Final project. I have attached the instructions and two assigned readings. You will read the readings and choose any 3 academic source (which you may think is relatable to the topic) from anywhere and

PART O N E

September 8, 2014

We met in a tiny box-like classroom, but our conversations would eventually span provinces

and flow through myriad spaces in an evolving current of learning and unlearning that was

fluid and changing, and could not be contained. We were student and teacher, but that

dyad was reversible and interchangeable and ever-shifting. The dialogue was a tentative

trickle at first, but soon became a raging torrent of words as we started to recognize in one

another kindred senses of place, heart, and undying curiosity. As Gemma began their tran-

sition from female-identified to nonbinary, and undergraduate student to master of gender

studies candidate, and I began my transition from instructor to supervisor, we realized that

we were in uncharted waters: becoming friends, navigating gender together.

From the beginning of the colonial period till its end (and beyond), female bodies

symbolise the conquered land.—Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism (129)

Our first meeting occurred in an undergraduate class I was teaching on feminist post -

colonial theory. As a fledgling female-identified academic, I was intent on being taken

seriously without appearing overbearing, approachable but not a pushover. I’d read the

statistics and studies that confirmed my fears that female-identified professors are less

likely to be described as “brilliant” and more likely to be called “nice” by their students. Not

to knock nice, I am all about nice, but in the world of academia, nice doesn’t translate into

tenure. I am also conscious of my body as an instrument in this space. It cannot be denied;

it cannot be erased; it is front and centre. And while it is a body with immense privilege (cis,

white, slim, unmarked by visible scars or physical disability, youngish), it is a female body. I

have no desire to be conquered or be seen as conquerable. So, as I’m performing my best

balancing act, I enter the class and wonder what kind of impression I’m making.

CHAPTER 7

Navigating Gender Together

Gemma M. Hickey and Vicki S. Hallett

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Her cool demeanour awakened a boyish curiosity within me the moment she entered the

classroom. My gaze latched on to the rhythm of her step as she patrolled the front of the

room. She began the lecture by defining colonialism as the conquest and control of other

people, their lands, and their goods. Seemed fitting given that I had my mind set on learn -

ing the ways in which she herself could be conquered. But as time went on, I learned my

lesson—what she really taught me was how to conquer myself. I had a lot to prove. My academic record was spotty at best. Like countless other

Newfoundlanders and Labradorians, I was sexually abused by a member of the clergy

when I was young. My case was settled outside of court and I felt removed from the entire

process. My age situated me between a mother who declared that the settlement would be

used for tuition and a law yer who insisted that the trial would be too traumatic. Although

they had my best interests in mind, all I wanted was an opportunity to tell the priest that

what he took from me could never be bought. The price I paid for trusting him was too

high because it came at the cost of loving him so much. As an act of rebellion, I gave the

money away and sabotaged my undergraduate courses. Compensating survivors is one

way that the church and individual clergy can take responsibility for their actions, but it

felt like blood money to me. Losing him—or rather the idea of him—wounded me deeply. Years later, after undergoing therapy to help me work through the sexual abuse I suffered,

I decided to take my life back. Part of that process involved applying to graduate school, and as

a veteran activist, gender studies seemed to be the best fit. In order to get accepted, however, I

had to get an A in Postcolonialism—a course she happened to be teaching. She passed a sheet of paper around and invited us to write down our names and pro -

noun preferences. When the sheet landed on my desk, I quickly scribbled she/her next to

my name without even thinking twice—I was only ever taught to think once.

Of course, as professors, we are also getting impressions of our students. My immediate

take on Gemma was: aviator shades, wide, confident smile, and a fabulous haircut. I thought,

“This is someone who knows who they are.” Older than the average student, Gemma was

voluble, funny, and not afraid to ask difficult questions—just the kind of student I really ap -

preciate having in class. I knew right away that they would do well in the class, and make

it a positive atmosphere for other students as well. I handed out the pronoun sheet on the

first day, asking those who felt comfortable to identify which gender pronouns they used,

so that no one in class would be misgendered. I put my own name on the list and identified

my traditionally feminine pronouns. Gemma wrote that they used she/her also, and that

was the last I thought about it—for a while.

September 10, 2014

Decolonization is not a metaphor. — Eve Tuck and Wayne K. Yang, “Decolonization” (1)

One of the things I focus on in my postcolonial theory course is local experiences of col -

onization. As a settler Newfoundlander, this means confronting my own privileges and

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responsibilities head on and discussing the realities of continuing colonization and its

differential impacts on everyone in the province of Newfoundland and Labrador. It often

means confronting students with critiques of power structures that benefit many of them

while oppressing some of them. It means understanding the university’s complicity in

those oppressions. When these discussions arose in class, I could see that many of the stu -

dents were visibly uncomfortable, others confused. Many wanted a definition of colonialism .

