The Simpsons‘ Apu Nahasapeemapetilon.

On April 8, The Simpsons aired the episode “No Good Read Goes Unpunished.” The 15th episode of the series’ 29th season addressed the issue of the racist portrayal of Kwik-E-Mart owner Apu Nahasapeemapetilon. “Addressed” insofar as Lisa Simpson looked at the camera and said, “Something that started decades ago, and was applauded and inoffensive, is now considered politically incorrect. What can you do?” She asks this question, a picture of Apu beside her, signed, “Don’t have a cow.” Apu is otherwise not in the episode.

In a 2015 interview, the voice actor who voices Apu, and dozens of other Simpsons characters,, Hank Azaria, described himself as an “equal-opportunity offender.” Footage of Azaria can be found where he says he was asked by show creators in the early days, “Can you do an Indian voice and how offensive can you make it?” In the same 2015 interview he acknowledges that Apu was, at a time, the only South Asian character in pop culture and that South Asian kids were being bullied because of the normalized racism of the character. In November 2017, comedian Hari Kondabolu released his film The Problem with Apu, about the character who Kondabolu describes as “a white guy doing an impression of a white guy making fun of my father.” With the issue becoming a mainstream focus, Azaria told TMZ a month after the film’s release that the folks behind The Simpsons would be thinking about it. 

And so Lisa talks about how things applauded decades ago are now considered politically correct. In a Young Turks video titled, “Why Did The Simpsons Change Lisa Instead of Apu?” Nerd Alert host Kim Horcher wonders who exactly applauded Apu in the first place: “The all white writing staff? The white centric zeitgeist of the 1980s and ’90s?”

Comedy is a reflection of current culture and political climate. There is an argument to be made that comedians are today’s philosophers. It seems obvious that comedy spaces cannot be used effectively while being dominated by white men; plus it’s boring.

New spaces are being created where, as Horcher describes, “voices that were previously not heard because they were inconvenient to the prevailing culture are being heard now.” Not only are they being heard, audiences are vocal about their need for change. 

The Toronto comedy show series SHADE is doing just that. SHADE is a self-described “monthly comedy show that represents and celebrates comedians of colour, comedians from the LGBTQ+ community, and comedians who identify as women.” Its audience is largely people of colour—people who have told SHADE founder and producer Anasimone George that they aren’t usually at these kinds events. “[People tell me], ‘I don’t usually come to comedy shows, I feel like I’m going to be unwelcome,” she says. Since its January 2017 debut, SHADE has sold out every show.

Comic D.J. Mausner lists SHADE in a compilation of “people of colour, female-identifying/non-binary, and queer centric shows around Toronto.” This compilation is what White Guys Matter host Aaron Berg would call “opportunities to marginalized people,” not an opportunity to make people laugh. White Guys Matter is just one example of how not everyone is happy that white men’s voices aren’t the only ones being heard. The show, created by comedian Kevin Brennan, has been a regular show in New York and made its Toronto debut on April 11. It promises to “Make comedy great again” and prides itself on not being a safe space—while being hosted at local club Yuk Yuks, which has a strict no-heckling policy. At the beginning of the show, Sarah McLachlan played; even the feminist references being mocked are dated in the ’90s.

“If you’re going to tell me I can’t make jokes about Black people, I can’t make jokes about gay people, I can’t make jokes about lesbians, you’re absolutely wrong,” says Berg while co-hosting a radio show. “I can’t do it at your show that you book where you have to be on your period to perform, but I’m allowed to say whatever I want to say.” Throughout this interview, Berg goes on about free speech while host Todd Shapiro assures listeners that Berg is a nice guy with a heart of gold because he has Black friends and is married. 

“They think it is this open idea to also include these hateful ideas,” says Alicia Douglas, a comedian who has performed with Second City Toronto Touring Company and Second City Theatricals. “But that’s not an open mind. Those hateful ideas are shutting other ideas out.” Douglas understands that comedy is competitive and comedians may think they need an edge of some sort. But she suggests that if someone needs to prove themselves, why not have more people in the room to prove themselves to? There is this idea, she says, that white men are being pushed out, when in reality, other people are being welcomed in. 

