Essential Feminist Reads for International Women’s Month

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”

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

Highway of Tears: A Story of Indigenous Women’s Tragedy

Saturday June 21 is National Indigenous Peoples Day in Canada. Although there are other days dedicated to Truth and Reconciliation and Canada’s Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, I can’t let June 21 go by without reflecting on the tragedy of our lost women. I live in Port Coquitlam, BC, where notorious serial killer Robert Pickton was born, raised, and spent several years murdering at least 49 women. Many or most were Indigenous sex workers, their murders undetected by RCMP until they stumbled on a grisly scene when executing a search warrant for illegal firearms on the Pickton family’s pig farm. 

Book cover of 'Highway of Tears' by Jessica McDiarmid, featuring Indigenous art elements and detailing the pursuit of justice for missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls.

All women are subject to violence, largely at the hands of men. While feminism has been bringing attention to the scourge for decades, few inroads have been made into the reality that Indigenous women are three times as likely to be subject to gender-based violence and six times more likely to be murdered than their non-Indigenous sisters. So when I saw that Canadian journalist Jessica McDiarmid (class of 2016) had published Highway of Tears: A True Story of Racism, Indifference and the Pursuit of Justice for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (Penguin Random House, 2019), I bought and read it almost immediately.

“The Highway of Tears is a 725-kilometre stretch of highway in British Columbia,” McDiarmid writes, running approximately from Prince George to Prince Rupert. “And it is a microcosm of a national tragedy—and travesty.” 

She continues: 

I was ten years old the first time I saw Ramona Wilson. A photo of her, smiling, black hair cloaking her left shoulder, was printed on sheets of eight-by-eleven paper and hung up around Smithers, the B.C. town where we both grew up. Over the picture was a banner that read: MISSING. Under it was a description: 16 years old, native, 5 foot 1, 120 pounds, last seen June 11, 1994. The posters plastered telephone poles and gas station doors and grocery story bulletin boards throughout town and the surrounding areas for months. But in April the following year, the posters were taken down. She was gone. 

I would learn later that Ramona wasn’t the only First Nations girl or young woman to vanish from the area … There wasn’t a great fuss about these missing and murdered girls. “Just another native” is how mothers and sisters and aunties describe the pervasive attitude. Police officers gave terrified, grieving families the distinct impression that they didn’t care and didn’t try very hard. Nor did the public rally to the cause in large numbers …

I left northwestern British Columbia in my late teens and never planned to return, aside from the odd week or two to visit family. I reported from across the country and overseas, focusing when I could on human rights abuses and social injustice … Over those years, I watched as women and girls in northwestern B.C. continued to disappear —Nicole Hoar, Tamara Chipman, Aielah Saric-Auger, Bonnie Joseph, Mackie Basil—and long felt that I needed to come home to this story. The first time I spoke with local family members … was in 2009. But it wasn’t for another seven years that circumstances aligned and I returned home to research and write this book. 

In June of 2016, not long after I arrived back in Smithers, I had the honour of walking the Highway of Tears with Brenda Wilson, Ramona’s sister; Angeline Chalifoux, the auntie of fourteen-year-old Aielah Saric-Auger; and Val Bolton, Brenda’s dear friend, along with dozens of family members and supporters who joined them for part of the way. … [We arrived in Prince George on] June 21, National Aboriginal Day, and hundreds of people had turned out … Angeline told Aielah’s story, and then she read to the crowd her favourite quote, from Martin Luther King Jr. “He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it,” she read out. “He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it.” 

This is a thoroughly researched, beautifully written, and compassionate book. It was a finalist for the RBC Taylor Prize and the Hubert Evans Prize and a national bestseller. I encourage you to read it.

Post Script: There is also a Highway of Tears documentary (2015), a documentary called The Pig Farm (2011) about the Pickton murders, and a true crime documentary series called Sasha Reid and The Midnight Order (2024), which focuses in part on the so-called Butcher of Port Coquitlam. 

Other not-so-great moments in Canadian history:

Murder on the Inside: The True Story of the Deadly Riot at Kingston Penitentiary, by Catherine Fogarty.

Acadian Driftwood: One Family and the Great Expulsion, by Tyler LeBlanc.

Cod Collapse: The Rise and Fall of Newfoundland’s Saltwater Cowboys, by Jenn Thornhill Verma.

Fifteen Thousand Pieces: A Medical Examiner’s Journey Through Disaster, by Gina Leola Woolsey.

Reflections on the December 6 Massacre: A Personal Account

I wrote this piece years ago about the impact the December 6 massacre had on my life. It was published in The Ottawa Citizen on December 4, 1993, just four years after the massacre. Although there are a few things I’d change or add, for the most part it still resonates, so I thought I’d share it today on the anniversary of the 1989 massacre of 14 women at École Polytechnique. 

