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]]>Since the start of the coronavirus pandemic, harassment and violence towards visible minorities in Canada has increased to double that of the rest of the population. In Vancouver alone—the home of Natural Habitat and vitruvi—anti-Asian hate crimes increased by 717 percent in 2020.
The recent shootings that killed eight people in Atlanta, six of them women of Asian descent, has further brought to light the realities and fears that Asian Canadians and Asian Americans live with every day.
As with any terrible act of hatred, this has forced us to stop and to listen. To learn. To make space for the pain that our Asian community members and friends are feeling. And to act. Here are a few places we are using to continue this work.
There is so much left to be done. But we must support each other, check in on each other, listen to each other, and protect each other.
]]>My curves were something that I had to learn to love. When I was younger, I didn’t understand why I was stuck with the body I was given. As I grew older, though, I began to embrace my shape. Fashion helped me do it.
One of the biggest things I’ve learned is that you should never stick yourself in a box. It can be tough when you feel like everyone is judging you, but the truth is that the only person whose opinion you should truly worry about is your own. Discovering what you like (and don’t like) to wear is half the battle in building your confidence and learning to love your body.
I’ve found that another way to build your self-love is to simply be brave enough to step out of your comfort zone. Take some time to think about the styles that inspire you and the fashion that you’d like to see yourself in. Then, do some research and find clothing companies that sell the styles you’re looking for. This can be tricky, especially for curvy ladies. Thankfully, the clothing industry is finally making large strides in terms of inclusive sizing. When I was younger, the clothing choices for curvy girls like me weren’t as vast as they are now.
Once you’ve found some pieces that you love, you have to find the confidence to wear them (and if you don’t quite have the confidence yet, fake it until you make it!). Remember: if you don’t love your look, no one else will love it, either.
On my own fashion journey, I became fearless in the pursuit of finding my own signature style. I decided I wouldn’t be afraid of bright colors and bold prints just because they showed off my curves. With that in mind, be sure to find clothing that actually fits your shape. Bodies with curves are often told that they need to wear oversized styles to hide their figures, but that’s just not true. Don’t be afraid to wear clothing that hugs your silhouette and accentuates your favorite features.
Interestingly, while I’ve learned to embrace my curves all the time, my confidence reached an all-new high during my pregnancies. Particularly through my third trimesters, I found that I gravitated to more figure-hugging bodysuits and knit dresses to show off my growing baby bump. I also noticed that I received more compliments (both in real life and on social media) during my pregnancies, and I truly believe this is because my confidence radiates during these times in my life. You attract the energy you give off, after all.
If you asked me today if I would change my body for a more “ideal” type, I would laugh. Because I wouldn’t change a thing. My curves are one of the features I now adore the most about myself; they complete who I am. And I learned to love them by dressing them my way.
]]>“I’m hoping the third time’s the charm,” she says via video with a smile. Her third time was definitely the charm. On Nov. 24, Stevens claimed the title—a win for her, and for the legions of young Black girls she hopes to inspire.
“The first time, I didn’t really know what I was doing,” she says of her earlier Miss Universe Canada pageants. “I went back for the second time in 2018, and at that time I decided to just have my natural hair. It was important for me to represent myself authentically; straight hair is beautiful, so are loose curls, but so is my natural hair. I wanted to showcase to other girls that looked like me that you don’t have to comply with societal standards of beauty to be considered beautiful. You can represent yourself and win a beauty pageant. I didn’t do it last time, but I’m hoping I can do it this time.”
With her 2020 win, she offers a message of hope: maybe our beauty standards really are changing for the better. All skin is beautiful. All hair is beautiful. All bodies are beautiful. It’s frustrating that we’re still having to say this, that it isn’t just a given. But Stevens’ win is a step in the right direction—a step that won’t soon be forgotten.
Born in war-torn South Sudan, Stevens was sent to Canada by herself when she was just six years old. She lived with a cousin’s family in Alberta for a few years, but when she was 15 she moved out on her own with the help of a provincial youth transition program. “You have your own apartment, you have an allowance each month and you have to pay your rent from that allowance,” she explains. “I learned a lot.” When she graduated, she became a manager of the program—eager to give back to a community that gave so much to her.
“I’m just so grateful because Canada really took care of me,” Steven says. “Had it not been for Canada and the amazing Canadians that I came across, like my coaches in high school who I still talk to, my principals—I don’t think I’d be who I am or where I am today. It really does take a village, and I think I’m a testament to that.”
Now based in Vancouver, she works as a model and has become increasingly vocal about anti-racism, co-founding Freedom March Vancouver with fellow activist Shamika Mitchell. She hopes to use the pageant to shine a light on this work. “I think that people have a misconception about what pageants are. They actually do empower women,” Stevens asserts. “The platform of Miss Universe Canada would allow me to do the work I’m already doing for Black Lives Matter and all the other causes that I believe in.”
Seeing the throngs of people that showed up to march with her over the summer was powerful. “It gave me a lot of hope,” she says. “At times you feel like you’re fighting alone or that your issues don’t matter to others because they can’t identify for whatever reason, but I feel like we should all be able to identify—because at the end of the day, we are all human.”
Aside from fighting for Black lives around the world, on a more personal level, Stevens is also fighting for her own family. Her mother is currently living in a UN refugee camp in South Sudan, and she is actively trying to get her to Canada; her father and siblings, meanwhile, are in Ethiopia. Most of the money she makes gets sent back to them, leaving little time and space for her own self-care. Resilient and determined, she carries on without an ounce of resentment.
“I learned not to dwell on things that I can’t change. Obviously having no family here is difficult, but me sulking about it is not going to make my situation any better. So that’s why I always consider myself a glass half-full kind of person,” Stevens reflects. “I think positivity does more for you than being negative. It’s been difficult. I always wondered how different my life would be had I lived with my parents, or how different my life would be if I had lived in Africa instead of in Canada. Would I be alive?”
It’s a jarring question, but not ridiculous one. Stevens was dealt a unique and challenging hand, and she’s undoubtedly played it to its full potential—not that her deck is anywhere near empty. And if my 30 minutes chatting with her are any indication, we’ve barely grazed the surface of what she’s capable of.
“A quote by Melinda Gates always stood out to me, and it was: ‘A woman with a voice is by definition a strong woman.’ I really stand by that and I’ve always lived towards those words,” says Stevens. “I always tell people that your voice is the most powerful thing you possess. We all have that power; it’s stronger than any weapon. We just have to use it.”
]]>My counsellor gave me the assignment with the hope that it would help me let go and face the fact that, at least for now, my dad is gone. That we’re estranged.
“Love him, care for him, appreciate him, and learn to have a relationship with him in memory,” she said. “There are blanks—things you may never understand—that you can’t fill in. Until he shows he is ready to make the effort, you have to keep distance.” Deciding to issue that time apart is by far one of the most painful things I’ve ever had to do. How did we get here?
Three years ago, things just started to feel…off. There were fewer calls and fewer visits, until, over time, despite our best efforts, my sister and I felt more like his acquaintances than daughters. Efforts to reconcile were dismissed, and asking for more time together was made to seem ridiculous. The tension pushed us to an ultimatum: family counselling or time apart. We didn’t talk for months, until finally he caved. Together in our sessions, the three of us made a family agreement to move forward—no digging up old conversations, no finger-pointing, and no excuses.
And for a minute, it seemed to work. I thought I got through, that we could reset our expectations around who he was now—and that over time, we could come to a new place in our relationship. Instead, in our last session, he turned the tables and confronted me with a slew of accusations.
That was my limit. The cocktail of anger, frustration, and disbelief I’d been served kept me awake for 48 hours straight. Lethargic and sad, I sent a sharp email to him, outlining my hard boundaries and asking for accountability. “I have every right to place limits on my energy,” I recited to myself as I typed at 2 a.m. But even now, a few months later, it’s hard to not go back to my email and re-read my final line to him—“Any reply, unless it includes an apology, will not be responded to”—and hope that somehow, he’ll care enough to try to work on this again.
The flip side is, I’m no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop. For years my sister and I were stuck in a cycle of seeing him and thinking everything was great, before he’d come back with a statement on how he’d been wronged—perceived slights that stemmed from his inability to communicate in the moment. The okay-not-okay flip-flop created intense anxiety for us, wreaking havoc on our mental and physical health. Cutting ties felt like the only option left.
How that intense grief feels in your body is hard to explain, and I’m sure for everyone it’s different—a mix of loss and relief. In my case, the guttural emptiness left me bewildered, and I tried to evict the feeling from my body through “a good cry” more times than I can count. I didn’t get it. I still don’t get it. I never stopped being his daughter—why did he get to stop being my dad?
In the months that have followed, I’ve ventured on an odyssey of emotions. I’ve felt unlovable. Worthless. Invisible. Angry. Strong. Determined. Exhausted. Fragile. Sick. Abandoned. And the big one: heartbroken. With time, the pain has lessened, but the constant oscillating between grief and hope has been more draining than I ever could have imagined. I’ve tried to throw everything at my unease: acupuncture, massage, counselling, exercise, and even working with a dietician to address the extra weight that I couldn’t seem to drop. Constantly being on edge had knotted my stomach, exhausted my muscles, and made my system hold onto everything, as if I were in survival mode.
I know that my sister and I did everything we could think of within the limits of our health to save the relationship, and eventually, stepping back became an act of self-care. Yet, estrangement is a double-edged sword: knowing we opted out of each others’ lives, regardless of the fact that the decision was made for self-protection, doesn’t make it sting any less.
I hear an echo of “he’s gone” in my head daily. Frequently, I lie awake at night and think of how angry I should be at him—but the hurt lingers more than hate. When I finally close my eyes, what I feel more than anything is loss. I still miss him every day. I still hope for him to be happy every day. And I still love him. Every day.
Trying to write my goodbye letter brought up memories that were meant to be treasured, but now feel impossible to revisit. The hardest are the nights when I remember that as kids, my sister and I would climb into my dad’s bed and listen to him read to us; and when we were old enough, we’d read to him. The Berenstain Bears, the misadventures of Jillian Jiggs, The Balloon Tree, and pretty much everything by Robert Munsch.
Those moments of learning and safety and love feel impossible to let go of. I try every day, but even now, I’m still not ready for the last page. I’m still not ready for The End.
]]>The Indigenous actor from Prince George, B.C. burst onto the silver screen in the acclaimed epic The Revenant, in which she played Leonardo DiCaprio’s wife. Since then, she has made it her mission to tell authentic Indigenous stories, using her platform to showcase the beauty, power, and strength of her people.
Most recently, she does this with elegance as the lead in director Loretta Sarah Todd’s latest film Monkey Beach, based on the celebrated Eden Robinson novel of the same name. Making its world premiere at the 2020 Vancouver International Film Festival, Monkey Beach is a moving allegorical story about a Haisla Nation family in Kitimaat, B.C. both haunted and empowered by the ghosts of its loved ones. Dove shines as Lisamarie, who returns home to reconnect with her kin and uncovers her own power along the way.
Based between Vancouver (the unceded territory of the Squamish, Tsleil-Waututh, and Musqueam nations) and Los Angeles, Dove is also currently in post-production for Kiri and the Dead Girl: her directorial debut. Via video, she discusses Monkey Beach, working with DiCaprio, the importance of Indigenous representation in every aspect of movie-making, and how she keeps herself grounded through it all.
The whole process was totally life-changing, from even reading the script for the first time and just getting chills knowing that this is what I’d been working so hard for. And then to be able to lead my first movie, and have Adam Beach play my uncle and Nathaniel Arcand play my dad—it’s just so cool how it all came together.
This is the closest story to home that I’ve ever told. I’m Secwépemc, I’m from the interior and I grew up in Prince George; in my other roles I’ve played different Indigenous characters, but this is the one that’s physically closest to my own territory, so it felt really meaningful to me. I learned a lot exploring the character of Lisamarie and learning about the Haisla people, and I feel very honoured that they trusted me to tell this story.
When I started this career path, I just wanted to be an actress—I just wanted to play different characters and explore different parts of me. I always felt like acting was a safe space to explore human emotions, and I didn’t realize how much activism it would create for me. When I did The Revenant in 2015, all of a sudden people were asking me my political thoughts and how I stand on certain things, and I thought, “Whoa, I thought I was here just to be an actress.” And at first I wanted to really push away from that and try to steer clear of saying too many things that I didn’t understand yet as a young person. But instead what it did was force me to start coming up with opinions to start standing behind things that I really believe in, and to use my platform for the greater good. So it forced me into activism and speaking up for our people, and I think that that’s a real gift that I didn’t know I would have.
Now as I get older and as I’ve had more experiences in Hollywood and across North America, I’m realizing just how much change I can create with the roles I choose. That’s why Monkey Beach is so important, because people are interested. It is the right time, it’s the right year—there’s just enough uprising and just enough revolution that people will come out of this movie hopefully wanting to learn more about the Indigenous experience and what we’ve been through.
