Coming of age

Essential Feminist Reads for International Women’s Month

/ Lynne Melcombe / Leave a comment

March 8 was International Women’s Day, and the month of March is International Women’s Month. With a nod to both, with this post I acknowledge several books from the Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction program that further the cause of justice and equality for women. 

Cover of the book 'Halal Sex: The Intimate Lives of Muslim Women in North America' by Sheima Benembarek, featuring ripe figs and a 'Staff Pick' label.

It’s hard to pick just a few books. The program is dominated by women, all of whom I’d describe as feminist, and many of their stories are about women’s lives, whether their own or others. But if I’m going to stick strictly to books with a decidedly feminist theme, I’d choose these five:

Halal Sex: The Intimate Lives of Muslim Women in North America by Sheima Benembarek. This book was eye-opening for me. It honestly never occurred to me that a blue-haired, niqab-wearing, orthodox Muslim woman might be polyamorous. It doesn’t surprise me that a child from a Muslim family might be just as likely as a child from any other family to be transgender. But I have to admit some surprise—the good kind—in reading about a same-sex couple, both comedians, one a Palestinian-born Muslim the other a Jew from Montreal who perform individually and as a pair who starred in a Crave comedy special called Marriage of Convenience. The title of the book, Halal Sex, comes from a term for sex practiced within a heterosexual Muslim marriage. But Benembarek put a decidedly feminist twist on it by redefining it as “all consensual sex between adults.” 

Book cover featuring the title 'Every Boy I Ever Kissed' by Nellwyn Lampert, with a graphic design showing a woman in a red dress and hands embracing her.

Every Boy I Ever Kissed: A Memoir by Nellwyn Lampert. I started calling myself a feminist at the age of 13. I was in way too much of a hurry to lose my virginity, which I did at 14. I had no idea of the connection between the two. But there is a connection, a pretty important one. And that connection is a major part of what Lampert wrestles with in this coming-of-age memoir. As the cover blurb says, “for Nellwyn Lampert, losing her virginity would turn out to be anything but simple. Her chosen partners struggled with porn-induced erectile dysfunction and other crises of masculinity. And in the bedroom, nothing went according to plan.” So, in that regard, our experiences were entirely different. But in terms of “the realities of sexual liberation, female empowerment, and masculinity,” the issues are not that different at all than the ones I was too young to realize I was doing with more than 50 years ago that sexual freedom and gender freedom are two very different concepts. 

Cover of the book 'Highway of Tears' by Jessica McDiarmid, featuring an illustrated mask and a striking orange background. The subtitle highlights themes of racism and justice for missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls.

Highway of Tears: A True Story of Racism, Indifference and the Pursuit of Justice for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls by Jessica McDiarmid. It’s a grim fact that Indigenous women make up only about 4% of the female population in Canada but accounted for 16% of all female homicides between 1980 and 2012. And a disturbing number of those women are abducted, raped, and murdered along a strip of highway in northern BC called the Highway of Tears. From the back cover: “Journalist Jessica McDiarmid investigates the devastating effect these tragedies have had on the families of the victims and their communities, and how systemic racism and indifference have created a climate where Indigenous women and girls are over-policed, yet under-protected.” As difficult as this book was to read, it was just as difficult to put down. I can’t imagine a better lens through which to examine the intersection of racism and misogyny than through the horrific impacts of colonization by patriarchal white, European culture on Indigenous women and girls. 

Book cover of 'F Bomb: Dispatches from the War on Feminism' by Lauren McKeon featuring bold black text and a pink graffiti-style accent.

F Bomb: Dispatches from the War on Feminism by Lauren McKeon. It’s always surprised me that when I say I’ve been calling myself a feminist since I was 13 but I haven’t always felt that feminism welcomed me, what many people seem to hear is that I don’t think feminism is necessary or relevant. In fact, I’m saying exactly the opposite—that feminism remains as relevant today as ever and that’s why it’s so important to ensure that ALL sorts of women feel a sense of belonging within the movement. That was my read on McKeon’s book. She recognizes that too many women have moved in the wrong direction instead of understanding that feminism is for every woman—that, indeed, until we are all free, none of us are free. Why has this happened? That, as McKeon points out, is a question for feminists to answer. And as women’s rights are being eroded daily, it’s becoming increasingly urgent that we answer it and ensure that all women feel that the arms of feminism welcome them. 

Book cover for 'Conspiracy of Hope' by Renée Pellerin, featuring stylized illustrations of a woman's chest with highlighted areas, and subtitle 'The Truth About Breast Cancer Screening'.

