Book Review: Red X by David Demchuk

By Anusha Runganaikaloo

Content warning: graphic violence, sexual assault, animal violence, homophobia, ableism, racism

Red X by David Demchuk is a novel unlike any I have ever read. It calls attention to the disappearance of vulnerable men from Toronto’s gay village, a recurring phenomenon that has been consistently met with indifference from the police and society at large for decades, and therefore remains unexplained.

The novel is divided into several stories centring on the lives of gay men just before they go missing. Their disappearances are usually greeted with disbelief and incomprehension by their friends, as nothing in their quiet, unassuming routines hinted at suicidal tendencies. The victims’ friends struggle to solve the mystery, alerting the authorities as well as estranged relatives. But they typically face a complete lack of interest or support, and eventually give up on their searches.

The author’s frame tale periodically interrupts the set of interwoven stories and provides the context for the disappearance of the main characters. He starts by sharing memories of coming out in his youth and moving to Toronto, where he was confronted with the dreary reality of young gay men trapped between the jaws of the Big City and saddled with dead-end jobs. They end up detaching themselves from families that fail to grasp their struggle and becoming more and more defenseless against predators as their support networks dwindle to nothing.

As both the author’s personal reflections and the set of stories progress, we are drawn deeper and deeper into an atmosphere of utter horror, where the lines between reality and fiction, between the author’s own life and that of his doomed characters, become blurred. Steering us away from the false lead of predictable homophobic hate crimes, Demchuk exposes a reality that is far more complex and disturbing.

Red X is a dark fantasy novel that gives a refreshing new twist to the horror genre. We encounter literary devices reminiscent of The Blair Witch Project and its found-footage technique, so that as readers, we feel irresistibly pulled into the story along with the hapless protagonists. 

Moreover, in horror stories, villains are often—implicitly or explicitly—gay or queer. One notable example is Dracula, where the Count lays claim to Jonathan Harker, stating, “This man belongs to me!" David Demchuk subverts this overused trope by emphasizing it in an almost parodic manner. 

Red X can in fact be interpreted as an allegory representing the grim reality of lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans and Two Spirit people who are sucked into a vortex of loneliness, discrimination, danger, and self-harm in soulless cities. The city becomes a monster that eats its victims alive while everyone else goes about their business, uncaring, and the authorities turn a blind eye to the horror unfolding before them—when they are not actively participating in it. Because of that, the city is haunted by centuries of unavenged crimes.

Inseparable from the fate of its victims is Toronto, a character in its own right, whose semi-fictional history is told from the viewpoint of the gay community. Hanging menacingly above the old Town of York and its inhabitants are mythological creatures that manipulate people and events like puppets. This sometimes produces dramatic, satisfying instances of poetic justice.

Another interesting point is that along with homophobia and transphobia, issues such as racism from a lesbian person’s standpoint and ableism are addressed, which makes this novel a fine addition to Canadian intersectional fiction. It is definitely a must-read!

Thank you, Penguin Random House Canada, for the complimentary copy in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review: The Sister's Tale by Beth Powning

By Anusha Runganaikaloo

Content warning: child abuse, child neglect, sexual assault, misogyny

Oliver Twist meets Anne of Green Gables in The Sister’s Tale by Beth Powning, a skillful portrayal of small-town life in 19th century New Brunswick. Josephine Galloway, who runs the family house while her sea captain husband is away, is cornered into purchasing British home child Flora Salford at a pauper auction in order to save her from predators.

Flora soon becomes a vital figure in the Galloway household. Her sharp mind, deft hands, and practical intelligence prove invaluable, especially when tragedy strikes and Josephine is forced to turn her home into a boarding house to avoid losing it. 

An improbable bond develops between Josephine, her daughter Maud, and the housemaids, as they struggle together to make ends meet and settle into a life of genteel poverty. Lines are blurred and boundaries broken as maids and mistresses become like sisters.

After a lifetime of trials, Flora at last feels like she belongs. However, until she finds her sister Enid, whom she was tricked into leaving at a workhouse in England five years ago, when both were still little girls, she will never be at peace. So when she learns that Enid is working on a farm in Nova Scotia, she sets out on a perilous journey to find her.

The story unfolds with a murder mystery as a backdrop, which gives it an interesting edge. Unfortunately, this subplot seems far-fetched and awkward at times, not to mention jarringly dramatic in comparison to the main plot. However, the ambiguity of one of the suspects, as well as the irresistible, nauseating pull Flora feels toward him, is portrayed in a very realistic manner.

