Judging a Book by its Cover: Making Sense of Sources and Silences in the History of Boys’ and Girls’ Clubs in Rural Nova Scotia

By Sarah Kittilsen

In the summer of 2025, I was rifling through a box of uncatalogued materials at the Farm Equipment Museum in Bible Hill, Nova Scotia, when I happened upon an old record book. Tattered and yellowed with age, it had been used by fourteen-year-old Frank Daniels in the early 1930s to document what he expended and earned while raising his calf, Princess Pet.
But that wasn’t what struck me about the record book. I wasn’t particularly interested in the money Daniels had spent, nor the pounds of milk Princess Pet had consumed, nor how tall she had measured in the month of May. It was scarce on these details anyway, since Daniels had only filled out the first two pages. It was the cover, instead, that caught my eye. Between the crisp typeface, Daniels had scribbled in big, pencilled letters: “Prize Ribbons in here, Do not destroy.”

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Weaponizing Sound and Space: Spatial and Sonic Patriarchy as Forms of Anti-abortion Violence

Shannon Stettner[1]

The space outside abortion clinics is complicated. Much of it is public and there are important discussions about the uses of public space, the right to protest, and the “ownership” of such spaces.[2] In Canada, many legal injunctions or safe access zones (theoretically) prevent protestors from occupying the area directly in front of clinics because clinics are also private medical spaces that provide vital healthcare services.[3] From the mid-1980s to the early-2000s, Canada experienced anti-abortion violence that some observers classified as single-issue terrorism.[4] This violence included aggressive clinic pickets, abortion clinic attacks, and gun and knife attacks against abortion providers, both in their homes and at or near their clinics. There are moments, in this period of violence, when some elements in the anti-abortion movement knowingly and willfully transgressed the line between lawful and violent protest. It is important that we interrogate this violence and do not simply dismiss it as a fringe element of the movement.[5]

Scholars have paid significant attention to the gendered use of space and, in particular, to women’s use of space as it is mitigated by their fear of male violence. Geographer Gill Valentine, for example, argues that “women’s fear of male violence…is tied up with the way public space is used, occupied and controlled…. This cycle of fear becomes one subsystem by which male dominance, patriarchy, is maintained and perpetuated.”[6] In the instance of aggressive clinic protests, I argue that even when women are part of the anti-abortion group, this existing fear of violent male bodies in public spaces is compounded by the actual presence of physically aggressive men seeking to block clinic access. Additionally, recent scholarship has argued that the noise surrounding abortion clinics is not harmless, forming a type of “sonic patriarchy” that is described as “the gendered domination of a sound world (whether public or private), shaping the ways in which women are heard or forced to hear.”[7] In the following analysis, I highlight how spatial and sonic patriarchy attempted to control women’s access to abortion clinics.

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Godin chez les grecs

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“I vote for Mr. Godin. I don’t care for what party he belongs.” – George Zoubris1

Bernard Vallée, « Portraits de Gérald Godin, Ministre de l’immigration, » 19 November 1980, BAnQ numérique.

1976 is best remembered in Quebec as the year the levee broke. The rising tides of québécois nationalism and the sovereigntist movement evolved into a majority victory in that year’s general election for the Parti québécois [PQ], the national progressivist party seeking a sovereignty-association agreement with the Canadian federal government. Under its founder and first Premier, René Lévesque (1922-1987), successive PQ cabinets passed legislation and reforms from 1976 through 1985 that radically altered the course of Quebec’s history. Amidst those years, narratives emerged about peoples on the margins of the province’s society challenging what it meant to be québécois and who could benefit from the Quiet Revolution. Montreal’s Mercier district played host to one such narrative.

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Mercier was a provincial electoral district in central Montreal. Going into the 1976 general election, its deputy was Robert Bourassa (1933-1996), Parti libéral du Québec [PLQ] leader and Quebec’s Premier. Bourassa had held this largely francophone working class district in every general election since 1966. Mercier was considered a PLQ stronghold, a belief reinforced by a growing immigrant demographic commonly assumed to lean in the governing party’s favor.2 A strong contingent of the electorate, however, had tired of their “absent” deputy and his party’s unpopular policies. Still, few believed that would help Bourassa’s underdog rival in Mercier, PQ candidate Gérald Godin. This burgeoning politician was a marginal figure in the popular imagination and his party, but Godin nonetheless conducted an intensive door-to-door campaign that turned him into a fixture of the community. His charisma and personability throughout countless hours of speaking with voters set a precedent which could not be matched by a Premier.3 And it paid off.