I go about every movie role with first diving into the history—not just what they have been through in their lifetime, but what did that character’s ancestors go through? Because across Turtle Island, across what is now called North America, every nation, every tribe, has had their own battles, has survived generations of trauma and colonization. And each one of those battles and each one of those moments in history that they survived, that shaped that character. So for me it’s really exciting to be finally educating myself, because I didn’t learn any of that stuff in school. Now to be learning about our resilience, it really gives me strength.
Growing up, I didn’t have that sense of pride because it wasn’t taught to me. No one in schools or anyone that I was surrounding myself with made me feel really proud of my heritage, because there was so much racism within the school system—because there’s so much racism in B.C. and in Canada.
We are all unceded here, so learning what that meant and just the strength behind that, all of a sudden I was able to be really proud of being Indigenous. And that’s what something like Monkey Beach can do. The fact that it touches on all these really serious things—there’s a scene where all of a sudden they start mentioning some of the residential school trauma. And you feel it coming, and it creates this anxiety because you know that this is real, and that all of our parents and grandparents and their grandparents have gone through this. So they start touching on it, but then also it brings up the whole controversy within our families of: how much do we keep bringing it up, but also how much do we protect the youth? It’s really interesting that this movie can touch on those things, because that’s how our lives are.
I’d really like to continue doing movies like Monkey Beach that showcase the other side of it: how strong our families really still are, and how no matter what we’ve been through, we still have so much hope.
That was my first big role that I had booked out of acting school, and I couldn’t even believe it —even when I was flying to Argentina to shoot my first scene, I still couldn’t believe it. The whole experience was so surreal. I think it was the first sign that I got saying that I was on the right path and that I should keep doing this, because of the platform it created—because of the hundreds of messages of support I got from Indigenous peoples everywhere supporting me and saying how great it was seeing me at that level. And the platform that it gave me and realizing that this career I chose isn’t just about me, it’s so much more. It’s about showing the world that we are still here.
It was really hopeful for me, because working with Leo, he showed me that no matter what level you get to in your career, no matter what level of fame you get to, you can still be a real person. You can still be compassionate and understanding and care about the earth, care about the people around you, and use your voice for change. I remember having a conversation with him while we were on set and he asked me all about my family, what my people were like, what our traditions were like.
I’ve always worried as a young person and as an Indigenous person: is there space for me in Hollywood? Will I go there and get eaten up or have my values tested? But after meeting him and seeing how he operates, I realized that no matter where my career goes, as long as I stay grounded and remember what my purpose is—and that my purpose is bigger than me—then I will be okay navigating those spaces. And hopefully make more safe space for the next generation of young Indigenous actors to come up, because I think Hollywood really needs us.
Until we can be in the driver’s seat, until we can be sharing our experiences and telling these stories with authentic Indigenous actors, then we’ll never get to the place that we want to. So it’s up to producers and writers to be collaborating with us; we need to be in there, starting in the writers’ room.
If I book a role, then it’s up to me to make sure that I’m representing that nation properly—because the problem is that so many roles from the past are so general. Every single Indigenous nation and tribe is so uniquely different, and the problem is that so far we haven’t been getting that specific. So when I’m in the role, I go, “Okay, I’ve studied these people. What makes them unique? What can I bring to this character to represent them in a good way?” And that’s why Indigenous representation is so important, because if the actor’s not actually Indigenous, then they’re probably not going to fight for those little things.
Every time I get beat down and want to give up, which happens in cycles much more than I’d like to admit, I just remember my purpose and what acting is for me—and for me, it’s being a vessel of change. And it’s creating safe space for the young people coming after me. I try to stay grounded in my territory by visiting home; I try to practise my culture with smudging; I stay connected with my family.
And taking care of my body is number one, because in this day and age there are just so many toxic things out there when it comes to what we’re putting in our bodies. I’m a huge advocate for healthy eating and exercise. Even when I’m extremely busy, even when I’ve been on set for 12 hours, I still move for 30 minutes. Whether it’s going outside for a light walk, a jog, doing yoga, or training in my hotel room, whatever that looks like, it’s 30 minutes no matter what.
I had no idea that this would become such a powerful outlet for myself. It’s healing. With every role I do, with every audition I do, I try to uncover a layer of myself that maybe I’ve hidden to protect myself. And that’s okay—as young people, through the traumas we go through, we need to protect ourselves until we’re strong enough to be able to look at that. So I think that my career now is very much about slowly uncovering those layers in front of the camera: being vulnerable and sharing that with other people, because I believe that the more that I offer, the more people can maybe look at themselves and realize they’re going through some of those same things.
That’s why I think that movie-making, and Monkey Beach, can be such a healing tool for everyone: because it makes us more human and brings that connection between Indigenous people and non-Indigenous people. When they see stories about us that show our true resilience and our true power, rather than all the struggles that we have been though—even though they are there—I think they see our beauty.
Sharing my own vulnerabilities and my own struggles through a character, for me, feels safe. The camera and I have a great relationship; I can do anything in that sense, because I know that it’s through another character. The hardest part is then when you open up those wounds and you open up your heart, and then you step away from the camera.
That’s why everyone needs some type of art, because I think that art is very healing. If we can give ourselves those places to heal, then we can go out and be strong again in the world.
This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.
]]>At the time of this conversation, Until We Are Free: Reflections on Black Lives Matter in Canada (Hudson is a co-editor with Rodney Diverlus and Syrus Marcus Ware), has become a Canadian bestseller. And while Hudson describes Sandy and Nora Talk Politics (the podcast she co-hosts with Nora Loreto) as something that began as “two friends ranting to each other on the weekends,” it has climbed the Canadian news podcast charts. She also co-founded the Canadian chapter of the Black Liberation Collective, helped found the Black Legal Action Centre, and is currently studying law at UCLA. Inspired to use her education to further her impact on the world, Hudson says she is merely pursuing things that feel right to her.
From her home in Los Angeles, she talks about witnessing a shift, remaining hopeful, and the importance of defunding the police.
I do feel optimistic. As an activist, if you don’t feel optimistic, you should probably be in another profession. How could I keep going if I didn’t see possibilities? Recently in Hamilton, Ontario, they voted to eliminate police from their schools after a series of arrests. There are city councils across Canada considering motions to reduce police funding. I have also never seen as many people on the streets protesting as I have in the last three weeks. About 70 Canadian cities have had some form of demonstration or multiple demonstrations, and that inspires me. At the same time, I’m frustrated about the way the government and powers that be often feel it’s enough to kneel at a rally or make a statement when they could be doing so much more.
Activism is one of the most important aspects of this movement, but people see so little of what we do. The protests are on television because they look dynamic on camera; the part nobody sees is all the in-between time when we are researching, writing, teaching, and doing whatever we can to share knowledge. About 95 per cent of activism is a bunch of us nerds talking about how things could be different. Normally, you can lobby and call for changes in a regulated way, but historically speaking, that has rarely worked for Black people. It usually results in a commitment to do a study—we have decades of studies stating that racism is a problem, and recommendations are provided. Those recommendations get put on a shelf and nobody hears about them again. So, if we’re going to be ignored through official channels, then activism is one of the only ways that we can urgently push for change.
We have to be unequivocal and steadfast in the demand to defund the police. It has to happen, or people are going to continue dying at the same levels that they have been. All the attempts at reform or accountability fail. Other options like police body cameras or civilian-led police oversight have been tried and failed. The thing that hasn’t been tried is defunding the police. If we want to prioritize Black and Indigenous lives, this needs to happen.
A central problem in our society is that we have given so many services to the police that would be better addressed by other services. If we have a growing problem with mental health, why are we giving the service to respond to a mental health crisis to the police? So many people who need help experience an escalated use of violence and lethal force. Often the people calling are family members seeking help for a loved one. I can only imagine what it would feel like to be a family member of Chantel Moore or Rodney Levi. These people needed help, but instead they were killed. Part of the reason we cannot create the services we desperately need is that so much money is going to the police. Take away some police funding and create more services for mental health and sexual assault, and get more counsellors and teachers in schools instead of more police.
We have placed so much trust in the police, and this is because the people who have the most power in our society place trust in the police—but those people don’t interact with them on a daily basis, and their experience is much more theoretical. Black people and Indigenous people interact with the police almost daily because they’re patrolling our communities, and we know what their behaviour can be like.
I know some people do feel frustrated by this, but that’s not my tendency. My tendency is to deliver the information, and whether or not someone’s interest is honest or sustained is between that person and their maker. I’m doing my best to get whatever change I can out of people paying attention. I hope that it isn’t just a moment and that this represents a significant shift in how people view their responsibilities, but I will take whatever I can get.
We have to get out of the easy tendency to say we are anti-racist and declare it on social media and end it there, because that is not enough. Everyone hates racism. The difficult work is recognizing where it actually exists and how we are complicit. If you have educated yourself from the Black people who have been doing the work to provide information around defunding the police, it’s your responsibility to educate others and the institutions that you are a part of. That might be the institution of family, a classroom, work, or a religious congregation. People need to engage with their representatives through phone calls, emails, and letters to get that shift happening and donate to organizations that are doing this work. Put some money behind it. Support the impacted families or contribute to bail funds. So many organizations are doing good work, and allies should research this and find one they can support.
Normally, I love to work out every day, and I practice capoeira. I also adore singing and musical theatre. On an average Saturday, I would be singing songs from Rent at the top of my lungs while cleaning the house. But at a heightened time like this, it is an act of self-care for me to engage in this work. I have to keep working because that’s what makes me feel like I have some form of control in order to feel well. Ranting to loved ones is also crucial, and if I wasn’t able to yell about it to someone who understands, that would feel like another loss of control. The last few weeks have been wild because I’ve been so busy, but I can actually see a shift taking place. In a time that’s really intense, I have to keep trying to make an impact. And I’m happy to say that it feels like I have.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
]]>“The assumption was immediately made that it must have come from me because I was the brown girl,” she recalls. “And that was spoken in front of the entire class: ‘It was probably Carmen that brought the lice.’ That kind of stuff was pretty much daily for our community.”
Aguirre and family are Chilean refugees; they came to Canada when she was six years old, though they ended up back in South America five years later. “We couldn’t go back to Chile because we were blacklisted, but we went to Bolivia and Argentina,” she says. “Then when I was 18, I joined the [Chilean] resistance myself until I was about 22, which is when I came back to Canada.”
Since then, Aguirre has dedicated her life to the arts as a playwright, a stage and film actor, and an author. Her main goal? Telling and celebrating the stories of communities that are so rarely seen on the stage and screen. She is the cofounder of the Canadian Latinx Theatre Artist Coalition; the author of books including Something Fierce: Memoirs of a Revolutionary Daughter; and the writer of plays including Chile Con Carne and In A Land Called I Don’t Remember. Most recently, she plays Constanza—a Chilean refugee like herself—in director Carolyn Combs’ film Bella Ciao!, which is airing virtually until July 16, 2020. An ensemble drama, Bella Ciao! explores culture, identity, and belonging among the diverse communities that inhabit East Vancouver’s Commercial Drive.
Over video from her home in Vancouver, Aguirre discusses her time in the Chilean resistance, her experience as a woman of colour in Canadian theatre, and her thoughts on cancel culture.
I mean first of all, just as an actor, it was a great challenge to play this character. And I loved the story that the movie’s telling; I love what it’s trying to do. I love that it’s about working class people, which is rare, I find, on TV and on stage and on film. And that it celebrated these working class people. I liked everything about it; I wanted to work with Carolyn and [writer] Michael [Springate] and the rest of the cast. There was no negative—there were no pros and cons, it was all pros.
It’s always amazing to be part of something so much bigger than yourself, so I’m very very happy that I had that experience when I was young. It’s the single most important thing that I’ve done in my life and that I will probably ever do in my life. It was something that I believed in very deeply and I still believe in, and I would do it all again. To join the Chilean resistance is not a nationalist proposal—you’re fighting for a cause as opposed to a nation. So everything I learned and everything that I did in the Chilean resistance are things that I put into practise as much as I can every day in my life in fighting for other causes that I believe in—whether it’s anti-systemic racism in the theatre community or whatever it may be. So there’s not a lot of words to be able to describe an experience like that, other than: I would do it all again.
The Chilean resistance was not only fighting the dictatorship in Chile, which was an ultra-right-wing dictatorship that installed the neoliberal economy in Chile which is still intact in Chile; [the resistance] was also an anti-capitalist movement, anti-sexist, anti-racist, anti-homophobic, all of those things. So that’s what I mean. I am still a socialist, and so I bring that lens of socialism to everything that I do.
In this current dialogue that has opened up about systemic racism, I think it’s very important to bring forward the context of capitalism. As far as I’m concerned, you cannot fight systemic racism without talking about capitalism, without contextualizing it in terms of the capitalist system that we find ourselves in. We cannot talk about, as far as I’m concerned, inclusion—because that is a word that presupposes that people of colour, that queer people, that quote-unquote marginalized people can somehow be included and celebrated within the capitalist system. And arguably we can be, right? But the term “inclusion” presupposes that the centre is a white, bourgeois straight man, and that we want to be included with him. I prefer the term “intersectionality,” for example. So all of those things that I learned when I was very young in the Chilean resistance, I bring that lens to pretty much everything I do in my life.
