Seasons

When fall and winter set in and the long dark days see my mood matching, I am hesitant to admit to being SADD. I don't want to attribute my feelings and capacity to deal with them as being hinged on the length of days or the weather. I worry that if I let the weather be such a significant indicator, that in some sick twist of depression playing dominant, the spring and summer will return, as they always do, but without emotional reprieve.

But here we are, Beltane, a time of year that my ancestors surely celebrated with big bonfires, orgies in the forests and ritualistic dances around the pole. Spring is horny as fuck and is coming all around us. Baby animals are popping out of every corner. Here in the country all the attention is being drawn to buds, seedlings, bottle lambs, brooder huts, and big changes; in the temperatures, colours that surround us and the length of days.

Since moving out here I have started exploring this practice of travelling in space (an idea which I can credit to Ricardo Hubbs). The Earth travels around our big star Sun and we watch our Moon wax and wane and shift where it shows itself in the sky. I have started to get to know these patterns, knowing when to expect to see the full moon rise over the hill. I start having a rough sense of when springs in the mountainside will bubble and burst before disappearing back into mysterious underground realms. I notice and start to know when the buds will emerge, how they close in the evening preparing for mountain harsh cold nights and where on the land to find the last piece to balance a vase of fresh cuts for the mantle.

I can putter and wander and observe for hours at this time of year. The damp cold has backed off for the day times, and my layers peel off, necessitating an evening harvest of hoodies and scarves as the sun dips into the valhallas. The days are almost long enough that the suns last dip of the day will be a tease. The tip of Mt Dag, sharp like a ramp kids make to jump their bikes, plays hide-and-seek with the solstice high sun for a few minutes before letting them out to dance a last dance on sun hungry gardeners (not likely to stop just because the sun has gone).

I won't say that my darkness has departed, as an almost ever present aspect of my life, it holds a comfort. An attempt to hold me in something I know, I have spent the winter nesting and tending to pain of the heart and body. The doom is present in my heart and mind and evident in the world around me. Hearts break on the daily. Ever growing numbers of young black folks being killed by cops. More indigenous women disappear all the time. People starve while working themselves to death producing food for those that can afford it. Folks die from treatable illnesses due to the corporate greed of drug companies hoarding knowledge and patenting tradition. And more and more of the earths old blood, her deep, dark, energy rich crude forced out of every possible vein and peeled and pumped out to fuel the out of control machine of global trade. When I allow myself to sit with these things and learn more, explore my own misconceptions and prejudices; when I spend evenings sitting on the front steps, watching planets, stars and spaceships travel across the sky, chatting with beloveds of the horrors we live amongst it can all feel like a bit much.

The desire to crawl back into bed, self medicate into a numb state of sedentary self distance and disappear into story is strong. I can't deny the desire to watch something on a screen wherein good wins, a tale as old as time, told in the medium of this one. Something where the dichotomy of good and bad can be simplified just enough, or where someone else has the plan about what to do next. Some one else is instigating the rebellion, or it's already been happening long enough to have a recognizable movement. Familiar enough to serve as a salve to the current and real wounds of trauma and current events, but far enough away to not pull all the scabs off.

And I look back out the window to see poppy fronds bursting and building their chlorophyl catching nests preparing for their big pink and red flowers. I see the lilacs, just about to burst, swollen and getting more purple everyday. I see birds having a hay-day, and watch the bees bustle between the buds. I see the grass attempting to encroach on my garden and more piles of brush begging to be planted as hugelkulture beds. I hear the calls of the fiddle heads and the nettle and the horsetail telling me to come and gather their medicines. I see places that were once buildings and garbage dumps overcome with bursting life.

I know the story I am looking for - the one that comes after the dark painful winter that capitalism and colonialism has cast on the world. I dream of cities that have been re-consumed by the environments they attempted to dominate. I must hold on to the belief that this depression can lift. That there is life and love and a victory of spring waiting in the wings, building to burst. I feel a gratitude to get to hold story in this time. I've always found home in the inbetweens, and here we are.

The rise of the fall: the militarized climax of capitalism’s last stand.

I take brief breaks from being in bed, nearly broken by the effects of burnout on my body and mind. On occasion when all I can muster is laying around, recovering, I have the pressing need to express my concerns for the current state of the world in something slightly longer than a status update. This is one of those.