Gemma didn’t need this definition but was anxious to talk about how Newfoundlanders

view themselves and the pride that many of us feel in our identities.

Her shoes were indigo—shoes that could be mistaken for boots. What distinguishes shoes

from boots? I wondered. Can a shoe be a boot or a boot a shoe? And where do sandals fit

within the footwear spectrum … outside of the obvious placement on the bottoms of one’s

feet? I digress.… “If colonialism impacts all aspects of our being, how do we provide a full inquiry into

our ability to question it?” she tests. Trusting the arch of her back to the oak desk lodged

in the centre of the room, she chases her question down with a stiff quote from Audre

Lorde: “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” I forgot about her boots and found my own footing.

September 15, 2014

Having grown up in the days of what’s often, loftily, called the Newfoundland renaissance

of cultural production in the 1970s and 80s, Gemma and I both drew on a shared cultural

memory of songs, stories, humour, and art that was focused on buoying up a sense of

Newfoundland-ness steeped in traditions of storytelling, stoicism, and black humour. This

cultural memory undergirds certain foundational ideas of the place as victim of colonial

oppression, not perpetrator. We talked about this in the classroom, and later in my office.

Both of us admitted to a deep pride in our identities and an attachment to place that was

unshakeable. I told Gemma that I had reconciled that through understanding, perhaps we

could hold the contradictory idea in our minds that Newfoundland and Labrador was both

victim and oppressor at the same time, that settlers and Indigenous Peoples had shared

histories and traditions, and also had very different experiences of identifying with those

histories. We discussed whether we could, perhaps, as proud Newfoundlanders and

Labradorians, be well equipped to help confront those histories and current realities and

think about how to disrupt binary colonial narratives of us/them, savage/civilized, male/

female, and how to embrace a fluidity of thinking through and with decolonial processes.

I confessed that as a settler I had doubts about my own role and ability to participate in

decolonization but that I was committed to learning.

Her arms folded into one another like the petals of a rose that had forgotten how to bloom.

I sought to unravel her; to travel her thoughts like a winding road and release her wings.

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“Hegemony is a continual process because resistance to power is achieved through

a combination of coercion and consent, that is, resistance to power impacts power,” she

stated. My mind jumped backward, to a place I don’t typically go—my childhood. Growing up on a street full of boys, as the only girl I was often teased, beaten, and

sexually violated. One day, even though I was still very little, my brain grew bigger and I

decided to dress like a boy. I tied my long blonde hair up in a ponytail and stuck it out of

the back of my favourite baseball cap, threw on a pair of baggy jeans that were worn out

at the knees, took off my shirt, and paraded around the neighbourhood bare chested. And

from that moment on, they left me alone. They treated me like an equal because I blended

in, even though I was never meant to. I remember pulling my grandfather’s footstool into the bathroom, closing the door

quickly, without making a sound and checking to make sure the lock was secure. Placing

the stool in front of the small rectangular mirror situated above the sink, I proudly stood

up to myself for the first time. I remember feeling good about the clothes I had on, which

became my second, much more durable skin. At a very early age, my gender was positioned as something that got in the way. My

mother wouldn’t let me play sports, even though I was athletically inclined. At the time,

she believed that only boys did that, whereas girls should be more concerned with appear -

ances. I hated when she’d make me put on a dress. Dresses prevented me from climbing

trees, not to mention made me more accessible to the boys on the street. The bottom part

of a dress, for example, when purposely placed over the face prevents someone from look -

ing you directly in the eye while on top of you; it also triggers a feeling of suffocation. I

liken it to drowning, except you’re still able to breathe, as much as you lack the will to

continue to do so at that moment. I still have trouble breathing in small spaces.

September 17, 2014

Wide-eyed, I watch her pace back and forth across the classroom, picking up speed with

each new idea. Her aquamarine-coloured skirt collapses like a wave as she pauses abruptly

to review her notes set out on the podium. It’s ironic that every girl I had a crush on in high school wore skirts and I hated wear -

ing dresses. When I’d dream of girls back then, I imagined I was a boy. I didn’t want to

be a lesbian because the church taught that homosexuality was a sin. “Anne McClintock offers critiques on postcolonial theory and refers to the danger

and pitfalls of using binaries to view the world,” she asserts. As soon as class ends, I quickly collect myself along with my books in an attempt to

beat my classmates in the race toward her. “Are you going to the Take Back the Night march?” I inquire. Hoping to impress her,

I add, “I’m giving the keynote, and you’ve inspired my speech.” I immediately search her face in anticipation. Surprised, she smiles and nods her head

in favour. Not giving her the chance to speak, I tell her I’ ll see her there and rush off,

pretending to have another commitment. As if anything would be more appealing than

listening to her. Her words and gestures were key—I could feel my mind open.

