woman told me when my stop was approaching. In that incarnation, the Islamic Centre of Quebec, ICQ as it is still known, was a long, low building with a homemade minaret on top that looked like a dented crocus bulb. As women were not allowed through the front door—“AstaghfirAllah (Seek Forgiveness of Allah) sister”—I trudged through a snow bank to get round the back to a fire exit which had a “Ladies” decal on it. Someone had thoughtfully wedged a rubber slipper in it so we could get in. Once inside, the familiar feel of wet carpeting under dry sock and a waft of curry and synthetic jasmine perfume assured me that I was in the right place. The few Muslim sisters that were there were mostly unresponsive to my enthusiastic Salaams and affectionate hand-clasping, kissing, etc. which I had learnt elsewhere. I thought I heard mumbled things about “Britishers,” although one did ask “Where you are from?” I realize now that my Turkish Neo Naqshbandi hybrid and their Learnedback-home Islam were diametrically opposed. For many of the women who had bravely come to this cold distant country, Islam was marriage, children, and martyrdom, with a bit of tajweed (reciting the Quran), and samosas on special occasions. Many of them stayed home not by choice but because they simply had no idea about the way this society functioned and had no contact with the people around them. If they spoke English, they did not speak French; they had no independent income and lived in apartment buildings in dangerous areas where you had better avoid your neighbours in case you got robbed.
Ethelbert: Ten Days in May MICHELLE ELRICK
From Then/Again. Published by Nightwood Editions in 2017. Michelle Elrick is the author of To Speak. Her poetry has appeared in Poetry Is Dead and on CBC television. She was a finalist in the CBC Poetry Prize in 2015. She lives in Halifax. day two the clock ticks, but I can’t see the time. the breeze from the window causes sheets to bow and billow. light filters through textiles all around. I am hiding out. I am hiding in. I am hiding. day three we used twine and tacks and safety pins. some corners tied knots. four of us built the fort in about an hour, now it’s only me. time passes differently when you are alone. day four I sleep in the great room where the walls hang from the rafters. morning sun: green leaves flicker on stems outside. I watch the window. no one approaches. day five the fort starts to age: seams split, walls drift, new passageways appear, cracks in the roof. last night I was cold in my sleep. I pulled a green wall down and wrapped myself in it. now there is another way out to the kitchen. day six soon I will take it down (the couch a spring-dented hull: crumbs, pennies where the cushions belong) I don’t know yet how. the fort is a good place to think. day eight inside, there are questions but no answers. peaks and parted openings make an acceptable form, a temporary space, unresolved/deteriorating resolve. the questions are patient. we wait together, me and them. day nine something has changed: the fort is just a fort. I am not hid after all. besides, who is searching?
PROBLEMATIC, BUT LET’S NOT BEAT A DEAD HORSE: Instead of fixating on all the ways old shows and movies don’t hold up to current social standard, focus your attention on the here and now. WHY THREE BILLBOARDS IS A PROBLEMATIC, FAUX PROGRESSIVE MESS: It can be seen as a movie more concerned with humanizing white supremacists
30 Geist 108 Spring 2018
