layered styles and oversized fits. Do you feel that this type of fluidity in clothing is where the fashion world is headed?

Fashion works in the delicate balance of being in tune with where the world is now and futurists in where the world will be, often acting as the curator of culture and taste along the way. Much like the rest of the world, we are grappling with the tension between creativity and capitalism, glamour and global despair, dreams and dystopia. Fashion will recycle and upcycle material. It will digitize as our lives become more intertwined with technology. We will have to move beyond fast fashion and build accessibility alongside sustainability. Oversized fits and layering are a metaphor for space and possibility, and that is precisely where I see fashion headed. COS is about fluidity, and that word, like the water it implies, is essential.

In your last Sunday Sermon, you spoke about existentialism and cynicism, specifically brought on by climate change. The fashion industry is notorious for its negative environmental impact. How do you think people can partake in fashion while combating this feeling of angst surrounding climate change?

To live in a society such as ours, and to believe in justice or art, is to be in almost perpetual conflict with the capitalist machine that moves us all. As I mentioned previously, upcycled and recycled materials, digitizing fashion, and wedding the worlds of accessibility and sustainability are necessary, and so are having some personal guidelines. What has helped me combat the consumption bug that fuels angst is asking myself questions before I use shopping cart therapy. Will this elevate my wardrobe? Do I see myself wearing this five years from now? Do I already have anything like this? What fits does it currently work with?

Asking questions helps to build intention and joy to push back against the angst. This cannot work alone. We need to work with brands to build better infrastructure and policies around environmental impact, and luckily there are many out there ready to do just that.

What advice do you have for people who are struggling to find clothes that empower them?

Investing time to locate what kind of expression gives you joy is not frivolous. When I stopped thinking of it as simply “clothes” and more as artistic expression, I gave myself permission to explore joy and possibility. It can be hard when you don’t see yourself out there, so look for clues. There will never be the one perfect form of style that speaks to you, because there is only one of you. You’re special. So take the little pieces of the things you like best whenever you are moved and collect them. Before you know it, you’ll have created a work of art uniquely your own. Go into the spaces that scare you. As a non-binary person who is very drawn to masculine expression, I found myself wearing a Dries silver sequined skirt the other day that felt like chainmail. At some point, you let go of the masculine and feminine and instead get to see the whole.

The post Janaya Future Khan and COS Meet at the Intersection of Fashion and Activism appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

In 1973, a six-year-old Phyllis Webstad was preparing for her first day at St. Joseph’s Mission Residential School in British Columbia. In anticipation of the big day, her grandmother took to buy a new outfit. She picked out a bright, shiny orange shirt, which matched the excitement she felt to be going to school. But when she arrived at the Mission, she was stripped of her own clothes and her orange shirt was taken from her, never to be seen again.

Webstad, a Northern Secwpemc (Shuswap) from the Stswecem’c Xgat’tem First Nation, is one of many survivors of Canada’s residential school system. In 2013, she founded Orange Shirt Day, recognized on September 30, as a way of acknowledging the traumatic generational impact of residential schools on Indigenous communities. “The colour orange has always reminded me of that and how my feelings didn’t matter, how no one cared and how I felt like I was worth nothing,” Webstad writes on the Orange Shirt Day website. “All of us little children were crying and no one cared.”

In June 2021, the federal government announced that starting this year, September 30 will also mark the first annual National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. The new federal statutory holiday is meant to recognize the impacts of residential schools on Indigenous communities and families. Over the past few months, hundreds of remains were found on the grounds of former residential schools, where Indigenous children were forcibly sent between the 1870s and 1990s to be violently assimilated into colonial Canadian culture. It’s estimated that thousands of children died at these government-sponsored religious schools.

