Image Source: CUPW Instagram/Facebook
By Rona Mohsini, Associate Editor, and Michelle He, Senior Editor
It’s common for intimacy to be conflated with physical proximity or only recognized in its most physical expressions because spatial closeness is the most obvious and tangible form. But even then, only sexual and biologically driven acts are given the weight of true intimacy. The quotidian is just as vulnerable, but for things like sharing space and food, we’re so caught up in our survival that we don’t give them a second thought unless necessary. COVID-19 made this especially clear to the public consciousness. As my close friends point out, sharing air with another person involves a real and profound leap of faith: we don’t live in sterile environments. For the immunocompromised, the chronically ill, the people like us, even a friend can put your life at risk if they aren’t acting intentionally down to every breath they take. But I suppose that’s just what love is—to trust that we’ll be considered by our loved ones, and to put on a mask when everyone else stopped caring. This vulnerability is at the core of communication, not restricted to inter-human communication: feeding a pigeon, vaccinating a stray kitten, or repotting a bruised plant. It’s ultimately what everyone desires, no matter what form it takes. For us, language and intimacy become deeply intertwined. It’s not a new idea to compare reading and writing to acts of physical closeness or even sexual intercourse; both invite others into our private existence.
A professor once told me the importance of just writing down my thoughts. In those moments, I come face to face with every emotion, imagination, and idea that previously existed in some other space, but then come to a shared reality through writing. Letters are one means through which those secretive thoughts are shared and discussed with another. Though now largely lost, sharing letters is in itself a ritual, requiring certain performative actions as practice, through which by the end, a sender and receiver have a shared production that transforms their relationship. What is written by the sender is meticulously considered: what is important to share, what is the most meaningful, descriptive, and transformative—what should be implied, and what should be explicitly stated to convey every sentiment that connects their relationship with the receiver.
What happens when the author and the reader are separated by time and space? A whole new layer of trust emerges for those who carry our words. When we seal a letter shut and send it through the post, we entrust the postal worker with everything inside and hope it will reach the receiver safely. It’s a dignified profession; we entrust to them our information just as we entrust to a doctor our health. But when the livelihood of these dignified people is challenged, when their labour is hidden, exploited, and “gig-ified” as the corporate please, we refuse to stand idly by. Despite certain online discourse, the postal worker’s strike in December was not a rash or poorly timed decision. It was the result of long-standing concerns over fair wages and working conditions for some of our society’s most underappreciated workers. The CUPW (Canadian Union for Postal Workers) requests aren’t new. They focus on adjusting benefits and pay according to inflation, increasing the scope of the union to include contracted workers, and revitalizing community and green initiatives. Historically, most CUPW strikes faced government intervention, forcing workers back to their positions before demands were fully met. Again, this was repeated on December 17, 2024, when the Minister of Labour weaponized Sections 107 and 108 of the Labour Code to force back-to-work legislation, despite the union and corporate not reaching an agreement. As students of life and art and as allies in newsprint, we continue to stand in solidarity with the workers of the post and delivery workers who risk their lives through wind and snow to ensure our communication.