When it comes to White Guys Matter, Douglas says, “people are trying to say it’s just a show or it’s just a name; no, that name carries too much weight. As comedians we should understand better than anyone how much our words and the context of those words matter. We should understand as comedians out words have power. A lot of those guys have been doing comedy for a really long time; and because of that they have this idea that, ‘well, we understand this better than you guys since we’ve been doing it for a long time.’ But the scene is really changing, and the atmosphere is really changing. I honestly think it is out of fear that this kind of thing happens.”

Comedy, commentary on life, is not doing its job if it is exclusively commenting on the lives of the same demographic—cisgender, straight, white men. In my own life there has been an obvious need for more from the comedy I grew up consuming. It started when watching Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee, a show where Jerry Seinfeld spends way too much time talking about how rich he is and how awful millennials are because they work in coffee shops (instead of in expensive offices) and record themselves; meanwhile, Seinfeld records himself getting coffee with friends, and guest Norm Macdonald compares women on phones to yappy dogs. These were two guys that I, a teenager living in the suburbs using dial-up internet, thought were hilarious. And boy did I love The Simpsons.

On April 25, The Late Show With Stephen Colbert uploaded on YouTube Colbert’s interview with Azaria, titled, “Hank Azaria: ‘The Right Thing To Do’ With Apu.” In this interview Azaria goes back on earlier comments, saying he didn’t realize how harmful the character of Apu is. “I wanted to spread laughter and joy with this character,” he says. “And the idea that it’s brought pain and suffering in any way, that it’s used to marginalize people, it’s upsetting, genuinely.” He continues to say he was unhappy with the April 8 episode and suggests the show includes Indian and South Asian writers, and not in a tokenized way.

Times have changed, the culture is changing, comedy needs to reflect this.

Dear art thieves,

Yes, that’s what you are. No, I don’t care that you just really liked my work. No, I don’t care that I didn’t use a watermark. It’s my design, you took it, you didn’t get my consent. You’re an art thief.

I know we live in a time where millions of delicious chunks of media are dancing on our fingertips—accessible, saveable, easy to find and use. I know you love following blogs on the social network Tumblr that post inspirational art (without crediting the artist), and cute online corkboards on Pinterest that post soothing illustrations (without credit), and so-called feminist Facebook pages that post sassy memes (without credit). But that does not mean you can take my art without my permission.

I’m talking to you, girl who was selling my stuff on her online store. And I’m talking to you, Instagram account with hundreds of likes for displaying my work without credit. And you, tattoo parlour that used my work without my consent. And I didn’t forget about you, art student who plagiarized my work for an assignment. And you and you and you, dozens who have overtly stolen my art, posted without credit, or attempted to sell it for profit.

I’ve been creating artwork for years. And for years, most of it went unnoticed. In April 2016, an illustration of mine—a floral EKG line, captioned with the words “healing is not linear”—blew up online. It was an earlier piece in an affirmation series I decided to create. Now, I’ve made more than 100. It’s a labour of love—I don’t get paid to make these pieces that I post every Monday. I do it because it’s something I care deeply about, something I believe in. I have a day job to keep me afloat. I’ve paid my dues, and you, art thieves, swoop in and steal the fruits of my labour in an attempt to catapult yourself to sudden Instafame without the years of work that actually went into my social media rise.

I think it’s cute when you decide to answer my messages with a long story of how deeply the illustrations in my affirmations series—like “you have survived so much” written over a mountain range—resonated with you and how much you care about mental health. What about the mental health of the artist you stole from? It really tickles me pink when you quietly remove the work in question, without an apology or acknowledgement of your wrongdoing. It’s even worse when, after I call you out, you proceed to lecture me on how better to protect my work or how hard it was to find the source. You really know how to make a girl smile.

I know what you’re thinking: It’s “just art” and I’m “just an artist.” Who cares about the time and energy that went into making the piece? Its only purpose is to serve you, completely unattached from the artist who made it. It’s on the internet, so that must mean that everyone can use and exploit it, however they choose. Right? Wrong. It’s my work. I made it. It’s for me, the creator of it, first. It’s for those who see it, second, after I choose to put it online to show them. I own the work. It’s my blood, sweat, and tears.