Their twisted relationship is nonetheless hard to stomach, and the reader may feel a mixture of empathy and powerless rage as Flora, who has never known love or respect from a man, is manipulated by Jasper Tuck. The combination of street smarts and profound naïveté that make up Flora’s personality is understandable, as she has been treated no better than a workhorse all her life.

Several social issues relevant to the period are dealt with in this well-researched novel, which takes place at a time when the suffrage movement was gaining momentum, corsets were being discarded, and women were timidly starting to be admitted to the legal profession.

However, it was also a time when widows without a will did not have custody of their own children. Orphaned children were still being shipped out from workhouses in England to Canada, making their existence one of endless exploitation and abuse. Pauper auctions still took place in towns where almshouses did not exist. 

These lesser-known aspects of Canadian history are presented in a very engaging way, and the author’s elegant style makes me impatient to discover her other novels, especially The Sea Captain’s Wife, in which some of the colourful characters from The Sister’s Tale are the protagonists.

Thank you to Knopf Canada for the complimentary copy in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review: Ghost Forest by Pik-Shuen Fung

By Anusha Runganaikaloo

Pik-Shuen Fung’s debut novel Ghost Forest tells the story of a Chinese Canadian “astronaut” family: the protagonist’s father stayed behind to work, while the rest of her family immigrated to Vancouver in 1997, just before sovereignty over Hong Kong was returned to China.

The novel alternates between three different viewpoints: the narrator’s, her mother’s, and her grandmother’s. Each chapter, no more than a few pages long, describes a defining moment in the life of one of the three characters, not necessarily in chronological order, but rather as a standalone anecdote that often ends with an aphorism. These episodes, by turns funny, sad or philosophical, form a tapestry that depicts the interwoven destinies of three generations of women. Those destinies are different and yet strangely similar: the narrator’s grandmother, born to a poverty-stricken Chinese family in the 1930s, attends school only for one year but still manages to write an opera in exquisite calligraphy—and to star in it. She passes this creativity and vitality down to her daughter and granddaughters, and we witness with fascination how each generation paves the way for the next, to finally move together halfway across the world, carrying a wealth of centuries-old customs, wisdom, and knowledge.

Growing up in Vancouver, the narrator and her younger sister are caught between these traditions—transmitted to them through wise words, rituals, and prayers—and the values of their new homeland. The cultural gap becomes all the more obvious when their father falls sick back in Hong Kong. During this pivotal moment in the family’s life, the narrator summons various memories involving herself and her father. All these memories have one thing in common: they are characterized by misunderstandings and things left unsaid.

In a context where hard work and providing for one’s family are the ultimate proofs of love, and where feelings are hardly ever expressed in words, the young woman devises a successful plan to say “I love you” to her father for the first time…and to trap him into saying the words back, which is no mean feat.

The author, a visual artist, has conceived her book much like a sketchbook full of graceful vignettes. In one chapter, she explains the technique of ink bamboo painting, which she is learning at the China Academy of Arts, and where large areas of the paper are left blank because empty space is as important as form, absence as important as presence. What is crucial is to capture the artist’s spirit. These empty spaces where each story keeps on unfolding quietly, protected from our curious gazes, long after we have finished reading, are what makes this book so appealing. Where we would usually consider empty spaces to be a waste, we can almost picture the author sketching poetic, fragile characters surrounded by white. The white becomes part of the painting, breathes life into each character’s story, and gives space to every precious word, even—or especially—to the last ones whispered before a soul flies away. A haunting read!

Thank you, Penguin Random House Canada, for the complimentary copy in exchange for an honest review!

Book Review: We Have Always Been Here by Samra Habib

By Anusha Runganaikaloo

Content warning: sexism, racism, Islamophobia, child abuse

We Have Always Been Here: A Queer Muslim Memoir is the story of Samra Habib, a Toronto-based writer, photographer, and activist. It is a tale of resistance in the face of oppression in one’s homeland, of exile and resilience—but beyond that, it is a one-of-a-kind book that celebrates queer Muslim identities around the world. 

The author starts by recounting her childhood in a working-class neighbourhood in Lahore, Pakistan. Nostalgia and trauma are inextricably tangled as, on the one hand, she recalls exuberant family reunions, or mornings spent singing and baking with her mother and sisters in their one-bedroom house while her overbearing father was away at work; and on the other, rampant sexism, femicides, and fearing for her life as an Ahmadiyya Muslim in a country where her community was, and still is, persecuted by the Sunni majority.

At thirteen, the author moves to Canada with her family—and mysteriously, her first cousin Nasir, who is ten years older than she is. Amid a flurry of appointments at the welfare office, struggles and humiliations, encounters with bullies at her new school, intensive ESL classes, and tremendous efforts to adapt to her new environment, she learns that her family has arranged for her to marry Nasir.

