Pride 2015

Church Street. Monday morning. 

Cars drive by. 20 or so people are walking. Some stop at Starbucks for a coffee on the way to work. A dog, tied to a pole waiting for its owner, barks at a passing truck. 2 men walk down the street holding hands, whispering to each other and laughing. A woman stops to buy some fruit. There are a few people sitting on the steps of the BMO. And a teenager is camped out on the corner asking for change. 

A typical Monday morning in The Village. 

The only evidence that anything happened is the glitter on the road, which will be washed away by Tuesday's forecasted rain. 

Pride Week is over. 

My first Pride was in 1994. I was 17 and a baby dyke. I was excited and shy and nervous and overwhelmed. And back then it wasn't nearly as huge as the 1,000,000 + people who descend on Toronto to celebrate these days. I didn't even know that there was more than just the parade on Sunday. My friends and I took the subway to Yonge and Bloor and had no idea where to go next. A woman hobbled by with a rainbow flag sticking out of a cast on her leg. So we asked her where to go. 

We stepped out into an enormous crowd and watched happy people celebrating in the street. I had found where I belonged. 

Let me go back. 

17 and a baby dyke. My coming out story is short and sweet. I was a straight girl who was boy crazy and constantly in love with one guy or another until one day I wasn't. 

It was April 1, 1994. I was in the front foyer at school. A graduate, F, was visiting the school for an event they were hosting. I had met F in grade 9. She initiated me by writing "niner" across my chest. I had thought she was a boy. I had thought she was a cute boy. 

We were standing in a small circle that day in April. F and some friends of mine. It was just after my 17th birthday. Someone asked F what she wanted to do when she grew up. F reached out and stroked my cheek and said "I'm going to marry April." 

Everyone laughed and the conversation continued. 

Everyone laughed but me. F marry me? I still thought F was cute, even though she was a girl. Maybe it didn't matter. So the next step was obvious. I gave her my phone number. 

That night she called me and asked me out. I said yes. I hung up the phone and said to myself, "holy shit, I just made a date with a lesbian!" I cried. 

For a minute or two. 

Then I wiped away my tears. Took a deep breath. And thought, I guess I'm a lesbian too. 

And that was it. 

Shortly after that I started to come out to my friends. I don't even remember how or when. It wasn't a big deal. Nothing had really changed. Except that instead of being boy crazy, I was madly in love with F. 

I'm 38 and I still haven't officially "come out" to my parents. I never thought I should have to. My brother didn't have to come out as straight. So why should I have to say out loud that I'm a lesbian. 

When I was 20, I brought my girlfriend home from university for a visit. Before she arrived, I was trying on a dress and I said to my mom "I just want you to know that I'm dating her." My mom didn't even blink and replied "I know that already. What? Do you think I'm stupid?" My response was "no, but this dress doesn't fit." 

And that was it. 

5 years after that, I started dating DP. 

This year was our 14th Pride Week together. 

Pride week in Toronto started as a riot and turned into a giant week long party. Although it has become commercialized and a major cash grab (like the $9 French fries I had on Sunday!!) its mere existence is a political statement. 

I love Pride and I hate Pride. 

It is hot and crowded and expensive and sometimes it feels like we crawl out of the woodwork and then disappear again until the next year when we are allowed to take over the streets of The Village. 

It is also important. 

The Pride movement was born out of the Stonewall Rebellion in 1969 when the police raided the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar in New York's Greenwich Village. That night, the queers fought back. It was an historic moment. Thousands of angry queers raging in the streets with the message: we aren't going to take it anymore! Last week the Stonewall Inn was declared an historical site. 

Pride happens around the world. 

June 2015, the Supreme Court of the USA declared same-sex marriage legal. This matters. 

I don't particularly care about same-sex marriage to be honest. There are millions of people around the world suffering from war, slavery, civil unrest, oppression, child labour, and unimaginable atrocities. At the same time, a powerful country like the United States recognizing marriage rights of same-sex couples is a big move. It is a move towards human rights in North America. It is a model for the rest of the world. It is a way to ensure that same-sex couples can inherit, can be co-parents, can make medical decisions for their spouses. 

And yet, we mustn't forget that in more that 80 countries, homosexuality is still illegal. Here in Canada, queers are still underemployed, ostrisized, and face discrimination and violence in their daily lives. Young queers commit, or attempt, suicide. And Trans visibility and rights are a challenging battle. 