Conspiracy of Hope: The Truth About Breast Cancer Screening by Renée Pellerin. No woman in the western world isn’t familiar with the unique joy (she said sarcastically) of having her breasts pulled and twisted and squished between cold metal plates for their regular mammogram. In this book, Pellerin, an award-winning producer with the CBC, does a deep dive into the evidence supporting and opposing regular mammography screening. And her conclusion is that the evidence weighs strongly in favour of less screening. It’s supported by vested interests, false positives can lead to invasive overtreatment, false negatives can give women a false sense of security, its effectiveness differs significantly for different age groups, and regular exposure to radiation can, in a small number of cases, increase risk of cancer. It’s an eye-opening book that every woman should read and consider carefully before assuming that doctor’s orders should never be questioned. 

Happy International Women’s Month and enjoy the reading!

“It Wasn’t Child Abuse or Neglect; It Was Just My Family”

/ Lynne Melcombe / 1 Comment

For several years in my twenties, I worked with what were then called “emotionally disturbed” children. I worked in group homes with young children and teens, did one-to-one contracts, and eventually worked in a receiving home for street kids. 

I dealt with kids whose behaviours were off the charts, like the girl who told me she was going to slice my guts open and leave me bleeding beside my five-month fetus on the street. I heard stories that made my neck hair stand on end, like the girl whose father pimped out her older half-sister to support himself and the two younger children. 

But mostly I worked with kids who were struggling to deal with the realities of life with parents who, often because of their own childhood experiences, weren’t anywhere close to knowing what good parenting looked like. 

In The View from Coffin Ridge: A Childhood Exhumed (The Ginger Press, 2024), author Gwen Lamont describes the latter kind of abuse, the gnawing daily neglect that characterized her childhood. 

There was the poverty because Dad always thought the next big scam would solve their financial problems; the money that disappeared in a fog of gambling and alcohol and second-hand smoke; the frequent moves that kept the children from establishing friendships with other children or relationships with adults who might have helped. 

There was the non-stop bickering between a mother and father who’d long since stopped liking each other but couldn’t imagine anything different; the children’s teeth, rotting from a total lack of dental hygiene; and a decision her father made to get her teeth fixed when she was in grade 9, which ultimately led to her not finishing grade 9 or any more of  high school.

As traumatizing as all of this must have been, Lamont says, she never really thought of it as child abuse and still feels taken aback by references to her “trauma.” This was just her family, her life; she didn’t know anything else. 

Here’s an excerpt of what Lamont’s family life was like:

I had seen teacups, spatulas, and a can or two fly through the air but this day it was a kitchen chair I watched hit the wall with such a force it left a hole. As if the chair throwing hadn’t made her point, Mom followed it with one of her tirades. 

“I’m not moving again, John Godfrey Morrison. I don’t give a shit what you do. I’m not going. You’ll have to go without me and the girls.” He wouldn’t go without us, would he?  “I’m sick to death of your schemes that never amount to a hill of beans. I’m not going and that’s final.”

Dad sat silent, grinding his jaw with such violence I could hear it clear across the room. Red blotches crept up his face. The whistling started soft and slow, then grew faster and louder. 

“I don’t care if you never speak to me again and you can whistle forever, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch. I AM NOT MOVING! Just when I find a job I love, and just when the girls are settled, you want to move to the goddamn middle of nowhere? And your mother, Jack, what about her money?”

Dad whistled.

“And just remember it was you who had to have this house, Jack Morrison. You! Not me! You talked me into this house and now you have the nerve to want to move us again.” She crossed her arms across her heart. “You jerk. What the hell are you running from this time?” 

Dad whistled louder. My stomach knotted.

It’s hard to pick just one passage to quote because the tension in the book rises relentlessly. There’s never a break. And that, it would seem, is what Lamont’s childhood was like. A relentless struggle, no winners, no losers, no end in sight. 

It did finally end. For years, she buried her past beyond memory while she went on to earn a BA, BSW, and MSW, work as a social worker in child protection and intimate partner violence. It was really only in writing this book and eventually earning a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Nonfiction Writing at University of King’s College that Lamont began to face the impacts her childhood had on her.

The contents of The View from Coffin Ridge make it a difficult read, but the story is told with such skill that it was hard to put down. I find I’m writing those words about many of the books I’m reviewing, but that doesn’t make it less true. These stories embody what it means to be human and are of singularly high quality. And I’m reminded how grateful I am to have been part of this program.

Other books from the class of 2019:

How to Clean a Fish: And Other Adventures in Portugal, by Esmeralda Cabral

On Borrowed Time: Shaking Complacency in North America’s Seismic Zones, by Gregor Craigie

Some Kind of Hero, by Kirk Johnson. Review coming soon.

The Performance Equation, by Kevin Kelloway. Review coming soon.