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September 21, 2014

I paraded across the concrete platform as if I owned the place. I knew she was watching.

I had spotted her during the march.

“Hello, rebel rousers!” I hollered. “Are there any feminists in the H-O-U-S-E ?” The

crowd roared. I took my place behind the podium and proceeded to address the hundreds of women

gathered at the steps of City Hall. “I dedicate this speech to my professor, Dr. Vicki Hallett,” I stated. “This one’s for

you, Doc. Hope I get an A.” She was in my classroom now.

The theories of Audre Lorde and Michel Foucault in confluence with my grand -

mother’s praxis were the foundation of my speech. For instance, we may not be able to

use the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s house because institutions informed by the

colonial encounter have constructed the societal embodiment of our individual identities.

But we still have room to renovate using other tools—tools that were handed down to us

by women like my grandmother. Women who, despite the strictures of gender, salvaged

whatever supplies they could and built a life for themselves in spite of it all. “On top of the ashes, I’m the master of my own house and I like what I’ve built so

far,” I concluded. After I was released from the assemblage of women, she was waiting with her arms

outstretched. “A-plus,” she declared, her smile as wide as her arms.

“Hope you feel that way when you grade my paper because it’s the same as my speech,”

I said with a smirk. We laughed as we embraced and not long after went our separate ways.

September 24, 2014

When class ended, she handed out our papers.“I marked the papers hard,” she warned.

The softness of her manner as she called my name was like a summons to my heart.

I panicked for a moment, but quickly remembered how she reacted after she heard the

speech in an attempt to reassure myself. Not wanting to look at my paper in the classroom, I found a bench just outside of

the science building and immediately skipped to the last page where her comments were

written:

C. This was an excellent speech, but in terms of your paper, I asked for five pages

not four; four sources not three. You are obviously capable of digging deeper

into this feminist analysis and I look forward to seeing you do so in your next

paper.

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She broke through the surface. At that moment, all I felt like digging was my own

grave, but instead of giving up, I dug into myself. I had no choice but to go deeper and no

way of knowing what I would resurrect. By the end of the term, I had earned my A and

started grad school the following semester.

PART T WO

On June 2, 2015, she was attending an academic conference in Ottawa while I was there

to witness then–Member of Parliament (MP) Ryan Cleary table a private member’s bill

that I helped draft for an Institutional Abuse Awareness Day. Like Newfoundland and

Labrador, many provinces and Indigenous communities across the country have their own

horror stories of abuse. I chose June 1 because it was the date that the doors at Mount

Cashel Orphanage closed for good, and it was also the beginning of Aboriginal History

Month in Canada. I invited her to join me at the House of Commons in the MP lounge to watch the

reading of the bill. Once it was tabled, she accompanied Ryan Cleary and me downstairs

to the press gallery, where I stood up and told the entire country about Pathways, an

organization I founded for survivors of religious institutional abuse because a Roman

Catholic priest sexually abused me when I was young. She was in the audience during the

presser, and as I stood behind the podium, directly positioned in front of the Canadian

flag, I focused on her instead of the cameras. And when I took my place on the platform

this time, the only thing I owned was myself. Later that evening after a celebration with Ryan Cleary and his staff, we stood

in the middle of Sparks Street and watched television coverage about the Truth and

Reconciliation Commission’s findings on a television screen through the huge glass win -

dow in the CBC Radio building. Arms weaved together, as women and islanders, our

connection surpassed circumstance and could be traced along the lines of colonial oppres -

sion. We couldn’t hear what the people being interviewed were saying, but their faces

spoke volumes. As the country was shifting, I could feel myself shift, too. I was beginning

to see things differently, and in doing so, saw her again for the very first time, even though

tears blurred my eyes at that particular moment. I put my feelings for her to rest, and as

her image faded from my waking dreams, there was more room for her words to take root

instead. We had become more than student and teacher: we were friends.