Two weeks ago I was in the starting stages of working towards the medical leave that I am a couple steps closer towards. I was feeling the emotional strain of working in the helping profession, within a system so full of cracks that I caught myself saying things like, “I'm sorry you are hungry, we don't have the funding or mandate to offer a food program.” and “It really sucks that you are essentially living in hiding because the authorities want to take you in for the sale of one pill.” and “I can only hook you up with this voucher for thrift store goods once or twice a year, so next time you are going to stash your stuff somewhere, make sure it won't get stolen or soaked, because we might not be able to replace it again.” I interacted daily with folks who are dying at the hands of a failing system. I needed some time away to ground and recuperate. Knowing of course the heartbreaking truth, that the privilege allowed to me, wherein I get to go home to a house, I get weekends and medical benefits is something that is painstakingly far from the lived realities of the folks I am working with.

It took a few days to actually successfully get gone, but once I did I headed towards the beach at the opposite end of the lake. I had taken a serious fall into the river during my couple of days of trying to get out and the growing bruise kept me from venturing too far from my car camping spot. I split my time at the beach between painting a character I had first started to develop last year as a part of a role playing game and reading graphic novels. A graphic adaptation of Howard Zinn's History of American Empire had me thinking about uprisings and what measures may have to happen to end the systems that we both depend on and that are so incredibly toxic that we can't reasonably continue. Like a bad delusion, or a potent addiction, the society we are accustomed to continues to grow in its' parasitic fashion. Across the territory Idle No More, Warrior Societies and grassroots resistance is standing in the way, burning bridges, holding blockades and attempting to find the wrench that when it lands in the gears all will grind to a halt. As I drove back down the lake towards my home, I wondered when and in which ways we may have to rise up – joining in unified resistance.

As I rounded the last corner before the village closest to my home there was an unusual amount of traffic parked along the side of the highway. As I approached the village entrance road I saw an armed RCMP officer standing in front of the road way, car blocking the path, lights flashing. I pulled over and rolled down my window to ask what it was all about. First, the officer scoffed at me, seemingly flabbergasted that I hadn't heard the news. When I told him that I knew nothing, and that I wasn't trying to get past, I just wanted to know what was happening, he told me that a man had “opened fire and shot at some of “our guys””. He told me that the village was on lock down and the news was full of reports that would give me more of the story. I made my way home and logged online to find the new reports he was talking about. At that time they had already been in lock down – manhunt mode for one full night, but they hadn't released any name or details.

Increased momentary police presence isn't entirely unheard of around here, a place where we don't usually have cops around unless they are specifically called, even then- limited and sporadic; but when they have an interest to be here they appear. Last year when a misled tanker trunk dumped 33,000L of Jet fuel into a pristine river system, the cops appeared, supposedly to “help”, but in reality they used the situation as a motivator to set up highway check points where they were ticketing people for expired insurance and confiscating prohibited substances. A growing industry exists here, while it shrinks due to decreased profit margins and increased risks. Changes to medical grow permits in the past year took away the ability for people to grow their own medicine, instead leaving the industry to be dominated by corporate giants. Small scale growers and folks growing for personal use were once again subject to the prohibition of a plant that has been proven to have medicinal benefits, looking at large fines, jail time and other impacts of criminal charges; harvest season around here leaves some people a bit on edge. It's become unfortunately routine that around this time of year police raids, helicopter fly overs and cross-border inter-agency busts see members of our community disappear into the “halls of justice”. This particular brand of “justice” will never be following up on the misdoings of corporations like Executive Flight Center, SNC Lavilin or the RCMP, because their job is specifically to protect their interests at the costs of personal freedoms and well being of individuals.

While the village of Slocan was locked down, and armed officers were granted permission to search all buildings within the village I worried for folks whose livelihoods are outside of the law, or existing in a moral/legal grey. I worried for students in the school who were locked down in the school before being transported out of the village on a bus with armed officers. I worried for village residents who have been on the receiving end of police brutality being re traumatized by this Rambo show. And I especially worried for Peter de Groot. Once the media released his name they started releasing other, now revealed to be falsified, information about him. They called him armed and dangerous, they said he had served tours of duty with the armed forces, they told people to stay in their homes and lock their doors. They brought in helicopters and dog teams, they chased him into the woods and continued to build an environment of fear. As I woke to helicopters overhead on the third day I couldn't help but have some empathy for a scared human out in the woods being hunted by a large (reports said around 40) squad of armed militants. I thought about the ways that this is becoming increasingly common, I laid in bed with a date and we held each other while watching John Oliver's commentary about increased militarization of police. Police in Ferguson, MO gunned down Michael Brown about 2 months before they gunned down Peter de Groot. The people of Ferguson have been demonstrating ever since. In the course of those two months another score of unarmed young men (mostly men of colour) were killed at the hands of police and at least as many young indigenous women have disappeared. After decades and mass call outs for public inquiry to the missing and murdered women – no official response has ever happened. Volunteers in Winnipeg started dredging the Red River, looking for bodies after decades of failure to respond from the authorities. 43 students disappeared from Guerrero, Mexico, believed to have been kidnapped by police on their way to demonstrate against corruption. Large scale public response and demonstration has received limited media attention. While elections were turned over to corporate interests and private business decision makers in Hong Kong, people gathered to occupy a previously public space, only to defend themselves from teargas and attacks from police with umbrellas and plastic wrap. Any direction you look it isn't hard to see that police forces are quick to defend corporate interests and corrupt governments and that the mythology that we have been fed, that police are around to serve and protect, is a falsified and dangerous idea to hold onto. Movements of the people, resisting brutality, corruption, genocide and torture are consistently challenged and brutalized by these publicly funded, overly armed power tripping teams of deluded quasi-soldiers.

