One of our favourite things in Toronto is a bronze sculpture at the foot of Yonge Street called “Immigrant Family” by Tom Otterness. A man holding two small suitcases, likely containing all the family’s worldly possessions, looks tenderly at a woman cradling a small child in her arms. Their round, larger-than-life faces poignantly express all the fears for the present—and hopes for the future—that have been the experience of newcomers for centuries.
Sadly, the warmth and optimism expressed by “Immigrant Family” is sometimes lacking in discussions of migration and borders. Dangerous political persuasions, usually based on a malignant mix of xenophobia and nostalgia, have taken hold in many places. Those who fear the very notion of new people and new ideas coming together often look backward for comfort. “We always look to the past and wish we could return,” says a character in “The Travellers” by Amanda Sun. “We always think things were better in that imagined golden age.”
This is what makes the theme of Shades Within Us so incredibly relevant. Here, you will find twenty-one stories that explore the complex world (and worlds) of migration and newcomers through the unique lens of speculative fiction. The existential threat of climate change is the driver for displacement in “Remembering the Green” by Seanan McGuire, “Habitat” by Christie Yant and “In a Bar by the Ocean, the World Waits” by Hayden Trenholm, while economic upheavals caused by new technology compel the protagonist in “The Marsh of Camarina” by Matthew Kressel to relocate. “From the Shoals of Broken Cities” by Heather Osborne and “Gilbert Tong’s Life List” by Kate Heartfield remind us of the emotional toll that migration can exact upon families. “Devouring Tongues” by S.L. Huang is a parable for newcomers trying to preserve their heritage, while “Porque el girasol se llama el girasol” by Rich Larson could have been ripped from today’s headlines.
Both of us are immigrants to Canada. Coming respectively from Britain and a former British colony, we were privileged newcomers. We never had to cross the ocean in a small, overcrowded makeshift boat. Our lives were never in danger. Over the years, we have occasionally encountered prejudice and discrimination. Sometimes we were called names, or people would make fun of the way we talked, or the clothes we wore, or the shape of our eyes.
But far more often, we experienced and continue to appreciate the generosity and friendship of our fellow Canadians, old and new, and of all backgrounds and ethnicities. Canada has given both of us opportunities that would not have been possible had our parents not made the courageous decision for us to become Immigrant Families. “They leave because they desire to,” writes a character in “Imago” by Elsie Chapman. “They migrate . . . because it is simply their choice.”
Much has been written about the social, economic and cultural (and culinary!) benefits of migration and open frontiers (a term we prefer to “fractured” borders), but nobody needs to convince us. We see it every day, just by looking at each other.
As writers and readers of speculative fiction, we have an opportunity to help resist nostalgia-based fears. Fiction, and particularly speculative fiction, can do this because it is not just about what is and what was, but what could be. It is more important than ever to try and imagine futures that are optimistic and beautiful. To paraphrase novelist Mohsin Hamid, why must it be called a migrant “crisis” when it could really be a migrant opportunity? The coming together of people from all places and backgrounds could bring a new world into existence in the next fifty or a hundred years that will be magnificent. By being open to new possibilities and not clinging to the past, we may finally embrace all the different shades within us.
—Eric Choi & Gillian Clinton, Toronto, Canada, 2018