racism

Family, Faith, and Basketball in Nav Bhatia’s Memoir, Heart of a Superfan.

/ Lynne Melcombe / Leave a comment

Here we are in basketball season, something I never would have known if I hadn’t read Nav Bhatia’s book (written with Tamara Baluja, class of 2024), The Heart of a Superfan: A Memoir of Grit, Love, Family and Basketball (Doubleday Canada, 2024). I definitely never would have known what a superfan is.

A picture of the author, a South Asian man wearing a turban and a Toronto Raptors t-shirt.

Immigrating to Canada in 1984, Bhatia did as many new Canadians did—he worked hard. Having grown up in a land of plenty, few Canadians understand hardship and hard work in the same way that many new Canadians do. I’m related, through marriage, to a large and loving Sikh family and I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone who began with so little and turned it into so much. And not just in terms of material wealth, but the generosity at the root of the Sikh faith.

Bhatia was no exception to this, but at a certain point he realized he had little going on in his life other than work. His wife lives with rheumatoid arthritis, their daughter has had severe health problems of her own, and in Bhatia’s culture and faith, that made it his responsibility to ensure they had everything they could need or want.

In India, he’d been a cricket fan, but cricket is not a popular sport in Canada. So, when Toronto (he lives in Mississauga) started its own basketball team, the Raptors, Bhatia decided this would be the thing he did for himself. From the beginning, he attended every home game—and gained a reputation as the guy with the turban who sat courtside, hooting and hollering in a way Canada’s more reserved fans do not, blocking cameramen’s lenses and shouting trash talk that truly annoyed opposing players.

Over time, though, as Bhatia showed his loyalty to “his” team and also showed himself to be kind and supportive of all the players as individuals, even when they were traded away from “his” team, he stopped being seen as “that annoying guy.” Instead, he became the fan that every team wishes they had—a superfan, a fan who always showed up and always showed his support, come hell or high water.

But there is much more to Bhatia’s story, a story of a man who has overcome tremendous adversity, from the tragedy of war in his young life to severe personal poverty, from institutionalized unfairness toward people of his faith to the casual daily racism faced by many Canadians who look or sound even a little bit “different” (than what, I always want to ask). From the kind of business problems that kept him awake nights to serious illnesses among those he holds most dear, Bhatia has coped with more hardship than most. Yet the thing people notice about him is that he never stops being kind, gracious, enthusiastic, and optimistic—a man with more integrity in a moment of his life than many people show in their entire lives.

One of the things I enjoyed most about this book is the insertion of wise things Bhatia has learned in the course of his own life. Here are a few of my favourites:

“There is dignity in all types of leadership and all labour—both on the court and off. Don’t get caught up in the status of the job you’re doing. Your approach to the job, the honesty and the hard work you put into it are far more important. This is an especially important lesson for so many immigrant families. We put so much pressure on our kids to become doctors, lawyers or engineers because we want them to be better off financially than we were. We want them to avoid the hardships we faced. But ultimately if they’re happy earning a living and treating others with kindness, we’ve done our jobs as parents and that’s all we can hope for.”

“Don’t let politics or rivalries get in the way of friendship and treating others with respect and compassion. Look at the other person in front of you and search for the commonalities you share. I promise you’ll find some.”

“Pay your employees before the sweat on your arms dries. Take care of the people who take care of you.”

“All children are blessings. When they come into our lives, we’re better for it. They enrich us. They motivate us to do better. It’s our job to create a world they can flourish in.”

“It doesn’t matter how rich you are or what you’ve accomplished in life. In the end, your reputation is built on how you treat others.”

“Reach out to those who could use a helping hand. If you hoard your wealth, you’re only serving yourself. To make change, you must share your blessings.”

Much of the wisdom Bhatia shares resonates with me because it could be my parents saying those things. In superficial ways, they couldn’t be more different: A turbaned, brown-skinned man and a couple of white-skinned, red- and blond-haired British stock. Yet in the ways that matter—dignity, integrity, honesty, empathy, compassion—they are very much alike.

So, I guess what I enjoyed most about Heart of a Superfan is the way it reminded me that the best values in life are those that are truly universal. And Tamara Beluga has guided Nav Bhatia in writing a book that shows these to be the areas in which he clearly excels.

