Club Friday Q&A: Poet and Youth Rights Activist Shahaddah Jack
By Stacy Lee Kong
Image: Jack Flawless
18-year-old Shahaddah Jack is a force—a spoken word poet, performer, emcee, human rights activist and arts facilitator, she's already racking up accomplishments. Last year, she published a book of poetry and photos, Underrated Royalty, and released an accompanying EP, was recognized as BGC Canada’s National Youth of the Year for her volunteer work and, oh yeah, started at Toronto Metropolitan University, where she’s studying journalism. I chatted with Jack about the power of community, the importance of empowering Black girls and how she learned to use her voice.
Do you remember the moment you discovered poetry?
I was able to access poetry at a very vital time in my life. When I was in middle school, Britta B came to our school and did poetry workshops. That was the first time that I saw not just poetry, but spoken word, and [I realized] poetry wasn't just something that was expressed on the page, but also something that you can bring to life on the stage. Then, I was introduced to something called TDSB Creates, where students across the Toronto District School Board could audition and be a part of an art showcase. I always loved the arts and drama and dance and singing, but poetry allowed me to express myself in a way that I never did before. I was able to put my words out there and not have to explain myself. For me, poetry was just a magical way of talking about things like body positivity, bullying, colourism and shadeism. I was 12, and when you're a preteen, especially as a young Black woman, these are the things that you're facing.
Poetry also gave me the ability to access my voice. With spoken word, I didn't have to worry about if my grammar was okay, or if my paragraph structure was okay. It allowed me to throw out the rules of vocabulary so I could experiment and be way more creative. I think it definitely broadened my understanding of language and expression.
Did you immediately think of it as something that you wanted to do professionally, or do in a public way? Or was it just a way to express yourself to yourself?
The first poem I ever wrote was also the first poem I ever performed, because it was in the workshop. So, I don't think I ever had the opportunity to keep it to myself. But I think it scared me because I didn't know [how I was going to do it]. I thought, 'Okay, I have this ability. I have this art that I have access to, but I also have all these other dreams and career goals for myself.' I knew I didn't just want it to be a hobby. I also saw the way my peers reacted to my poetry, and especially the way adults reacted to my poetry, and how it made them listen to a youth voice for the first time, or one of the first times. So, for me, it was just thinking about how this was going to fit in with the rest of my life.
You've also been involved in activism since you were a kid. How did that start?
One of the nicknames I had growing up was BGC Baby because my mom has worked for BGC over 20 years now. She's always been the Children and Youth Programs Coordinator, so I grew up in a space where I was always involved in arts programming and children's facilitation. That eventually branched out into doing giveback initiatives such as Project Backpack, where we were getting supplies for youth and food supplies for families, and for basic necessities and needs. But in terms of humanitarianism, that became more purposeful for me during the pandemic. I started going out once a week and asking families in my community what they needed—do they need food supplies, notebooks, toys for kids, basic necessities, mental health care? I've always done volunteer work (I have 1,500 volunteer hours), but during the pandemic, I started to assert myself in positions where giving back was at the core of everything that I did. It grew into my own thing outside of helping my mom.
Are your poetry and your activism linked?
They're definitely linked. My poetry speaks to struggles of adolescence, the lived Black experience and the exploration of girlhood. I feel as though my poetry is very heavily informed by the life experiences that I have and the things that I see every day. It's also informed by growing up in spaces like BGC, where it was so important to have inclusivity and diversity before it was a trend and you were taught the value of humanitarianism, challenging ideologies and having tough conversations through the arts and fitness. I was also able to work with JAYU, a human rights organization that looks at the intersectionality of arts and human rights. So in that space, I was also able to nurture my art and understand that, yes, poetry is beautiful, but it's also a way for someone to tap into their voice.
One of the things I find so striking is how easily you use your voice and your art in this way. I didn't always have that confidence as a teenager for a lot of reasons, but partially because young people, and especially young women, are surrounded by messages about how they don't have any real power or can't actually impact how the world works. Who instilled in you the idea that you do have power and that you should use it?
There's one thing my mom always said to me growing up, which was, 'I don't care what job you choose to do as long as you find your passion and be the best at it.' I think the greatest privilege I had growing up was that no one told me who I should be, they just always encouraged me to be the best version of myself whatever I thought that was at the time. My mom was always exposing me to opportunities that fed and grew my passions. Like, 'Okay, if poetry is your thing, find an open mic night, find a slam poetry night. I'll take you.'
As a young, Black, plus-sized woman, there's always these narratives that are pushed upon me, whether they're narratives about the insecurities that I should have, the profession that I should be in or the way I should carry myself. But growing up, I was always taught not to be limited by the stereotypes and to truly feed whatever passion I have, because it's my passion for a reason.
