Be Who You Needed When You Were Younger: Interview with Sheniz Janmohamed
Sheniz Janmohamed is a firm believer in fostering community through collaboration, compassion and creativity. In her own practice, she strives to embody words through performance, land art and writing in the ghazal form. A graduate of the MFA in Creative Writing program at the University of Guelph-Humber, Sheniz has been mentored by authors Dionne Brand, Kuldip Gill and Janice Kulyk Keefer. A poet, artist educator and land artist, Sheniz has performed her work in venues across the world, including the Jaipur Literature Festival, Alliance Française de Nairobi and the Aga Khan Museum. Her land art has been featured at the Aga Khan Park, the Indian Summer Festival and the Art Gallery of Mississauga. She is a regular contributor to Quill & Quire and her work has been published in various journals and anthologies, including CV2, Canadian Literature and Body & Soul: Stories for Skeptics and Seekers (Caitlin Press).
In this interview, Canthius editorial board member Manahil Bandukwala talks to Sheniz about connecting writers, mentorship, and cross-disciplinary projects.
To learn more about Sheniz, see her work on her website, or follow her on Twitter @ShenizJ, Instagram @shenizpoetics, and Facebook.
Manahil: Hi Sheniz! I’m writing these interview questions following our beautiful time at Elchi Chai in Toronto. You invited myself and Sanna Wani because (to paraphrase you), “all these cool writers need to meet one another!”
I remember the first time we met in person, which went something like this: “the brown people found each other.” How do you see this community of brown writers connecting through digital spaces that pave ways for in-person friendships?
Sheniz: Hi Manahil, it was such a pleasure sitting with both of you and sharing thoughts over cups of chai! When I started writing/performing poetry back in undergrad, there were only a handful of brown writers on the scene, and not many of them were my peers— they were older, more established writers that I looked up to. With the advent of social media, I feel that it is so much easier to connect with my peers and contemporaries, particularly from the South Asian community. There’s a sense of camaraderie and connection that was harder to find 10 or 15 years ago. Social media can be a lifeline for so many of us who don’t have access to community for all kinds of reasons—mostly systemic.
That said, I feel that social media can make us feel “connected” without having connected in person. There is a sense of isolation in that—so I have been trying to counteract that isolation by making an effort to meet people in person. When you’re sitting in each other’s living rooms, or having a meal together, there is a deeper and more holistic connection to each other—we see each other’s humanity in addition to each other’s artistry or online persona.
Manahil: Can you talk about your mentor-mentee relationship with Natasha Ramoutar, and how that emulates this idea of emotional mentorship and supporting a writer beyond craft?
Sheniz: Natasha was one of the students in a class I facilitated a guest workshop for. I make it a point to let students know that I’m available for support beyond one class visit—because I would find that I’d connect with a handful of students and then have to leave without being able to further nurture their creative development.
Natasha and I ran into each other again in the audience of a panel at the FOLD and casually spoke about her challenges of applying to creative writing programs, the inaccessibility of mentors and the lack of intersectionality in CanLit. Soon after, she reached out to me to ask me to be her mentor in supporting her through the editing of her first poetry collection, Bittersweet (forthcoming with Mawenzi House, 2020).
I first wanted to understand what Natasha’s vision was for her collection, and then helped develop her work according to what she had envisioned. I feel that this is a vital aspect of any mentorship—not recreating another version of yourself.
There’s a quote that I love: Be who you needed when you were younger.
This is my approach to mentorship.
I have been told that mentorships are often reduced to manuscript consultations—discussions of craft and literary merit. Once you have received support in crafting and editing your manuscript, you’re on your own. I feel that this is an incomplete mentorship. After the editing and organising of Natasha’s collection was complete, we spent time discussing potential publication opportunities, marketing angles for the book, what to avoid or align herself with—according to what she values as a writer.
If I can save my mentees from unnecessary grief, I will. I’ve learned the hard way, and I’ve also been guided out of tricky situations because of the support and foresight my mentors and peers. If we’re not making it easier for the next generation of writers, what are we doing?