Books I’ve reviewed about being an immigrant in Canada:

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

Wanda’s War: An Untold Story of Nazi Europe, Forced Labour, and a Canadian Immigration Scandal by Marsha Faubert.

The Nail That Sticks Out: Reflections on the Postwar Japanese Canadian Community by Suzanne Elki Yoko Hartmann.

How to Share an Egg: A True Story of Hunger, Love and Plenty by Bonnie Reichert.

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

Exploring Japanese Canadian Identity and History

/ Lynne Melcombe / 2 Comments

As a little girl, I had a pink and turquoise satin kimono. I can’t remember why I had it or where it came from; it likely had something to do with the dance classes I took for several years, and it was likely a gross misrepresentation of what it was meant to be. But until I was much older, it was all I knew of Japanese culture. 

Cover of the book 'The Nail That Sticks Out' featuring the title in bold letters, authors' names, and an image of a girl in traditional attire.

I was likely not alone in that. Yet the Japanese Canadian community has a rich history in Canada, a history that includes far more than the tragic and shameful chapter in Canadian history of the internment of all Japanese Canadian citizens during World War II and the confiscation of their property, for which they only received redress in 1988. 

In The Nail That Sticks Out: Reflections on the Postwar Japanese Canadian Community (Dundurn Press, 2024), Suzanne Elki Yoko Hartmann (class of 2021) combines family history and details of traditional Japanese culture with personal memoir. The result is a compelling account of a community that has endured through racism and hardship but must, Hartmann argues, be defined as far more than that.

There is a touching account of her grandfather, who painted beautiful watercolours but never considered his art good enough for more than scraps of newsprint and saved none of his paintings. There is the story of the cousin who, fearing academic disappointment, gave up all her dance classes—except traditional odori dance because she’d seen it give her grandmother so much joy. 

There are also the notes of persistent and systemic racism: the lack of Asian representation in theatre and film paired with underpayment of Asian actors when they do appear. The thoughtless souls who pop up everywhere with the ridiculous question every biracial person hears far too often: “What are you?” (To which Hartmann flippantly replies, “I’m still human, the last time I checked.”)

But even that history is slowly being erased, Hartmann writes:

From Camille’s [her daughter’s] perspective, most Torontonians “don’t know JCs exist, let alone the historical context” of the relocation after the war and how JCs became resettled … “Our trauma is only amplified. Only internment is ever talked about … “

In many ways this reality is reflected in the larger community. Despite Japanese planting roots in Canada more than a hundred years ago, JC history is slowly being erased. Each generation adds their own perspective on identity and culture. Camille’s generation—the gosei, or fifth generation—are almost entirely biracial. To the untrained eye, kids like Camille or their cousin Samantha easily pass for white. Just as my sister and I loosely resemble our parents, there are glimpses of us within our kids too. Our ethnicity may appear ambiguous, yet we share a rich cultural inheritance. 

Canada’s only Japantown in Vancouver is long gone. But here, in places like Markham’s J-Town and the downtown Toronto strip called Little Tokyo a string of savvy entrepreneurs have stepped in to serve up Japanese-infused shopping experiences Do consumers ever ponder the roots of our community as they stand in line with their matcha lattes and mochi ice cream, hoping to get their pork belly ramen or stamped cheesecake before they sell out? Unlike these stores, which offer the latest trends and tastes of modern-day Japan, other long-established cultural and religious institutions scattered throughout the Greater Toronto Area reflect the perseverance of JCs who were determined to rebuild their lives after the war.

Will anyone remember their struggles or history decades from now? With so few Japanese in Canada, will anyone care? When searching for information, I discovered a dark void, a dearth of evidence, and little mention of our Japanese congregation or the people who dedicated their lives to it. A lost legacy in a disappearing community. 

I sincerely hope not.

For more on family and culture, read:

How to Clean a Fish and other adventures in Portugal, by Esmeralda Cabral

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

How to Share an Egg: A True Story of Hunger, Love, and Plenty, by Bonnie Reichert

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!

Black Cake, Turtle Soup: A Journey Through Racism for Any Month of the Year

/ Lynne Melcombe / Leave a comment

Years ago, I attended a one-day workshop on racism. At one point, the workshop leader asked one person in the group to sit on the hotseat to learn about the experience of racism from a first-person perspective by talking about a time they’d experienced an “ism.” I volunteered.