First of all, I was raised in a storytelling culture and in a storytelling family. Because I was raised in that culture, for example, I can trace my roots back hundreds of years—just because orally, those stories have been told to me and passed on generation to generation. When I first started going to theatre school 30 years ago, it wasn’t my intention to write my own stories; it was my intention to become a Shakespearean actor. And it was while I was in theatre school that it became very obvious to me that the stories that were being told were basically about white rich people. And that is such a tiny portion of the population. It was important to me to tell the stories that were not about rich white people and that were also unabashedly left-wing, which is what I am.
When I was in theatre school [at Studio 58] and was told as a woman of colour, “You’re really not going to get any work, you should probably go and do something else,” what I immediately thought to myself was, “Well, I’m here to change that.” And one of the ways to change that is to actually create work for people of colour by telling stories about people of colour—unabashedly so and unapologetically so.
In the very early ‘90s, the few plays that were being written about immigrant communities of colour really performed gratitude to the mainstream of Canada and really portrayed the home country as backward. And I, from the very beginning, did the exact opposite. I really celebrated the home culture and the home country, and did not perform gratitude to mainstream Canada.
Oh yeah, I was sat down and told that, which was true—they were right. Because of the systemic racism in the Canadian theatre (which is ongoing, of course, but it’s much better now because of so many of us who fought very hard starting in the ‘90s). But yeah, that was true. There are usually about 50 students in the entire student body in my theatre school, and in 1990 there were a grand total of three of us who were students of colour. Very few students of colour were even graduating at that time, making it through the entire program. I think it was in 1990 or 1991 that, for example, it made headlines when an Asian actor played Juliet in a Carousel Theatre production [of Romeo and Juliet] because it was revolutionary to not have an all-white cast.
So yeah, there was no work. I could provide lists and lists and lists of all the things I’ve been told as to why I didn’t get a part. Everything from, “Sorry, you don’t look like the rest of the family,” to, “Oh, you’re great, I just don’t know where I’ll put you or what I’ll do with you,” to, “It’s very complicated to put a person of colour on stage.” I mean, the list goes on. So when the faculty said that to me, they were right. they were trying to help to say, “The road is going to be extremely challenging for you, so if there’s anything else that you think you want to do with your life, this is the time to do it.”
They were very supportive when I did start writing my own plays; they produced my first play. So they were very supportive. But again their point was, “How badly do you want this? Because you’re going to have to want this very badly because of the racism you’re going to have to endure.” And my position was, “Well, I’m here to change that.” Which is what I’ve tried to do.
I mean I grew up in Canada, so I’ve known systemic racism since I was a child. It was nothing new to me. I come from a Chilean refugee community, and for us it was completely normal for the bus to not stop for you, for people to cross the street when they saw you coming, racial slurs—not to mention all the microaggressions.
So being told that by the faculty was nothing new, it was just like, “Yup, this is what it is to be a Latinx person in North America.” But like I said, in the case of the faculty, it was coming from a place of support. First of all, they tell all the students, “What are you doing here? Get out as fast as possible. It’s 90 per cent rejection; it’s a life, nine times out of 10, of poverty; it’s public humiliation; it’s awful. It has to be your calling—if it’s not your calling, please go and do something else.” So with me it was the added component of, “And you are a woman of colour. The level of racism you will suffer is high.” So what I said to them is, “Well, I can talk to you about that because I’m the person of colour in the room. You have no idea what it is to suffer racism.” It was a 100 per cent white faculty, of course. “So I can tell you about that, you can’t tell me about it. And I’m here to change that.”
I think it’s hard for it to not fade away.
I’m completely against cancel culture, de-platforming, callout culture—I’m completely against all of that. And that’s kind of what’s starting to happen. So what happens then is that a lot of white people become terrified, and they feel that all they can do is just flock around saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” and are too afraid to engage in the discourse—because they’re afraid they’re going to be cancelled if they use the wrong term or if they ask a quote-unquote stupid question. I think it is very unfortunate that is happening, because it doesn’t help anybody or anything.
We need a diversity of perspectives, we need a diversity of opinions. And it’s okay for a white person to ask the wrong question. Or if a white person truly believes that reverse racism exists, why should the knee-jerk reaction be, “Let’s cancel them, de-platform them, and destroy them”? Why don’t we have a dialogue about that? So those are the dangers; that’s why I think it might be over in a month. I think if we didn’t go to these extremes, it could be really ongoing at the forefront of discourse for months and months and years. But because people are now terrified, it might all burn out in a month. I hope not. I hope not.
I think there are some great conversations going on, for sure, and I think there are some real people, certainly in the theatre community, who are really looking at themselves and going: “Okay, I’ve been talking about this for too long, uh, shit—what do I do now? My board is all white, my staff is white, the shows that I produce every year, 90 per cent of them are written by white men and they’re about rich white people. Oh shit, okay. How do I change this now?” So I think people are actually really looking at themselves now and I think that’s great. I just don’t believe that people’s lives need to be destroyed.
I also think it’s very short-sighted because tomorrow it will be you. Tomorrow it will be you. Tomorrow it will move onto another issue and you’ll ask a quote-unquote dumb question on that issue or make a quote-unquote dumb statement on that issue, and then you will be destroyed and cancelled. I guess what I’m trying to say here is: we have to keep our compassion and our empathy.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
]]>Squamish, B.C.-based botanical skincare company Sḵwálwen uses traditional plant knowledge to sustainably harvest local ingredients and craft its natural, organic product line. Included is the gorgeous Tewín'xw Cranberry Rose Antioxidant Serum, made with nourishing oils such as cranberry seed, chamomile, rosehip, blackberry seed, and mandarin. It goes on smooth and gives skin a natural glow.
Cosmetic brand Cheekbone Beauty creates beautiful lipsticks, lip glosses, and face palettes designed with sustainable, vegan formulas. Based in St. Catharines, the company donates 10 per cent of its profits to Shannen’s Dream, an organization advocating for First Nations youth education funding. Cheekbone’s Warrior Women capsule collection of liquid lipsticks is named after influential Indigenous women; we’ve got our eye on the Buffy shade, named for celebrated Cree singer-songwriter Buffy Sainte-Marie.
Based in Vancouver but shipping Canada-wide, Massy Books has an amazing selection of literature that will satisfy any reader’s tastes. From lesser-known authors to the latest best-sellers, it’s a great place to find just about anything on your book list. If you want something that they don’t have readily in store, chances are they can special order it for you.
Toronto-based designer Warren Steven Scott creates stunning wearable art under his eponymous label. His earrings are true beauties, showcasing traditional Indigenous shapes and symbols; the Salish Chandelier earrings are dramatic yet sophisticated, and are made right here in Canada. Timothée Chalamet fans will want to check out this.
Vancouver-based company Sisters Sage creates natural, handcrafted soaps, salves, and bath melts. Using traditional ingredients, the sisters behind the brand craft modern wellness products that pay homage to their heritage. From the Hobiyee Crescent Moon Soap to the Cedar Smudge Spray, Sisters Sage uses self-care to educate consumers on Indigenous plants and practices.
Combining Metis iconography with modern silhouettes, Vancouver-based fashion designer Evan Ducharme creates a timeless wardrobe for the contemporary dresser. The Edna Matriach Dress is one for the books, with hand-embroidered mesh side panels; hand-strung glass bead fringe; ribbed knit shoulder detail; and a centre slit at the back. It's fresh yet familiar, a piece to be worn for all occasions.
Want to read more Indigenous literature but not sure where to start? Subscribe to Raven Reads and receive a curated package of First Nations books and giftwares seasonally, bi-annually, or annually. There’s even a separate box for kids, which is a great way to start having conversations around reconciliation and celebrating Indigenous culture at a young age.
New to the beauty scene is Sohka, a Vancouver-based luxury lashes brand that is already garnering great attention. Find the right lash length and volume for you and you are good to go—no mascara needed. Plus, 10 percent of proceeds go to the Sohka Women Fund Program, which helps Indigenous women-led initiatives.
Enjoy your morning brew with the organic, fair-trade coffee from Birch Bark Coffee Co. From decaf to espresso, you will be able to find the perfect bean for you—and help Indigenous people in the process. For every 100 bags of coffee sold in retail and every 50 sold online, Birch Bark donates one water purification system to an Indigenous family in need.
This Nunavut-based collective of artists and designers offers and array of beautiful goods, from pillowcases and canvas pouches to of-the-moment face masks. Hinaani takes cues from its Arctic landscape to celebrate Inuit culture.
Relax with bath salts, linen sprays, and bath bombs created by this small Ontario-based brand. Roots + Raven promotes wellbeing by using natural ingredients from the earth.
Bacon eaters would be remiss not to try One Arrow Meats, which produces 100% naturally-smoked bacon that is made fresh each week in Burnaby, B.C. With four rubs to choose from—all using local and natural ingredients—it is hard to go wrong.
Bring the Canadian North into your bathroom with these gorgeous artisan soaps from Yukon Soaps Company. Handcrafted and inspired by the land, they will instantly bring a sense of calm.
Up your at-home meals with the handmade hot sauces from Sriracha Revolver. Made in small batches by an Indigenous woman in East Vancouver, this hot sauce comes in fun flavors like Chili Garlic and Beets + Tequila.
White Otter Design Co creates stunning beadwork on earrings, pendants, and more. Act fast when you see something you like, as these products are handmade and do not last long.
The saying “put your money where your mouth is” might be overused, but it rings true. There are many ways to show support for the communities that matter to you.
]]>Mackenzie Davis believes this to her core. The actress—known for her roles in shows like Black Mirror and Halt and Catch Fire, as well as in films including Blade Runner 2049 and Terminator: Dark Fate—has used education as a tool for her own betterment since she was young. And her belief in its importance, especially for young girls in developing countries where access to school varies greatly, is what prompted her to take on an ambassador role with Vancouver-based charity One Girl Can.
“On a very basic level, it’s a human right that girls and boys should have access to opportunities for education,” she says via phone from her home in Los Angeles. “There are inequalities all across the world, but basic equality would be having access to the same opportunities. And I think correcting gender inequality and representation in business, in government, in medicine—in every single field—will lead to innovative approaches to old problems.”
Born and raised in Vancouver, Davis is the daughter of Lotte Davis, who founded One Girl Can in 2008 in order to build schools and provide education opportunities and mentorship to underserved girls in Kenya and Uganda. And though Davis has supported her mother’s charity since the beginning by sponsoring girls and travelling to Africa, she decided more recently to take on a larger ambassador role; that included a trip to Kenya in September 2019, which opened her eyes to the true depth and breadth of the non-profit’s profound impact.
“Going to Kenya with them was amazing because I got to see how the whole thing operated,” she reflects. “We were talking to headmistresses and finding out what’s working and what’s not working, and how can we help more? It’s really taking a granular approach to the problems, and not coming in with answers but just questions: ‘What can we do to help the girls in the program?’”
Something that sets One Girl Can apart from other organizations is its truly holistic approach to learning. That means aside from building schools and offering scholarships, the charity provides mentorship and workshops, and really invests in each individual girl by understanding her unique needs and providing support every step of the way. “It’s really similar to the way my mom and dad approached me and my sister in school,” Davis says. “Combing through report cards: ‘Your grades dropped a bit here, what do you think happened? What can we do to help?’ It’s not this abstract, faraway thing. People are charting their progress and investing in them.”
There is profound power in knowing that someone believes in you. For these girls, the continued support of One Girl Can—which is hosting its annual fundraising gala digitally this year, on June 4, 2020—has allowed them to find incredible inner confidence and remain focused on their goals. Davis has been able to witness this shift firsthand; when she made a trip to Kenya a few years ago, the girls she met were shy and timid. “Then I went and visited their school in September last year—two years from the time I first met them—and they had blossomed into women,” she recalls. “They were gregarious and outgoing; they couldn’t wait to tell me about their studies, what they wanted to be.” One girl, Pauline (described by Davis as having a voice as good as Rihanna’s), sang Davis a song in the middle of the school cafeteria.
“They were excited to be learning, excited to be dreaming about the future. You just see what a network of support and belief and commitment can do to a person’s life when they don’t feel alone or burdened by the impossibility of dreaming of a life outside [their current situation],” she says. “I think that individual experience really reconfirmed my belief in education and in a community that supports women.”
Davis’ own learning path took her to McGill University in Montreal, where she received a degree in English literature with a minor in women’s studies. That time was incredibly formative for her, even though she wasn’t studying acting.