So Pride Week matters. 

This year, it rained the entire weekend! But that didn't stop us from celebrating. 

It began with the Trans march on Friday night. Thousands of Trans people and their allies took to the streets and demonstrated their right to exist. To be seen. To be free. 

Saturday, the Dyke march.  An event for queer women to take their space in the world and celebrate their right to be. 

The Dyke march begins with dykes on bikes. A symbol of strength and, well ... coolness. I mean, C'mon. They're dykes on bikes!!  

Rainbows are EVERYWHERE!! It gets kinda cheesy after awhile. But you gotta love a rainbow. 

Each colour of the flag represents a part of Pride. 

Red: life

Orange: healing

Yellow: sunlight

Green: nature

Blue: harmony

Purple: spirit

Back in the good ol' days, before the amazing renovation of the 519 Community Centre, there was a wadding pool that was fenced off as part of the beer garden. Queer women would gather there on dyke day to frolic with their friends or their children. To cool off after the hot march through the streets of the city. 

This year, despite their being no pool, queers celebrated their day soaking wet in the rain. And it didn't stop anyone from frolicking or dancing. 

Pride is a time for celebration. And it's also a time to people watch. To cruise. To explore your sexuality. To play with your visibility. To experiment with your fantasies and desires. And quite frankly to pick up and be picked up. Free condoms are available in the thousands and safety is encouraged. 

Pride is a time to dress your best. To strut your stuff. To express your identity. To be visible. 

When I was younger, we would buy tickets to dances and pack into bars like sardines. We would dance the night away with our friends and with strangers. These days, we find ourselves "too old" for such things. We enjoy going to parties. Spending time with friends. Celebrating life and love and friendship. 

When I was a baby dyke, I found myself drawn to a woman-centred bookstore. There I met a woman named E. She was so very kind to me and allowed me to hang out at the bookstore talking. I didn't know any queer people. I didn't have any role models. I put E on a pedestal and took in everything she said. One day, in reference to F, she said "it takes all kind of people to make up this world." That sentiment stayed with me. 

Pride is a time when queers of all kinds celebrate and express who they are. Everyone is welcome. Everyone belongs. 

Queers, lesbians, gays, dykes, Trans, bisexuals, intersex, leather, bears, pansexual, polyamorous, genderqueer, rubber, BDSM, daddies, gym queens, drag queens, drag kings, androgynous, asexual, cisgender, genderless, questioning, two-spirited, twinks, tops, bottoms, dominants, submissives, cubs, otters, lipsticks, butches, femmes, celesbians, kink, vanilla, bulldagers, chickens, gold star lesbians, soft butches, stone butches, pillow queens, kikis, bois, sporty dykes, baby dykes, curious, fetish, and all the other people I have missed. 

We all belong. 

I am idealizing Pride. There are of course pockets of judgemental and discriminating queers on the streets. There are protestors who tell us we are going to burn in hell. There are straight tourists filming us, gawking, and pointing like we are animals in the zoo. 

But none of this stops us from celebrating. 

People create elaborate costumes. Wear very little. Or wear nothing at all. There are flowers and feathers and glitter. There are people painted, people in mascot outfits, cops in uniforms with rainbow flags hanging from their holsters, and people with body parts hanging free. 

And of course there are the drag queens. gorgeous queens in the most elaborate gowns and outfits you can possibly imagine. Full make up. Large hair. Crowns and jewelry. And eyelashes that go on forever. 

Pride. 

It's about celebrating who we are. Our right to exist. Our right to be free. It's about justice and struggle and our history. It's about family and friends. It's about raising a generation of acceptance. 

And most of all, Pride is about love. 

Be kind to yourself, 

xoxo

...

Dance like everyone is watching

This weekend I went dancing. 

Which is odd, because I don't dance. Not anymore. 

When I was 3, I went to see the ballet for the first time. I fell in love. It was the nutcracker and Karen Kain was the principal ballerina. So of course I HAD to take ballet lessons. 

I loved those Saturday mornings so much. Dancing brought me so much joy. I wasn't very good. I had no talent and poor coordination. As my mom often told me. But man did I love dancing. In level one ballet (so I was about 5) I got to do my exam. I passed. Not with "exceptional". But it was a pass. 

After that I wasn't invited to take anymore exams. But I was passionate. I danced my heart out. I was allowed to take level 2 and 3 ballet classes. 

