How is it that our lives are always snarled, complicated, with how whiteness permeates the slightest of creases? Can we find a racialized midwife, how do we name this child, the constant pull to western constructs-

is he a good sleeper is he still nursing is he a good eater is he still in your bed cry it out don’t spoil him cut him off a baby is a bomb in a marriage don’t you know?

Papoose! an older european man on the sidewalk exclaims. I am wearing the baby on my back, and always collecting interactions like these.

feeling…


Five months ago, I took the first stab at writing this piece. Frequent returns to rearrange these words and add to them have become part of comprehending the dull strain on my heart. Every month since, I have bled again and a little bit of that strain tightens. I clench up on the sight of bellies as far along as I would have been, and let my grief renew itself privately.

Sadiqa de Meijer wrote in her own account about “the thing, more complicated than any telling.”¹ I concur, feeling like my pregnancy, scarcely a pregnancy, might lead only to…


A studio still life — experimenting in creating a piece on bodily violence

I devoured bell hooks’s 1997 memoir, Wounds of Passion: a writing life, on writing, love, and sexuality in under a week — an admittedly incredible feat for this slow reader and avid notetaker. I’d purchased it a few years ago from Spartacus Books and previously tried starting it but conditions weren’t right. …


Memories murmur. In my flesh, in the flesh of the world. My migration story, beginning two decades ago in 1995, is made up of many of these murmurs and some have taken years to unearth and delve into. When a new friend in the seventh grade asked me if I ate dog, I thought it a strange question, said “no” and told no one.

It’s not like my family talked about what it meant to assimilate into a new country. We didn’t talk about the immigration experience — however life changing — we simply quietly and peacefully attempted to blend…

Clare Yow

Chinese-Canadian visual artist, flâneuse, daughter of a diaspora | The intricacies of identity and being, over and over | clareyow.com

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