Résultats Éditeur "McClelland & Stewart" dans Racisme et discrimination

Professional wrestling super fandom, Ontario's endlessly unfurling 401 highway, late nights at the convenience store listening to heavy metal—for writer and podcast host Elamin Abdelmahmoud, these are the building blocks of a life. Son of Elsewhere charts that life in wise, funny, and moving reflections on the many threads that weave together into an identity.

The fight for women’s rights was supposed to have been settled. Or, to put it another way, women were supposed to have settled—for what we were grudgingly given, for the crumbs from the table that we had set. For thirty per cent of the seats in Canada’s Parliament; for five per cent of the CEO’s offices; for a tenth of the salary of male athletes; for the tiny per cent of sexual assault cases that result in convictions; for tenuous control over our health and bodies. "Aren’t we over it yet? No, we’re not," Elizabeth Renzetti writes.

When a moment of quietly ignored bigotry prompted his three-year-old daughter to ask "what happened?" David Chariandy began wondering how to discuss with his children the politics of race. A decade later, in a newly heated era of both struggle and divisions, he writes a letter to his now 13-year-old daughter. David is the son of Black and South Asian migrants from Trinidad, and he draws upon his personal and ancestral past, including the legacies of slavery, indenture, and immigration, as well as the experiences of growing up a visible minority within the land of one's birth.

Growing up, R. Renee Hess didn’t care about hockey. In fact, she was barely aware of it. She was born and raised in Southern California, hardly a hotbed for the game, despite the state having three NHL teams. But, as Hess puts it, she is “a fan of being a fan,” and when she found herself stuck in traffic after a Pittsburgh Penguins game, the streets filled with cheers, something sparked within her. Ever since Hess made that discovery, she has been actively trying to bust the myth that “Black folks don’t like hockey.”

As a Nisga'a writer, Jordan Abel often finds himself in a position where he is asked to explain his relationship to Nisga'a language, Nisga'a community, and Nisga'a cultural knowledge. However, as an intergenerational survivor of residential school—both of his grandparents attended the same residential school—his relationship to his own Indigenous identity is complicated to say the least.