In honour of Kim Renders I am no longer keeping quiet
On Tuesday, July 17th, 2018, I woke up to a flood of messages, phone calls, and Facebook notifications. Kim Renders, after a short but intense battle with cancer, had passed away. That day, it was as if Facebook had been completely taken over—everyone was talking about how Kim had impacted them, and how sorely she will be missed. It was painfully clear how large her influence had been. I am not usually one for the flood of social media posts after someone has died, often finding them inauthentic. But I could tell this time was different—those whose lives Kim had touched were sharing such genuine words, stories, and art to commemorate the passing of such a powerful and kind woman.
I feel very fortunate to have gotten to know Kim during my time studying at Queen’s University. I would like to share some of the memories that I have of her—not because I think my relationship with her was unique or special in any way, but exactly the opposite. The way she touched my life is so similar to how she touched the lives of many other students at Queen’s.
I first met Kim when I was cast in her production of Macbeth at Queen’s University. I was only 18 years old, and I didn’t have much confidence in myself as an artist, so I was blown away that she wanted me to be a part of her team. I was both intimidated and amazed by her. In this particular production of Macbeth, all of the roles usually intended for male actors were given to female actors. Kim was fed up with all of the male-centric theatre that was being produced by the Queen’s community and so she did something about it. This was the first introduction I had to the type of person Kim was.
The second time I encountered Kim was when I enrolled in her Theatre for Young Audiences class. It was there that she challenged my idea of the default character. She talked about how we see a squirrel running across the lawn and say, “look at him go,” instead of “her.” Throughout the four years that I knew her, this was a common thread in our relationship—she was always challenging the people around her to reconsider and question the norm.
That summer, I had the opportunity to be a part of Rhinoceros, which was being produced by Kim’s company, Chipped Off Performance Collective. The show’s alternate title was “What’s Different About Me?” and was a beautiful community effort that cumulated in the entire 50-or-so person cast singing “I Can’t Keep Quiet” while wearing pink pussy hats. The show was a rebellion and a celebration.
It was only recently that I began to see Kim not just as a director and professor, but also as a friend. I had asked her if I could be her assistant director for 2018’s Chipped Off show, and she gladly welcomed me on board. We spent a lot of time talking about the show and about the state of theatre in Kingston. As an Asian-Canadian woman, I didn’t always feel the most welcome in the Kingston theatre scene, but Kim continued to encourage me to not keep quiet. She taught me to give weight to my own voice. She taught me to be angry. She told me that what I had to say was important.
Although I always had the same respect and admiration for her, I became less intimidated as I got to know how kind she was. She always talked about how much she loved hearing the students in the green room from her office in Theological Hall. I remember one time in particular I was rehearsing with her partner Robert Lindsay, and he found a green 12-sided die on the ground. He gave it to me, saying that Kim “loves that sort of crap.” I held onto it for a while, kind of forgetting that it was in my coat pocket, but eventually I gave it to her. And Robert was right—she did love it. I don’t know why, out of everything, this stands out so much to me. Perhaps it was the moment I realized that this woman who I looked up to so much, and who had done such incredible things for Canadian theatre, was a human being. Last week, as I was helping to clean out her office, I found the green die in a cupboard next to all other kinds of knick knacks. A toy rhinoceros wearing a pink pussy hat. A mug full of coins from other countries.
I can say with all honesty that I wouldn’t be the person I am today had I not encountered Kim Renders. She changed the way that I saw theatre completely, and the way that I saw myself as an artist. I think that ever since Kim has passed, Kingston as a whole has gotten a lot angrier. Kim has left us with huge shoes to fill—but I wholeheartedly believe that there will be people who step up in her absence. It is because of her that so many of us found our own voices, and we’re going to use them..
Consider donating to Nightwood Theatre on behalf of Kim Renders.