Note to readers
This report uses a non-binary pronoun: heel. This is done in order to respect and recognize the gender identity of each individual. The use of non-binary pronouns is becoming more common and is intended to include people who do not strictly identify as male or female. However, French grammar does not yet allow for non-gendered agreement and conjugation. With the permission of the interviewee, we therefore opted for a feminine conjugation. We want to highlight our commitment to inclusion and respect for gender diversity, and hope that this helps create a more inclusive space for all readers.
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June 2023. The last day of spring is eroding gracefully, giving way to the summer solstice looming on the horizon. The incandescent sun sets the streets ablaze, while shops, restaurants, and the city are adorned with a myriad of rainbows, brightening Pride Month. As June bows out, we meet Valentina who reveals her story as a queer, black and exiled person, experiences that are often forgotten, even overshadowed, from the image we have of Canada as a welcoming country.
Illustration: Nia E-K
In the library, looking for the word “lesbian”
“I became aware of my difference at the age of 10, but I kept feeling that something was wrong, and I never dared to talk to anyone about it,” Valentina tells us. At a young age, they believed that they should have been born a boy in place of a girl, since they were attracted to women. He was so convinced that growing up he was convinced that it was his mother's intense desire to have a daughter that changed his destiny.
Today, at the age of 28, Valentina presents herself as a non-binary, black and African person. Growing up in her native country, Nigeria, they said that they didn't even have the words to describe her identity, her experience: “The first time I heard the word 'lesbian' was when I pushed a classmate away, and he insulted me by calling me a lesbian.”
At 15, Valentina went to the school library of her religious boarding school to research the meaning of this word. That's where they are, where they first identified themselves. “However, even though I had never heard this word before, I knew that it was considered wrong, even though no one talked about it openly,” he explains. So the teenager turns to the Tumblr website. To her surprise, users of the network already seemed to know what a lesbian was, and many of its users were part of the queer community. “That's when I started meeting several people online who shared this experience. Ironically, most of them lived in Canada, where they could live their sexual identity openly and safely. That's how, growing up, I dreamed of going to Canada,” says Valentina.
Forbidden Emotions and Muffled Laughter
Following this incident, Valentina confided in a close friend, Marie, whom she met at the boarding school. Their friendship develops into a secret relationship, although none of them called it that or talked about how they felt and what they were about each other. “We would wake up at 3 am to take a shower since everyone was showering at 6 am. Once, while sneaking in, we almost got caught and Marie pushed me against the wall and the tile broke against my elbow. I was bleeding all over, but we couldn't tell anyone,” says Valentina, smiling at the scar from the wound. “We never gave a name to what we were, in fact we both had boyfriends,” Valentina continues, looking at her hands.
He takes a moment and plunges back into her teenage memories: “I remember Marie slipping into my bed at night, we slept together. Our only consolation to religion, and to society more generally, is that we did nothing sexual, so nothing so bad... we were just kissing and laughing, that's all,” they say, with a touch of nostalgia.
As her high school studies at the boarding school were coming to an end, Valentina decided to study abroad to leave Nigeria. After a lot of paperwork and exams, they left their native country for Ontario. “I arrived in Canada in January 2013, I was 17 years old. After six months of preparatory school, I applied for the school of architecture, and I started my bachelor's degree,” explains the architect.
A year after Valentina arrived in Canada, former Nigerian president Goodluck Jonathan signed a law that criminalized same-sex relationships. A law that will prevent Valentina from returning to her country. “Before, homosexuality was not accepted, but it was not criminalized. With this law, we risk 14 years in prison.” Some states in Nigeria also condemn homosexuality to death by stoning to death, explains Valentina in a sad tone.
Nostalgic waves are resurfacing. Valentina thinks of Nigeria: “Sometimes I miss the landscapes, the heat. What I miss the most is the way people take care of each other. Nigerian society is less individualistic and more communal. The last time I set foot there was in 2014, the year the law was over. More than ever, oppression against queer and trans people is intensifying there. Every hint, no matter how small, can lead to merciless prosecutions. Unfortunately, justice is now allowing the police to use and abuse their power to crack down on those who are perceived to be queer.”
As the memories pass by, Valentina lets out painfully:
“The story between Marie and me ended in discord. Before I left Nigeria, we had a fight. Her boyfriend suspected our lesbian relationship because of our proximity, and she pretended that I was obsessed with her. I now understand the reasons for his actions, but at the time, it hurt me deeply,” they said.
