From October 6th to 12th, I travelled to Ciudad de México to participate in the 25th Annual International Congress hosted by the Curriculum & Pedagogy Group and CORYMI (Red para la Promoción de la Salud, Educación y Bienestar Psicosocial en Comunidades Rurales y Migrantes). The theme—Tzonteti in Times of Border Violence: Diasporic Democracies, Migratory Methodologies and Participatory Pedagogies—brought together educators, researchers, and artists working across geographies and struggles. 

I presented a paper titled Unveiling Translingual Practice in Cultural Production through Collage-Making and facilitated a hands-on workshop, Collaging the In-Between: Land, Memory & Creative Resistance. Collage clearly continues to weave itself into my practice and this gathering offered another moment to engage with its possibilities. 

On my way to CDMX, at the conference, during outings, and on my return to Montreal, I carefully collected scraps—transport stubs, napkins, receipts, wrappers, plants, candy packaging and more. Not just from the official conference, but from everyday moments: museum visits, café stops, walks through the city, nights at the neighborhood mezcalería. Friends and colleagues who’ve come to know me—and this quirky tradition of mine—even handed me bits of “junk” with a smile, knowing it might find its way into the pages of my next journal. Junk journaling has become a kind of ritual: part travel companion, part memory-keeper, part creative playground. 

Creation Session I: Diner Booth Beginnings 📍Benito Juárez International Airport, Ciudad de México, México  

My first sit-down session happened at the airport, solo in a diner booth after my final plate of huevos rancheros in México. Trying—not trying—to quite literally keep my shit together, my junk quickly scattered all over the table and booth chairs. Surrounded by—what I find to be beautiful—scraps and leftovers, I began sifting through the pieces and reflecting on what might go into the journal.  

I quickly gravitated toward the leftover collage materials I’d purchased at local papelerías for my workshop: deep metallic blues and greens, glitter sheets, bold reds, translucent wrapping paper with scratchy designs. I thought these materials mirrored the richness and layeredness of my experiences.  

The centerpiece emerged from a printed napkin I’d saved from the cafelibrería I visited on my last day. Vibrant green, terracotta, and symbols: el corazón sagrado, estrellas, el sol, nopal cactus, books, tea. All were fitting. Corazónes appeared throughout my time in CDMX—from their representation in Aztec artworks at the national museum of anthropologia to artesanía stalls to the lyrics of local musicians. I didn’t plan for hearts to be so present in the journal, but they are and I'm glad. 

Creation Session II:  Stillness & Scraps📍Home, Montreal, Canada  

Back home, feeling sick on a Friday night, I plunged into my scraps again. This time, I cut more precisely, reflected more deeply. Some pieces made it in for their aesthetic qualities—texture, color, feel. Others held memory: a moment, a feeling, a place.  

I spent time adjusting the layout, gluing things down, making sure textures and colors spoke to one another—making more minute decisions: what to center, what to obscure, what to let shimmer through.

I noticed how my selections shifted depending on location and my mood. Creating in movement versus creating in stillness. Mexico City energy versus Montreal comfort. Each session brought new priorities, new layers. 

Creation Session III: Scanning, Final Touches & Writing📍Home, Montreal, Canada 

The third session I worked on final touches, scanned the journal, and began writing. 

The last pieces to move and be included were my name tag and room number. 

My name tag always gives me pause. Should I include it? Why does it matter to put my name? At first, I placed it beneath a red scratchy layer—a way to say: I was here, but I’m not the center. After my first scan, I decided to bring it forward for aesthetic reasons, adding contrast and white to the forefront, mirroring the conference tag at the bottom right. 

Just when I thought I was done, my room card showed up: Room 111. I’m not deep into numerology, but I remember noticing it when I arrived at the hotel—something about it felt significant. Back home in Montreal, I reached out to my good friend Ginger, (and favorite numerologist ;) who offered some of their number wisdom. I won’t share it here, but it resonated deeply and affirmed something quiet and meaningful in my experience. 

Material Memory: What Made It In 

And more. 

Place as Palette: Reflections on Process & Meaning  

What I learned most from this junk journal is how much the energies and aesthetics of a place, a city can shape what and how I create. The bold colors, glitter, textures, and artesanías of CDMX didn’t just inspire my choices—they quietly guided them. The city’s textures and colors found their way into my hands, influencing what I made and how I made it. They nudged me toward palettes and combinations I might not have chosen otherwise. 

More than just color or texture, the process of layering transparent and opaque papers also brought up questions: What do I share? What do I keep private? What belongs in full light, what beneath the surface, and what omitted completely? Some pieces evoke memory and emotion. Some things have meaning. Some are just cute. 

Making this journal allowed me to sit with my experience longer. To feel more deeply. It became less about consuming presentations or building a CV, and more about honoring lived experience—about noticing how memories shift with time, mood, and place. It reminded me that creation is never separate from context. It’s a conversation—with place, with memory, with what’s still becoming.