The Joy of Colour
My office is a magical place. I’m in a co-working space which is itself within a building that is a hub of innovation, creativity, and community. Up on the third floor, there is a wall of windows that is obviously perfect for everything that lives. I love that the enormous room is full of giant plants that thrive—when I was going around visiting many potential spaces, the co-working space at the Cotton Factory stood out because of the plants. I thought, if they are thriving here, I will too.
So many people come visit and decide to stay because they like the energy of the place, the high ceilings, the vibe, and especially the people. When I first moved to Hamilton, I searched for a co-working space and I am so pleased I selected this one. It has been one of the best things about moving to Hamilton and is definitely one of the places I am most happy.
The Cotton Factory … What’s In A Name?
I admit, that as a person of colour, the name made me shudder … and it was because of the name that it wasn’t initially on my list of offices to check out. The Cotton Factory. I was disturbed by it—even before I knew its history. My initial hesitation was strong but my daughter was studying art and there were life drawing classes in the building and it was the closest to home. I could walk there and I really wanted that “15 minute city” lifestyle. Plus I could afford it! These conveniences made me look past and to eventually accept its name.
Once a member, I couldn’t help but wonder about its initial days as an actual cotton factory. Did it profit from materials created from the system of slavery? Slavery in the US had been abolished for 30 years when this building opened in 1900. The company was called the Imperial Cotton Factory and there is no doubt it received materials through the global market, meaning that cotton produced by sharecroppers and others harmed by slavery in the US were part of the raw materials that the company drew from.
From Factory To Artists’ Haven
The original company transitioned away from cotton in the 1950s and it is now full of artist and design studios as other small businesses. We love the beauty that remains as the original building is continually restored (you should see the windows!) not replaced or modernized. But yeah, retaining or even going back to that name was a choice, and it took me a minute to move past or ignore the name’s connections to the physical and moral violence of slavery.
One of the amazing people I met in the community is Dawn Grant, a beautiful Black artist with whom on occasion I’ve discussed the name, but mostly we’ve discussed so much more. Dawn makes a living through her wearable art creations, art therapy group and individual sessions, her work in the movie industry, and by bringing people together with incredible, transformative events. Her event on grief was outstanding. She is curator of the Joy of Colour, which started on 27th September as part of the Cotton Factory’s Art Fair—and she invited me, yes ME, to be part of it!
Dawn Grant and The Joy of Colour
I am humbled by Dawn’s generosity. Dawn creates events and invites others to be part of them or sometimes is inspired by others so she creates events where she can showcase them. Like I’ve never experienced someone so interested in finding ways to uplift the people around her. She selected BIPOC artists from far and near and the exhibit is truly breathtaking — I am about to go have another walk through. The art will remain up on the walls throughout October. The launch on September 27th was so exciting and packed OUT.
My contribution is a poem called THE JOY OF COLOUR. And while I write poetry, typically my work is to edit and publish the work of others. So to have my own poetry as part of a show was not even something I considered. In fact, I would rarely think of poetry as part of an art show but Dawn is the curator and my piece is up there with the rest!
I am so pleased to be part of the modern history of The Cotton Factory and beyond delighted that my art will be featured here amongst the work of so many that I so deeply respect.
My Writing Process for my ‘Joy of Colour’ Poem
When invited to do this piece, I considered what the exhibit was about as well as what I felt about it. The joy of colour meant to me both the vibrancy of the colour we see in our environment but also the freedom and joy I feel for being BIPOC in Canada. I grew up in Rexdale (NW Toronto) in the 80s and felt limited by society’s boxes and even those my mother put up to keep us safe. I was born in England, the home of colonialism, and I am so aware of how my parents’ generations was more trapped by the racial oppression of the UK, Canada, and even Jamaica where they were born. They raised me to be “quiet,” to only be free at home, to go through public spaces quickly just to get home knowing that “out there” anything could happen. The idea was to get home to experience joy and to not attract attention in public as it is not safe. Also, if we made too much noise “they” would notice us and they could send us “back.”