Most recently a soldier was gunned down in Ottawa. It is being used as an opportunity to increase security, crack down on terror threats and continue to profile enemies and insurgents against the state as “terrorists”. I have seen very limited response of this incident being willing to state that soldiers are killed in war. The Canadian nation state has been actively at war for a very long time, some might argue that it is a core element of the existence of this occupied and unceded territory. While soldiers representing Canada have been a part of supporting the brutal treatment of military personnel and civilians both overseas and on occupied indigenous territory, when one member of this publicly funded gang is taken out in a public place, the government and media respond as if it is a tragedy. While I wish to hold space for the family of the soldier to grieve, I can't get on board with thinking that this is a tragedy. Tragic are the deaths of Darrien Hunt, Michael Brown, Ezell Ford, Omar Abrego, Michelle Cusseaux, the Iguala 43, Peter de Groot and far too many more. When unarmed civilians, dissidents, mentally ill, poor, and otherwise marginalized people are taken out as victims in this war game of capitalism, that is tragic. When people are faced with economic drafts, seeing enlisting as the only possible way to meet their needs, feed their families, get an education, that is tragic.

Tragic was also the conversation that I had to have with one of the kids in my life this past week. She's not quite 4, younger than school aged. While we drove up the valley she asked me why cops kill people. She asked if they will kill us if we break the rules. On the spot I responded to her honest enquiries as best I could. I told her that when she does something that is harmful to others, the adults in her life, and the other kids, will probably tell her, maybe she will get in trouble. She is still learning about how to navigate the world in caring and respectful ways and that being called out when she steps out of line is a part of that. Police unfortunately don't get in trouble in the same ways when they hurt people, in fact all too often, it becomes an indoctrinated part of their job to do so. This can really confuse a persons brain and heart in knowing what is right or wrong. Sometimes the rules are wrong, and we are put in a position to try and hide and make sure that we don't get caught breaking these unjust rules. Trying to educate our future generations about the role of government, laws and police is a complicated task as we see these systems failing our communities.

Those tasked with the education of our future leaders have not been without their own set of challenges either. While all of these demonstrations, murders of civilians and growing corruption and destruction was happening we had a school strike that lasted through the summer and into the beginning of the school year. Money that should have been going into ensuring that all students, including students with special needs, have access to an accessible and public education, was instead going into development of an LNG industry which is in violation of treaties (and in many cases- where treaties have NEVER been negotiated), international law and best public interest. We can clearly see the ways that the money that we hand over to the government each year in the form of income tax (which is still illegal- another post for another day), sales tax, and more are not going in the directions that are in our public, our future or our environments best interest. Instead that money is feeding a corporate machine, addicted to growth and destruction; and the militaristic forces required to defend such a downfall.

When and how are we going to stop the escalation of this brutal trend? At what point do the un-funded individuals, just scraping by and trying to keep from falling through the cracks, find ways to come together and resist the militarized corporate occupying forces that attempt to paint themselves as a democratic government? Are we waiting for a leader? A call to action? How much longer can we afford to wait? And how many potential leaders are actively murdered and disappeared in the process?

I write all this hoping that it can serve as a clarification, reminder and potentially a call for action; and of course also, hoping, that in writing and publishing this that I will not be next.

Words and Pictures:

This afternoon on the drive home from work, and getting my kittens' reproductive system removed, I happened to be in the same time and place as another queer trans person as we re-fueled at the country co-op. We chatted for a brief seconds, about pets, fatigue and surgeries when we were approached by a woman. And of course, I am making broad presumption, given where I may take this next; but I read her to be a woman, presenting woman-ness with the ease and non-thought that people who really haven't thought all that much about the gender they are presenting may actually think (I think- I don't know cis-ness or the ease that comes from it), or not, about the woman-ness (or man-ness) that they may be presenting.

