The Reading Coordinator organizes literary readings with Word and Colour authors and similar writers in the Montreal community. They share the work with the Managing Editor and Community Outreach coordinator, organizing readings at least once per season.
Because Word and Colour is a collective of volunteers working under the mission to confront oppression with words inspired by colour, an ideal candidate would benefit from the position for their professional experience, as it is a volunteer role with the rest of our team. Readings
In general, the Reading Coordinator:
finds an appropriate venue;
arranges audio equipment;
works with the graphic design team for posters;
works with the social media team for marketing,
and works with the Managing Editor to establish a roster of readers.
To apply, contact email@example.com by September 15th with a resume and an answer to the question: why do readings matter?
“Home is not where you live but where they understand you.”
So apparently in Europe I’m too African in Africa I’m too European and in Canada I’m too French I’m done.
How many years have I lost in a camouflage? Trying to eclipse one side of myself just to be told that the other one is wrong?
I’m so stupid. Self-love? Ruined. Self-esteem? I’d like to see that. You. Words. Irony. Jokes. Silences. Looks. Because.I.don’t.belong
It’s like seeking affection and never finding open arms, reaching out to your mum’s hand and never grabbing it, wandering around the world, homeless, rejected by your own kind Every-fucking-where.
With multiplying comes the division. It’s nature. Maybe that’s how things are supposed to be. Maybe my home doesn’t exist. Maybe my will is unrealistic. Maybe my hope is a camouflage too. To hide the ugly truth.
Nailah King, a member of the Room editorial collective. She is also a writer, avid reader, and blogger. A UBC alumnae, she is currently working on completing a thus far untitled manuscript in prose fiction. Read King’s recent word and colour prose, “Diaspora Blues,” inspired by the art of Shanna Strauss
Taisha Cayard, a Social Services student at Dawson College who has recently found interest in writing poetry. She loves to sing and to socialize. Read Cayard’s recent wandc collaboration, “But What Can I Learn From You,” in dialogue with the poetry of Audre Lorde
Lily Chang, who writes, edits, and pays rent and hydro in Montreal. She is a recent graduate of Concordia University’s MA program in Creative Writing. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Headlight Anthology, Word and Colour, Voices Visible, and Frog Hollow Press’s City Series. Read Chang’s poetry, “White is Not My Colour,” inspired by the art of Tran Nguyen
Oumy Dembele, a Professional Theater student from France. A scriptwriting graduate, her writing is mostly focused on fiction and scenes. She recently challenged herself to write prose in English. Her work, “Meiosis,” is forthcoming at Word and Colour.
Tristen Sutherland, who studies English Literature and Political Science at McGill. When she’s not writing, she’s performing improv comedy or debating whether it’s safe to eat raw cookie dough. Read her recent Word and Colour piece, “Mango,” inspired by the art of Angela Pilgrim.
I didn’t taste a mango until early adulthood. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a problem of mango availability; I just didn’t like the idea of them. They were messy and sticky and watching someone eat that orange flesh was grotesque enough to put me off it entirely. Juice would dribble down their chin and then the sucking and slurping would commence. As a child, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. My mother, long and sinewy, with skin as dark as polished wood, would offer me half of her mango. Usually, this would happen when she was barefoot in our garden, patterned fabric draped over her shoulders, a look that was very unusual in our Canadian suburb. Each time she offered I would shake my head no. I would feel a pang of embarrassment in my gut, even if no one was there to see. Over the years, she persisted despite my resistance. By my teenage years, all she had to do was reach for a mango for me to dismissively utter No thanks. I now recognize the sadness that would cross her eyes each time I would refuse a piece of her fruit, requesting an apple instead. My mother loved when mangos became available in stores, they were the only product she would splurge on because they reminded her of home.
I first visited my mother’s home, Martinique, when I was in my early twenties. It was strange seeing her in her element like that. She seemed to glide across the sand, her luminous hair flecked with silvery strands, fastened with a flower. I tried to mimic her, but my feet weren’t used to the uneven terrain of sand and my hair seemed to reject every flower that tried to nestle between its curls. When I tripped for the fifth time, my mother smiled and sat down next to me. I was clearly frustrated with my lack of grace and I think my mother sensed that. We sat in silence for a moment watching the waves. My mother reached into her tote bag and extracted a mango. Carefully, she sliced it into halves. Tentatively, she offered me a half. For the first time I accepted, happy to share something with my mother.
Someone once told me not to make homes out of human beings but with you I
couldn’t help it— your body cradled perfectly against mine, as if we were built to rest with our limbs intertwined.
We forged space for each other where there was none to be made. I’d feel your heart as you held my head to your chest I wanted to merge your body with mine. But you were indestructibly you.
You lingered in the air, irresistible. Exquisite, as you lay back, stretching out beneath the sunlight of your bedroom window that splayed sparkles upon your cheeks. As you unequivocally made yourself a part of my world.
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