You should know that my livelihood is important. Like you, I’m trying to make a name for myself in this world and earn some money doing what I love. I deserve to be paid for my labour. When you don’t credit me, I don’t get recognition and it affects my career. When you steal my work, you’re taking potential profits from me.

The saddest part, art thieves, is that all you had to do was ask for consent to use my work or recreate it for your own leisurely purposes. Most of the time, I say yes. Sincerely, The girl who creates the beautiful things you like to steal.

—HANA SHAFI

Story after story broke with revelations about so-called trusted names in news accused of sexual misconduct in the workplace. I began reconsidering my new career in media.

Some, like Mark Halperin of MSNBC, were accused of propositioning employees and engaging in unwanted sexual touching. A Vox investigation alleged that Glenn Thrush of the New York Times placed several young female reporters in uncomfortable romantic situations before spreading disparaging rumours about them in the workplace when his advances were rejected. Ryan Lizza was dismissed from the New Yorker for what the magazine cited as “improper sexual conduct.”

I began to think that being a woman in media meant condemnation to a lifetime of small injustices: mentorship conditional on acquiescence, fear that collegiality will be interpreted as romantic interest, weathering vengefulness after rebuffed advances.

While an individual incident might not have lasting repercussions, experiencing a pattern of harassment over years has likely prompted many women to reconsider their careers, if not abandon the industry entirely. Was a life in media worth it? I wondered if there were other aspiring journalists who shared my anxieties. Had these scandals made them reconsider their career plans?

Ann Rauhala, an associate professor at Toronto’s Ryerson School of Journalism, is a 29-year veteran of news media in Canada, having worked at the Globe and Mail, the Toronto Star, and the CBC. She’s seen this problem play out throughout her career. “This is an old story that is finally getting the light of day,” Rauhala says. But now, the public appears to have reached a “critical mass” moment with survivors of sexual harassment coming forward. “The whole #MeToo response, I think, is serious and important,” she says. “It is based on decades of outrageous behaviour that women in workplaces have endured. It’s pretty gratifying, to tell you the truth, to see it emerge.”

While many stories of misconduct have revolved around American outlets and reporters, Rauhala suspects that similar allegations may soon emerge in Canadian institutions as well. “I do hope that there are some sexual predators and sexual harassers who are not sleeping well these days,” says Rauhala. “Good. I’m happy that they’re not sleeping well.”

Days after I spoke to Rauhala, CTV News broke the story that two women had accused Ontario Progressive Conservative leader Patrick Brown of sexual misconduct, stemming from separate instances. Within hours, Brown resigned. In response to coverage of the Brown story, former broadcaster Bridget Brown described in a blog post an incident in which an unnamed CTV reporter is alleged to have forcibly kissed and exposed himself to her. Soon after, the outlet suspended Queen’s Park correspondent Paul Bliss.

Like me, Moira Wyton was disheartened by the plethora of allegations against prominent media men, those we trusted as reliable sources of information or held as sources of professional inspiration. Wyton, features editor at the University of British Columbia’s student newspaper, tells me that she was saddened by the implications of these numerous allegations. “I think about all the women who weren’t able to fully participate in the industry and who weren’t able to fully practice their craft,” she notes, “or were practicing it with fear and intimidation.”

At the Varsity, I spoke to Josie Kao, one of our associate news editors, who plans to pursue journalism after graduation. While media scandals haven’t altered her career plans significantly, Kao says, it has forced her to acknowledge the many barriers between her and a secure job in the journalism industry with “respect and decent pay.”

Still, she was hopeful that this public outcry would set a precedent for herself and other young female reporters. “I’d like to hope that if anything like this happens [to me],” Kao says, “I’d feel more confident speaking out against this, now that I know people in the media have done this before… and not been harassed out of existence.”

Both Wyton and Kao cited journalism’s strict hierarchies and competitiveness as potential reasons these incidents may occur more frequently. “You eat what you kill,” says Wyton, adding that by virtue of the job, journalists relinquish responsibility of their work to a hierarchy that decides its final form.