At the end of my level 3 year I was told that I hadn't passed even without the exam. I was devastated. I had to repeat level 3 while all my friends moved on to level 4. The only reason I survived was that I was a younger than my classmates, so repeating level 3 meant being with girls my own age. 

At the end of my second level 3 year I stopped taking ballet lessons. I just wasn't built for that style of dancing. My turnout wasn't wide enough. My point wasn't flexible enough. My achilles tendons weren't stretchy enough. And my ankles weren't strong enough to support myself in pointe shoes. 

Instead of ballet, I joined a jazz class with my best friend. That was mostly fun. It wasn't the same as ballet, but I still got to move to the music, to stretch my muscles, and to dance my heart out. 

When it was time for costumes though, the teacher measured our waists. In front of the class. And called out our measurements. In front of the class. I was an average sized girl. But I was convinced that I was fat because of many comments from family, because of my Mom's constant dieting, because of my Dad oinking at me when I ate. 

I was still 2 years away from developing anorexia, but I was incredibly self-conscious. And I was sure that my measurements were giant. I was so embarrassed. I quit at the end of that term. 

To replace jazz, I started taking tap classes. Tap was awesome. It didn't matter that I wasn't super flexible (even after 6 years of yoga). It didn't matter that I wasn't as graceful as my ballerina friends. In tap it was more about rhythm, technique, and bouncing. And also smiling. I loved loved loved tap dancing. 

In grade 8 I had an enormous crush on a grade 13 boy that I met. I was sure that I was madly in love with him. And that we were destined to be together (Oddly, he ended up marrying one of my good high school friends). 

This boy went to a school of the arts. So obviously I had to go there too. Even though he was graduating. 

I decided to major in Music Theatre. I prepared my audition and arrived at the school ready to sing my heart out. And more importantly, ready to fake my way through the dance portion of the audition. And fake it I did. I forgot the steps. But what I lacked in talent I made up for with enthusiasm and a big smile. 

Somehow I got in. I still don't understand why. 

For the next 5 years of my life, I learned singing and dancing and acting. I performed in several shows a year. And in all that time, I was dancing. Not well. But with gusto. And it brought me joy. Performing in musicals was fun and exciting. 

After graduation I didn't take anymore dance classes. However, I was of age. I discovered bars. Specifically the one gay bar in the town where I went to university. 

This bar was my happy place. 

My friends and I would dance all night on a packed dance floor. And my passion for dancing had found an outlet where remembering steps and performing was no longer necessary. This kind of dancing was better than all my years of lessons and performances. 

There were even nights where the dance floor was empty. And I didn't care. I would dance with abandon. It felt like freedom. Moving around that floor all alone without a care in the world. Pure happiness. 

And then something changed. 

My eating disorder evolved. My binging and purging followed by bouts of starvation caught up with me. I started to gain weight. Over a period of 5 years, I gained 90 pounds. My body was completely different than it had ever been before. 

My body didn't feel the same. It didn't move the same. I didn't recognize myself. I didn't know how to exist in this body. The more weight I gained the more symptomatic I became. My cycle of starve-binge-purge became more intense. Which only made my body worse. 

I stopped dancing. 

Bars became a place of discomfort. I felt like I was being seen and judged. Always. Fat people experience the world differently than thin people. It is assumed that we are lazy. That we only eat junk and fatty greasy foods. That we eat at fast food restaurants every day. We are judged. Commented on. Stared at. And often insulted right to our faces. 

Dancing meant being seen moving a body that I was not comfortable in. It meant people seeing this body moving. I felt like I wasn't allowed to dance. That I didn't have the right to take up space in the world, let alone on the dance floor. It felt as though my mere existence wasn't allowed.

It felt like everyone around me was thin and beautiful and graceful and perfect. 

So I haven't danced for a very long time. Years. Years of lacking the strength to be seen. Years of being self-conscious of this body that I still don't recognize. This body that I mistreat with my eating disorder cycle. 

Being in this body is a challenge. 

Being in a body that I hate makes me feel like it doesn't belong to me. So the idea of getting on a dance floor and moving while people are near me and seeing me causes great anxiety. It sends me into a panic. 

When I go out "dancing" with friends, I stand on the sidelines watching. Or I stand still on the dance floor so that I'm not alone. 

When I dance in front of people in this unrecognizable body, I feel exposed. I feel like I'm naked and fat and ugly. I feel as though everyone is watching me. 