“My career is not one that really requires a degree or any education specifically, but I find that the process of having gone through university, and being made to think in a field that I don’t work in and really pursuing that, made me so confident in my mind and my ability to process thoughts independently,” she says. “There’s just no world in which education doesn’t help enrich your life. And it doesn’t have to be higher education—that’s not possible for everyone—but I think access to school and to people who pushed me and made me think harder has made my life so rich. And I really think everybody deserves those same opportunities.”
At the end of the day, that’s truly what it’s all about: giving everyone a fighting chance to better themselves and better the world. “I don’t believe in any hierarchy of the sexes, but I do believe if you invest in new voices, they’re going to bring a new point of view,” asserts Davis. “I think educating girls, investing girls, supporting girls to push forward in fields they’ve been excluded from will benefit all of us. We’re investing in our own future.”]]>At a Vancouver bus stop during rush-hour on what she describes as a “very cold, very wet, and rainy day,” Canadian filmmaker Elle-Màijà Tailfeathers encountered a young Indigenous woman—pregnant, barefoot, with no jacket on.
The woman had just fled an assault by her boyfriend and was bleeding. Spotting a Car2Go, Tailfeathers hastily booked it through the app on her phone and the two of them hopped in. But they had nowhere secure to go—the young woman didn’t want to go to the police or a hospital, and all the shelters they called were full. So the pair spent the evening safeguarded in Tailfeathers’ home. A woman’s shelter eventually phoned back with urgency to its offer: they had to take the open bed immediately or it would be given away. The woman decided to take it.
That was the last time the two of them ever saw each other, but the experience stuck with the filmmaker. Every time she passed the bus stop, the memory of the girl standing drenched in the rain would surface in her mind.
That encounter in the Hastings-Sunrise neighbourhood of East Vancouver, which was Tailfeathers’ home for many years, was eventually turned into a critically-acclaimed film by Tailfeathers and screenwriter Kathleen Hepburn. Titled The Body Remembers When The World Broke Open, the film examines the aftermath of domestic violence and the complicated questions that arise between two contrasting strangers. After premiering at the 2019 Berlin Film Festival, the film went on to nab six Canadian Screen Award 2020 nominations, including Best Motion Picture. It also earned American distribution through Array, the independent distribution company founded by fellow celebrated filmmaker Ava DuVernay.
On an unusually windy Saturday in Brooklyn, where Tailfeathers now lives, the Alberta-born filmmaker meets for tea at The William Vale hotel shortly before jetting off to lower Manhattan for a screening of The Body Remembers at the National Museum of the American Indian.
“Being someone who was older, and whose life was more stable, I thought I had the capacity to help this young woman—but I very quickly realized that I was naive to the reality of women living with domestic violence,” Tailfeathers says. “She was not in the position financially—if she left him—to be able to find her own place, especially in an unaffordable city like Vancouver.”
Recently, the Kainai First Nation filmmaker and actor, who also stars as the lead in The Body Remembers, learned that Canadian shelters turn away women and children roughly 19,000 times each month—something she feels deserves more attention. “Women need a safe place to stay,” she says, “but the system is completely overburdened and underfunded.”
Despite dealing with difficult subject matter, the film has had a positive effect on many of the women who have since reached out to Tailfeathers and Hepburn. “It’s such a specific story about two Indigenous women in Vancouver, but it’s turned out to be something that people can relate to on a universal level,” Tailfeathers shares. “And that’s been a really wonderful experience: being able to reach women all over the world and to know that this story we’ve put on screen was cathartic for them. They found their voices and their story, in some way, represented on screen—and I think that’s so important.”
]]>Ivory is the founder of the body: a home for love, a non-profit organization that offers support, education, and community for Black women who have experienced sexual trauma. Centred around the idea of healing through joy, the body uses in-person events as well as art, design, comfort, and wellness practices to shift the narrative around how Black women understand and work through their pain.
“I had a very traumatic childhood growing up,” says Ivory, speaking at the body’s in-person fundraising event dubbed My Body My Home. “And I try through my creativity to prevent other women from feeling the way I felt or enduring some of the self-esteem issues I used to have. So creating this is just a form of ministry for me. That is the best way for me to describe it: it is my ministry.” Started in 2018 with a $20,000 VSCOvoices grant (Ivory was the first Black woman to be awarded it), the body has grown immensely since then, to now employing a team of 10 passionate and creative women. Held at Lunya in Santa Monica, the My Body My Home event featured a panel of women talking about healing rituals; a sound bath and meditation session; sips from Usual Wines; facials from Youth to the People; reading material from The Free Black Women’s Library; and a custom scent by vitruvi.
The afternoon also marked a special collaboration with jewellery brand GLDN, which created a collection of necklaces, bracelets, and rings featuring art drawn by Ivory and words of positive affirmation. The event championed the idea that Black women can—and should—reclaim their bodies, and also raised money for the body’s future programming (donations can still be made here). The result? A room in which you could truly feel the energy, the love, the magic.
“This is an affirmation to Black women: you are worthy of everything you desire,” Ivory tells the crowd. “We are worthy of love, we are worthy of joy, we’re worthy of dreaming without a ceiling, we’re worthy of the support we need to actualize our visions. You so deserve it, and I’m going to do everything in my power, along with my team, to make sure we bring all of this into fruition.”
]]>“I’m dyslexic with numbers and I still felt very drawn and pulled to numerology,” she says over warm drinks at Buro cafe in downtown Vancouver. “I was so pulled to the numbers, I can’t even explain it. I told people before, ‘I hate numbers, I’ll never work with numbers; I don’t want any job that has to do with numbers ever.’ And now I’m a numerologist.”
Numerology is an ancient philosophy that uses math to draw links between letters and numbers, discerning divine meaning from their connections. It can be traced back to countries including Egypt, China, and Greece, and as such there are different types practiced in different places; the Pythagorean method is one of modern-day’s most common forms, using the calculated numbers of a person’s first name, birth day, and birth month to unearth personality traits, triggers, even suggested career paths. It’s also the type that Town, who works all around the Lower Mainland, practices.
“To me it’s part science and part intuition,” explains Town, who has done readings for employees at companies including Aritzia and Hudson’s Bay. “It’s based on mathematics; it’s a Pythagorean theory and gives energy to the numbers. So if you met someone and their name’s Joey, it’s going to be totally different energy than if you meet someone and their name is Harrison, for example. You’ll relate differently with those people.”
Similar to the case with tarot cards or palm readings, customers go to Town for a number of reasons—from feeling unsure about a new partner, to needing advice on a big life choice, to simply feeling stuck and in need of clarity. Using the numbers and each one’s corresponding elemental sign (air, fire, water), Town provides guidance based on a person’s inherent disposition—for example, she says that water signs generally like structured, methodical jobs, and can advise on career options if a water client is unhappy at work.
“It’s amazing what comes up,” she says of the readings. “I bring people to tears all the time. It’s one of the only careers, probably, where you can make people cry and get paid well.”
Jokes (and tears) aside, Town says the main purpose of her work is not to predict people’s fates, but rather to help them realize that they are in control. “A lot of people come with the idea of, ‘Tell me the future, tell me what’s going to happen for me or to me,’” she says. “And I think one of the things that always comes up with readings is when they leave, they realize they have the power to change their own destiny.”
]]>Fast-forward a few years, and the 24-year-old entrepreneur is now a young mother with a henna empire. Munafer is the only internationally-certified natural henna artist in Dubai; she’s worked with Fendi, The Dubai Mall, and Alice + Olivia; taught 200 students worldwide; and founded sister brand Le Inka for organic, unisex temporary tattoos. In-person at the Jumeirah Zabeel Saray hotel in Dubai and then later via phone, she discusses her work and what it means to be a female founder.
I have always had the ambition and passion to achieve big things in life. Among the men who expect women to just babysit and look after the house, I am super blessed to have my hubby who pushes me day in and day out, and motivates me when I am stressed with a never-give-up spirit. I believe that every individual is talented in their own ways, however there is always a person in your life who will identify that talent and push you to attain greater heights. That person for me is my husband. I thank God for making him my life partner.
Soon after I moved to Dubai, I came across lots of salons using chemically-fabricated henna for their clients. They would add unsafe hidden ingredients such as gasoline, kerosene, paint thinner, benzene, and PPD (paraphenylenediamine) to make the henna develop colour quicker and darker. PPD in particular can scar you for life, but there was no other alternative for black henna.
The demand for black henna made me think deeply, and in my research I discovered an organic fruit called genipa Americana (also known as jagua). It took us two years of formulation and a series of comprehensive certified lab tests before we launched. Le Inka is the only product of its kind approved by the Dubai Municipality. It works like henna but rather than brown, Le Inka gives a black to dark blue colour. It looks and feels like a real tattoo and lasts one to three weeks. Unlike other artificial temporary versions of sticker tattoos, which sit on top of the skin, Le Inka’s organic formula sinks into the first layer of the skin and then fades as your skin naturally regenerates. There’s no lifetime commitment, no pain, and no needles. Unlike henna which is restricted to women, with Le Inka we have seen an equal split of interest between men and women.
It was a dream to be able to use my talent to contribute to society. Ever since I had my baby girl, I felt extremely blessed and wanted to give back to the world in some way. The only way I could think of was to do what I am good at, which is creating henna designs. For cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy, losing their hair can be an extremely difficult and upsetting consequence. This is a free service that I provide to empower the survivors and make them feel comfortable in their own bodies. I have offered henna crown services for several survivors, however not everyone wishes to share their story in public, so I keep them confidential. My dream is to build awareness about henna crowns and do it free across the world wherever I go.
Planning and time management is the key. I ensure that my time for my daughter is never compromised; I usually have schedules prepared two weeks ahead for henna services and henna classes. Having said that, with an infant you must expect the unexpected, but I am so lucky to have my husband who is extremely supportive of me. He would take care of the baby when he is off work or make necessary arrangements for a caretaker. We are both extremely hard-working. Our values in life are: work hard, share love towards people, have fun, and travel around.
I hope to establish my private henna institute, which can accommodate more henna students in one class. In addition to that, I would love to have done free henna crowns for at least 100 cancer patients by the end of 2020.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
]]>It’s something Emma Hansen has been grappling with since April 2015, when she lost her first child, Reid. He was born still, caused by an undetected true knot in his umbilical cord, just one day before his due date.
Grief isn’t linear, nor is it cyclical. It’s confusing, and messy, and really, really hard. For Hansen, processing her loss and the feelings that came with it was done through writing—at first just for herself, but soon after for her blog.
“I started writing and shaping my own grief experience through what I was learning, what I felt, what I knew to be true, and what I did not see anywhere else,” she says over a warm beverage at Pallet Coffee Roasters in downtown Vancouver. “I say he was born still but still born. It’s a birth story and for me personally, that was my experience, so I felt like just because he died didn’t mean I couldn’t share it.”
It was cathartic to write down what she was feeling, and it was cathartic to put it out there in the world; she found herself sharing things that she couldn’t say out loud, which in turn helped her friends and family understand what she was going through. And even beyond her immediate support circle, a community of strangers began to build around her.
“I think that’s one of the most incredible ways the internet and social media can be used, is to make the world smaller,” she says. “You can connect a lot easier on those shared experiences.” Stories from women or couples who had gone through something similar started to flow in, adding another layer to her healing. She and her husband had felt so alone when Reid died, but now there was this whole network of other people who could relate to and help the navigate their pain.
In the years since Reid’s death, Hansen has continued to share personal stories (along with lifestyle tips and interviews) on her blog, and has even written a memoir about her experience, which comes out in 2020 with Greystone Books. It outlines her journey with Reid as well as with her second child, Everett, who was born in 2016. Pregnant again at the time of this interview, she is now the proud mother of a third son, named Atticus.
Motherhood has changed her “in every way. In the best ways, really,” says Hansen, who lives in a Greater Vancouver suburb with her growing family. “I think it was in motherhood when everything that was self-care related became so much more important: doing all these things weren’t just for me, they were for the baby I was growing or the baby I was caring for after they were born. Self-care can be personal or selfish and that’s absolutely necessary, but it’s different when you do it for somebody else. And I think that really helped me make that switch, that when I’m caring for myself it’s also helping the people that I love in my life.”
Hansen, whose father is prominent athlete and disability activist Rick Hansen, first started exploring self-care out of necessity when she was working as a professional model. Living in cosmopolitan cities like New York, Paris, and Sydney, she learned to take care of herself because her body was her livelihood. But over time, self-care blossomed into an important part of her daily vernacular, both in terms of physical and mental wellness. “The biggest thing is being able to listen to what you need on that full-spectrum level—so body, mind, spirit,” she explains. Some days that might mean a high-intensity interval training session, and others it might mean yin yoga in the living room.
She also prioritizes her quiet morning routine, whether that be taking a few moments to sip coffee alone or jotting down something she’s grateful for in her journal. Because despite all of the heartbreak she’s experienced thus far in her life, she knows she’s got a lot to appreciate.