During his university years, he received tragic news from his country of origin: “Ma-Marie is no longer with us. When I hear this devastating news from her... follow-up...” Valentina, overwhelmed by emotion, is struggling to find her words. Then, looking away, they continued: “I knew instantly that her absence was the result of her inability to be herself, of her inability to leave Nigeria. She was not as lucky as me.”
Her Tears Slide, Valentina stares at the wall, and for a minute, they seem to disappear. After a deep breath, they explained: “The mourning that grieves me is complex, because Mary never fully accepted our truth. I carry the burden of our unshared history, unable to reveal the truth to the people who knew it. I know that this would only exacerbate the injuries, adding a new layer of suffering to their already insurmountable pain.”
With her eyes flooded, Valentina Smiles: “Now I realize that there are a lot of people I've known in Nigeria who are queer, and despite the tragedy of Marie, it makes me happy to know that some have been able to leave the country and live their sexuality to the fullest.”
A Double Life, a Nightmare
Valentina left her native country to escape the compulsion of living a double life. Unfortunately, they are facing a similar situation in Canada. This time, it is not his gender or sexual identity that forces him to hide but rather his immigration status. As a result of administrative negligence, her study and work permit renewal documents were lost by the school they attended in Ontario, with disastrous consequences.
All of this happened at the same time as the arrival of the COVID-19 pandemic, when everything was closed, and her application for renewal was never filed. “Despite getting my master's degree in Canada, I am denied any opportunity to legally extend my stay or to apply for permanent residence directly. I left everything to not have to hide, not to live in the shadows, and here I am living this nightmare again. I now find myself without papers, still in fear.”
His status, he explains, exacerbates his problems as a queer person, an immigrant person and a member of a racialized community. “This situation has deeply accentuated my depression, especially since I don't have longer access to anything. I can't even provide for myself, my rent, my shopping, I can't even rent an apartment because I don't have any valid ID, and with The New Bill 31, there won't even be a lease transfer anymore. Sometimes I feel trapped in my situation.”
All he has left is a glimmer of hope. Her last resort is to seek asylum and seek refuge in Canada. Today, Valentina is starting this process without knowing what the future holds.
Despite the precariousness of her situation, they want to emphasize: “I still know that I am privileged compared to other undocumented people in this country, because I managed to find an undeclared way of working. I am also extremely lucky to be here in the first place, even though I have lost a lot of friends who were not so lucky.”
However, they raise a problem concerning the resources allocated to queer BIPOC* people, which are limited, especially when the needs of migrants, asylum seekers and refugees are included. Valentina believes that community organizations suffer from a lack of funding. “There is an overload of files and an obvious lack of staff. I saw a lot of workers leaving who were overwhelmed with tasks and underpaid. It also means that I have to constantly start my journey over and over again, reliving the same traumas, which worsens my condition since I don't have access to the necessary health care,” they observe.
On several occasions, they seek psychological help and support in their migration process, but their requests have been systematically refused. “Given the scarcity of resources, these organizations tend to give priority to emergency situations, such as those of people stuck abroad. This is understandable completely, but it leaves few options for other situations, including my own,” the exile explains with understanding.
“When you're in survival mode, you don't have the luxury of worrying about pronouns”
In Canada, a lack of agency resources is not the only barrier Valentina faces. Even in queer environments, they can't find solace to ease their pain. Instead, they run up against normative discourses that ignore the diversity of their experiences.
Having lived in Nigeria until she was 17, Valentina didn't know Pride Month existed. Once they moved to Canada, they decided to attend the parade in question in Sudbury, where they lived before living in Toronto and Montreal. “The people I knew in Sudbury at the time were mostly white. So I went with a friend who is a white gay male and cisgender**. As a black, immigrant, and queer person, I have a negative perception of experiences with the police. So I was surprised by their presence during the parade. I remember thinking, “Why are there police here? I thought Pride was a demonstration against the police,” he recalls.
Valentina is referring here to the Stonewall Riots that took place on June 28, 1969. A rebellion was sparked by a violent police raid on the Stonewall Inn, a bar in Manhattan's Greenwich Village neighborhood. This bar, frequented mainly by transgender women and racialized homosexuals, was regularly the victim of police brutality. The customers finally fought back against this injustice, and the protest continued for six days, led by black and Latin transgender women such as Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, and Zazu Nova.
Valentina continues: “The Black Lives Matter members present at the market acted decisively, immediately stopping the parade as soon as they noticed the presence of uniformed police officers. Their action underlined the blatant contradiction and the importance of opposing the police institution even at an event like Pride. This gesture has deeply comforted me.” A point of view that his friend does not share. He said things that were devoid of sensitivity, ignoring the experience of Black people in North America, including that of Valentina, who had to leave her home country for fear of systemic violence and social repercussions in order to live her life in an authentic way. “At that moment, when he was complaining, I felt deeply alone.”
