For almost a decade, I had heard of the illustrious Frankfurt Book Fair from publishers, who recounted hyping up my books at the fair and sharing preliminary enthusiastic responses from industry representatives and readers. So it was surreal, for many reasons (including being on my first international trip in two years) to be an honorary delegate as part of Canada’s Guest of Honor presence at last year’s fair.
One of my favorite aspects of participating in the gathering was the rare opportunity it gave me to share the range of my work for an international audience. Extrapolating from my newest book, People Change, I spoke about pushing against the notion of a single or ideal self in my speech at the opening ceremonies—and sang a bhajan. I performed poems that tackle white supremacy and tokenism. I performed pop songs about surface-level diversity efforts and about coming into my girlhood. I had a rich (and hilarious) conversation about writing with esteemed writer Kim Thuy, whom I had never met before. I had mourned not being on stage throughout the pandemic, and being able to use my voice again to connect with audiences was restorative—a reminder of who I am in the world, and who I want to continue to be. And in many ways, I felt like the embodiment of the 2021 book fair theme: singular plurality.
I also had the privilege of absorbing the immense talent of my peers. I was especially proud of the ways that Indigenous artists were rightly centered at many of the festivities. Strolling through Canada’s Guest of Honor pavilion, I encountered numerous life-size holograms of Canadian authors introducing themselves and sharing snippets of their work. I was moved by our differences—not only in our appearances, but in our messages. These offerings all felt distinctly Canadian.
That said, “representing” Canada did feel troublesome. Throughout the week, I often wondered if, as a settler living on stolen land, I was a rightful or worthy representative. There is not a clean answer to this question. Wrestling with this discomfort, the truth of Canada’s history of genocide and ongoing violence against the Indigenous peoples of this land is also part of what it means to be Canadian. So the way that I addressed my discomfort at the fair was speaking openly about it—in performances and to the media—as I do in my work.
From my first self-published book, God Loves Hair, to my recent novel The Subtweet, most of my books explore the struggles and beauty of dislocation. Of existing somewhere and feeling neither here nor there. Of both not belonging and hoping to belong. These themes emerge once again in my upcoming children’s picture book Revenge of the Raccoons, published by Owlkids (featuring a reunion with God Loves Hair illustrator Juliana Neufeld), except this time, the perspective is that of the furry creatures themselves!
When I was living in Toronto, where trash pandas boldly parade on the roofs and in the streets, I was convinced that raccoons would soon seize the city (claiming the CN Tower as their headquarters and the CBC as their mode of communication) and that my fellow humans weren’t taking the signs of our impending overthrow seriously. But as someone who is intimately familiar with how it feels to have my own differences feared, and who regularly calls out these irrational fears in my work, it was my turn to confront my biases. Was I actually afraid of being attacked and eaten alive by these wily invaders? Maybe. But the more important question I found myself circling back to was: Who does the city actually belong to?
One of the aspects of children’s picture books that I love is that they offer a creative, and innocuous, format to introduce both children and adults to, or refamiliarize them with, complex social issues. I have been tremendously moved and heartened by the kinds of anecdotes that parents have shared with me about how their children—and they themselves—have engaged with and learned from my previous children’s picture book, The Boy & the Bindi, particularly by celebrating the fluidity of gender and by embracing one’s own, and others’, culture.
I’m so looking forward to seeing and hearing not only how children and adults engage with the vibrant pages and cheeky text in Revenge of the Raccoons, but also how the book will inspire children and adults to think about our environments more responsibly.
Vivek Shraya is a Canadian musician, writer, and visual artist. She lives in Calgary, Alberta.