“It’s been an unexpected journey. I’ve learned a lot through it,” Hansen says. “I think when I look back on it, I would still have my first son even knowing the outcome. Being able to admit that doesn’t make it easy; it’s being grateful for the experiences I’ve had and the people in my life that are here and that are no longer here.”
]]>Shaughnessy Otsuji is known around the world for her incredibly detailed and lifelike eyebrow tattooing (called microblading) work. In the past few weeks, she’s had clients fly to her Langley, British Columbia-based Studio Sashiko from South Sudan, New Zealand, and Sweden; eyebrow appointments are so sought-after that she releases them just once a month or so in advance, only for them to fill up in five minutes flat. But beyond the brows, she’s also discovered that her talent can be used to empower other women through paramedical work: recreating brows on people who’ve lost them to chemotherapy or alopecia, and redrawing nipples and areolas after a mastectomy.
“With alopecia and breast cancer, you’re losing a feature you would naturally have, and you look in the mirror and get that feeling that ‘this is not me,’” says Otsuji at her studio. “It happens so fast for a lot of people, so they’re still in shock. Trying to restore that feature is a really small thing—it just takes a couple of hours to put it back on—but it has such an enormous impact emotionally. People will tell me that they get out of the shower, see themselves in the mirror, and think to themselves, ‘This is what I’m supposed to look like.’”
Otsuji knew she wanted to be an artist when she was a small child, sketching constantly and focusing especially on faces and their details. While studying at Vancouver’s Emily Carr University of Art + Design, she gravitated towards portraiture, then got a part-time job in a tattoo studio. Women would sometimes ask about permanent makeup, but were intimidated by the dark and stereotypically masculine atmosphere of the space. Eventually, Otsuji took a basic course and began to develop her own technique, opening Studio Sashiko with husband Kyle in 2015. “We’ve got blankets, we offer tea,” she says. “We want it to be slightly more of a spa experience than a tattoo one.”
Her first few customers were cosmetic, but paramedical clients soon arrived. “Within a few weeks I had a client with alopecia. Once I started to get more paramedical clients, it made me so much more passionate. It’s so much more rewarding,” Otsuji says. “Clients will often cry at the end of a session and give me a big hug. I realized I’d like to focus on this, specialize in this, and prioritize it over everything, if I can.”
Over the past few years, she’s become increasingly good at understanding the nuances of cancer treatment and recovery, schooled mainly by her clients. “Scarring after mastectomy is one of the biggest challenges, because you don’t know how it’s going to heal and you have to work the skin differently,” she says. “Maybe one side had radiation and the other didn’t; there might be a blood-flow issue on one side. Generally I recommend waiting at least six months after the final surgery for areola tattooing, and we’ll always start with a consultation—if they’re comfortable sending photos over email, I can judge if they’re ready or not.” Nipple tattooing doesn’t use the same appointment system as brows; instead, Otsuji books these via email and fits people in as soon as possible.
Creating eyebrows from scratch is a sheer joy. “It’s really fun for me; I love that blank canvas. To me, the ‘perfect’ eyebrow will not look real. I prefer imperfection: brows that are a little more brushed and crazy, going in different directions,” she admits. “It’s about balance; if someone has one eye that’s slightly bigger than the other, I might adjust the brows, or if their nose is tilted, I might bring one brow in slightly to offset that.”
Her big hope is that through her work, she can help people feel happy with their faces and bodies again, whether through the Nips n Sips mug she designed that shows all boobs are normal, or through her tattooing.
A serial entrepreneur, Otsuji is fizzing with even more ideas, too. Before founding Studio Sashiko, she and Kyle had a successful streetwear line, and she’s just putting the finishing touches on Pinkavo Cafe, a coffee shop beside the studio that will cater to the international clientele she draws to Langley. And there’s more excitement coming up: crossing her fingers, Otsuji reveals that in 2020, she and Kyle are hoping to open a branch of Studio Sashiko in Los Angeles.
She’s also considering starting a website or podcast where she can share some of the knowledge she’s gleaned about cancer treatment—for example, whether it’s necessary to have radiation tattoos during treatment (it’s not), or what kind of nipple tattooing provincial insurance will cover (none). “In the medical world, there’s sometimes the attitude of, ‘Let’s get rid of the cancer, put you back together as best we can, and that’s that,’” Otsuji says. “Sometimes I see people long after their mastectomy and they tell me they had given up and believed they didn’t want to feel sexual or feminine anymore, then someone tells them to look at my work. When they visit me, they always say they wish they had done this years before.” The road to recovery is anything but straightforward, but Otsuji is doing her part to help survivors feel some semblance of normal again, and to feel good in their skin—and that’s a sentiment you can tattoo in permanent ink.
]]>Kelly’s chills, excitement, and passion aren’t just palpable, they’re transferable to whoever he comes in contact with. He knows the staff at this hip vegan restaurant; he’d rather share dishes than divide the table. This genuine care is present in every aspect of Sigil Scent—a high-quality line of 100 per cent natural, genderless fragrances that Kelly founded in 2015 and relaunched in 2019.
“With the first iteration of the brand I was a bit more, perhaps, afraid to put all of my own identity and vision into the world,” he says. “Maybe it was out of fear of being too narrow—or not as broadly appealing—but I don’t really fucking care anymore! This is who I am, and the people that get it and connect to it will have a much more deep and meaningful experience in the brand. It won’t just be about the product; it will be about how they see themselves in the brand and what it stands for.”
At this point, connecting with Sigil is connecting directly with Kelly. The self-taught perfumer is still pouring and aging the batches himself in a Koreatown loft. Every bottle of Solutio, Amor Fati, Anima Mundi, and Prima Materia (his best-seller) has gone through his hands.
However, with the high demand for his earthy and ethereal fragrances, he’s already thinking about expansion. “As I’m scaling, it gets really tricky because one order now could totally deplete my inventory of juice. I’m kind of just taking every day step by step,” he says. He’s currently producing 640 units every three to four weeks. “That’s insane! I haven’t actually considered that math in a minute. I should just stop for a moment and be like, ‘Holy shit, that’s wild,’” Kelly says, laughing. He’s been so head-down in the day-to-day that he hasn’t taken a moment to appreciate his progress. “In the old branding,” he remembers, “I was maybe selling that much in a year.”
After a massive rebrand of packaging and marketing of the four scents (four feels like a full collection; it’s substantive more so than three, but five starts to feel overwhelming if you’re smelling them all), Kelly is ready to push the power of his brand further. “I think we’re taking [the fragrance world into the future] with the imagery that we’re creating and the voice that we’re adding into the brand identity as it’s represented in the market,” he says. Part of this brand identity is Sigil Scent’s interview series that talks to influential people about identity within each subject’s scent profile. “It’s about who they are. The pronouns piece I think is so important just to create awareness for this language that is still evolving culturally,” he says, referring to how he asks each subject for their preferred gender pronouns. “And that’s a huge win. If someone reads that and they’re like, ‘Oh, what is this?’ or they dive in a little bit more or they even see it and appreciate it, that is already understanding it.”
Kelly’s goal above all is to represent more than just what the beauty and scent industry has provided the public. “I think my perfumes are a little more experimental,” he offers. “There’s something for everyone, but there are some adventurous, unexpected palettes in one or two of them.” The inclusive concept of “for everyone” is true to the core of Sigil in terms of fragrance identity and personal identity—and 2020 is going to be even stronger for both the brand and Kelly.
“More inclusive, more representation,” he says with confidence, when prodded about the future. “I think we’ve seen enough of shirtless muscle-men in the desert. I think that’s dead, and we need to have more diversity, more true emotional experiences represented, and just more storytelling. I mean, fragrance has so much capacity to take people places and to evoke deep sensations more so than just, ‘Oh, that guy’s hot,’ you know? I think we need to take people farther, faster. Maybe outer space. I don’t know. Maybe an outer space fragrance or something.”
]]>We sit in a quiet corner and begin chatting over tea when van Lierop brings out her cards and asks if I would like to pull one. “The reason why I believe in cards so much is because you picked a card blindly just now, and I believe that another intelligence takes over—you can call it subconscious or intuition, or some people call it the heart—and that is where the magic starts for me,” she says. As our conversation unfolds, van Lierop is refreshingly candid about how her company was born out of a challenging place of personal transition and out of a need to create something that could support her in putting her own growth into practice.
“It’s important to connect people to their inner compass,” she says. “There’s so much going on right now in the wellness industry, and I don’t believe in directing people to be a certain way. To me it’s finding your own way of what works for you.” It is clear that her cards are designed to do just that, acting as a mirror for self reflection, and offering messages of support in a way that empowers us to remember that the answers we are searching for reside inside of each of us.
She also shares the subtle yet powerful shift she experienced within herself that changed her way of thinking from making decisions based on outward ideas of how she thought her life should look, to turning inward and honouring her truth. You won’t find a typical long list of wellness rituals by this spiritual motivator and entrepreneur; instead, van Lierop talks about her simple, down-to-earth approach of nurturing herself by giving herself time to rest and get inspired in her own way. Thus she embodies the very same principles that she built her company around: trusting your intuition and embracing your individuality.
I went to so many retreats, read so many books; I could have given lectures on “living in the now” and “not identifying with your thoughts and emotions,” but I was not living it and I was aware of that. I was ill, I had really bad insomnia, and I couldn’t even go to yoga or meditate anymore because my immune system and nervous system were in such bad condition. I needed a ritual, so I started using [pre-existing] cards every day and I was so amazed by how the cards knew where I was at in life. I saw that all the intentions that I had in terms of personal development were happening. I knew that I didn’t want to write a book or write trainings or online courses, so I asked the universe to give me something conceptual that I could work with. And when I was analyzing cards after a few weeks I realized, of course, it’s time for more stylish cards. It really felt like an epiphany.
And that is why I know that this is the right path for me: because I did not force anything, and the words came to me easily. After a while I was ready to find a designer, and we worked together on the images, which were really a co-creation.
I noticed that I was hiding all the spiritual cards in my house because they weren’t my style, so I wanted to make a deck that would look really nice on a coffee table. I chose natural colours, and there is always one colour that is dominant and that is related to one of the chakras. It’s intuitive artwork, and people interpret different things than what we see as creators.
If you are new to using the cards, I recommend making it into a ritual. That’s how I started off: by drawing cards every day. I go through phases where I use them in the morning as a ritual, but there are also times when I only use them for specific questions; for example, I will use them when I’m on my way out the door to an important meeting to get some inspiration or some words that may help me. I like to go deep and take the opportunity to open up a blind spot. The cards can give you trust, confirmation, inspiration, and so much more.
I’m totally intuitive. I make every decision for the company (collaborating with people, hiring people) with my gut. And I hope that I can be an example for others as an entrepreneur, too, because it doesn’t have to be all about money, or exit strategies; if you really like what you do, there is no point in selling it. I have so many friends in tech that are always talking about selling their company and I’m like, “Go find and do what you love, and then there would be no rush to sell it.” Because I enjoy being with this.
To me it’s finding your own way of what works for you. I don’t do yoga anymore, I don’t meditate a lot, but if I need it I will…in some periods of life I do it, some I don’t. I really like to go to the movies, that is what I do three to four times a week by myself. It’s really important to me to take a break and recharge myself—not when it’s too late, but before it’s too late. For example, I’ve had a really busy couple of weeks, but I took the last three nights to go home before 5pm to start Netflix-ing with chocolate. If I have a busy day today I’ll arrange my schedule to take the morning off tomorrow.
For me it has to do with living your own life. I think I was living this picture-perfect life on the outside, but after my breakdown, so to say, I started living from the inside and that’s what makes my life now so valuable and magical—because it’s my life. It’s no longer society’s life, my parents’ life, or my ex-boyfriend’s life. It’s authentic. Being well is being yourself.
They give guidance for all the relationships that we have in our lives—with your romantic partner, your friends, your child, your parents, your boss. Yesterday we did readings at goop.
My own love life was the inspiration for it. Love is both my weak point and my strength; if life wants to teach me, it is in love where it can teach me the most. Creating this deck was not easy, because I was working with the cards and went through a lot of processes with them. After a while I joked to my team, “We really have to finish creating these cards this week because I cannot handle any more [romantic] issues.” My editor knew all about my love life. Now I can laugh about it, but there was a time when it really felt like too much.
Just before the launch, I had a moment where I was lying in bed and I realized how many relationships can be saved with these cards, or consciously uncoupled, or people that could be brought closer together on different levels. That was a really beautiful moment for me.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
]]>It all started around 2015, when she was happily running her vintage-inspired graphic t-shirt brand Mate. One weekend, she started researching what her company’s production was doing to the planet—and like a fireworks show, lightbulbs started going off. Because her designs were being made in her home of Los Angeles, she was able to see firsthand how much waste goes into the creation of even a single shirt. “You’re seeing what’s going on in the factories, you’re seeing what’s happening in the dye house—and so I sat back and was like, ‘What am I doing?’” she recalls over drinks at The Rose cafe in Venice. “I started listening to a lot of podcasts, reading books, and it all just sort of hit me: ‘This is not really sitting right with me what we’re doing. What can we do?’” From there, her concept of Dress Clean was born.