The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was released in 2015, and has 94 calls to action — National Day for Truth and Reconciliation is a direct response to call to action 80, which called for a federal statutory day to commemorate the legacy of residential schools. There are plenty of ways that non-Indigenous people can support Indigenous communities on September 30, says Fallon Farinacci, a Red River Métis and healing advocate. For starters, educate yourself and discuss the history with the people in your own life. “[Non-Indigenous people] can review the calls to action. And for a simple step, maybe commit themselves to one that they can implement in their own life, or that they can bring to their workplace, or to their family,” she says.

“I was told a long time ago that the biggest change happens around the dinner table, the conversations that are had there are then brought out in the community. Having those moments of truth with your family is definitely key to standing in solidarity with Indigenous folks, and for each individual person to do something that day to further educate themselves on the truth.”

Farinacci adds that while this national recognition is a step in the right direction, there’s still work to do. Because the holiday is federal, there’s a disconnect with some provinces that haven’t recognized September 30 as a holiday. Farinacci wanted to spend the day with her kids and her community discussing this history, but because her son’s school board didn’t recognize the holiday, he doesn’t have the day off. Farinacci lives in Ontario, which is one of many provinces that are not recognizing September 30 as a statutory holiday, in addition to Alberta, Saskatchewan, Québec, New Brunswick and Yukon. Manitoba, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island will be formally recognizing September 30 as a statutory holiday, while British Columbia and Newfoundland and Labrador are commemorating the day, but not as a statutory holiday for all sectors.

“I have an Indigenous friend who had to take the day off work so that she could be with family. She shouldn’t have to take a holiday for it,” she adds. “I think that there’s a lot of work to be done to ensure that next year, it’s the day that it’s meant to actually be: a day to sit and reflect, and just a moment for families to come together.”

If you do have the day off and are non-Indigenous, use it to educate yourself, says Farinacci. There are plenty of gatherings, events and virtual workshops going on, and Orange Shirt Day has provided a growing list of events taking place across the country on September 30. The Gord Downie & Chanie Wenjack Fund, an Indigenous-led organization, has also provided a list of activities and educational resources to take part in on National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. Hold space for Indigenous voices, but don’t expect or ask Indigenous people to educate you on the history of residential schools, Farinacci adds.

Sporting an orange shirt is another simple way to stand in solidarity with Indigenous communities on September 30, but the shirts are currently in high demand and hard to find. If you can’t get an orange shirt from an Indigenous vendor, Indigenous advocates are asking that Canadians don’t resort to buying from large-scale retailers, who are now selling orange shirts.

“It’s really unfortunate that you have big box companies that are [mass producing and selling] the orange shirts,” says Farinacci. Indigenous advocate group Toronto Indigenous Harm Reduction states that by selling orange shirts, non-Indigenous corporations are missing the point of Orange Shirt Day, which is to support Indigenous people. If you can’t get your hands on an orange shirt, consider instead donating directly to an Indigenous cause, like the Indian Residential School Survivors Society, and wearing something second-hand.

On Instagram, Farinacci reached out to her network to compile a list of Indigenous-owned businesses (or reputable organizations who are donating all of their profits to Indigenous causes) that have shirts and other items available for purchase on September 30. They are listed below. Shirts are in high demand and may be sold out or take weeks to deliver. To buy orange shirts beyond September 30, Farinacci has an Instagram Stories highlight called “buy orange tees” where she’s linked businesses that continually sell orange shirts.

Indigenous Nations Apparel (Ships across Canada)

Toronto Indigenous Harm Reduction (Located in Toronto, Ontario)

Kanata Trade Co. (Ships across Canada)

Wolf Energy (Located in Niagara, Ontario)

Mino Ode Kwe Beadwork (Ships across Canada)

Kwe Kreations (Ships across Canada)

Icky’s Variety (Located in Six Nations, Ontario)

Toronto Council Fire (Located in Toronto, Ontario)

The Selkirk Friendship Centre (Located in Selkirk, Manitoba)

Wilfrid Laurier University is not Indigenous-owned but is working directly with Woodland Cultural Centre and donating one hundred percent of its profits. 

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