What do you say to your peers, and especially other young Black women, who say to you, 'Yeah, I see all these problems, but what can I do?'
I feel like I do get asked that a lot. And, for me, my response is always 'Take action.' When I was in high school, I was a part of starting our first Black Students' Association. But I didn't start it and say, 'Okay, I'm going to start it, I'm going to be president and I’m going to be in charge of all these things.' Instead, it was, I'm going to start it, assess the needs of our community and make sure that we have enough positions for people so they can add their voices. I always say it comes down to opportunity—and if you don't see opportunity, create opportunity for yourself. Maybe that's just using your voice on social media or seeing what's going on in your local communities, or being active in the classroom and taking that first step in terms of public speaking. We shouldn't measure ourselves against what other people are able to do and how they're capable of doing it. Instead, think about the steps that you can take to feel more confident, no matter how small you think that may be.
On the flip side, though, I find it so interesting that there's now this very common, joking-not-joking idea that the youth will save us in many feminist spaces, though it's not exclusive to those spaces by any means. It's obviously great to see people take young women seriously, which is something I deeply believe in. But on the other hand, I sometimes think that that can feel like an abdication of responsibility. So, I wondered if you ever feel pressure to come up with solutions or solve these extremely complicated problems that you didn't create? Especially considering the fact that there are adults with more power and more opportunity who could also be solving those problems.
Sometimes I do feel that pressure to have all the answers or to create the solution. My generation has access to so much information because of our new access to media and we think outside of the box, which makes it seem like we know everything and can do everything. I think that youth should be able to have a seat at the table, and that our voices should be valued and that we should be able to have opinions on pressing matters and topics in society. However, we can’t always be expected to create the solutions, because there's still so many life experiences that we haven't had yet. I think the people who have the power and the privilege should really challenge themselves to come up with solutions that take our opinions into account. The only responsibility for youth is to be able to use their voices and to [imagine] a just and equitable future, but it shouldn't be up to the youth to create that future on our own. I always try to push that as well. I always say at the end of the day, I'm a youth. My opinion does matter and this is how I do feel—but what are the solutions that you're going to create?
When it comes to my poetry, sometimes people ask me, 'Do you feel like your poetry is for everybody?' They wonder if it's for select audiences, just because I talk about the Black experience a lot. And my answer always is, and always will be, no matter what topic I'm talking about, my poetry is for everybody. It's for the people that are experiencing it. It's for the people that are hoping to learn, it's for the changemakers, it's for the risk-takers. It's important that we're all consuming the same stories so we can all come up with solutions. I think that's one of the misconceptions of society today—that if you're not facing the issue, you can't create the solution. And that's not right.
You're in university right now studying journalism. How did you settle on that career path, as opposed to pursuing poetry or even something like social work?
That's definitely layered. I knew I wanted to go into journalism from a really young age—there’s videos of me interviewing my stuffed toys, the whole thing. So, I did have that internal dialogue about whether I wanted to pursue that dream, or whether I should do law or social work. But I realized that for me, it's about sharing the story. I think I will always do arts facilitation for my entire life. I'll remain volunteering and giving back. But it's important that people see these stories of change about the social workers who are doing the work and the policymakers who will be the first of many to implement change. It's very similar with poetry for me—I want to be in a position to amplify these narratives of social change and innovation, and equity and equality and diversity.
You're also entering journalism at a time where there's a lot of interest in and appetite for—and maybe also understanding of—the importance of amplifying those voices. For a long time the idea of a journalist was this impartial, unbiased observer who was almost like an anthropologist. But now, we're starting to see newsroom leaders understanding that actually, it's a benefit to belong to a community and report on that community. It gives you context and understanding that you just wouldn't otherwise have. So, it's a good time to want to amplify voices because finally, people are listening. How did it feel to be recognized by BGC as its 2022 National Youth of the Year, especially considering your long history with the organization?
It was definitely surreal. When you're doing the work that I do, it's never for recognition. It's never for awards and accolades. That's just not the expectation. But when you take the chance, and say, 'You know what? I'm going to apply and see what happens,' and you actually receive it, it reaffirms the work that you're doing, and it pushes you to continue, too. But what was really impactful for me was to see all the youth who were recognized as regional Youths of the Year as well. There were six Regional Youth of the Year and then the National Youth of the Year was selected from among us. I so appreciated seeing the diversity of youth that were up for National Youth of the Year as well, because oftentimes, youth, and especially BIPOC youth, aren't always seen or recognized for the work that we're doing. I also thought of all the youth in BGC that look like me, that would see me recognized like this and what that would mean for them.
What's next for you?
To continue creating. That's what I hope for 2023—just to create and connect with communities through journalism and through poetry.
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