Today, Mate is a brand of ethical, sustainably-made basics that use soothing, neutral colours and natural, organic textiles. From t-shirts to sleepwear, it’s all about providing women with their garment essentials—ones that don’t sacrifice style, health, or planet. “We really don’t want to be a seasonal company, we don’t want to be trend-based; we really want these pieces to be something that a woman can have for years and years,” O’Connell Carr says. “Because that’s truly, at the end of the day, the most sustainable thing that you can do: wear your clothes over and over again.”
It’s funny because I don’t really consider myself that into fashion. I don’t love trends and I don’t really pay attention to that—what I love is the process of making really good-quality garments. So to me it’s more about the relationships (what we’re doing with production factories and the colours that we choose and all of that) versus fashion.
It’s definitely a lot cheaper and definitely a lot more accessible. But I felt like once I learned all of these things around fabrics, for example, in terms of synthetics—there are over 8,000 chemicals that are involved in manufacturing. There are things that we were doing in the early days, such as let’s say, burnout t-shirts: those are really cool, they look like vintage, but they literally have acid on them. A lot of brands do that and a lot of brands use pigment dyes, which are petroleum-based; they stain your skin almost. They’re rubbing off, they’re going into our water systems—so it was like, “How could I not?” It felt like a no-brainer. I was like, “I’ve learned this, and I need to apply it. And there’s no point in me doing something for a business that isn’t going to impact the world for the better.”
Mate’s my baby. I would not feel comfortable knowing there are resources out there that I could use to make the better choice. So I feel like it’s super, super hard—and it’s very hard within our resources to do everything at once. So I had to zoom in on the most important things: what are we going to be good at? Sustainability means so many different things to so many different people. But for us it was really getting back to the materials, where they’re made, and making the connection between how clothing impacts the individual from a health standpoint.
It was like, “This is going to be really effing hard, but buckle up because we’re going to have to do it.”
Basically the amount of clothing that Americans consume is just absolutely staggering. About 85 per cent of clothing is going to landfills. So we have to figure out a solution in order to have the clothing that would just go to the landfill and sit there and be really detrimental to the environment to get recycled back into the system. So what it would look like for us is a customer would be able to purchase a Mate product, and let’s say in six months to a year, something like that, she wants to return her piece—so she would return it back to Mate, and then we would have the infrastructure to basically break down that t-shirt, turn it into recycled thread, and then use it back into making new garments. And then in turn, that customer would get an incentive in order to promote her being a part of this circular model.
It’s like fashion recycling. Because I think that’s the biggest thing; the average stat, I think, on how long a garment’s being worn is around three times, which is crazy.
I feel like this is definitely something that is an everyday challenge, and I think my biggest lesson right now is learning how to do that. I think being a solo founder and an entrepreneur, there is never that separation, really. I can try to go home and tune it out, but really the majority of my mind, 24 hours a day, is around Mate and building it. But there are things that I’ve implemented that have helped me feel more balanced: I have my little morning thing where I light incense, do a little bit of breathwork, and meditate. I started eating breakfast, which is really important; I cut out coffee, too, which I feel like has been really helpful to have more of a grounding experience in the morning to set myself up for a better day.
With my phone, I’ll go into Airplane Mode, usually at night. I try to do that, and then the next thing that I’m trying to be better about is just having a better practise around exercise.
Prioritizing myself over the business is really, really challenging. But I'm slowly learning that the business isn’t going to be successful and I’m not going to be feeling well unless I actually do those items.
I think that it’s really important to make a considered purchase first and foremost. So what I try to do is, if there is something that I'm eyeing and that I’m considering purchasing, I wait. Because of that, it means you’re going to really think about it and [increase] the likelihood of you wearing it and really loving it. That is the most sustainable thing, is to actually keep things in your closet that you love, and wear them over and over.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
]]>In 2015 she launched Cora, a subscription-based company that develops and sells organic tampons, pads, and other feminine products. “I am a problem-solver,” says Hayward, “and with Cora, I intended to create a brand that will serve women.”
The seed of the company was planted during a volunteer experience in Kenya that Hayward got involved in through a friend. One day, a young girl approached Hayward and said she was home from school because she had her period and had no pads; without them, she was afraid she would leak through her uniform, so she had to stay home. “It was one of those lightbulb moments,” Hayward recalls. “My first instinct was to write a cheque to the organization so they could buy pads for these girls. On second thought, I realized that in the world, there were so many girls like her who needed pads and tampons. In the US, we take them for granted, forgetting that they are essential items for women. So I wondered, ‘Is there a way to solve this problem in the world?’” Instead of waiting for someone else to answer the question, she decided to do it herself.
The essence of that life-changing moment is still visible now, both in her eyes and in the atmosphere she has created in her downtown San Francisco headquarters. The white couches, carpets, Safari-inspired decor items, oak desks, and bookshelves are a reflection of her experience, of the natural landscape that transformed her soul. “I wanted to create a brand that stood for design, sustainability, innovation, health,” she says, “and most of all, that had a big social impact.”
Generosity and intentional aid are two of the main pillars of Cora. Since its inception, the company has included a giving program in which it donates a month’s supply of products to women in underserved countries for every month’s supply sold. The plan was possible thanks to a partnership with two non-profit organizations: Aakar Innovations in India and ZanaAfrica Foundation in Kenya. In 2018 alone, Cora was able to donate eight million pads. But “we don’t provide just pads,” Hayward explains. “We are trying to offer these young women a health curriculum—an education that includes biology and anatomy of the body, sex, birth control methods, differences between a good touch and a bad touch, and what to do in those circumstances.” It’s a more well-rounded approach to philanthropy, providing girls with the tools not only to survive but to thrive.
Growing up in a challenging neighbourhood in Philadelphia, Hayward was taught the importance of giving back to the community from her parents. During her childhood, her mother and father provided food for the homeless, as well as dinners for children who were living in difficult family situations. “I think my parents’ passion for the community shaped my career choices,” she reflects. “I have to have something that has a deeper meaning, a deeper purpose—otherwise I feel like I’m wasting my time. I truly believe that one of the greatest satisfactions is helping someone else. This is what Cora does: serve women in need.”
These thoughtful actions that are now expanding into new directions. Hayward is launching the Circle, a series of spiritual gatherings for women; it will be a monthly event open to Cora’s members, offering yoga classes, meditation sessions, self-care workshops, and more. “I want to create a sacred space for women to be together, to engage in some level of self-care and healing,” Hayward says. It’s all part of a meaningful journey aimed at nurturing the complexities of womanhood, and Hayward is primed to be its honourable leader.
]]>“One of my teachers was being racist towards this Chinese immigrant girl who just came here and didn’t know what a dogsled was, and I just yelled at him,” she recalls. “I got in trouble for that. But at the end when I explained to the principal why I had been sent to the principal’s office, he was more understanding and took my side. If I see somebody in a bad situation, I want to do something about it.”
Jamalzadah has made headlines for consistently doing something about it. Born in Afghanistan, she moved to Canada with her family when she was eight years old—but her birthplace has never been far from her mind. “Growing up here [in Vancouver], I was constantly reminded by my parents about where I came from and that I could have been one of those girls in that situation—girls back home and in a lot of these Islamic countries are sold, given away into different circumstances. They’re seen more as property,” she says over a latte at Nordstrom Pacific Centre’s Ebar. “It really hurt me to see that a human could treat another human being as less of a person, in any situation.” According to justice organization Girls Not Brides, 35 per cent of Afghan girls are married before they turn 18; nine per cent are married before age 15. And according to a 2018 United Nations report, “Violence against women – murder, beating, mutilation, child marriage; giving away girls for dispute resolution (baad) and other harmful practices – remain widespread throughout Afghanistan, notwithstanding the Government’s concrete efforts to criminalise these practices and establish measures for accountability.”
Impassioned by the injustices that women were experiencing back home, Jamalzadah decided to use her voice—literally. Even though she never had aspirations to be a singer, she started recording Dari-language music addressed to her fellow Afghans. For her, singing was a way to get her message out: a message of inspiration, of hope for change in a country that largely ignores its women. And it worked.
Because she was singing to Afghan people (and in their language as opposed to English), Jamalzadah’s music quickly became a sensation among the Afghan diaspora around the world, and then in Afghanistan itself. In fact, she grew into such a household name that she was asked to move back to host Afghanistan’s Got Talent—but when she and her mother met with executives of the local network that had the licensing, they pitched their own idea instead. “My mom hands over this old DVD package of Oprah,” Zamalzadah recalls (foreshadowing: she would go on to meet Winfrey herself and appear on her show). Some of the team hadn’t heard of the American personality and entrepreneur, so they were told to watch a few episodes before the follow-up meeting. “The next day they were like, ‘Wow, she’s like Superwoman,’” says Zamalzadah. “And my mom was like, ‘Well, can we make Mozhdah the Afghan Superwoman, then?’”
And just like that, The Mozhdah Show was born. The first day of taping, her producers told her that she’d be lucky if 30 people showed up to watch in the audience—but there ended up being a whopping 250. “They didn’t even know what to do with the seating, they were panicking,” she says. “By the third show there was a lineup down the block.” The talk-show-meets-variety-show featured live musical performances (by Jamalzadah herself as well as special guests), interspersed with discussions on important topics relating to Afghan society. And amazingly, Afghan society started responding.
“When we were talking about child abuse and child brides, a woman stood up and said, ‘Look at me, I’m 50 years old but I look like I’m 80. I’m an example of what happens to a child bride; I was 12 when I was given away,’” Jamalzadah remembers. “The whole entire crew were shocked because they never expected an audience member to stand up and use herself as an example or speak out.” The popularity of The Mozhdah Show and of her most well-known song, “Afghan Girl,” led her to gain some very famous fans—including Barack and Michelle Obama. In 2010, for International Women’s Day, she flew to Washington to perform for the then-president and first lady at the White House. “It was,” she gushes, “the most amazing experience of my life.”
Despite this incredible level of success, not everyone loved Jamalzadah or her show. After all, it was quite radical for a Muslim country: she was a woman, on television, wearing whatever she wanted and talking about taboo issues like divorce and domestic violence. For all the fans who embraced her modern views, she had those—some of them even in her own extended family—who felt that a woman had no right to live such a life. She began receiving death threats, so in 2012 she made the difficult decision to leave the country. “I was forced out of there because of the show,” she says. “It became very controversial, and my life was in danger.”
The Plant Shoe is 100% biodegradable, commercially compostable, made without chemicals or synthetic additives, and completely animal-free. The interior, for instance, is made from eucalyptus pulp; the toe tab is pineapple husk; the insole is a combination of corn and felted kenaf; and the thread is made of a coarse vegetable fiber called jute, which gets soaked in olive oil. Once the shoes eventually wear down from daily use, instead of being thrown in the garbage, they can be tossed into the compost bin and be taken to a commercial composting plant, where they will start to decompose after 45 days—thus returning to the earth from which they came.
“Wouldn’t it be cool to make a shoe completely out of plants?” Native cofounder and CEO Scott Hawthorn thought to himself many years ago. The company was founded in 2009, and while it has been using unique shoe manufacturing techniques for years, it was a domino effect of Hawthorn’s personal lifestyle changes that led to the idea of the Plant Shoe, beginning with the documentary Cowspiracy. “It opened my eyes to the impact of animal agriculture and landscape,” he says via phone. That reflection first led to forgoing meat, then to breaking his connection to leather goods, and finally, to fully committing to the path of least impact, which included taking a closer look at the potential for products that combined attraction and intention. Hence, the Plant Shoe was conceptualized.
“It is about leading with purpose by creating a designed item that you want to use,” he says. “We bring you an item that, if you didn't know the purpose, you might love it already—or you might be drawn to us because of the purpose, and through that we introduce you to design.”
It’s a loop that, a decade ago, might have barely enticed buyers. But today, remaining ignorant about our impact on the environment takes more work than recalibrating certain consumerist habits. “I think there is a movement happening now in this direction that allows this story and product to be presented,” says Hawthorn. “It’s timely now because environmental conversations are more significant. This is one way we allow people to be an activist.”
The irrefutable momentum of environmental degradation tipped Native towards the creation of a product that goes beyond the narrative of trepidation. With the invention of the Plant Shoe—the first of its kind on the market—the brand is inviting people to come forward and be part of progress.
“We put the flag on the moon with this,” he says. “In essence, it’s our declaration of where we want to see the world go. We need people to come along on that journey.”
That’s one giant step for mankind.
]]>Tori Swanson is kind, creative, curious, and warm. Her art addresses emotions we undoubtedly all face: fear, resentment, shame, doubt. Through her portraits, the physical shedding of clothing becomes a metaphor for something much stronger—this idea of breaking down barriers and getting rid of the painfully heavy weight we all carry that focuses on how we look. Quite simply, Swanson’s greatest strength is her approach to people, which can be summed up as: we’re all human.