One’s desire to speak up may also be outweighed by the instinct to protect a professional reputation. “Women are incentivized to stay silent, because you just want to prove that you can do it, and that you can function in the industry,” says Wyton.

Student journalism is often where many begin to seriously consider careers in media, says Sierra Bein, editor-in-chief of Ryerson’s student newspaper, the Eyeopener. The platform enjoys a certain power to serve as a staging ground for implementing changes to workplace culture. “It’s definitely given us, and myself, a reason to look back at our newsroom,” says Bein.

The news presents an opportunity to examine why these issues may occur, and what steps can be taken to ensure a positive and valuable newsroom experience. As student journalists, “we’re not in the mainstream yet,” Bein says. But, she adds, “we’re going to be there very soon. So it’s something for us to be watching and whispering about on our own.”

At the University of King’s College in Halifax, assistant journalism professor Terra Tailleur runs a newsroom of more than 20 journalism school students. Aspiring reporters need to know their options when encountering workplace harassment, she tells me, including finding allies or mentors in the office.

While her newsroom’s previous discussions about harassment in journalism had focused on external concerns, Tailleur says my query about misconduct had prompted her class to discuss how to hold her accountable in creating a safe work environment. “I’m not just a classroom, I’m a newsroom,” Tailleur says. “I have to create an environment where they can learn and they can thrive and they can do their jobs, which means that I can’t have anyone harassing these students.”

Hearing that, I felt satisfied—at least for now, hoping that I had helped fellow student journalists feel secure in their job. The burden of improving this industry sits on all of our shoulders. Future journalists, I believe, are doing their share—it’s time for our elders to step up, too.

UPDATE (04/13/2018): A previous version of this story incorrectly stated that Terra Tailleur is an associate, not assistant, journalism professor at King’s. This regrets the error.

Canadian-born Lilly Singh, known as Superwoman on YouTube, has millions of dedicated fans worldwide.

Growing up in Canada in the mid-2000s, there was never quite a role model in Western popular culture who looked like me. As an 11-year-old, it didn’t occur to me that there was anything amiss with my pop idols, or that their portrayals of North American life were missing an important element of cultural relevance for me.

Thankfully, for the generation of South Asian women that follow mine, that’s no longer the case.

The power of social media and an unmet need for South Asian-focused entertainment and art has paved the way for a new roster of Canadian female role models. Enter Greater Toronto Area-bred superstars: YouTuber Lilly Singh, or “Superwoman”; artist Maria Qamar, also known by her Instagram handle “Hatecopy”; and New York Times bestselling poet Rupi Kaur. These women are seeing widespread success in the form of followers, subscribers, book deals, and film roles. With their ascension into celebrity status, along with the continued rise of A-listers like Priyanka Chopra and Mindy Kaling, who are making inroads in traditional mainstream media, I can’t help but feel that brown girls are taking over: their time is now.

These social media mavens didn’t have to rely on traditional paths to fame available to South Asians—finding a way to Bollywood or winning beauty pageants. “They’ve all gone more a route where they’re trading on some skills and really challenging people and creating intellectual conversation,” says Faiza Hirji, author of Dreaming in Canadian: South Asian Youth, Bollywood, and Belonging. The ease of social media changed everything for these women along with many of the popular artists of our time, giving them the opportunity to express, share, and perform in ways they never could before. As they were building their following, there was no need for agents or producers. The women were their own marketers, making their own opportunities.

For the South Asian woman, this is especially rebellious. They are expected to be quiet, conservative, and observant of traditional values. Many South Asian cultures also stifle discussion around these expectations, according to Hirji, even as there is an obvious appetite for conversation around identity. As Hirji explains, “It’s perhaps not surprising that they would be the ones to say, ‘Let me find a space where I can grapple with these issues because this is my life, not just entertainment.’”

Their initial rise can be attributed to the support of the South Asian community, which has a stronghold in Canadian cities such as Toronto and Vancouver. This is not a country of minorities who have just settled, Hirji says. This is a country of several generations of South Asians who see themselves as Canadian but are grappling with issues of identity.