Even though our formal mentorship is complete, Natasha knows that she can reach out to me anytime, and she has—whether it’s to run by an edit for a poem she’s submitting to a journal, or getting advice about something specific related to her literary career.
I’m happy to oblige, and have also learned a great deal from her.
Manahil: A lot of your work is interdisciplinary and includes performance, visual art, and poetry. Can you talk about some of the projects you have going on right now?
Sheniz: I’m the Artistic Director of Sufi Poets Series, a performance initiative I established many years ago and revived in 2020 with Small World Music Centre. The objective of Sufi Poets Series is to honour the works of Sufi poets through music, performance and spoken word. I’m looking forward to having you and your sister, Nimra, feature at our next instalment, which will feature the poetry of 16th Century poet, Shah Abdul Latif.
I’m working with the wind in the leaves collective for their dance and poetry series, where Bharatnatyam dancer Atri Nundy and I will be performing a collaborative dance, poetry and mandala-making piece, Stones Speak to Me. Atri will be dancing inside a mandala I create and dismantle.
I’m chipping away at my third collection of poetry, which is proving challenging because I’m in love with the concept but I’m having a hard time committing to it on paper.
I’m working on a performance/mandala installation for The Aga Khan Museum’s Sanctuary Series— the inspiration behind the piece is the concept of the Chabagh, the four gardens of Paradise.
Manahil: I’ve been thinking about translation a lot. You’ve done both (translating vs. not translating) in both of your books. Where do you sit right now on that?
Sheniz: My approach to translation is directly related to the intent behind each poem or piece of writing I’m working on. If not translating a word prevents the reader from understanding a key concept or metaphor, is there a purpose for that?
What is the purpose?
Is it to make a statement about meaning, or to represent a deeper symbolism?
If so, then it’s warranted.
However, if it’ll disrupt the reader from experiencing the work, and that’s not the intent of the piece, then I will translate.
I also remember one of my professors sharing their own approach to translation—they build context around the untranslated word, so that the essence is revealed without having to directly translate or use a glossary. I love that idea.
Manahil: You work as an arts educator in schools. How did that start? What do you find the response is to poetry when you take performance and storytelling into the school space?
Sheniz: I started working with an organisation called Mariposa-in-the-Schools, which brought storytelling and spoken word into classrooms across Ontario. I learned so much from shadowing dub poet/reggae artist Michael St. George, and it was in watching him that I learned how to improvise and adapt according to the needs of each student.
When I started out in performing and teaching, I had a fixed idea of what I wanted to do, and how it’ll land with the audience/students. However, I have learned, through my work as an Arts Educator, to respond to the energy of the people in the room. If you’re not in relationship with the ones who are listening to you, then how can you possibly be heard, and how can you expect them to feel heard?
I always have a plan and intention in mind, but I’m ready to adapt it if I walk into the space and realise that it’s not what the students/audience need. Need, not like. There are times where students have hummed and hawed over the idea of writing poetry, but the key is making it relatable to them and their experiences.
Once they have permission to bring themselves into the work, and approach poetry according to their learning styles, they will blossom. I’ve seen it happen. It’s such a gift.
I once had a student who wasn’t writing down a thing, so I asked him to share what he had so far. He free-styled a poem. It was brilliant, and a lesson to me, to remember to stay humble and teachable.
Manahil: On your website, you wrote, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t a poet, so I could feel less. To put out fires that catch my sleeve, where the heart is exhausted from burning.”
I feel this very much. What is a poet’s place in the world today?
Sheniz: I think it’s constantly changing and shifting, which can be exhausting. We feel deeply, and we respond deeply. With social media, we have access to readerships that are not limited to the page or stage. This is a mixed blessing—it comes with great responsibility—not just to the integrity of our craft, but to the urgency of our messaging as well.
We walk the line between responding to the times and being timeless.
The poet’s place in the world is placeless, which is a gift and a burden.