Why We Deserve Safe Spaces

“You’re barely a woman of colour.”

That’s what my white coworkers told me one day during a smoke break. I had just expressed that I wasn’t feeling well, and wanted to talk about my recent experiences of racism and sexism. Unable to hide my shock to their response, I blurted out, “No, I am—I’m an immigrant,” and then resigned to smoking in quiet, too tired to open that can of worms.

Don’t get me wrong; my coworkers are wonderful, intelligent women who have carved out their own spaces in the industry they work in and the social circles they exist in. But to minimize the trauma I’ve experienced by telling me that my skin is merely two shades darker than theirs doesn’t revert the ongoing effects of racism.

If I am not a woman of colour, why did that man single me out on public transit to accuse Asian men of having small penises? Why did he ask me, “Is that big for you?” as I ate my Cheestring? Why did he ask me, again and again, from three seats away, “Is that big?” with a jeer frozen on his grimy face, suggesting that my cheese snack was a penis, and it was too big for me? Even after I confronted him about his crude joke, he went on a tirade about how there are too many “chinks” in the city now, and that they all have small penises. He continued to spout fallacious racial stereotypes, changing his focus to the Indigenous population. “All of you should be killed off,” was his conclusion. The tirade went on like this until he stepped off the bus. He smiled at me as he exited.

These minor instances of overt racism remind me that women of colour are very vulnerable in our society. Every individual exists under multiple layers of vulnerability, stemming from ethnicity, income, gender, sexual orientation, and religion. And every individual with a unique mixture of vulnerabilities deserves to feel safe in all spaces.

As an artist, my work comes from my ongoing experiences of racism and misogyny, and is obstructed by both. Ethnic minorities and people who present as non-white are still being targeted for discrimination in this country that I call home. Even during high school, which I attended in Langley from 2006 until graduation in 2011, there was a distinct racial segregation between white and Asian students. I grew up thinking that girls of colour were inherently uglier and less popular than white girls, because Caucasian students never asked us to see movies or invited us to parties. The most demeaning experience in high school for me was when a white girl one year older sat on the stairs and hurled pieces of food at me, yelling racist slurs.

As a first-generation immigrant, I choose to claim both Canadian and Chinese cultures as my own, even though everyone seems to have their own opinions about how Canadian or how Chinese I really am. Second-generation Canadians or people of mixed ethnic descent may find it much more difficult to claim a culture as their own, or find affinity and acceptance from any one cultural group. Chinese-Canadian author Fred Wah originates the idea of “living on the hyphen,” which describes what life is like for individuals of ethnic minorities. Like many other people of colour, I may never fully connect with a pre-existing cultural identity—we must create our own, through trial and error.

Sometimes I wonder how many other young women of colour have experienced the racial micro-aggressions that I have encountered. Have you waited at the bar of a busy club while white bartenders served multiple groups of white people behind you before acknowledging you? Have you showed off your dance skills at a party and overheard a group of boys say loudly, “I didn’t think she’d

Every individual with a unique mixture of vulnerabilities deserves to feel safe in all spaces.

be the one doing that”? Then at the same party, when you’re digging through your tote bag on the floor, have you had a girl ask you if you’re “doing the Asian squat”? And when you say, “No, I’m looking for something in my purse,” she proceeds with, “Only Asians can squat like that, though, because you have flat feet,” as if she is stating a fact? And this girl is not a white girl, but a woman of colour, too, although she’s not East Asian. Who do you talk to about these small yet complex instances of stereotyping, without feeling like a burden?

I have learned that I need safe spaces to speak openly about my experiences as an immigrant woman of colour. In the film/TV and music industries I work in, white men dominate the spaces, which results in frequent racial and sexist micro-aggressions that I immediately push aside in order to function on a day-to-day basis. This repression of trauma has, at times, affected my ability to communicate my emotions in healthy ways with my partner, friends, colleagues, and even strangers who are within my vicinity. Everyone has different privileges: I have the privilege of presenting as mostly heteronormative in a heteronormative society, being physically abled, being a socially acceptable body size, and speaking fluent English. I don’t have white or male privilege. I also don’t have the privilege of discussing racism and misogyny with my family—a common thread among people of diaspora.

I have never relied on my family for emotional support, even as a child, because I am not able to. I do not have the Chinese vocabulary to express my experiences to them, nor do I have the emotional strength to speak about trauma with my mom. How would she understand my “western” lifestyle? In my mother’s eyes, the world is a dangerous place. She has always instructed me to never step foot outside after 10 p.m., and if I must, I should bring my boyfriend along (whether I have one or not). In her mind, I must protect my body by leaving it at home, or in the hands of a male guardian. Her logic dictates that I stay inside when the sun sets, to avoid being raped and murdered.

Where can I learn to protect not only my body, but also my mind, from the trauma I experience? I am getting tired of defending my right to personal space on public transit. Thankfully, as an adult, I have found safe spaces to learn selfcare and receive protection. They are varied, ranging from conversations with close friends, to Booty Freedom wellness classes, to free counselling sessions at the youth clinic. A female counsellor taught me that I do not need to fight misogynists or racists every time I encounter them. I know now that I need to choose when I expend emotional and physical energy to combat misogyny and racism, and when I rest my mind and body. We all deserve to rest, and we all deserve safe spaces. Without them, I would not be able to process my experiences, or write them down.

The creation of safe spaces should not be the sole responsibility of vulnerable populations that are most affected. We need the help of venue owners, club promoters, teachers, business owners, students, writers, editors, musicians, photographers, commuters on public transit, and everybody else to tune into the importance of safe spaces and normalize them for everyone. We need spaces to process our unique and shared trauma, to give and receive advice, to release warnings about abusers in our communities, and to express pain without shame because it’s okay to be vulnerable. On a smaller scale, a safe space can be friendships in which you can discuss your lived experiences with each other without being denied, harassed, or pressured, either online or in the physical world. Try posting about a recent racial or sexist micro-aggression on Facebook. Delete anyone who doesn’t support your right to speak up. Schedule hangouts with the ones who do, and perpetuate the existence of safe spaces with them.

words by sunny chen photograhy by joy gyamfi