So I don't dance. 

But ... I came up with a plan: I spent a few days painting about dancing, all leading up to Saturday night. 

I promised myself that I would dance. 

I had so much anxiety about it. So much panic. It meant having a few (or more) drinks. But I did it. I went out onto that dance floor and I danced. I mean I really danced. Like I did in my 20s. Like I did when I was thin. Like I did when my body was my body. Like I did when I wasn't afraid to take up space in the world.

I danced as if I deserved to be there. 

And it felt good. 

Be kind to yourself.

xoxo

...

Why I hate bathrooms aka Everybody poops ...

(All artwork is original by me) 

Everybody cries. Everybody needs someone to love them. And everybody poops. 

That's just a fact. 

The problem with that fact is bathrooms. I have a problem with bathrooms. I hate them. Very much. Extremely a whole lot very much. 

When you first learn to use a toilet, it can be a time of calm, a time of patience, a time of pride, or a time of shame. It all depends upon the adults way of "training" you and their reaction to your behaviours, your accidents, and your successes. 

Growing up, our bathroom door didn't close. So it was always open a crack. There was always privacy, but with an implied invitation to enter because of the crack in the door. No one ever invaded my privacy. Ever. And yet, the possibility was always present. 

When I was 4, we were living on a working farm for the summer. The adults were out in the fields. And the other children were very mean. There was an outhouse. I needed to poop. Badly. And I couldn't find any adults to take me to the outhouse. I don't know if the kids were outside, or if they were just being their usual mean selves and refusing to tell me. Either way, I didn't know where the outhouse was and didn't have help to find it. 

I guess I was an innovative and resilient four year old because I found a jar in the kitchen and pooped into it. 

Now I don't remember how I felt about the incident at the time. Knowing how I feel now about bathrooms, I can only imagine that I felt shame. 

Humiliation. 

When I was young, my cousin L used to spend every weekend at my house. We would share a bed and she would tell me scary things. Like that witches were going to come out of the cupboard and cut off my chin. And that worms and spiders were going to climb out of the ceiling. 

In our bathroom with the door that wouldn't close, there was a hole in the ceiling instead of a vent. To this day I have absolutely no idea what it was for. Anyway, L told me that when you flush the toilet, a hand comes out of the hole, into the toilet, and scoops up your waste. The result of this story was that for several years I would flush and run. Terrified of the monster. 

As I got older, I knew intellectually that there was no such thing as monsters. And that L's story didn't make any sense. But there was still this tiny part of me that was scared. So I continued to flush and run.

Around the time I was 5, I was at a convention with my grandmother. We went into the public bathroom together and sat side by side in the stalls. I looked at the floor and noticed her pantyhose around her ankles. It was off-putting. Gram was sacred. She wasn't supposed to be vulnerable like that. And then the inevitable happened ... She farted and then pooped. POOPED!!! Right beside me in the next stall. My grandmother, who I had put on a pedestal, pooped. She was human. That's the moment I realized that everyone does it. 

As a kid, I went to "school" in someone's home. This meant private bathrooms. I always got to pee alone. But I have lots of memories of being in the bathrooms with other people - with my friends, with my teachers. I also got my period when I was 10. That's early. I have a disorder that affects my menstrual cycle. It's called PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome). So when I was young, my flow was exceptionally heavy. But since I never told anyone anything that was going on with me, whether it was emotional or physical, I didn't tell my mom anything about it. She would buy me pads for "teens" which were smaller and less absorbent. And I would be the grade 4 kid in the bathroom at school stuffing her underwear with toilet paper to soak up what would have gone right through the pad. I also clogged the toilet several times because of how much toilet paper I went through. 

Mortifying. 

When I left the homeschool and entered the public school system, the bathroom became a blessing and a curse. I used the bathroom as a refuge from the bullies. I would lock myself in a stall and put my feet up so that no one could find me before school, at recess, and at lunch. But suddenly, I had to pee with other girls in the room. Hearing me. This was not good. At all. The idea of someone hearing me pee overwhelmed me. I would sit on the toilet and wait for someone to turn on the sink, or the hand dryer. Or I would just sit there waiting for everyone to leave. 

This got more difficult in high school where there was more bathroom traffic. There were always girls at the mirrors when I had to pee. I physically can't pee when there is anyone else around (except DP). So, I learned that if I plugged my ears and sang twinkle twinkle little star in my head, the pee would come out in public. I can't lie ... I still do that now. 

