Editor’s Introduction

Abstract

The image that undoubtedly captures the embodied reality of living in the ‘post-pandemic’ world as a Black grad student is the viral blurry Mr. Krabs meme surrounded by an angry mob[i]—yeah, that one! I have no idea what’s going on academically—I haven’t fully recovered from the plague of Black death that has become ‘the newly designated disposable bodies of the pandemic’ –my world has shaken. This meme encapsulates the disorientated state I currently occupy. The once urgent and ignited public discourse regarding systemic police reforms are now stagnant, thwarted by state and public debates of the vaccinated vs. unvaccinated that places responsibility on BIPOC to stop the spread of COVID-19. In the ‘post-pandemic world’, death and freedom are immutably interwoven; the freedom to die is set above the unfreedom of containment and ‘forced’ vaccinations—and the freedom to live longer; relatively free, is through the unfreedom of mobility. So, what does life feel like as a Black grad student navigating social media/public feeds that choose to strip colonial, racist, and imperialist histories from strict biopolitical regimes of COVID-19 containment in Canada and at York University? It feels suffocating—it is violent. 
 - Beatrice Anane-Bediakoh, Chief-Deputy-Editor
 These days, COVID-19 is consistent background noise, while the movements for racial justice are distant memories. We’re so distracted by technology; we don't hear the stories of tragedy or hear the politicians lie casually when they promise change passionately – do those ideas ever really come to life? Time passes and the masses’ attention turns to the next day, but the next day brings Black, Indigenous and People of Colour dying in daylight. So much pain, too many emotions, and just to listen, is a fight. Time is life and these days that’s a luxury. So today, I sit here daydreaming and realize that tomorrow brings the best yet to come. So tonight, I lay here dreaming of an otherwise that fights the tragedy of reality. All while thinking of my son, holding him close, so I don’t let him drown, so I don’t let him down. 
 - Giovanni Carranza- Hernandez, Chief-Deputy-Editor
 I don’t know what time is. I have long joked that “time is a construct.” It’s an occupational hazard to make such philosophical declarations. But now, I feel the words in my marrow. Was it not a minute ago, that everyone cared about the state sanction killing of Black and Indigenous folx and PoC? Was 2019 not last week, a few sleepless nights away? When was it, that my home went from a mundane reality to an uncanny fact of life? When did today stop being tomorrow? Being Brown, a grad student, queer, enby, femme, it’s always timeless, but now, time is the chokehold of staying still and propelling simultaneously. I am me tomorrow, yesterday, today. I am the construction to which I used to attribute time. 
 - Jade Crimson Rose Da Costa, Founder/Editor-in-Chief