Small talk changed in 2021

Small talk, chitchat, pleasantries — whatever you want to call it — looks different nowadays

Small talk, the light conversation you have in social situations, is a ritual best known for its uncontroversial politeness. Yes, the social situations where small talk comes up are long gone, but that’s not the only reason small talk looks different in 2021.

Say you mention the weather: “It’s unseasonably warm this spring!” One might just as well respond with the facts: “Yes, well, permafrost in the arctic is melting, releasing the powerful greenhouse gas, methane, into the atmosphere. This creates a feedback loop, where the methane that’s released further warms the earth, which then melts permafrost quicker, which further releases long-stored methane, in an unstoppable loop we call climate change. But it’s perfect scarf weather.”

See how weather is a no-no?

Try again.

“How’s the family?” This, while a valiant effort, is still too dangerous: “Well, my parents haven’t seen a soul beyond each other in a year, leaving them in total psychological ruin.”

Try again.

“How are things?” “I’m anxious and depressed, but for no obvious reason. I have a consistent routine, a big circle of friends, I exercise, I eat well, and I sleep eight hours a night. Despite all this, something still feels deeply wrong — like a yawning chasm — in my core. You?”

Try again.

What about a simple one? Talk about friends in common. Gossip, at least, should preserve through a pandemic, no? “Have you spoken to so-and-so lately? I haven’t heard from her in ages!” It should be safe, unless your friend is critical of toxic monogamy culture and the pressure cooker it’s been put in with COVID-19 isolation, responding, “That doesn’t surprise me. She moved in with her COVID boyfriend and they only see each other. It can get toxic pretty fast in those conditions. I read that domestic violence is at an all-time high in Quebec. Eight Quebec women murdered in eight weeks.”

So, “girl talk” is out.

Try again.

“Have you been reading the news? This COVID thing is really wild, eh?” That could work! Right? Wrong! “Oh yes! Last week there were more than 25 deaths reported due to COVID in Quebec!”

Local news is out as well.

Try again.

How about national news? Nope — the toxic waste storage and handling in B.C. reads like a pamphlet on how to be evil.

Continental? Nope — the trial of George Floyd — I mean Derek Chauvin — that highlights Floyd’s substance use as a key defense for Chauvin’s murder charges says everything you need to know about access to dignity, justice, and peace for Black Americans, and comparably, Black Canadians.

International? Nope — around the world, school-age children are out of school. Even in societies capable of creating homeschooling alternatives, children are dropping out of school. These educational barriers pose the greatest risk for youth already made vulnerable by marginalizing structures during a formative time in their cognitive development.

We can search and search to find something light to talk about. Or, we can all agree that small talk in 2021 is dead.

We can create joy and meaning in the tangible things going on moment to moment, like hearing birds sing or feeling the sun on our faces. And we can let ourselves cry when faced with the oversaturation of information, the thinning potency of entertainment, those reprehensible systems of governance, and the aloneness of individualistic thinking.

We can spend more time developing communication skills, cultivating curiosity about ourselves and others, and creating space for compassion and nuance in the human experience. There’s nothing light to talk about in 2021. So, instead of pretending that spring came early this year, let’s face the facts, and find wellbeing despite the reality. Let’s be honest about the circumstances, heavy as they may be, and plant roots in tangible sources of joy.

Don’t know where to start? Read fiction, create art, learn an instrument, practice another language, be present in the moment, take slow breaths, ask people real questions, observe animals, speak your piece and your peace, pause and think before reacting to things, massage your feet, name your feelings, make people laugh, let yourself cry, let yourself laugh.

And please, I beg you, stop making small talk.

 

Feature graphic by @the.beta.lab

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Don’t touch my hair, don’t speak on my behalf

We must avoid generalizing and include specific people in discussions about race

“Can I touch your hair?”

I don’t think I’ve ever asked anyone that question in my life, and I have a very hard time imagining a situation where I would. I’ve never walked up to a total stranger or someone I barely knew in a bar, at school, or at the water cooler at work, and asked them if I could touch the hair on their head, with my fingers eagerly stretched outwards.

It sounds absolutely disgusting to me, yet it is a question I am asked a minimum of once a week, and that’s just because I wear a toque most of the time.

Yes, as you must have guessed, I am black, with long, beautiful, natural hair. Locs to be exact (not dreadlocks, because there is nothing dreadful about them), and yes, the people requesting to touch them are typically white. After politely saying no, I am usually asked insulting, but amusing questions like: “So you don’t wash your hair to get it like that, right?” Or, “Do you have any weed?”