Videos like “How to Be the Perfect Brown Person” and “Sh*t Punjabi Mothers Say”—a couple of Singh’s earlier offerings—resonated with young Indians, first in the GTA and then worldwide. Qamar’s illustrations bring to light the scheming, judgmental, “aunty” figures that are common in soap operas and hints of whom can be found in the older women we grew up with. Kaur’s poetry has general appeal but she has penned some pieces reflecting the familial repression and trauma of South Asian women.

All of these talented women have used their initial fanbase to catapult to new echelons of fame, and often publicly support each other. Now, Singh has more than 13 million subscribers on YouTube and has landed a role in an HBO film. Qamar is a published author and her art was featured in a Mindy Kaling TV show. Kaur just released her second book and has more than two million Instagram followers.

I sometimes worry that the triumph of the brown girl is just a phase. But I hope that if anything, their accomplishments will inspire others to follow in their paths and convince the leaders of mainstream entertainment that there is appetite and appeal for the South Asian woman beyond stereotypes. “Even if it ends up being a passing phase—and I don’t think it will…. Whatever they’ve done,” says Hirji, “they’ve done it on their own terms.”

Portrait of Charles Lawrence.

I went to church in August. I hadn’t been in 20 years. It was Monday and St. Paul’s Anglican in downtown Halifax was dead quiet. A young woman in burgundy sat at a table near the door. I looped around the pews before asking the question I had come here to ask: “Charles Lawrence is buried under here, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he’s up front, to your right,” she said.

It’s a less-than-plain resting place. Battleship-grey floorboards, a flimsy hand-painted family crest; pretty modest for a former governor. I stomp my right heel into the wood. Then my left. I add a toe tap. Stomp. Tap. I sway my body, lift my arms, and stomp again, harder this time, trying to pull a groan from the old boards. No luck. I’m an awful dancer.

The woman at the front pays no attention to my arrhythmic jig. Later she tells me she’s seen quite a few people dance on his grave in her three years working here. Her face reveals no opinion. I suppose she knows I’m Acadian. She said the other dancers were, too, aside from a few Cajuns.

Dancing on someone’s grave is a sign of disrespect. It’s a “ha-ha, screw you, I relish in your demise, and outlast you.” It seems silly, but it’s not. Not here. Charles Lawrence was the racist megalomaniac behind the Expulsion of the Acadians, or Le Grand Dérangement—the forced deportation of almost the entire population of Acadie, about 14,000 people.

The ancestors of those deported haven’t forgotten what he did. The rest of Nova Scotia seems to have. We have two Lawrencetowns and many Lawrence Streets throughout the province. There are no statues to tear down—like the confederate monuments coming down across the American South—but there’s a conversation that needs to happen. I don’t want the history of Charles Lawrence erased—that was his bit—but I want him to be remembered for what he really was: a criminal, a racist, and a horrible man responsible for the displacement and death of thousands of innocent people.

Lawrence didn’t invent the idea behind the Expulsion— it had been around for years—but he put it into action. Since the early days of British rule in Nova Scotia, colonial officials were worried about the political leanings of the Acadians, the original French settlers of the land. The thinking went like this: If England and France went to war, which seemed likely, the Acadians would obviously side with the French, and probably bring along their Mi’kmaq and Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) allies. Even old Edward Cornwallis—former governor of the colony, founder of Halifax, and a shameless racist in his own right—wouldn’t entertain the idea. He asked for an oath, and when this was rejected, he did nothing more; this from a man who put a bounty on Mi’kmaq scalps.

Lawrence was less kind. After a backhanded attempt to force Acadian community leaders to submit to the British Crown—or to use Game of Thrones lingo, to bend the knee—he signed the decree setting about a series of events that add up to nothing less than cultural genocide.

It began in 1755. British soldiers forced Acadians out of their homes dotting the shore of the Bay of Fundy and stuffed them into decrepit transports and decaying naval brigs. The ships called along the bustling British ports of the Thirteen Colonies, dropping off small groups of prisoners at each city. Homeless, linguistically and religiously alienated, and torn from their families, most exiles ended up destitute on the streets or dead. More than a quarter of the 7,000 deported in the fall of ’55 never made it back to dry land, succumbing to wretched ship conditions and disease. Those who escaped to surrounding French territories were hunted down and deported three years later, from Ile St-Jean, the island we now call P.E.I. This time the ships sailed for France; death rates at sea were even higher. Two ships packed with hundreds of prisoners never made it at all, sinking with all hands lost in the frigid North Atlantic.

