Author: Catherine Lough Haggquist

“There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”
– Toni Morrison

February marks the arrival of the annual call to meaningfully celebrate the contributions made by people of the African diaspora: Black History Month.

This time though, it feels different. This time, it feels like the world is engaging in conversations to not only cease to recognize the value of contributions by Black people, but in some areas, to cease to recognize the value of Black people themselves. The war on diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) is real and spreading and Black History Month is a target.

For me, this is very personal and connects directly to why the work of the Writers Collective of Canada (WCC) and the communities it supports is so necessary and important.

For so many of us (Black people in a predominantly White culture), the need to show up in spaces being “twice as good, to be considered half as good” is a mantra drilled into us from childhood. Evaluations of our “goodness” are directly tied to our forms of self expression through language and, in specific, to our writing. And thus, a barrier is created.

As with many things, the specific and personal can also be relatable on a much broader, more universal scale. This fear of judgment of what we offer through our words, our language, our writing, can create a crippling, limiting obstacle to being fully seen as ourselves. Fear leads to silence resulting in despair. Despair, unaddressed cannot heal.

“I want your help and for you to be on a board. It’s for a writer’s group. They do really cool, really important stuff.”

Bob Wertheimer’s voice through the phone was both excited and insistent.

“You know I am NOT a writer,” I offered back.

“Doesn’t matter. And, I think you are.”

He was firm. As was I. My fear was real.

Until this conversation, I had allowed the childhood trauma around judgment of my writing to make me cling to the safety of claiming I was NOT a writer. I believed: if I don’t offer words as a writer, they won’t catch me out. Pin me down. Expose me. Make me vulnerable. Make me unsafe. Make me less than.

There was safety in not writing.

I am sure this sounds like a strange relationship with words for someone who makes her living by interpreting other people’s. As an actor, I bring characters to life using words crafted by writers. The safety of distance, of mask, was part of the appeal. I had no idea that Bob’s call would change my perspective on writing, on deep listening, and on myself.

Bob would not let it go. He circled back and, with each subsequent conversation, he appealed to my sense of service. “Just come to a board meeting and see if you can help,” he encouraged. I became curious to see if I could help. And, if I could help, could I do it without writing?

My journey with WCC has been one of transitions. From Board Member to Participant Writer to Workshop Facilitator to Advisory Council Member to Chapter Lead for British Columbia. These roles and responsibilities are all in service to sharing the WCC’s Six Essential Practices, which create safety and save lives. And yet, no transformation on this adventure has been more important to me—and for me—than that of the transformation from “writing abstainer” to, increasingly, “brave writer”.

Writing in community, deep listening, and sharing fully through WCC has transformed not only my relationship to the words I express but to the very spaces into which I now expand and claim. The power of being seen and in seeing others—as they are, through the authentic expression of voice and story—has never been more important.

In these increasingly turbulent times, it is essential to remember the importance of showing up, as ourselves, brave in the sharing of our authentic voices. As erasure becomes the threat of the moment, writing in community, “doing language” creates lasting shared memories that are visceral, real and important.

As we celebrate and honour Black History Month, we are also reminded of the importance of holding space to recognize the lives of those whose lived experience may be different from our own.

I am grateful to the WCC (and to Bob) for leading me back to a love of writing I had forgotten and to creating a space where, now more than ever, we can gather to write, speak, listen, and heal.

Happy Black History Month and happy writing,

Catherine Lough Haggquist on behalf of the team at WCC