Black people’s hair has always seemed to be a fascination for some white people. Some seem amused, and others puzzled by it: wanting to touch it, asking questions about it, and even sometimes attempting to emulate it. And some seem to fear it: wanting us to shave it off, cover it, or straighten it, wanting it to mimic theirs so that they feel more comfortable when we’re around.

Luckily, in Canada, we don’t seem to hear as many stories of discrimination against natural black hairstyles like in the United States, where their justice system found it legal for Catastrophe Management Solutions to rescind Chastity Jones’s job offer because she didn’t comply to their grooming policy, which is supposedly “unrelated to race,” by having locs. Or, where recently, Andrew Johnson, a high school varsity athlete, was forced to cut off his locs or forfeit a wrestling match.

Last month, a comedian was told he couldn’t perform at a comedy bar ironically titled “Snowflake Comedy Club.” He also couldn’t perform at another event held at the Coop Les Récoltes, a bar and solidarity co-operative operated by Université du Québec à Montréal’s Group de Rechercher d’Intérêt Public, because he has locs.

Well, actually because he’s white, and has locs.

In an extremely long message posted on their Facebook page, the Coop defended their decision to ban Zach Poitras from performing at their establishment. Essentially, they explained that they operate what they call a safe space exempt of oppression, in which no discrimination or harassment of any kind will be tolerated. They stated that they consider a white person with locs to be a form of cultural appropriation, which they describe on their post as: “the fact that a person from a dominant culture appropriates symbols, clothes or hairstyles of people from historically dominated cultures.”

They continued by saying that: “It is a privilege to be able to wear dreads as a white person and to be seen as fashionable, or as being edgy, while a black person will be denied access to job opportunities or spaces (housing, schools, parties, sports competitions, etc.).” Are white people with locs, like Poitras, racist, cultural appropriators? I don’t know––the few interactions I’ve had with them, I usually just sign for my package, and they ride off on their bicycles. I’ve never felt oppressed.

The incident and the message posted by the Coop has sparked a nationwide conversation on cultural appropriation and racism over the last few weeks. Well, a conversation that’s had mostly among white people, in my opinion.

Journal de Montréal columnist, Richard Martineau, ridiculed the matter, stating that this situation has opened his eyes, and he will no longer use numbers because they were invented by Arabs, and the fact that lithium batteries were created by a Moroccan man will cause him to stop using his cellphone, because he now realizes that would also be a form of cultural appropriation.

On Twitter, many debated the matter, like user @LavenderBlume who posed the question: “Why is #CulturalAppropriation so hard for people to understand?” Alongside a meme asking: “What if America loved black people as much as black culture?” This was then answered by user @thurnuz, who claims Poitras is innocent of what he is accused of, stating that locs “have been found depicted in frescoes from Mioa over 3,500 years ago, and were worn in ancient Greece and Sparta.” Therefore, a white person wearing locs is not appropriating black culture, the user argued.

Yes, I do believe a conversation should be had on the matter, but as Poitras himself said in a statement obtained by Radio Canada, “I do not think it’s up to whites to decide what is racist, or cultural appropriation.” This is not a conversation white people should be having alone. Not only should minorities be involved in the discussion being had about their cultures, I believe they should be leading them.

In a second message, posted to Facebook a few days later, the Coop attempted to further explain their decision not to let Poitras perform. They stated that they wished to clarify that they didn’t speak on behalf of all “marginalized” populations, and they never intended to suggest that the comedian was racist. But they reiterated their belief that his presence would not have been in accordance with their “inclusivity” policy. A policy, which along with their previous post, they now claim was written by “racialized” people.

The word “racialize” is defined in the Merriam-Webster dictionary as the act of giving racial character to something, or someone. I know what “racialized” means, but I looked it up because I would like to know exactly what the Coop meant by “racialized.” I may be reading too much into it, but it sounds a little condescending to me. It appears to me as if they are speaking of defenseless victims, or fragile creatures who have been made victims of their own race.

I hope the Coop is referring to particular people, in their particular group, because as a black person, I only speak for myself. I would feel pretty insulted if they are insinuating that Poitras wasn’t allowed to perform in their space on my behalf, as well as by being called “racialized.”

Personally, my concerns when it comes to cultural appropriation are less about whether or not Poitras can have locs, but whether or not the “genuine” red, gold, and green Rasta hat he might hold them in was bought from real Rastafarians, or from an American company that also sells sombreros, dashikis and chopsticks.