Really. That was the attitude of many of my mom’s generation, immigrants from the Caribbean.
But for me, I can’t contain my joy — I live in the high-vibe space of joy, which is why I took it as my middle name. I certainly didn’t raise my kids with that fear. Plus society continually changes, often for the better.
For inspiration for the poem, I read other articles, posts, and books about joy. Considered how the theme of joy and being Black was part of other books I’d read a long time ago, books like I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelous and Possessing the Secret of Joy by Alice Walker. I considered the Master Classes I watched, fabulous series created by poets like Joy Harjo, Amanda Gorman, and Billy Collins. I thought of the seminars and webinars I have both taken and given about poetry. The essay on joy and the other essays in the book Feelings by Zadie Smith were also an inspiration.
I jotted down my observations and feelings in prose first and then started to craft the poem. I thought of colour being washed out, what it was like to live without colour — that made me think of the “One Drop Rule.” The Rule was/is a cultural thing but also law, as there was the case of the white-passing woman who was not allowed to change her race on legal documents in the US based on having Black ancestry. The One Drop Rule meant if there was any Black people in your parentage, you were Black no matter how light or white you were. This affected the type of education you would get, where you could live, and where you could be hired.
Race isn’t biological—it’s cultural—so the rule is so weird but hey, Black is so often a vibe partially as a result of needing to flourish under white supremacy. For instance, recently Kamala Harris, who has an Indian mother and a Black father said on an Instagram post, “My mother was very intentional about raising my sister, Maya, and me as strong, Black women.” Mixed kids with a Black parent are judged and seen as Black no matter the race of their other parent.
The One Drop Rule was meant to box in those with even one Black ancestor generations away, but instead let’s make it an entrance requirement. It is a good thing to love yourself especially when the systems that govern society are telling you both subtly and overtly that you are not worthy. So I wanted to connect the poem to the One Drop Rule.
In my childhood, the wider society seemed to think loving reggae, soul, hip hop, and dance made you “less than” which is a continuation of colonialism. European colonizers often labeled the practices of colonized peoples—including their forms of dance and expression—as “primitive” or “uncivilized” to justify their violent domination. Many cultures that valued bodily expression, like African, Indigenous, and Latin American cultures, were depicted by colonizers as less sophisticated or morally inferior. Sensual forms of dance were viewed through a lens of exoticism, which both sexualized and demeaned BIPOC people.
As I wrote the poem, I remembered feeling shamed by a news report I saw when I was a teenager. The reporter crashed a party, popped his camera through a window where inside the house Black people were dancing to the latest reggae jam — I so wish I could remember the song!
That party was rocking, but the viewers were supposed to be disgusted by what was happening inside that private home. The story was to show how immigrants were bringing their nasty habits here rather than leaving them behind and how this was causing nuisance and noise disturbance. The camera invaded that party and the newscaster told us just how wrong and unCanadian “these Jamaicans” were.
Oh the Sunday Sun. What a vile rag that paper was. Barbara Amiel is a devil; she wrote many “them” vs “us” pieces. How could it be that what I loved was bad? That was something that I pushed down as I grew up and only took out and healed late in my adulthood. In my poem I wanted to remind myself of that past judgement as growing up loving to dance but being taught your form of it is uncivilized and wrong was so confusing.
Writing the poem for Dawn’s event was an awesome experience and every time I re-read the poem, I remain so very pleased with the effort I put into writing, editing, refining, and finalizing my art, my poem. I am so happy to see it on the wall as part of Dawn Grant’s Joy of Colour exhibit.
Come out and see it! And write your own poetry fit for any wall.
If you’d like to explore and develop your poetry, please call. And if you have been harmed by internalized racism, please connect with me as writing is such a great tool to reflect on trauma. Through journaling, free-writing, and poetry, you can increase your self-expression and this helps you to move past grief, it helps you to heal. I have a number of workshops coming up which look at writing as a tool for healing and growth.
Stay in touch!
Source for photograph is this IG post by Annette Paiement: https://www.instagram.com/p/DAd7FZoueM9/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==