Visiting Africa: A Memoir, by Jesse O’Reilly-Conlin. Review coming soon.

Cod Collapse: The Rise and Fall of Newfoundland’s Saltwater Cowboy, Jennifer Thornhill Verma

The Rise and Fall of Newfoundland’s Cod Fishery

/ Lynne Melcombe / 1 Comment

I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t intrigued by Canada’s easternmost province, Newfoundland and Labrador. I’ve never been there, but it calls to me in much the same way many distant parts of Canada, like Haida Gwaii and the far north, call to me. I hope someday I’ll be fortunate enough to visit more of our country’s far corners. 

Book cover of 'Cod Collapse: The Rise and Fall of Newfoundland’s Saltwater Cowboys' by Jenn Thornhill Verma, featuring an illustration of colorful fishing buildings and boats in a vibrant marine setting with a Canadian flag emblem.

In Cod Collapse: The Rise and Fall of Newfoundland’s Saltwater Cowboys (Nimbus Publishing, 2019), Jenn Thornhill Verma (class of 2019) paints an intimate portrait of the island portion of her home province—not only how physically beautiful it is, but where it’s come from, what its people have endured, and where it’s going. 

In the early chapters of this moving memoir, Verma depicts in vivid detail what life was like for her grandparents, Pop and Nan, and great grandparents. They raised their family in a one-room wooden house. Wood was the only fuel used for cooking and heating, in a home that lacked indoor plumbing and was lit by a kerosene lamp. Wood was also used to build the boats that kept the island’s bountiful cod fishery alive.

Fishing was a hard life, one most parents didn’t wish for their children. And indeed, Verma’s parents did not grow up to be fishers but became skilled professionals in a hospital in Corner Brook. Yet the fishing way of life is also one that many remember fondly, in spite of both hardships and risks that most of us can barely imagine. Verma writes:

When it comes to a career at sea, practice brings some degree of perfection, but luck comes into play a lot of the time too. That’s what comes to mind as I recall what Gene told me about navigating tricky weather in his fishing days. “People used to say to me, ‘It’s thick with fog. You’re not going out today.’ I said, ‘Honey, I got a compass, I knows where I’m to.’ But I said, ‘The other fellers can’t find me.’ On a fine day, yes no trouble. Anyone could go to fish on a fine day, but I often went forty days out here and never saw land. Forty days in the fog day after day after day, nothing, only fog. I could only see to the end of the boat. But I was happy. I would sooner be out there than in here.” And yet, Gene is well aware of the risks of being “out there.” He told me of one dicey situation when he went overboard.

“I went in with an anchor. One Saturday evening, it was thick with fog and mad rough. We were setting a net from here to there somewhere. I was … hauling up the anchor and I don’t know what happened. It happened so fast. Rope come off … and I went down. It got dark. I could see a rope, so I grabbed the rope. The anchor was hauling me down. When the anchor got on the bottom, I got the rope off me and I started to come up. And next thing, I could see the propeller on the boat spin because I had only just slowed the gear. Anyway, I come up and I grabbed the rail of the boat and I got a bit of air.”

The cod fishery supported Newfoundland fishers for hundreds of years. But after World War II, as fishing methods improved, drawing fleets from as far away as Portugal to the Grand Banks and taking far more fish than could be sustained, the government of Canada finally admitted that without dramatic changes, the once-teaming cod population was in danger of extinction. 

The cod moratorium, announced July 2, 1992, immediately put 30,000 fishers out of work—the largest layoff in Canada’s history. It was supposed to last two years; it lasted three decades. Within ten years, Newfoundland’s population dropped by a record ten percent. The moratorium was finally lifted in 2024, but whereas total allowable catch (TAC) at the fishery’s peak was around 240,000 tonnes, it’s now 18,000 tonnes.

Cod Collapse is a story of hardship and loss, but it’s also a story of survival and recovery. It’s a story about a young woman moving away and distancing herself from the place she grew up, not least because “Newfies,” as I remember myself (with shame, now) referring to Newfoundlanders as a kid, who were for many years the butt of Canadian jokes. It’s a story about reconnecting with a past and feeling deep pride in it. And it’s a story about finding other ways to make a sea-faring life work—other fisheries, such as lobster; other ways to use the ocean, such as the offshore oil industry; and other ways to make a living off the land, such as tourism in one of the most ruggedly beautiful corners of our country. 

I’m immensely proud to be a Canadian, proud of every corner of this country, the many I haven’t seen as much as the relatively few I have. Books like this only make me prouder. It’s an amazing land we live in, from the Atlantic to the Pacific to the Arctic. And in an era when our sovereignty is threatened by outside forces, writers like Verma help us all to build that pride by telling the stories of those who make this country what it is. 