It’s the context of the hairstyle that might hurt, or anger me, not the hairstyle itself. If we are going to accuse him of appropriating Rastafarian culture, examples of real issues for me would be if his comedy routine consisted of him being a caricature of that culture; if he was claiming ownership of its rituals and practices; if he was trying to rewrite its history. If he was trying to commercialize it, presenting a whitened, watered down, or cartoonish version of it to consumers, or if he was trying to profit off of it by misrepresenting it as a dangerous culture of violence and drugs––then, I’d be upset.

Although the social justice warriors at the Coop may have had good intentions, I believe they should consult more sources than just the “racialized” people in their social justice circles. They should consult people other than Greg Robinson, the UQAM professor specializing in black immigration in Canada, who appears to have been quoted in all the articles I’ve read on the matter, and seems to claim that white people with locs equates to white people wearing blackface, or using the n-word. I’m hoping he was misquoted, because I don’t feel like going on to explain how those are completely different things.

In my opinion, the Coop’s actions created an opportunity for detractors of real racial oppression to downplay the notion of cultural appropriation, and for those unaware of it until this situation, to believe it is a topic of no merit. Again, they might have had the right idea, but they must be wary of the battles they pick, and on whose behalf they are supposedly fighting them. Because, as philosopher and writer J.P. Satre said, “When the rich wage war, it’s the poor who die.” Or, in this case, the “racialized,” I guess.

Graphic by Ana Bilokin

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Aziz Ansari, welcome to the conversation

The time has come to speak out, listen and change the discussion 

When I first read the allegations about Aziz Ansari, I was extremely disappointed. He was supposed to a good guy. A feminist. A social activist. An underdog. Yet, there he was being aggressive, inappropriate and supposedly unaware of his actions.

The allegations were written in an article titled, “I went on a date with Aziz Ansari. It turned into the worst night of my life,” published on the website Babe on Jan. 14. After seeing Ansari with a “Time’s Up” pin at the Golden Globes, a writer using the pseudonym “Grace” was set off. She recounted a date with Ansari after meeting him at the Emmys in 2017. She wrote about how abruptly Ansari wanted to have intercourse, and how he continuously put her hands on his genitals even after she removed them.

In her story, Grace claimed Ansari ignored her “verbal and non-verbal cues” indicating how uncomfortable she was during their time together at his home. Grace wrote that she still felt pressure to perform oral sex and allowed the unbearable experience to continue.

It would be naive to retrospectively say she should have just said no and left, because the pressures Grace faced are far more hidden, insidious and complex than they appear on the surface. This situation has brought up a discussion about consent, a long overdue discussion that has exploded in our society.

To me, what Grace described is a situation that lacked consent and empathy. However, this Ansari incident is so much bigger than the technicalities of sex being consensual or not. I believe arguing about consent in this situation should not be the focus, as it is clear Grace was feeling extremely uncomfortable, based on her recollection of the experience. We should be focusing on how to communicate during sexual encounters and how to encourage women to advocate for themselves in these situations.

Through my observations, I’ve noticed there was a great deal of hesitation to label this incident as sexual assault, by both men and women. To many, this situation may be all too familiar. This may be too close to home for women as it forces them to re-label personal experiences they thought of as just bad sex. Similarly, men may hesitate to reconcile their approach and actions—they might not understand that their actions have made women uncomfortable. Others have pushed back because of a perceived dilution of what assault really looks like. I’ve realized the movements #MeToo and Time’s Up may be more complicated than I originally anticipated.

In my opinion, issues with consent and sexual assault begin because of the hypersexualization of women in society. From a young age, men and women are taught to treat the female body like a sexual object. Men are taught about the “chase” and winning girls over with effort and perseverance. In media, women are often shown as unsure in their sexual encounters, and it’s supposedly the men’s job to change their minds. Porn, social media, advertisement, music videos and countless other media perpetuate this narrative.

Although sexual assault is a multi-layered, systematic issue, I think the media presence and the culture surrounding sex has acted as a catalyst for non-consensual relationships. We need to start thinking critically about how we can improve communication between men and women during sex. If we do not also examine the male perspective of the Ansari issue, and of sexual assault in general, we won’t be able to affect complete change.

For the first time in history, we are listening to and believing women about sexual assault allegations. It’s revolutionary, and it needs to continue. But I strongly believe we must include men in this conversation too. Not just by calling them out, but by making them understand their actions. Without trying to understand the complexities on both sides, we risk staying stagnant during this discussion and progress.

What Ansari did was bad. What others did was worse, and all of this is much too common, even among the “good guys” in our society. This is an opportunity unlike any we’ve had before. Not only are we calling men out, we are calling them in. Welcome to the conversation.

Graphic by Alexa Hawksworth 

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