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Building a Radical Space: Inclusion, Fracture, and the Limits of Utopia

By Alisha Stranges and Elspeth H. Brown

T’Hayla Ferguson, digital illustration by Ayo Tsalithaba for The Pussy Palace Oral History Project, LGBTQ Oral History Digital Collaboratory. 2025.

“I think the intention was to make women’s sexuality and women’s play just normal. Not such a sideshow. We want to have a place to go and get naked and fuck and play, and it not be unusual.”

-T’Hayla Ferguson, Pussy Palace Patron

The Pussy Palace was built by naming things that were not supposed to be said out loud. From its earliest moments, the project challenged dominant ideas about women’s sexuality, public sex, and who bathhouse culture was for. But the Palace did not emerge fully formed as a radical, inclusive utopia. It was assembled through improvisation, disagreement, and ongoing negotiation. Inclusion was not a settled principle, but an aspiration—one that required constant work, generated conflict, and exposed the limits of what a single space could hold.

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The Indian Act as Wendigo

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By Jenni Makahnouk

This post is part of the Indian Act 150 series

The Indian Act is commonly treated as a governance structure: an object to be interpreted, amended, or dismantled through policy reform. This framing assumes neutrality where there is appetite. This article argues that the Indian Act functions less as a static legal instrument and more as a consuming force—one that survives through the ongoing ingestion of Indigenous self-determination. Read through Indigenous epistemologies, the Indian Act emerges as Wendigo, if you will, an Indigenous malevolent manitou animated by greed, selfishness, and insatiable hunger. What happens when the Indian Act is viewed as Wendigo? By framing the Indian Act as Wendigo, we can illuminate its predatory dynamics in ways that conventional settler analyses of the Act cannot capture, and we can draw on Indigenous epistemologies of how to cure Wendigo.

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Celebrating Black History and the Works That Shape It

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February 2026 marks the 30th anniversary of the first national celebration of Black History Month in Canada. This milestone offers an important opportunity to recognize the enduring legacy and resilience of Black Canadians and to reflect on a history that has often been overlooked.

Canadian historians especially must confront the mythology that depicts Canada solely as a haven from racism. In reality, the Canadian government and public have imposed deliberate, often legislated barriers to Black success. From immigration bans under the pretext of “climatic unsuitability” to provincial school acts that enforced racially segregated schools well into the 20th century, systemic exclusion was a core feature of the Canadian state. 

Given these historic and ongoing systemic injustices, Canadian historians can center the experiences of Black Canadians and concepts of anti-Black racism within their work. We must move beyond symbolic celebration toward a methodology that weaves these essential perspectives into the very fabric of our historical research.

With such a project in mind, members of the Active History editorial collective offer the following suggestion on scholarship and resources that have shaped our own learning journeys. These articles, book chapters, and monographs have challenged the way we undertake our historical pursuits, and we hope they inspire similar deep reflection for our readership. 

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Food Insecurity in the Russo-Ukrainian War and World War II: Reading the Present Through History

Hannah Boller

“No War,” photographed by the author in Vienna, 15 May 2023.

I recently found myself conversing with someone who believed it was their job to point out that the topic for my master’s thesis was totally useless. “Food is not worth studying, and history even less valuable. I’m not sure why you would go to school to study that.” Most people eat three times a day, maybe have a couple of snacks, go out for drinks on the weekend, and plan birthday dinners weeks in advance; if you are privileged to live in the Global North, food and food culture are assumed rights. 

And yet, in 2025, there is a global food crisis. Statistics Canada reports that in 2023 an average of 25.5% of Canadians were experiencing food insecurity, with families living in the Northwest Territories and Nunavut presenting disproportionate rates of 34.2% and 58.1% respectively. As of February 2025, the World Food Programme reported that 5 million Ukrainians are experiencing food insecurity, with severity increasing as the distance to the frontlines decreases. In a time of climate change, sustained conflict, and economic uncertainty, much of the global population is experiencing food insecurity and in 2025 there were two confirmed famines in Gaza and Sudan. 