Here’s another book about fish, with a very different perspective:

Overrun: Dispatches from the Asian Carp Crisis, by Andrew Reeves.

And here are some books about Canada that inspire pride:

Peace by Chocolate: The Hadhad Family’s Remarkable Journey from Syria to Canada, by Jon Tattrie.

Ring of Fire: High-Stakes Mining in a Lowlands Wilderness, by Virginia Heffernan.

Coming of Age as a Millennial: Completely Different and Not Different At All

/ Lynne Melcombe / 3 Comments

I lost my virginity when I was 14. It was the early seventies, a decade one must have lived through to understand, and it was practically a competition between my friends and I. I was one of the first and all of it just happened, the way things do when you’re 14 and in a very big hurry to become cool after a childhood of being thought just the opposite.

But then when I was 15, my best friend had a baby. When I was 16, my dad died suddenly. When I was 17, I got very sick and almost died, just as my mother and I were moving to the other side of the country to be closer to extended family but far, far away from any of my friends or anything familiar. My adolescence started out as the typical baby-boomer experience you’d see on That Seventies Show, but it didn’t end up that way. After the wild summer when I was 14, I grew up very fast. 

My experience was the polar opposite of what Nellwyn Lampert (class of 2017) describes in her memoir, Every Boy I Ever Kissed (Dundurn, 2019). A member of the millennial generation, Lampert talks about her coming-of-age experiences, including what can only be described as a long and frustrating battle to lose her virginity to someone—anyone, really—with wit, humour, and really good writing. Here’s a sample: 

The first time I got really drunk was at my mother’s fiftieth birthday party the summer before I started university.

It was the perfect, small-town summer day. The trees were dappled by the sun, the grass was freshly cut, and the lake was a calm, deep blue. Those are the country days I dream about and novelists spend hours trying to describe. The soft smoke from the barbecue; the deep Muskoka chairs; the condensation from a cold bottle of beer dripping from the corners of your mouth; the tall, blue-eyed country boy lounging in your back yard. 

Tyler was an old childhood friend. He was always hanging around our house, sleeping over, and showing up for dinner unannounced. My family always greeted him with loud hellos, hugs, and a big plate of whatever was on the stove. 

I thought he was lovely.

He was the kind of guy who could make you feel at home simply by smiling at you. Loved. Included. Special. None of it was forced. His smiles, his laughter, they were always the realest thing in the room.

The sun was setting and casting its soft glow over the day when my older brother brought out a bottle of vodka. He and his friends stood around the kitchen counter lining up shot glasses in a row. The real adults were all outside not paying attention, but they wouldn’t have cared even if they knew. 

My brother counted the shot glasses on the counter. “Nell, you want one?”

“Sure.”

The word came out of my mouth even before I’d had a chance to think. I’d drunk a little bit of vodka before, mixed with juice, so I honestly didn’t think anything would happen after just one shot.

Turns out I was wrong. And turns out he’d poured me a double. 

My brother handed me a glass of orange juice. 

“You’ll want this after,” he said. 

I raised my shot glass to the ceiling and clutched the juice in my left hand.

I slammed the vodka down like a pro and downed the juice like a good girl. Almost instantly I stumbled back into the fridge. 

“You okay?” my brother asked with a smile. 

I stood up a little straighter.

“Never better.”

I felt taller. My breasts felt bigger. Without looking in the mirror, I could just feel that my hair and makeup were flawless. I licked my lips and looked up at Tyler through heavy eyelids. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and press my lips against his.

But he was on the phone. Talking to his new girlfriend, my brother told me.

Ouch! 

And if you want to find out if she ever gets the boy, you’re going to have to read the book. 

I enjoyed this memoir thoroughly. There are just enough scenes in here that seem familiar, despite the fact that I grew up two generations earlier than Lampert, but also enough scenes that are thoroughly new to me to provide insight into my adult children’s generation. 

An excellent read, flowing enough to devour in a weekend. I highly recommend it. 

Diverse topics, discussed from a woman’s perspective:

Halal Sex: The Intimate Lives of Muslim Women in North America, by Sheima Benembarek.

F Bomb: Dispatches from the War on Feminism, by Lauren McKeon.

Conspiracy of Hope: The Truth About Breast Cancer Screening, by Reneé Pellerin.

Heartbroken: Field Notes on a Constant Condition, by Laura Pratt.

I Don’t Do Disability: And Other Lies I’ve Told Myself, by Adelle Purdham.

The Minister’s Wife: A Memoir of Faith, Doubt, Friendship, Loneliness, Forgiveness, and More … , by Karen Stiller.