Over time, Valentina has found that her experience as a black, migrant, and queer person is often denied in public spaces. They had to deal with an increase in racism and xenophobia within queer and trans communities. “I realized that in many white queer spaces, there is a latent racism, which is a latent racism, which is manifested in questions about my legitimacy as a queer person of Nigerian origin and as an individual belonging to a certain ethnicity,” explains Valentina in a tired tone.
In particular, they point out that in groups where the white feminism*** Is Practured, Valentina is required to have a preconceived version of the Queeritude. “When I arrived, I tried to join 2SLGBTQIA+ groups, but I was expected to fully define my gender and sexual identity, including the pronouns to use, and to have a comprehensive knowledge of all sexual orientations and gender identities,” they add. These expectations didn't take into account the reality of Valentina and other queer people of color. “When you're in survival mode, you don't have the luxury of worrying about pronouns, you're constantly in a state of fear and flight. We Live in Secrecy, with Deep-Seated Shame. You don't have time to negotiate how you want to be treated, you're just trying to survive, to exist.”
“These demands further marginalize me”
The immigrant explains that even within black 2SLGBTQIA+ communities, there is exclusion and even xenophobia. “At first, I thought that I could find my place in the black queer and trans community, but we don't share the same cultural background, or the same relationship to our Blackness. It explains that in Canada, a lot of black people grew up in a country where the majority of the population is white, and therefore have to devote a lot of effort and energy to maintaining and proving their identities. “In these groups, I am often told that I should wear my natural hair and avoid adopting a Canadian accent when speaking. But these requirements do not take into account the fact that I do not have a regular status, and that this may further marginalize me,” he explains.
Valentina recounts a situation she has experienced several times in racialized queer spaces that claim to be anti-racist. “There is often this joke that young people with an immigrant background make: they laugh at the accents of their African or Caribbean parents. These same people recommend that I use my natural accent, without understanding that by making fun of their parents and family, they are also laughing at me. This kind of joke is insulting and simplistic, especially when it comes to intelligence jokes,” they explain. “It may not be racism, but it's certainly xenophobia.”
Moreover, Valentina expresses that when they do not correspond to established ideologies, they are punished and ostracized by their own alleged community: black, African and queer. For example, the ethnic and racial preference of romantic partners. “I was often told that I should not be in a relationship with white people to avoid fetishism and especially racism in intimate relationships, which is a recurring problem when we are people of color. But again, making these kinds of decisions is not part of my experience, and they are being forced upon me all the same. People can't even understand that there was a time when I didn't think I could be loved, when I didn't think I could be in a relationship, when I didn't think I could love without shame. I don't feel like I'm in a position where I'm going to stop loving a person to avoid a potential problem,” says Valentina decisively.
“I am tired of watching my life become a political statement”
As the streets of Montreal prepare for this year's Pride Parade, Valentina explains that they chose not to wait anymore. “My first two times, I decided not to participate in the Pride Parade anymore, because it has become a highly capitalistic show. All of these brands distribute condoms and stuff, but they don't hire people like us, immigrants, queer, and people of color to fill positions of power and influence, and they don't lobby on our behalf when it matters,” he explains.. Valentina looks at her T-shirt, where a rock metal version of Celine Dion is drawn, and gives a warm smile: “I now prefer to celebrate Pride with my friends and peers who have chosen to turn away from the official parade. It has been picked up by businesses that are surfing the rainbow to attract queers and make a profit.”
Two months after we met Valentina, a sweet farewell to the summer heat is taking place. The first shivers of autumn touch Montreal. In the second week of August, a scene is emerging: Montrealers wear bright makeup, while others gather under a multitude of flags, symbols of their struggles and their hopes. As the excitement of the Pride Parade takes shape, Valentina's words sound like a powerful whisper: “I am tired of having my life reduced to a political statement. I just want to be loved. I don't want every aspect of my life to be reduced to a big political story. I did not choose to be an activist, I was pushed into this path, as were others from similar backgrounds. You are not born an activist, but you are oppressed until you become an activist, and then you are pushed to carry the banner of social justice,” Valentina says confidently.
* English abbreviation (Black, Indigenous and People of Color) which refers to all Black, Indigenous and People of Color communities
** This category includes individuals who indicate that their sex assigned at birth is the same as their current gender.
*** The term “white feminism” refers to forms of feminism that seem to focus on white people, while neglecting to recognize the different forms of oppression that people from ethnic minorities face, and those who do not enjoy other privileges.