Comrades,
I never thought I’d say this, but lately I find myself nodding—hijab and all—at policy speeches
the reactionary francophone bourgeoise tell me I’m supposed to hate. As a disabled-by-choice,
transgender bisexual hijabi anglophone Québécois, I’ve slaved to create an attention-grabbing
and deeply flawed political identity, and now I think I’ve found my soulmate.
Take trade, for instance. I’ve long opposed free trade agreements because of how they exploit the
domestic proletariat and raise oat milk prices, so when a politician finally started talking about
tariffs, I felt a confusing flutter in my stomach, the same as when I couldn’t figure out if I liked
Sharkboy or Lavagirl more. Is it solidarity with the global worker, or the appeal of poutine
protectionism? Who can say? Not me, of course, I’m an assigned-talker-at-birth mute after all.
On foreign policy, I’ve spent years opposing foreign intervention, mostly because I believe no
one should impose their values on others except me.I should be allowed to do that. So, when I
hear calls to scale back military involvement, I can’t help but genuflect to the portrait of General
Secretary Trump I have in my apartment.
Of course, these moments of agreement don’t last very long. In fact, they dissolve the moment
nuance enters the conversation, which is pretty quickly. But it still makes me question my world
view.
Not good. Or as the native Yupik people say in their whistled language, fweet fweeeet fweet
fweeeeeeet.