Gemma announced that they were off to walk across the island to bring awareness to the

Pathways Foundation, which they had begun to help support other survivors of clergy sex -

ual abuse. I was deeply impressed not only with the commitment to this immense physical

task but with the continuous vulnerability that Gemma seemed to live inside, and communi -

cate to others, while also appearing strong and able to support others. We gave each other

copies of our work to read, and I wished them well on their journey. I followed Gemma’s

progress in the media as they stopped to give interviews at various points along the way,

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and then one day I received a phone call from Gemma on the road. They talked about how

much pain they were in, the chafing, the blisters, but more so the emotional erosion from

the continual onslaught of wave after wave of personal grief they were confronting while

walking. Hearing the stories of other survivors, unmediated and raw, their pain commingling

with Gemma’s own was threatening to inundate even their innermost stronghold. We talked

about writing; we talked about pride; we talked about the state of Gemma’s thighs and the

renewed and remembered trauma they felt there. A question was emerging for Gemma,

and it was about their own body and how they wanted to see it and how they wanted it to be

seen. I secretly wondered, and worried, how much more they could take.

On July 2, 2015, in the beautiful little town of Port aux Basques, I began my walk across

Newfoundland to raise funds and awareness for Pathways. It was a tight schedule com -

bined with speeches and media interviews, not to mention the many supporters who

wanted to meet me along the way. I walked 30 kilometres for 30 days, yet successfully

ended my walk at the Mount Cashel Memorial in St. John’s on August 2. Vicki’s lectures stayed with me as I walked. I called her from the Trans-Canada

Highway after seeing a Newfoundland flag at the end of someone’s drive. It stood on

guard, keeping watch and waving at me as I passed. It made me reflect on my deep affec -

tion for the island —which Vicki also shares, having been born and raised here —and also

the relationship between my fierce identity as a Newfoundlander and the stark realization

that I’m merely a settler here. The struggle with identity didn’t end there. On December 3,

2016, I had my first shot of testosterone.

But don’t say in the years to come that you would have lived your life differently if

only you had heard this story. You’ve heard it now.

—Thomas King, The Truth about Stories (29)

The fall came and Gemma recovered from the walk. Taking time off from school, they

stayed in touch periodically. Then as the snow flew, they returned to the gender studies

hallway and my graduate seminar on the gendered politics of life writing. The course, and

its subject, asks a lot from the students. It asks them to think about what people’s life stor -

ies do, how we interact with them, and our responsibilities as readers. We were all commit -

ted to these responsibilities, even though I knew that many of us weren’t ready for what

that means. I thought I was—after all, I’m the instructor, and this was my area of research.

But then, I was gifted with a story that I wasn’t ready for, and I had to figure out what my

responsibilities were in relation to it.

Early on in the course, Gemma came into my office and told me they were starting testos -

terone. As a cisgender woman I could not relate to this desire, nor to the underlying belief

that this would be an affirmation of one’s true self. I had read trans theory, queer theory, and

autobiographical narratives of trans folks. I knew enough to understand that I didn’t have to

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understand it, because it was not—at all—about me. And yet, by telling me, Gemma had made

me part of the story, and I had to honour that, and honour Gemma’s need to talk about it.

A little over a year later, on April 12, 2017, I applied for a new birth certificate at Vital

Statistics to reflect my gender identity, which I came to realize was nonbinary. The media

attention I received resulted in me receiving death threats and involving police, but as an

activist with 20 years’ experience under my belt, I was prepared for whatever came my

way. When my request was denied, I filed an application with my law yer at the Supreme

Court of Newfoundland. This prompted the provincial government to change legislation

in November 2017, and on December 14, 2017, I became the first person in Canada to

receive a nonbinary birth certificate. The government amended legislation and incorpor -

ated the recommendations listed in my affidavit. If a person is over 16 years of age, a

physician’s note is no longer required to apply for a new birth certificate that reflects how

they identify, and driver’s licences and health cards now include a third gender. This was a

huge step forward, not only for the province but for the entire country.

As the term progressed, the testosterone began to take effect. Gemma began to grow more

body and facial hair, and the timbre of their voice began to deepen. This was welcome, but com -

plicated. We discussed how people in their life were reacting to their changing appearance and

voice. We talked about gendered scripts and how people react to what we perceive as gendered

displays. Gender often governs how we think we need to behave with one another, and so while

Gemma was feeing the need to change their behaviour so as not to appear intimidating, and I

respected that a lot, I felt it was also important to reassure them that it was other people’s per -

ceptions that also needed to be interrogated. For example, anger in female-identified folks is

treated very differently than anger in male-identified folks. Was Gemma really more intimidat -

ing in their anger, or were people simply reacting to their anger in new ways?