One night a few years ago I lay frightened in bed. Someone in the parking lot was throwing something repeatedly at my window. While my rational side felt it was just a friendly prank, my mother-bear instinct told me to restrain my curious three-year-old from going to look. What if more than a mischievous smile came through the window, but a brick—or worse?

I’d seen a news feature on violence against women that night. Two weeks earlier, I’d wept over the death of my dog, a Doberman that had provided me with comfort and security for nine years.

During that time, I had almost forgotten the menacing possibilities of unexplained creaks and groans in the floor boards of an aging home. For the first time in years, I remembered what it was like to feel unsafe in my own bed. My little girl curled up to me and said, “Mommy, I wish Blue didn’t die. I wish Daddy was home.”

My children’s father is by no means perfect, but like an increasing number of his peers, he has decided that respect for others and ongoing self-examination should be a cornerstone of his life. Here is a man who is light years beyond “helping out.” He does his share. When I wanted a home birth, he trusted my instinct. When he heard a disc jockey make light of “Take Back the Night” activities, he registered his complaint with the station management.

That night, I agreed with my daughter. I wished her Daddy was home.

The wish, and the fear, lasted only moments. The lock rattled. The front door opened. Footsteps mounted the darkened stairs. A mans’ form paused outside my half-open bedroom door before pushing it open.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” my husband whispered. “Didn’t you hear me throwing things at the window?”

It was the night of Dec. 6, the second anniversary of Marc Lepine’s massacre of 14 women, and the first national day of memorial to female victims of male violence.

“I got lots of comments on my white ribbon today,” he said. “The women were pleased to see it. A couple of the guys wished they’d thought of it. I was surprised how many of the kids knew what it meant. Did anyone comment on yours?”

Heart still racing, I replied no, no one had taken notice.

We live in a word in which property ownership is wealth and wealth is power; in which 80 per cent of the work, paid or unpaid, is done by women, while 99 per cent of the property is owned by men; in which men have the ability to exert both fiscal and physical power over women; in which Marc Lepine is far from alone in instilling fear in women because of his choice to abuse that power.

In this work, it is incumbent upon me to understand life through the eyes of men like my father, who, though never abusive, believed and acted as if he was superior to my mother; men like the ones who abused me as a child, an adolescent, and a woman; even men, like my husband, who strive to behave differently, but don’t always know how.

There is no parallel requisite for them to see the world through my eyes.

My husband’s actions that night are illustrative. He requires neither physical, emotional, nor fiscal superiority over me in order to feel masculine. While he wishes that the economic value of children-rearing was recognized, he respects its intrinsic value as much as if I received remuneration. He does not silently tolerate sexist remarks.

On that December evening, this man committed an act of awareness: He wore a white ribbon. Then he came home and committed an act of unawareness.

Acting aware is a good first step. But for my husband to be aware of what it is to be a woman in 20th-century North America, he must find a way to experience the fear that I live with every day. The panic to which I’ve grown accustomed through years of practice. The heart-quickening anxiety I feel when a guy in a muscle car slows down to take a better look, when heavy footsteps quicken behind me on an empty street, when a stranger—or even a neighbour—knocks on my door in the middle of an evening when I’m home alone, not even a dog to keep me company.

As I lay frightened in bed that night a few years ago, I reviewed my choices: Stay put or go look. If I looked, I knew I’d probably see a friendly smile; or I might be confronted by a man reminded by that evening’s newscasts of his anger at women. If I stayed put, I could be teaching fear to my daughter; or I could be assured that I was protecting the two of us from anger that strikes enough ordinary Canadian women to fill a room in the time it takes to watch a Schwarzenegger video.

If I looked, I might later hear a police officer, doctor or judge berating me for taking unnecessary chances, for assuming that my own home could protect me and my young children from harm. If I stayed put, I could hear the voice in my own head chastising me for consenting to live my life in fear.

Being aware of every move, every minute is the reality of the world through women’s eyes. It is a reality I try daily to share with my husband, one he must find a way to learn and share with other men if it is to change in his little girl’s lifetime. It’s the reason that men like him, who start by wearing white ribbons on Dec. 6, must not stop there.

It’s why Dec. 6 will never again be just another day.

Related stories:

Allison Hanes: Reflections on a misogynist massacre at Polytechnique

What’s changed 35 years after the Montreal massacre?

‘Name what things are’: Recognizing ‘femicide’ 35 years after the Montreal massacre

Montreal to shine with 15th beam in tribute to all murdered women on Polytechnique anniversary