For as long as I can remember, I have had nightmares about bathrooms. In these dreams, I am always looking for a bathroom to use but I have to go through mazes and tunnels and secret doors and under walls and then when I finally get to a bathroom, it's broken, or dirty, or plugged up, or overflowing, or the door won't close, or there IS no door, or there are people in the bathroom and I can't use it. I never dream about a clean bathroom. Or a useable bathroom. Sometimes I dream that I do sit down on a toilet to use it. But there are people around me watching so I can't actually use it. Most often it is men who are watching. 

These dreams creep me out. Sometimes they really upset me. There are many different schools of thought on dream analysis. You can even google the meaning of objects and themes in dreams. I believe that images in dreams are specific to the dreamer. I think that my dreams are about several things, depending on what my brain is trying to sort out. Sometimes I think I am dreaming about shame. Deep shame. Sometimes I think there is something that I am keeping inside that needs to come out - like an emotion or something I am not saying out loud. In any case, I imagine that these dreams will be with me for many more years. 

There was one day about 5 years ago that I was using a private bathroom at work. No worries there. It was away from anyone else. Private. Quiet. No chance of being heard. No reason to feel anxious. For some reason or another, the caretaker had given his keys to a student who was taking out the recycling. This boy was fooling around and running away from the other children on the recycling crew. He tried the door of the bathroom and it was locked. So he used the key, opened the door, closed the door behind him and crouched down inside the room with me. WHILE I was sitting on the toilet. It was awful. I screamed in panic and he ran out the door. I began to shake. I couldn't catch my breath. I felt like my ribs were being crushed. When I could finally breathe again, I began to sob. 

Sitting on the toilet with your pants down doing one of our society's most private act is when you are at your most vulnerable. Mainstream porn has all sorts of sex acts that are shared and watched by many. But bathroom stuff? That's way more private and shameful than sex. 

I have never felt that way before. Or since. I felt violated. I never wanted to see that boy again. (Un)fortunately, children are still growing and learning. They make mistakes. And hopefully learn from them. So he was consequenced, never given the keys again, and I had to see him in the hallway everyday for the next two years. It was uncomfortable. Awful really.  

Recently I experienced my worst nightmare!! 

Nosy Nora moved from an office with a single bathroom to an office with a public bathroom. From day one I became anxious that at some point we would end up in the bathroom together. My worst nightmare. I don't know quite exactly for sure what the issue is. But the idea of hearing Nosy Nora pee or worse, her hearing me pee ... well for some reason it is mortifying. JT gets it. Totally understands. I really can't explain it. 

In any case, whenever I use the bathroom at the office, I first check to see if Nosy Nora's shoes are in the waiting room. If they are, then I know that it's safe to use the bathroom. If they aren't, then I wait. However, the other day I had to pee really badly. Her shoes weren't there, but I was desperate. I checked the bathroom and it was empty so I went into the stall. As I was sitting there, someone walked in. I looked at the shoes under the door, as I always do, to see what kind of shoes they were. Usually they are high heels which is safe because I know it's not her. This time, although they weren't high heels, I didn't recognize the shoes so I figured it was no big deal. So I used the toilet (while plugging my ears and singing twinkle twinkle little star in my head), flushed, washed my hands and went back to the waiting room. 

One minute later, in walked Nosy Nora WEARING THOSE SHOES!!!!!!!!! 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

SHE HEARD ME PEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear and never see her ever again! Ever!!

Bathrooms. I hate them. 

At work, there are three choices of bathrooms: a private one in a classroom where the kids and teacher can hear you, a private one in the hallway where anyone walking by can hear you, or a public one that is quiet and secluded IF no one else is in there. 

Every time I need to use the bathroom I need to weigh my options and decide what is the least uncomfortable. The least embarrassing. 

It's not an easy decision to make. 

I know that all of this sounds trivial. I have a good life. I don't have to worry about land mines. I don't have to worry about soldiers. I once had a student from Nigeria. He was 8. His favourite thing about moving to Canada was that when he went to the market, he never had to hide under stalls to escape the men with machetes ...

So being afraid of bathrooms seems rather ridiculous. 

Yet it is my reality. 

I hate bathrooms. 

A lot. 

Very much a lot. 

Extremely very much a lot. 

Super extremely very much a lot. 

Yep. 

Be kind to yourself. 

xoxo

...