But some families escaped the fate of the ships. That’s where I come in.

I don’t speak French. The few church events I attended as a kid were Anglican ceremonies. I didn’t even know my last name was Acadian until someone told me two summers ago while I was working as a tour guide in Cheticamp, N.S.—the largest Acadian community in the province. Acadian culture was erased, at least in my family. But I’ve traced my ancestors back to some of the first settlers that arrived in Port Royal in the middle of the 17th century. No one in my family knew of the connection until a few months ago. I’ve been told French was spoken in the house four generations back, but memories are getting foggy. We’ve nearly forgotten. Many of the unlucky souls who landed in the hostile ports of America had their culture physically stolen. For my family, among those who escaped the deportations, the erasure happened much more slowly, but it happened nonetheless.

Mr. Lawrence, I danced on your grave because you deserve it. I drive by towns named after you whenever I go surfing on the eastern shore or apple-picking in the Annapolis valley, and they anger me. Nova Scotia’s need to memorialize you angers me. We talk about removing statues and changing street names a lot in this province, and I want your name added to the list. May you not rest in peace.

It’s 1:30 a.m., and I’m in my family’s living room giggling and staring at my laptop screen. I’ve been online for 10 hours in a chatroom with a rotating cast of friends. We have members from every time zone, scattered across the globe; the Australians are just coming online while some of the Americans are logging off. Some have work tomorrow, most have school like me. But the current topic is more important: The newest episode of Doctor Who featured a lizard lady and her lesbian lover, and it’s a big deal.

This is how I spent most of my nights from age 14 to 18. Years online allowed me to build up a network of queer friends across the globe when I was sorely lacking any in real life.

I grew up with my sexuality a secret. I always knew that I liked girls, but people around me kept reminding me why I shouldn’t tell anyone. When I was four, a friend told me it was yucky to kiss girls. I told my best friend I might like girls and boys when I was 11; when she told a bunch of my peers at a sleepover I wasn’t invited to, they decided that it was disgusting. At 13 a teacher told me gay marriage was a sin. My French Catholic school upbringing instilled in me the idea of guilt, so I felt ashamed when I looked for queer content. Over time I learned to keep my sexuality, my feelings to myself.

My mom hooked up our household with an internet connection in 2006, shortly after the sleepover incident. I found my comfort zone online. It started slow, Googling terms and immediately clearing my search history in fear. Forums became my go-to for stories of people’s lived experiences. I’d stay up late using the web browser on my handheld video game console to read as much as I could. Hiding under my blanket with the lights out, I’d go through pages of LGBTQ support forums. I found out other people liked girls too, and that it was normal to have crushes on my friends.

Queer mentorship is complicated: In my everyday life I didn’t have anyone to talk to or look up to. But online, there were thousands of people who could offer support. My parents were initially uncomfortable with the amount of time I was spending online; they didn’t understand why I was staying up late and constantly on my phone. One night, I had my mom come into my room and meet my chatroom pals. They introduced themselves and made small talk, and from then on there was a new understanding. She would tell me to say hi to people I was messaging, and even bought a card to mail to one friend with whom she shared a birthday. She saw how important these people were to me, that I had found a lifeline in friends who supported each other. The internet can seem like a cold and untrusting place; but for youth, like me, struggling with identity, online connections are invaluable.

By 2013 the internet helped me understand the nuances of my different identities, and I came out as both queer and non-binary. For me being non-binary means being completely outside of the gender binary of male and female. I try to avoid gendering products, ideas, or behaviours. I prefer to be confusing rather than categorized. I like to imagine my gender like a void—endless and vacant.

I also started making online LGBTQ friends. Mazz, for instance, was only a few months older than me but knew much more about queerness. After my first LGBTQ dance held in a neighbouring town’s high school, Mazz encouraged me to message the cute girl I’d met and danced with. I made a Tumblr blog when I was 15 and slowly began following other blogs run by queer kids. Some analyzed queer representation in media; others were an online record of their owners’ existence as LGBTQ people. This online, intangible world became a haven: It was proof others like me existed.

