Yesterday our work at Living Hyphen was featured on the latest episode of Dual Citizen — a mini documentary series exploring eureka moments within the Filipino diaspora. Through conversations with community leaders, artists, entrepreneurs, educators, and culture changers, Dual Citizen examines the power that comes from embracing dual identities — and how this translates to our respective creative and community work.

There is one part to this episode that I want to address directly because it has not been sitting right with me. When Dual Citizen asks me about the most surprising story that’s in our magazine, I talked about one of the submissions from a man of Plains Cree and Métis descent who described his experience of living in between cultures despite being Indigenous to this land. I said, “For him, being an Indigenous person here in Canada has almost felt like a diasporic experience because of the displacement that [the Indigenous community] has felt.”

I cringe when I hear myself say that. I cringe at this segment of the episode because I feel that my words downplay the experiences of Indigenous nations against violent colonial forces. So let me be clear now. It is not merely a displacement that “they felt”. It is not simply a felt experience, but an intentional, systematic, and violent destruction and theft of their peoples, cultures, and land.

Living Hyphen is celebrating its one year anniversary this month and I wanted to take a breath and take stock of all the incredible moves we’ve made this year.

To be perfectly honest, it feels uncomfortable writing this piece. It feels uncomfortable to list and elaborate on all the achievements and successes we’ve had, however big or small. It feels unnatural and unbecoming. It feels premature when there is still so much we can do.

But I’m doing it anyway.

Because in a world where there is always something more to chase, more to achieve, more to give, it is important that we pause and recognize our efforts.

Because in a world that downplays, ignores, and erases the contributions of those from marginalized communities, this seemingly simple act of speaking our accomplishments out loud is actually an integral and powerful act of resistance.

Everyone who’s come across Living Hyphen has been so wonderfully supportive and has shown so much belief in me and this publication. But the one question that almost always inevitably comes up is this — why print?

“Print is expensive,” folks warn me. It absolutely is. I will tell you right now that the margins are terrible (another blog post for another day). And that’s been a hard pill to swallow.

“There are so many more possibilities online,” they urge. There absolutely are. “And you could reach so many more people.” I absolutely would.

Throughout these last few months post-launch, I am finding that the magazine, as incredible a success and as important a piece of work as it is, has not been enough.

After spending some time in the arts and literary scene in Toronto, I’m noticing that I am running into the same people, the same artists, the same writers — many of whom submitted their work to Living Hyphen. I am quickly learning that there is a very small and tight-knit circle of creatives here. And I don’t doubt that the same is true across all of Canada.

And though I am extremely proud to know these people and I am deeply grateful for their work in pushing diverse voices into more mainstream spaces, I can’t help but think about the countless other voices out there that are never heard, the stories out there that never see the light of day. Surely there must be more artists and writers from diverse backgrounds than the ones that I see in repeat rotation at the arts and culture events that I’ve been attending.