Book cover for 'Black Cake, Turtle Soup, and other dilemmas' by Gloria Blizzard with a colorful wave pattern background.

I sat in the chair, closed my eyes, and—guided by his questions—recounted my experience with a long-ago boyfriend and his abiding misogyny. As the workshop leader led me slowly through a specific memory, I dove deeper and deeper into an incident that I needed thirty-five years to understand was rape. 

Before I opened my eyes, after I had dissolved into heaving sobs, the leader brought me gently back to the present and translated my pain into a new level of awareness of the parallels—NOT the sameness, but the similarities—between all kinds of “isms” and “phobias,” in this case racism and sexism. 

Not a day has gone by in the thirty-some years since then that I haven’t reflected on what I learned that day. I can’t ever know the pain of the constant “othering” that must constantly wear down the resolve of the strongest of individuals. I can only try to learn more, to understand more about racism when life presents me with an opportunity. 

Gloria Blizzard’s (class of 2021) book of lyric essays, Black Cake, Turtle Soup, and Other Dilemmas (Dundurn Press, 2024) presents such an opportunity. I’d like to say that once I picked it up, I couldn’t put it down, but that’s not true. Rather, after I’d read almost every essay, I needed to put the book down and take some time to process and integrate what I’d just read. Like this passage, from an essay called “The Mathematics of Rage.”

Sitting at Northwood on Bloor Street West over a mocktail and beer, Gillian asks, “Did you notice suddenly becoming invisible to men around age forty?” 

Me: “Nope.”

“Yeah, but you are beautiful.”

“So are you.”

“But I noted it and it was sudden.” Gillian is smart, gorgeous, accomplished, white, a writer, and one of my mentors during my MFA. 

Good for her, I thought, as mostly I found myself far too visible. Still. A constant imposition or a weight lay upon me. Except, that is, when I wanted medical or legal care or psychological or academic care for me or my child—then I became eminently less visible, categorically unseen, a giant perplexity for someone who looked at me blankly, or with sexually laced assumptions or suspicion. 

This is not unlike my trip to a walk-in medical clinic for extreme rib pain that had me hobbled. After an hour wait, I was sent to an examining room. The doctor entered. I sat twisted in pain and pointing at my chest. His face turned to scorn, the absence of concern. “Get out,” he said. “Just, just go,” he said, waving me and my pain away. 

It happens to women of all ages and races, this shifting state of value and visibility. Gillian noted herself as suddenly unseen at a certain age. My Blackness, however, ensures that eyes remain on me. This disappears, however, when I am due for a promotion or in need of care. Then I am fucking invisible.

I did not respond in real time at the clinic. My thoughts were blunted by pain, shock, and confusion. This medical assault surprised and shocked me, and yet it did not surprise me at all. The doctor assumed I was there for opiates. …

The doctor got paid by our state for that visit. For my pain-infused walk to and presence in that clinic, I got nothing. The next day, after another pain-filled night, I took more time off from my job and visited a naturopath who was also a chiropractor. I paid for this visit myself. Upon a physical examination that took approximately two minutes, he determined I had a dislocated rib. “What have you done to yourself?” he asked. “This is a body response. Have you been under extreme stress?” 

“You have no idea,” I responded. 

That was exactly the lesson I learned at that workshop all those years ago: I can try my best to understand every day. And I do try. Every day. It’s literally the least I can do. But no matter what I do or how hard I try, I will never really have any idea. 

That’s the reality that all of us need to integrate into our lives and reflect on every day for the rest of our lives. Adding this excellent book to the library of books and movies I continue to accumulate—not just in the years since that workshop, not just in the months after George Floyd’s murder, not just during Black History Month, but every month of every year I continue to be alive—is one small way to continue trying. 

It’s not enough, of course. I doubt anything will be enough in my lifetime. But to paraphrase a very wise woman I once knew: How do you start fighting racism? You just start.

Other books that deal with racism:

Visiting Africa: A Memoir, by Jesse O’Reilly Conlin

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

Wanda’s War: An Untold Story of Nazi Europe, Forced Labour, and a Canadian Immigration Scandal, by Marsha Faubert

One in Six Million: The Baby by the Roadside and the Man Who Recovered a Holocaust Survivor’s Lost Identity, by Amy Fish