My online support system bolstered me to talk openly about my identities in real life. Later in 2013, I came out with a Facebook post that friends, family, and classmates could read. A few hours later I got a message from my mom asking what non-binary meant and what she should know. That was that: No awkward conversation, no crying, no shouting. The internet helped me streamline my coming-out process: It gave me the power to plan my words and share my identities with a chosen audience, and it gave my mother time to understand and research. The next time we met in person, she used my preferred pronouns—and it’s been that way ever since.

Coming out online gives the process a form of permanence: It’s always in my web history and I can re-share it without having to stress. This year when I moved and made new friends, I posted on my Instagram story for Trans Day of Visibility to remind everyone and let new friends know that my pronouns are they/them/their. The internet also provides filters: I can easily remove those who don’t approve of my identities from my life without a scary and potentially dangerous in-person interaction.

These days I’m vocal about being non-binary and queer, and I’ve built a community offline. Online, I’ve kept in touch with my chatroom friends. I might not need them as much as I did, but we still send each other links about our favourite shows and encourage one another.

The internet has revolutionized how queer youth can learn about themselves. Queer knowledge and mentorship is more accessible than ever before. More kids will be able to educate themselves, find communities, and even change the world along the way.

Second confession: I don’t crack as many spines as I used to because a lot of my reading happens on my Kindle and my phone. I fought the war on digital reading for a long time, a position I defended in the July/August 2015 issue of This. It was a principled stand I made because I wanted my kids to see me enjoying books. Unfortunately, having kids means I need to take my reading time when I can get it. I used to spend each evening quietly sitting with a book or magazine. Now I slide in and out of reading a few minutes at a time, on the bus, while waiting for the four-year-old to put his clothes on and, yes, when I’m in the bathroom (don’t even pretend you don’t use your phone on the toilet). This kind of reading is possible because every book and article is always in my pocket or backpack. It’s not the ideal way to read, but it’s what my life allows right now and there is no principle so strong that it isn’t thoroughly trumped by convenience.

I don’t think my approach is unique. I’m a hybrid. There’s a lot of stuff in the world to read and it’s easier to be agnostic about how I go about it. My nightstand still has a pile of unread books that grows and shrinks yet never disappears, but I carry my Kindle everywhere. A handful of magazines and newspapers get jammed into my mailbox every week, but I’m also a power user on apps such as Instapaper, Texture, and Zinio. I’m a staunch library supporter and even steward a “Little Free Library” in front of my home, but I’m happy to see my monthly donation to the Calgary Public Library going to increasing digital holdings and diversifying access to those materials.

Globally, book sales are up in every category but one: e-books. By every measure in Canada, the U.S., and the U.K., people are buying more physical books and fewer e-books. (Oddly it’s digital sales of those paper books carrying most of the increase. We want the books, but we’re tired of going into bookstores, I guess.) People try to make sense of that in a few ways. Some declare digital reading a complete failure; others just yell, “See! I told you!” into the void (or on Twitter). This is as stupid as declaring that books were dead back when e-books starting eating into the market. It’s a bad opinion perpetuated by people who cling to feelings of nostalgia and familiarity with their hardcovers and paperbacks.

I don’t want to point fingers, but the person who edits this magazine called me a “traitor” when I mentioned that I love my Kindle, and she’s not the first. A surprising number of people I know want to take sides in this fight—I did once too, even though I was also happy to switch sides a few times (it’s possible I actually am a traitor)—but there’s no real fight to be had. Or at least it’s not the fight we thought it was. We live in a world where everything and everyone is competing for your attention. When Netflix and Facebook consider each other competitors because the thing they want most is every second of your time, does taking a bold stand against reading Fahrenheit 451 on a screen make any kind of sense?

If you love to read, stop caring about how you and especially other people do it. Just embrace it all—it’s messy, and that’s good. As long as we aren’t watching TV shows with B-list celebrities baking cakes, things are probably fine.