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Letters in Wartime: Teaching the life of Harry G. Dickson, Jr. RCAF

Kristen Jeanveau

Collection of materials from the file of Harry George Dickson R/18077. Courtesy of the Ley and Lois Smith War Memory, and Culture Research Collection, Western University.

For the last two years, I have been a Graduate Teaching Assistant for History 1810: Wars that Changed the World at Western University. For many students, the world wars are a remote experience, long out of living memory. This presents a challenge for a first-year survey course: how should the wars be presented to balance the broad implications of the conflict with microhistory case-studies that offer a deeper look at specific lived experiences?[1] I firmly believe the goal of a history course is not to instill rote memorization of dates and names. As an educator, I am more interested in hearing what questions the students will raise with the content that we present. My goal in the classroom is to foster a sense of curiosity about the World Wars and engage with the students collaboratively to develop our understanding of this contested past, and I try to achieve this through frequent use of material culture studies.

The History Department at Western University is lucky to hold the Ley and Lois Smith War, Memory, and Culture Research Collection and Wartime Canada archives, maintained by my supervisor, Dr. Jonathan Vance. With this access, I make regular use of newspapers, photos, maps, medals, sheet music, military gear, postcards, and letters from their holdings in the classroom. I have observed students who were hesitant to contribute to standard tutorial discussions become engaged when they handle surgical implements from our medical artefact collection, or function as detectives researching the authors of postcards from the First World War. Likewise, more than one student has shared the story of their relative’s military service while examining medals from the Second World War and asking if they could take a photo for their family as they look “just like the ones my great grandfather had.”

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Canada Post and Canadian Culture

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Inspired by recent 2025 labour disputes and renewed public conversation about Canada Post, the intention here is to examine the cultural impact and historical legacy of a controversial yet essential Canadian Crown Corporation. A national institution and the nation’s leading postal operator, Canada Post in its earliest iteration proceeded Canadian Confederation itself.

Series editors Annabelle Penney and Raffaella Cerenzia

Canada Post, Commemorative Stamps, and the Klondike

Canada Post, Commemorative Stamps, and the Klondike.

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By Patricia Roussel and David Dean

This post is part of the Canada Post and Canadian Culture series.

This is the first post in a limited series dedicated to studying the history of Canada Post. Inspired by recent 2025 labour disputes and renewed public conversation about Canada Post, the intention here is to examine the cultural impact and historical legacy of a controversial yet essential Canadian Crown Corporation. A national institution and the nation’s leading postal operator, Canada Post in its earliest iteration proceeded Canadian Confederation itself.

In this co-authored post Patricia Rousell and David Dean will explore the connections between postage stamps, shaping national identity through processes of commemoration, and how this relationship plays out in praxis with a case-study of the 1996 Canada Post-issued Klondike Gold Stamp Series.

Canada Post and Imag[in]ing Canada on Stamps

In 1908, Canada issued a set of eight stamps commemorating a uniquely Canadian historical event: the founding of Quebec three hundred years earlier. Four of the stamps were strikingly different from any previously issued by the Dominion which had, with one exception, always featured a portrait of the ruling monarch.[1] The two highest level stamps offered imagined scenes of the French “discovery” of Canada: Champlain’s departure from France (on the 15¢ stamp) and Cartier’s arrival (on the 20¢). Equally unusual were the 5¢ and 10¢ stamps which depicted Champlain’s habitation and Quebec c.1700 respectively. The remaining stamps, used for regular postage, would have seemed more familiar, especially to anyone who remembered the 1897 issue marking Queen Victoria’s diamond jubilee. Each of those stamps had featured a double portrait of the Queen, one from the beginning of her reign and one from the 1880s. Similarly, the remaining four stamps of 1908 were double portraits of, respectively, the Prince and Princess of Wales, Jacques Cartier and Samuel de Champlain, King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra, and Louis-Joseph de Montcalm and James Wolfe.

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