We sent her some questions to learn more about how she lives her life in such a holistic and spiritual way.
Ever since I was a kid, I remember loving arts and crafts. My mom would put me into all different kinds of art camps, and I always loved Pablo Picasso as a kid. Even when I look back on my Grade 12 year, I finished academics early so I could take more art classes as electives. It’s interesting because later when I was applying to university, I only received acceptance letters from fine art universities. Yet, I fought my interests so hard because it wasn’t “cool” to be artistic where I grew up. I went to Langara college in Vancouver and did a year of fine arts, and studied abroad in Italy to learn about art history; and I soon dropped out and went into fashion communications at the Fashion Institute of Technology in Manhattan.
As I became really sick with an eating disorder in NYC, I had to move home. The first thing I did to help with my recovery was pick up a paint brush. Therapy helped, but I needed something more. Painting allowed me to completely relax. I would lock myself in my room and paint for hours. I would paint and paint and paint until I was utterly exhausted. Finally all that anxious energy had a place to be expressed, from a space where I couldn’t necessarily use words to describe how I felt. From the beginning, I saw art as a form of therapy, without any expectation to sell or pursue this as a career.
Recently, my brother reminded me that when we were kids, I told him I was going to be a famous artist. And he said, “Damn, Tori, you're really doing it.” Now in my coaching sessions, I always ask my clients what they wanted to do as a kid and why they strayed from it.
My art has shifted immensely; I use it as a tool to connect with my intuition. I receive visions, or colour, or forms. Most of the time I receive a vision of what the finished piece will look like, and then I’ll either go to my studio if I’m in the space to do it, or I’ll sketch it out for later. This has helped a lot, because normally I wouldn’t do anything with that vision and it would fade, and therefore I wouldn’t prioritize it. Because I paint nearly every day and prioritize it as part of my well being, I am a result of an open vessel, able to receive messages through my intuition and express them through my paintings. My finished pieces are always a lesson or a story about that which I need to hear at that moment in my life.
I want to share a little bit about divine inspiration. We all receive ideas or visions or bursts of inspiration. This doesn’t belong to us. It’s not Tori the personality who is doing it. We are all just a channel for the divine to transcend us and create. Have you ever had a great business idea, to then see that is was already created? That’s because we’re not the only ones receiving it. It’s up to us to pursue it or not, without any fear or urgency; it’s the divine working through us. The finished canvases or pieces I create aren’t for me, they’re for someone else. I can’t tell you how many times I have created a piece and had to stop myself from judging it, only to find it sold the next day to someone who fell in love with the piece—it wasn’t for me.
Since art school, drawing class was one of my favourites and I was naturally talented at capturing the essence of a human form through figure drawing. It’s not about drawing the form as we see it, but rather how it is expressed. My quick sketches will encompass this notion more than my nude portraits, which I paint for my clients.
As I saw the bold and confident women who posed nude for my class of first-year students, I idealized them. I was a shy woman who deeply struggled with anorexia and bulimia, someone who was so ashamed of herself and her body. Someone who felt her world was out of control and the only control she could pursue was what she ingested. The figures I draw are formless, free, and non-constricted, which is a beautiful metaphor for the bold lines and statements in my pieces. I encourage everyone to see their body as a tool and vessel that has given us life rather than for its faults.
Figure drawing taught me to be all encompassing of the expression rather than being meticulous about what it looks like. The quick sketches and bold lines in my paintings allow me to see the body as a statement of who we are rather than what we should be.
I’m way less judgemental about my work, and this has created room for expansion for me to be who I want. I love channelling Jean-Michel Basquiat because I find his work had a no-nonsense quality. It was bold and breathtaking, and my work is deeply inspired by it. I don’t even use the whole canvas; I believe raw bits of linen is so stunning as a juxtaposition agains bold, vivacious colour. It’s almost like the unfinished pieces of ourselves complement that which is already finished. Our journey of expansion is never finished.
Well, when I host nude portraits, my relationships with my clients are profound. I want to open up the vulnerabilities of my clients and draw that, because that is their strength, beauty, and uniqueness.
Lately, my inspiration has been my own personal journey, and so I’m as raw and unfinished as possible. And I hope that translates into my canvases.|
My artwork is my medium of delivering messages. As an intuitive, I can’t deny the first thoughts and inspiration niggles I receive—I have to paint them. Teaching is part of my gift, but my true talent stems from my ability to share that experience on a canvas. That canvas stands for that journey and vibrationally; it aligns with someone who is currently working through it or has, and would like to have that as a statement and reminder of our constant choice to choose enlightenment.
On an artistic level I’m inspired by Frida Kahlo and Christiane Spangsberg, and to be honest a lot of male artists like Basquiat and Henri Matisse.
On the day-to-day, my friends inspire the heck out of me. They’re all badasses and pursue their dreams like I’ve never seen. To me, this is a reflection of my journey: their success is my success and my success is theirs, too.
Success habits. I have five non-negotiable habits a day that make me feel good in my body. They are elements that keep me balanced, in flow, and feeling good. I meditate, journal, cook, move my body, and create every day, and sometimes they mesh together. If I do not do my meditation and journalling daily, I’m actively choosing not to connect with my divine feminine, and I don’t have room in my life for that. Being connected to the divine feminine allows me to surrender to what is, and it reminds me that life is full of ebbs and flows and that I must trust, trust, trust—especially when life gets tough.
Success habits. I shower with a Himalayan rock salt and rub it on parts of my body that may feel achey, like my head, and when I pop out of the shower it’s gone.
I’m a big scent person, so I like to open up all my doors and windows, light incense or turn on a diffuser, and get the house smelling nice and cozy.
My atmosphere is big for me, so when I feel like the mood is lit in my space, I feel at ease and peaceful.
Trust, trust, trust. We’re not meant to know how everything is always going to work out. We just have to know why we want something and develop the belief that we can have it all. We’re all born with the divine right to be prosperous, and if we can come back to that truth, then we have found the secret of life. We put roadblocks up on ourselves, and it’s your job to take them down—and face why you put them up in the first place.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
Though the Romania-born, Canada-raised Elena was modelling full-time in Germany, frequently travelling to other parts of Europe for work and living the dream (on paper, at least), she didn’t feel like herself.
“I had disordered eating and I wasn’t nourishing myself. I just didn’t know how to,” she says over oat-milk lattes at Buro cafe in downtown Vancouver. “I was going from diet to diet to diet, just switching all the time if something wasn’t working. So I went from vegetarian to vegan to raw vegan to pescatarian, just all these different things. And I didn’t feel 100% myself. It wasn’t even just the nutritional side that I was losing—I also felt like I was losing my self-esteem in the industry.”
So she set out to heal herself.
While still modelling in Europe, she began taking classes at the Edison Institute back in Canada by correspondence, specializing in holistic nutrition. The only goal was to learn about nourishment in order to better herself, but as she became more knowledgeable and confident, her attitude began to positively affect others.
“I started healing myself and then opening up to other models in the industry about what I was going through. We were best friends, some of us were travelling together for jobs—but some things were still very taboo,” she explains of the disordered-eating and self-esteem issues that are so common among models. “And we wouldn’t really open up about these things because you almost felt embarrassed or that you’re not doing something right. So when I started opening up with them, I think they started seeing, ‘Ok, there’s more that I can do for myself as well.’” Chatting with her fellow models and even with makeup artists and stylists that she worked with, Elena realized just how skewed the fashion industry’s views on eating and health really were.
It’s how she began to see the need for positive nutrition conversations rooted in holistic wellness—no diets, no calorie-counting, no being scared of anything with sugar or fat. Just simple, helpful ideas like bringing snacks to set, learning to eat more mindfully, and not feeling bad for craving (and enjoying) a slice of pizza. As these discussions continued, Elena started to feel more passionate about them than the actual modelling; eventually she moved back to her hometown of Vancouver, furthered her education with courses at The Institute of Holistic Nutrition, and launched Holistic Heels: a comprehensive, one-on-one consultation firm focusing on healthy eating and self-esteem—particularly for the fashion community.
But just like her struggles with her health, starting her own company wasn’t easy. “It was really difficult at first because I had never owned a business before,” she admits. “But it’s been nearly two years, maybe a year and a half, since I launched Holistic Heels—and I still don’t know what I’m doing.” She flashes a big smile and lets out a carefree laugh. “There was someone who asked for this specific way of paying me and I was like, ‘Yeah sure, no problem,’ and then I had to research what that even meant,” she continues. “I have those days all the time, when I just don’t know what I’m doing. You kind of just have to put on a face and keep on going.” Resilience is undoubtedly something she learned from a career in the often cutthroat and unforgiving world of fashion—and while she does dabble in the odd modelling gig now (see her in vitruvi’s Spring campaign), Elena is happiest when she is helping others in the industry. Especially young women who are just starting out. “I don’t want to sugar-coat things; I want to show them how it truly is. It’s an incredible experience, but it’s also really tough,” she says. “There are all these really young girls who are off on their own in these foreign cities, and some of them don’t even know how to make a hard-boiled egg. So that’s where I want to come in and I want to not only teach you how to make that egg, but tell you why eggs are good for you.”
And while her fire is fuelled by helping other models, Elena takes clients outside of the industry, too; we are all suffering, she argues, from an “epidemic of self-hate.” So aside from her consultations focusing on the actual nutrition side of things—educating on the benefits and properties of different products, eradicating the guilt of wanting “junk food,” and showing how to eat more mindfully to properly enjoy what’s on your plate—Elena spends a lot of time preaching and teaching self-esteem.
“Self-confidence and self-love is so huge,” she says adamantly. “One of my steps for self-love is stopping the comparison game, and one way you can do that is to look at your Instagram account, and take a look at who you’re actually following and how they make you feel.” Her suggestion? If looking at a person’s posts or a brand’s messaging sparks insecurity or negativity, hit the Unfollow button. It’s simple teachings like these that she focuses on in a series of Vancouver self-care workshops that are open to the public; she also hopes to bring her work to high school kids (a demographic that, thanks to social media, grapples with self-esteem now more than ever before).
At the end of the day, Elena wants to help as many people as she can to learn the tools necessary for lasting health. It hasn’t been a straightforward journey, and it would be safe to say that her path is still unrolling before her—but her insatiable energy, relentless passion, and open heart make it clear that she will succeed in creating better conversations around body image and nutrition, in the fashion industry and beyond. Working on oneself is indeed work, but she proves that it doesn’t have to be a chore.
]]>Chan and I speak about how many times those kinds of profiles—at least when the subject was a woman—centred around the subject’s appearance and apparel. I’ve always tried to stray away from such writerly conventions, but the older I get and the more woke I become, the harder I find it to separate appearance from identity. Not because I think you should judge a book by its cover, of course, but because there’s a luxury in dressing that isn’t historically afforded to those who aren’t “blessed” with an actor or model body type.
That’s something Chan is trying to change. As a plus-size model turned fashion industry insider, she has seen firsthand the frustrating limitations and woeful invisibility of people who, like herself, don’t adhere to arbitrary appearance conventions. For instance, she recalls how hard she tried to tamp down her differentness size-wise when she started at Glamour because she wanted to appear like everyone else. “When I got my first editing job that I had so badly wanted, I did not want anything to do with plus-size when I got there,” she says. “I was finally there in the ivory tower, and I didn’t want to be the big girl in the room.”
She notes that growing up reading those “aspirational” magazine profiles and perusing page after page of fashion editorials had a life-long effect. “It made me feel like I didn’t belong, and that I was wrong for being who I was,” she says. “I obviously love fashion because of a lot of the reasons that everyone does; it’s an escape, because it’s great, because you get to participate in a world from afar. But at the same time, I was internalizing this idea that I was not white, and I was not a sample size. And I therefore wasn’t what a woman quote-unquote should be.”
Chan’s mission is now bolstered by her oft-repeated mantra, “What makes you different is what makes you great.” She’s mentioned it to me (and as a self-certified weirdo, I can definitely relate), and it was a key takeaway from her recent speech at an event run by ELLE Canada. Chan has used this notion to turn the tide not only during her time with Glamour, where she began writing tirelessly about size inclusivity and how concepts of “flattering” clothing do nothing but reinforce negative stereotypes about body and self-worth, but also in the development of her new clothing line. As she finesses Henning’s brand and product development, Chan has harnessed the powers of crowdsourcing to help direct design differently and smartly. After all, why create clothing if you’re not listening to your audience?
There are a few across-the-board core concepts that Chan is ensuring are addressed by Henning, in particular fit and fabrication. Calling out another example of the privilege that comes with the sizes found on most store shelves, Chan notes that because of the poor-quality poly textiles used in most plus-size clothing—fabrics that let sweat and smell cling—the people who wear them are typically shy to raise their hands in a meeting. So, putting on traditional types of plus-size clothing automatically sets up the wearer for anything but success.