Inevitably, the tide of the conversation turned to sexuality and how it gets defined in a

heteropatriarchal society. As Gemma found that their desires were taking on new trajector -

ies and joked that testosterone was making them into a “gay man,” we talked about how

sexuality is a social construct, in the sense that the category of gay is based on static no-

tions of binary gender and the application of those categories to individuals and the direc -

tions of their desire. When that binary of gender is disrupted, then sexualities that depend

on such categories are also disrupted. So, if someone is nonbinary, what sexual identity do

they claim? What communities might they no longer have access to? How does this affect

the politics of activism and belonging? We did not come up with any easy answers, but the

questions helped us both think in more expansive ways about sexuality as a social con -

struct, but also as complex flows of desire and self-love.

Vicki taught me that we are settlers within our own bodies because of the institutions that

have shaped us. My reclamation—a process of learning and in many ways unlearning, has

just begun. I was assigned female at birth, abused as a female, and socialized as a female

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for 38 years. I identify as nonbinary even though my outward appearance is masculine.

Through Vicki, I realized that with male privilege comes additional responsibility, espe -

cially now that I have more than one perspective.

The theoretical and political task at hand, then, is not one of undoing gender. What is

required is nothing short of undoing theory.

—Viviane Namaste, “Undoing Theory” (28)

These conversations inevitably drifted toward the theory of gender performativity. We dis -

sected Judith Butler’s theory as we hashed out our attachments to ideas of femininity and

masculinity. We talked about being raised Roman Catholic with gendered expectations and

resisting those expectations —Gemma’s mom always wanted to dress them in frilly dresses,

and they never wanted that! I remembered insisting on wearing a pink dress and a hat to

my First Communion and sticking out like a pink thumb in a sea of miniature brides in white

dresses. Not much of a rebellion, but I felt good doing it. We also talked about how feeling

a certain way about oneself is personal, but at the same time connected to social norms.

How we dress is an expression of our inner gender identity, but that dress is determined by

social norms. Then, that, in turn, is interpreted by others as gendered. So, as we explored

the notion of performativity together, we were able to open up ideas about how the embod -

ied gender that gets presented to the world is a complex mix of inner feelings and outward

communication. We floated ideas about mental, emotional, environmental, and physical

confluences that are so important. We also raised Viviane Namaste’s critiques of Butler as

ignoring trans folks’ lived, bodily experiences and labour.

Thinking about safety brought a lot of difficult things to the surface for us. One of those

was parenting. I am a mom, and when Gemma spoke about their mother’s struggles and

how they felt about that, it was important for me as a parent. I thought about how I would

feel if my kid, who I am raising as a boy, came to me and told me they did not feel like a boy.

Thinking honestly about that made me reflect on Gemma’s mom’s struggle, and I sympa -

thized with how difficult it is to watch your child go through hardship and face danger. As a

parent, I want to protect my child, and sometimes maintaining some form of “normalcy” is

how we try to do that. Fear for our kids is perhaps what motivates some parents’ resistance

to gender variance in our kids—it is scary, and we know it will mean scary things potentially

will happen to our kids.

I was delighted at Vicki’s response after I asked her if she would be my graduate super -

visor. I still have a lot to learn, but this is what I know for sure—I walked from one side

of the island to the other side of myself. It may have taken me some time to arrive at that

place, but the space I inhabit is the only body I can lay claim to as my own.

The reciprocity between Gemma and me has helped us both live better in the spaces of

gender. These spaces are fluid, overflowing with intertwining currents of race, culture, and

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sexuality (to name the most obvious), and we all live at their confluences. Learning how to

think within and through them well has been a journey for both of us. Gemma has taught

me how to be more aware of cisgender privilege and how that inflects my teaching, writ -

ing, and parenting. Thinking through the ways we have talked and laughed about gender in

multiple physical, emotional, spiritual, and psychological spaces has allowed us to question

heteropatriarchal, colonial binaries of gender in productive ways—not closing off questions

with simple answers, but leaving the spaces and questions open, moving, and evolving. In

this way, we are navigating gender together.

WORKS CITED

King, Thomas. The Truth about Stories: A Native Narrative . Anansi, 2003.

Loomba, Ania. Colonialism/Postcolonialism. 2nd ed. Routledge, 2005.

Lorde, Audre. “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House.” 1984. Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches , Crossing, 2007, pp. 110 –14.

McClintock, Anne. “The Angel of Progress: Pitfalls of the Term ‘Postcolonialism.’” Social Text

vols. 31/32, 1992, pp. 84 –98.

Namaste, Viviane. “Undoing Theory: The ‘Transgender Question’ and the Epistemic Violence of Anglo-American Feminist Theory.” Hypatia , vol. 24, no. 3, summer 2009, pp. 11–32.

Tuck, Eve, and Wayne K. Yang. “Decolonization Is Not a Metaphor.” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education and Society , vol. 1, no. 1, 2012, pp. 1–40.

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