The teenage Samra sees her childhood dreams fall apart as her parents and Nasir become more and more controlling, so that she only finds solace in school and books. Ultimately, this is what saves her, as she wins a scholarship to study journalism at Ryerson University. Around that time, we also witness her first act of open self-assertion when she dissolves her marriage to Nasir, challenging her parents’ authority and getting ostracized by her Ahmadiyya community.

From then on, we follow Samra as she searches for herself as a young adult, repeatedly using the dysfunctional coping mechanisms she has grown up with and dealing with incomprehension as a first-generation immigrant.

Slowly, she manages to carve a place for herself as a fashion journalist and dares to come out as queer. However, one thing is sorely missing from her life: spirituality. This realization propels her toward a journey to reconnect with the religion that she distanced herself from so many years ago. It is finally in a queer mosque, a place of acceptance and openness, that she comes full circle and reconciles with who she truly is, a queer Muslim in all her glorious uniqueness.

The strength of this book lies in how it handles complex issues such as family dynamics and religious identity. The author never falls into clichés or extremes. Her parents’ ambiguity and redeeming traits are well portrayed: paradoxically, they are conservative but almost feminist in their fight for their daughters to have the finest education. And, later on, in their own way, they end up accepting Samra for who she is. Furthermore, instead of rejecting Islam, she reclaims her religion and makes it her mission to show the world how queer Muslims are empowered by their faith.

That being said, I could not help but notice a few inconsistencies, such as the author claiming that she was coming out for the first time, or was visiting the USA or Montréal for the first time, when she already had earlier in the story. However, these are minor flaws, and I definitely recommend this edifying read to anyone who wishes to explore the challenges faced by diasporas from a very original standpoint.

Book Review: I Hope We Choose Love by Kai Cheng Thom

By Anusha Runganaikaloo

Content Warning: violence, racism, transphobia, suicide

I Hope We Choose Love: A Trans Girl’s Notes From the End of the World is a collection of personal essays and poems by writer, performer, and community healer Kai Cheng Thom. Interestingly, it was written in the spring of 2019 but is so timely and visionary that it could have been written in the post-pandemic era that we are entering. This book offers the perspective of a trans woman of colour on subjects that few have dared to tackle in such a candid way. From the alarming suicide rate in trans communities to the true meaning of transformative justice, the author leaves no stone unturned in her quest for authenticity.

The book is divided into three parts: “Let Us Live,” “Let Us Love,” and “Let Us Believe,” each consisting of about five essays and poems. The first deals mainly with profound crises that plague social justice communities, such as call-out culture, intimate partner abuse, public shaming, and suicide enabling. The author emphasizes that the very community proposing to provide a safe space for its members knows a lot about trauma but so little about how to heal it. In fact, much of the trauma endured by queer, racialized, or, more generally speaking, marginalized people originates from within the community itself. An example of this is the “performance of virtue,” which can be described as the never-ending struggle to demonstrate one’s adherence to the latest politically correct, albeit simplistic, terminology. Unfortunately, this “activist theatre” hides an inability to conduct meaningful dialogue that would take each person’s complex situation into consideration.

“Let Us Love” handles difficult issues like rape culture and collective responsibility for violence. Among other things, the author observes that, particularly in Montreal’s queer punk scene, in which she was immersed for several years, safety and accountability are core principles. Violence in any form is condemned, at least in theory, and perpetrators are denounced and publicly called out on social media. However, all is not black and white. The truth is, perpetrators are often survivors who reproduce the abuse they endured, and the cancel culture they are subjected in no way heals them, their victims, or the community. What can be done, then, to build a safe community, free of bodily harm and intimate violence, especially against trans women of colour, who are among the most likely to be assaulted? The author advocates for a transformative justice movement, where both survivors and perpetrators would be seen as community members worthy of love and healing. Where the focus would be on prevention of harm rather than on punishment.

Part three, “Let Us Believe,” reads almost like a memoir that provides deep insight into the author’s personal experience as a racialized trans woman who emerges, breaks under social pressure, rises, transforms, and gives birth to herself. The reader by turns laughs and cries with her as she shares memories of being an idealistic new adult who gradually sees the members of her chosen family leave her behind as they build nuclear families based on the heteronormative stereotype and raise children. Her reflection about the significance of motherhood for a trans woman is particularly poignant and relatable.

This book explores broad topics that encompass society and entreats each of us to love in an enlightened, accountable way. The author takes us on a rollercoaster ride with her alternate use of incisive prose and luminous poetry. We are left at once shaken and full of hope.