But in the same way Frida Kahlo bucked convention with her choice of dressing, artistic subject matter, and lifestyle choices, Chan is embracing and harnessing alternatives, and ensuring that future generations of plus-wearing people are seen, listened to, and respected—that they raise their hands and are finally heard.
]]>A new crop of intimates brands are contributing to this change, promoting body positivity, inner confidence, and overall comfort—and Mary Young is quietly leading the charge.
Based in Toronto, Young designs the pieces for her eponymous lingerie label with real women in mind. Her products come in pleasing neutrals and soft palettes, combining interesting shapes, sensual lines, and soft materials. Notably, her underwear isn’t marketed as “slimming” and her bras aren’t touted for pushing up, flattening, or anything in between (they don’t even have underwires). Rather, Mary Young creations—all made ethically in Canada—focus on the actual bodies of their wearers, created to make them feel sexy just as they are.
“This is the first thing we put on in the day; it’s a very intimate purchase, on the most sensitive parts of your body, and yet it’s not comfortable, it’s not flattering, it’s not empowering,” Young says over coffee at Small Victory in Vancouver’s Yaletown on a recent visit. “And if you are uncomfortable all day, then that energy carries with you—so the whole focus of this is to empower women through feeling comfortable and confident in their natural shape rather than being told their natural shape isn’t good enough.”
Young, who grew up in a small town near Ottawa, studied fashion communications at Ryerson University in Toronto. During her final year, she discovered an interest in lingerie design—and a passion for shifting the archaic bedazzled-bustier narrative. “With lingerie and intimates, the messaging is so corrupt,” she says. “The imaging and the content is just so narrow.” That’s why Mary Young lookbooks include a diverse—both in ethnicity and size—group of models.
It’s also why Young’s bras now come with sliding backs instead of clip closures. “It’s like a shoulder strap but around the back, so it can fit you no matter what cup size you are,” she explains. “So if you’re a B cup, whether you’re a 32 or a 38, a B cup fits—you just adjust the band.” It’s one more way Young is embracing each woman’s natural form, telling her that no matter what she looks like, her perfect body is the one she’s in.
]]>Empowering women and young girls is more important than ever. And if it’s necessary here in North America, then it’s even more crucial in parts of the world where women don’t share our privileges. So today I want to turn our focus to One Girl Can: an incredible Vancouver-based organization that helps mentor and educate young girls in Kenya (vitruvi is such a fan that we created a special partnership).
The model is incredibly unique because One Girl Can supports these girls from every possible direction. It’s a holistic approach that combines building new schools and infrastructure, educating and mentoring the girls in high school, and also providing them with university scholarships. There are organizations that do one of these things singularly, but One Girl Can does all three.
I had a chance to sit down with Lotte Davis, the founder of One Girl Can (and the co-founder of haircare brand AG Hair) at her office. She is an incredible woman who knew from a young age that she wanted to make an impact on gender and equality issues, and it’s quite inspiring to be face-to-face with someone who is so passionate about what she does.
It probably went back to my childhood, because the desire to impact gender and equality and the injustices that I witnessed growing up in Africa during the apartheid era, paired with my rebellious nature, really all sort of came together in my teens. Also growing up in the 1960s during the cultural revolution, the sexual revolution, the civil rights revolution—that really shaped who I became for the rest of my life. So I always knew that I wanted to do something about women and I knew that I wanted to do something to make amends for what I had witnessed in Africa. And I also knew that the only way I was ever going to be able to do that was to become successful. So as a teenager in the 1960s in Canada, I knew that I was going to figure out how to do that.
I was very fortunate to get married to a man who was also very entrepreneurial, so together we built AG Hair, and it was probably 15 years into the growth of AG that I realized it was actually stable and that it wasn’t going to go bankrupt overnight. We were very profitable and we were growing, and that’s when I knew—I had raised two daughters of my own and they were just finishing high school and starting university, and I had such joy raising both of my daughters and seeing them fulfill their own potential. I was really sad that it was coming to an end, so it all came together at the same time: my girls leaving home, missing the best job that I’d ever had in my life (raising them), and realizing that the time had come that I wanted to do something about Africa.
I had absolutely no idea how I was going to do this. I hadn’t been in Africa for 45 years. I just started reading a lot, and then one day I decided to get on a plane and go there. I chose Kenya, I found an NGO [non-governmental organization] there that gave me liberal access to projects. I told them I wanted to build schools for girls, and they introduced to me to some very rural schools in dire need, so I started doing this. I had no idea where it was going to go—no idea that I’d be running my own charity one day. But as soon as I started to get involved in this, I knew that I was going to need a lot more money. And then I could personally donate, so we started involving our business. That happened really organically, because our employees knew I was going to Africa and they wanted to know more, they wanted to see pictures, they hadn’t known anyone who had been to Africa—it intrigued them. Then they would tell their customers about it and there was this groundswell of interest, so we ended up taking our two best-selling products and giving all the donations to build a school in Africa.
It was probably five years into it when I realized I had to run this myself, and got a charitable tax license.
There were so many ways to involve our customers who wanted to be involved, who asked for more participation—so completely inadvertently, we had created a brand loyalty we hadn’t expected or anticipated, and One Girl Can is so intrinsically enmeshed in our organization that you could not take it out because we would lose business; people would be disappointed. We have higher employee retention because of our involvement, so it had a real spiral effect in everything we were doing. Many of our suppliers have sponsored girls on their website and wanted information, so I came to understand how important it is for a profitable business to give back. And how easy and effortless it is that you never notice you’re giving a percentage back and how much social good you do, but the side benefit of that, if it’s really authentic, is that you gain untold brand support and loyalty from your customers for doing it. So that was a very long-winded answer to question number one.
I had hired an NGO to oversee the projects that I was building, and because of that I always dealt with contractors or with boards of governors and teacher associations, heads of schools—and I never had that access to the girls. As soon as I terminated my partnership with the NGO, I got to know the girls.
Once I started talking to the girls, I realized I wanted to tell them something about me, and I started doing presentations and I showed them my family, showed them my business, and told them I came from Africa and why I did this. I started having more and more meetings with them, and I started asking them what they wanted to be—and that’s when I discovered that no one had ever asked an African girl living in extreme poverty what she wanted to be, because it was always assumed she would start having babies at 16 and carry water on her head for the rest of her life. And they couldn’t speak to me—they were talking into their chests, barely audible. They couldn’t make eye contact with me and I’m really bold, so I would say, “You want to be a doctor? You can’t talk to your chest, you have to stand up and you have to say it loud or nobody will believe you, unless you scream it.” And I started having them stand up and speak really loudly.
Our mandate is that we have not done our job unless a girl is earning a salary.
Being with them made me realize how much information I had collected over a lifetime that I completely took for granted. I started thinking about what I had in common with an African girl living in extreme poverty—how I could have the audacity to speak to her and tell her that she could do everything that I did? I couldn’t find that link. I had so much more infrastructure in my life to get me there, and then I realized that the one thing I had in common with her was that we could both create a vision for the life we wanted to live, set goals, and execute on them. Everybody can set a goal. If it was just, “I wanna get a C+ in my physics exam”—how do you do you the steps? How do you get there? “I want to become a civil engineer.” What do you have to do today to get there? What do you have to do tomorrow? And so that became the basis for all that mentoring. Every program we go through has smart goals as its foundation, and envisioning and career planning and confidence building. And so that’s really how the mentorship program grew. And it continues to be the backbone of everything that we do.
It’s called Becoming the Best Version of Me.
Keynote speakers, maybe 12 different workshops, and all of them are aimed at helping them figure out how to get a job, because it isn’t enough to provide a scholarship and walk away. Unemployment is rated at almost 45% in Kenya and in most African countries, so making sure that their resume hits the top of the pile and that when they get an opportunity to get an interview, they’re ready—they’re confident, they know how to walk in and shake somebody’s hand. They know how to get somebody’s attention, they’ve had experience in the workplace—it’s all about building that resume, building their confidence, and making sure they get a job.
Our mandate is that we have not done our job unless a girl is earning a salary. I think there are a lot of organizations that build schools in Africa and build classrooms. There are many more that offer scholarships to girls in high school and I think there are more and more that are offering some sort of mentoring, but nobody puts the whole thing together and stays with the girl from the time she starts high school until she earns a living. So that is what the university classes are about, and they come back every year and add on more and more. And we also pay girls to take on an internship. If they use the skills we taught them on how to write a resume, a cover letter, and they go out and find an internship for free, we’ll pay for her living expenses for that period of time. We’re that committed to it. And when we’re there, we’re in touch with them every single year. I can see the growth. We have a support system for them all year round—we have people in Kenya they can talk to anytime their computer breaks down or they can’t find something or they’re worried or something happened to the family. There’s always someone there to support them.
Yeah, great networking. We mix them up so they have their first day with their high school students and then we pair them with a university, so they may not have met girls in the same university system. By the Saturday night [at the most recent conference], we had a gala dinner where we did an awards ceremony, and then we brought in an African DJ who was playing some really wonderful tunes. And then they all got up and danced and so the energy just got better. By Sunday, when we were doing all of our closing speeches, you could hear a pin drop in the room. They were just laser-focused on everything you said.
The girls who were there last year now have new friends, and we’ve just started an online community; someone donated and built the entire platform out for us so all these girls can network together. They can write down all their preferences, find out who’s like them, keep in touch. We put photos of the events—it’s a really robust program. Networking is one of the courses that we teach, and it’s just as important as managing your budget. Everybody you meet in your life can be of some benefit to you and you may be of some benefit, so we really teach that.
I will say, on the last day in the last speech, I could barely even speak because the past couple of sentences were so emotionally charged that I had trouble articulating the last few words. And then there was just a massive group hug with 134 people, and it was lovely.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
]]>I’ve been listening to NPR’s How I Built This podcast recently, and a common theme keeps cropping up: great ideas come from everyday frustrations.
The inception of Toronto-based clothing brand Kotn was one of these instances. Three friends wanted to be able to buy wardrobe basics that didn’t affect their values (because it seemed you always had to give in to something). When they initially set out to rebuild the Egyptian cotton industry, they didn’t realize how fragmented it truly was. Nevertheless, Benjamin Sehl and his cofounders (Mackenzie Yeates and Rami Helali) have managed to create a brand of sustainable, high-quality cotton basics that are also affordable, while ultimately starting a movement that aims to improve the quality of life for the people of the Nile Delta in Egypt—including their farmers, weavers, and factory owners. Below, Sehl answers some of my questions via email on conscious shopping, travelling for work, and more.
Kotn was born from a shared frustration between the three of us—as far as our wardrobe staples went, everything we found seemed to compromise on either design, quality, price, or ethics. When we dug into the process of how garments were made and sold, from the farms to your wardrobe, we found a really broken system and we (perhaps naively) thought we could do better.
Rami and I have been friends for over 15 years, and while he’s told me all about Egypt throughout our friendship, I’d never visited until we started Kotn. What I remember most was being in awe of how diverse the landscapes were depending on where you were in the country: the beaches along the coast of the Mediterranean; kite-surfers on the Red Sea; bustling cities in the south like Luxor and Aswan filled with multi-thousand-year-old temples; and the mountains near the Sudanese border—all so different from one another.
Between the three of us, someone is travelling almost all the time. Personally, I travel to new cities to open up stores and pop-ups, and once a year or so to Egypt to catch up with our team there and check out what’s happening on the ground.
Tokyo!
When we first started, I definitely had a preference for products where I had a bit of transparency into how things were made. Since then that’s become a much stronger passion. I’ve also learned so much about the ripple effects our consumer choices have that go beyond individuals and into shaping communities.
There’s a great documentary called The True Cost that came out when we started, and I highly recommend it. The changes in my consumer choices are definitely reflected in a lot of different areas—I really believe in the power of voting with your dollar, and so I think about that with each purchase. I mainly tend to avoid any products that need a ton of intermediaries between myself and the original source. Each level of “middleman” means a markup, and between compounding markups and a need for competitive pricing, the people who make it all possible, like farmers, end up getting hit the hardest.
We’ve just started doing it recently. You can find some really amazing vintage pieces out there, and if you can extend the life of a garment, you’re also preventing the need for production of another—double whammy. Hopefully we’re able to create products that one day become as treasured as the vintage pieces in my wardrobe.
We’re always looking for new ways to show people the conditions of everyone we work with throughout Egypt, as well as their communities and culture. We’ve put out interviews with factory workers and a portrait series, we’ve documented our farms, we show behind-the-scenes production through our social media, and we also audit our entire process. In addition, we do reporting through B Corp, where we scored in the top 10% and were named “best for the world” in social impact. There’s a lot more we’re working on to really show all the inner workings of our process, and we’ll be releasing new stories about the people that make our products in the months to come.
Building schools was in direct response to what we were seeing when we were looking into the farms in the rural Nile Delta, which is children without access to education. Our long-term hope with the initiative is to create a virtuous circle where kids from these villages are able to have an education that enables them to positively impact the future of the industry.
This interview has been edited and condensed.
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