2nd Annual Victim Services of Algoma Gala Speech

** The following is a transcription of my speech from the 2nd Annual Victim Services of Algoma Gala that took place in Sault Ste. Marie on May 13. **

Thank you for that kind introduction.

Hello everyone! I think most of you tonight know me as Meaghan Kent the photographer. I’ve probably even been in your face this evening with one of my lenses. You probably all know me as the rather ridiculous, kind of zany photographer, who cuts loose, Footloose at every wedding - because well that’s me. But there’s another side to my job that a lot don’t know about. And that other side to my job has led me to my greatest passion in life, which is writing. 

This upcoming July will mark 10 years as a photographer within the Algoma region. I’ve spent the last decade getting to know this community on a much more intimate level, by photographing the people and families who call it home and make it such a worthwhile place to live. I’ve been at people’s sides when they deliver babies, I’ve been at their weddings, first birthdays, graduations, and adoption ceremonies in the courthouse. I’ve even been there to document those really sad moments, like someone’s final, dying wish. 

No matter what I’m photographing, be it happy or sad, I’ve gotten to know the people in front of my camera. I’ve gotten to hear their stories. I’ve gotten to know about family histories, family businesses, different cultures and traditions, and people who have immigrated here to the Algoma district. I’ve also met a lot of people, young and old, who have seen their fair share of heartache and heartbreak. I’ve met veterans who are dealing with PTSD from the War in Afghanistan, children in the foster system, people struggling with addiction, and people who are dealing with intimate partner violence. Every story is unique and different, just like each person. 

If you’ve followed me on social media, you know I love to share stories about the people I photograph. For me, sharing those stories has been a way to keep my passion for writing alive, since I am no longer a journalist actively practicing my craft. The stories that I share, can be happy, or sad, or triumphant. I actually have people choose to book their photoshoots with me, so I can share their stories on my platform, which is something I don’t take for granted. They want the world to know what they’ve accomplished or what they’ve overcome.

They say a photo is worth 1000 words. I would agree. But I think there’s a lot more to a photo than what is actually captured in the still picture. You’re missing the emotion, the legacy, the inspiration. In my opinion, a photo is worth so much more. It’s a novel, waiting to be told. And I’m here to tell it.

Since I started my business in 2016, I’ve met many, many survivors of IPV. I never openly ask anyone about their traumas, or their life stories, somehow, things just come out in our photoshoots. My goal is to always make people feel comfortable in my presence, like we’re friends. It helps that I’m an absolute goof and people completely let all of their walls down around me. It’s part of my charm! And when I photograph the same people over and over, they become close to me, like family. That’s why I’m called Auntie Meaghan to so many little kiddos in this community. There’s a level of trust between me and my clients.

In more recent years, I’ve been hearing more and more stories about survivors. They willingly come forward to share their traumas with me, sometimes they want me to share their stories on my social media channels, other times, they want to keep things private, and either option is okay with me. But the number of women that have come forward in the last three years has been startling. Troubling. I’ve had to ask myself why is it becoming so prominent? What has changed? What has broken? Or, has IPV always been this prevalent in the area and I’m just becoming more attuned to it? Just last month, I photographed two survivors of IPV in one week alone. Something is wrong.

In 2018, I found myself pregnant with my son, Everett. I am a Type 2 Diabetic and because of this, I had a high-risk pregnancy. The risk for stillborn was excruciatingly high, and I was constantly reminded of this at my medical appointments, which were often 4 times a week. Being bombarded with this kind of negativity was troubling, and I was forced into a stress leave at only 25 weeks pregnant. I’ve worked since I was 10 years old – babysitting, delivering papers. So to find myself unable to work for the first time in almost two decades really took a toll on myself. So I turned to writing. I started writing in a Google Doc. I had no idea what I was going to write, I just let the words flow onto the paper. But what formed, was something deeply troubling. It was dark. And because of that, I had to stop writing, or risk plunging myself into a deeper depression. I never returned to that Google Doc, even after Everett was born. I got too busy with motherhood and taking my business fulltime. 

But in 2023, the Soo experienced one of its worst tragedies, where five people were killed because of IPV. We all know the story. We all know what happened. We don’t need to recount the tragedy that made international headlines and put Sault Ste. Marie on the map for all of the wrong reasons.

This tragedy struck me deeply. All I could think of was the children involved, the mothers. And my clients. So many of my clients had shared stories of similar disturbing details. And it made me sick. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t put this attack out of my mind. I couldn’t put my clients who had shared their stories with me out of my mind. I found myself laying in bed some nights, thinking of some of the people I had photographed, wondering if one of my images would be used for their obituaries. It really, really affected me.

If it wasn’t already clear to me before, it was in October 2023 - we were in an epidemic of violence. Something was absolutely broken. And something needed to be changed. I never wanted to open SooToday and read a headline like that again. I never wanted to open my phone and see a name that I knew, one of my clients, one of my friends, one of my family members, killed because of IPV.

And I had one of those moments, where I went, “I’m just a photographer, what good can I do?”

Silly, me.

I’m more than just a photographer. I come from a place of great privilege. I’m educated. I have a Master of Arts degree in History and a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature and History. I’m a white woman in the middle class. I have a platform of people who readily listen to me. I have an ever-growing audience on social media who look up to me and value my input on politics and global affairs. I have a voice. And I’m not afraid to use it.

So I found myself returning back to that Google Doc that I started in 2018 and started writing again. I wasn’t able to start writing again until this past summer because my job has kept me busy, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. And that story that was initially so dark, and so troubling to me, just made sense. 

Next month, on June 15, I’m publishing my debut novel, The Scars that Bind Us. It’s a work of women’s fiction with a side of contemporary romance, set on Manitoulin Island. The story is why I’m here tonight. It’s about a woman who flees from her fiancé in Toronto to Lake Mindemoya in pursuit of freedom. The story is about a 27-year-old woman and her journey to finding a new identity, and a life after IPV. Over the course of 450 pages, Kaydence Fletcher, the female protagonist, but also the narrator, shows the reader what it’s like to live in the shadows of IPV. As the reader, we see firsthand her crippling anxiety at being found, her paranoia, her PTSD. We undergo therapy sessions with her, particularly cognitive processing therapy, and group therapy sessions, and then we are alongside her when she confronts the law.

My novel is not meant to romanticise IPV in any way, shape, or form. Instead, it’s meant to shed a light on something that is far too often not talked about or talked about behind closed doors. It’s meant to give a voice to those who are voiceless, including the innocent lives that were lost in October of 2023. The Scars that Bind Us highlights the stigma survivors feel, and why they often won’t come forward to the police. It’s meant to show readers why they cannot always leave troubled relationships. It also shows the deeply flawed judicial system that often revictimizes survivors.

My novel wouldn’t have been possible without my photography career and the women I have photographed who have shared their stories with me. With their permission, I have woven their stories into Kaydence Fletcher. In this way, Kaydence is real. Her experiences are real. Her emotions are real. Her mental health is very, very real.

A lot of research went into this work of fiction. I spoke with social workers and therapists, who I won’t name in case I misrepresented any practices and don’t want to throw them under the bus. I spoke with members of the OPP, who helped me understand the law around domestic violence, reporting, and time served. I spoke with other members of the community, like the lovely Sarah Skagen, and attended her incredible play.

While speaking with a member of the local OPP, I had a very enlightening moment in regard to how I looked at IPV. It was this conversation that changed how I wrote my novel and how I published my novel.

We are told that IPV is a private matter that happens between partners or within a family unit, within the confines of four walls. It happens behind closed doors. And we don't talk about it. We shouldn't air that kind of dirty laundry. And this is why IPV is often referred to as a “silent” epidemic.

But this is so wrong. IPV is everyone's problem, as that OPP officer so bluntly put it. Whether it happens to you directly or not, you are affected by it in some way shape or form. IPV affects all demographics around the world. It has created a global public health crisis, impacts communities through immense physical, psychological, and economic damage. It creates generational trauma, lowers workplace productivity, and costs billions annually in healthcare. While the emotional and physical affects of IPV may only happen directly within the household, the long-lasting implications happen within our communities. It is not a “silent” epidemic after all.

And in my opinion, this is where a greater shift needs to happen. We need to work to reframe this notion that we can't talk publicly about IPV. We need to make IPV everyone's business. It can no longer be silent. And this is what I am aiming to do with The Scars that Bind Us.

Domestic violence in literature isn’t new. We have it in many works of fiction, like the best-sellers of The Colour Purple, Safe Haven, and Where the Crawdads Sing. But in recent years, there’s a push from publishers and literary agents to walk away from IPV. And this to me is extremely disturbing. When I was trying to secure a literary agent and a publisher for this novel, I was rejected time and time again. Sure, I may not have really known what I was doing because this is my debut work and was going at it in a lot of the wrong ways, but one thing I was constantly told by industry professionals, is that “we don’t want to deal with that kind of subject matter.” And that left me utterly shocked. They were contributing to this notion of a silent epidemic.

At that point, I pulled all of my queries and decided to self-publish. I put my own money into this because I believe strongly, IPV is meant to be discussed.

Readers are predominately women. In Canada, on average, women read more than men across all platforms, including ebooks and audiobooks. Women also consume more books than men each year and are higher users of libraries. Statistics show that women seek out fiction and romance novels that foster empathy and insight. Women want to see themselves reflected in literature, their experiences, their life. They also want to learn, and escape into situations they don’t understand. Considering that women are also more often the victims of IPV, is it not puzzling then that we wouldn’t want more literature to reflect the stories of survivors?

When I was given these responses by literary agents and publishers, I did follow up and ask why they weren’t looking for books that dealt with IPV. The answers: “It’s not sexy” or “It doesn’t sell”.

Books don’t need to be sexy. I think it’s more important that they educate in some way.

Pop culture is often a criticism of society. It acts as a critical mirror of society, reflecting, reinforcing, or challenging prevailing norms, values, and power structures. Sure, it's meant to entertain and act as a form of escapism, but it frequently provides a platform for social commentary, addressing issues such as inequality, technology, and politics in a way that everyone can understand.

Unfortunately, when IPV is documented in pop culture, it’s often misrepresented or framed in such a way that harms survivors. Pop culture often makes survivors look weak and that they provoked the abuse. Books, movies, and TV shows often fail to look at the charismatic charm of the abusers, or they romanticize the toxic relationship, making readers and viewers wish they were in such a relationship themselves. Pop culture often doesn't foster empathy for survivors but instead further perpetuates victim blaming. And this isn't okay.

This isn't sexy. We need to make this unsellable. As consumers, we need to boycott books, television shows, podcasts, and movies that don't properly educate the masses about IPV. We need to throw our energy and money behind authors, directors, and screenwriters who take the time to understand the complexities of IPV, who have worked with survivors to understand the realities of such relationships.

If all survivors and their children are presented with in mainstream media are ineffectual portrayals of IPV, then we have failed them. Survivors and intergenerational survivors will think that they are to blame for what happened to them. They won’t leave the toxic relationship. They won’t seek help. They won’t talk about what is happening to them. We need to be giving survivors hope through tales of resiliency, bravery, and courage. We need to show them stories about how they can escape, how they can get help, and how they can overcome. We need to show them how to use their voices. How to speak up. We need to show them that we’re all here and we’re all listening. They don’t need to be silent.

So tonight, I urge you to consider what you're watching on TV. What you're streaming on Netflix. What you're reading, or listening to on Audible. Support works like The Scars that Bind Us that aim to educate people on what actually happens in abusive relationships, and how we can help survivors persevere. Support works that aren't sexy but instead tell the truth. Because as I think everyone in this room here knows, IPV isn't sexy.

We are in an epidemic of IPV. We are in an epidemic of IPV right here in Sault Ste. Marie. Just last month, SooToday reported that domestic violence calls are up since the lay-offs have happened at Algoma Steel. Unless we can talk freely about what happens in our relationships, I fear we won’t be able to address the issue. If we cannot use pop culture effectively to discuss current issues which are plaguing our nation, how can we ever move forward? How can we help break the stigma around IPV, encourage more people to come forward, get more resources available, and help push forward meaningful laws in parliament? We cannot allow IPV to be silent anymore. We need to scream about it.

Thank you.