She approached us with her camera and a question. She told us that she was working on a photo project and wondered if she could take our pictures for her project. I asked her what the project was. She responded, “Oh it's not going anywhere, it's not going to be published or anything, it's just this thing that I am working on, where I'm taking pictures of people and then making up stories about them.”

making-up stories?

I hummed for a brief second before saying no. The answer was clear to me in a bristle up the hairs of the back of my neck, although it took most of the rest of the half hour drive home and sitting down to write that I really realize my abrasion to this idea.

Concurrently:

I am scheduled to present on a panel about gender and health at a Rural Health Research Conference. It will be full of academics and public health heads, policy makers and health care gate keepers. I was asked to supply a photo and bio. I wrote my bio easily enough. I use the appropriate “they” pronoun throughout, identify myself as an organizer from trans and queer communities. Luckily this is relevant to my work. I am not exactly sure how I would inject my story, my identity if it wasn't relevant. Although that spins off into a whole other conversation around the transferable resiliency skills we develop as marginalized people. The problem I am having though is with the picture. I know it is hard to communicate my wholeness in a still picture. I am a dynamic being, constantly fluxing through variations and identity spaces.

I search my folders.

Lots of photos of stuff. Stuff in the forest. Stuff in my yard. Stuff my kids made out of Lego. My kids. In costumes. With Ponies. In Costumes. If you look through the pictures quickly it is like some sort of trippy music video. The kids frantically dance between costumes and dance poses, all interspersed with ponies and gushing fungi and fence posts.

There are some photos of me. All of which capture one version. One moment. Of the wide changing wholeness that is me. Whatever gender was shining through brighter in that particular moment from that particular angle- interpreted of course through the viewers' lens. I know that there are lots of people who don't know a version of me yet. They may not know words like genderqueer, androgyne, femme, queer, fagette and so I know in place they may fill in words like man, woman, or freak to fill in and span across the places between what the pictures show, regardless how incongruous it may end up seeming.

I want to find a photo that feels like exactly the right mix of all of the things, the things that I know words for, but other might not, to illustrate exactly the delicate and ever shifting balance that I am constantly working to balance. For matters of integrity and truth, but also for safety and security.

Lately:

I have been accepting requests for interviews. Students at the local college seem to be asking me my words for some paper every few weeks. I give my words, knowing that even if they may be edited down for the submitted paper, the interviewer will have had the opportunity for me to fully articulate myself. I can state and elaborate on confusing points of seeming contradiction and muse at mystery.

I half-joke with the students about finding a way for my being a community resource who is studied and interviewed and quoted to lead to me getting an honorary degree.

At the gas pumps:

The woman with the camera walks away. We look to each other. “Maybe if was something about trans visibility in the country" we say , "then maybe." “Ya, or if it was someone I knew”

Then there would be the assurance that our stories are getting made up, with more than just a minute portion of the data required to make even the most blanket judgements. Our stories are already made up of words that are standing in and leaving gaps. Without the opportunity to sit and tell them ourselves, we know the likelihood that we will be given an ill fitting simplified story, to match with our ever complex and dynamic selves, is too high a risk. A story that has the potential to persist, if only for that one person; a neighbour in this tiny place we live, to think she knows us, or a version of us, or a frame worth of who we are.


I thank all of you who have ever taken my picture in a way that recognizes and tries to capture the dynamic blends of femme, nonbinary, queer, genderqueer, kinky, sex positive, resistant, resilient, creative and all the other things that I am sometimes or all times. And may we use this as a reminder to make space for people to tell a version of their own stories. Hear their own truth. You might hear a story you haven't heard before.

Innappropriate Questions

This past weekend I attended a party. This on it's own isn't newsworthy. Considering the rural nature of my living situation I get to my fair share of shakedowns. This one was in a barn in the country, but it was also a surgery fundraiser for a new friends' SRS. I feel real lucky to have found the scenic rural valley that is chock full of witches and trans folks and other radicals of all sorts. It seems to fit so well. I know that there is place where the country boned queers and friends can still find community amongst the coyotes and ravens.

One of the features of this party was it's theme. It was advertised as a gender blender and folks were encouraged to bust out the glam and drag for a proper hoe down. This was appealing and terrifying to me as someone who blends gender and lives most everyday in a state of drag. Would I feel at the butt of someones joke? Would I be misunderstood? Would I be one of few trans people amongst a hoard of cisgendered folks thinking that they understand transness because they put on a dress for the night? I was unsure if I would attend until I confirmed that I could arrive in style with another local trans person. She is friends with the benefactee of the party and tried to assure me it would be a good time. I was pretty sure it would be, knowing a couple of the DJs and having attended parties at this place in the past.

We arrived early and found our selves through the space. The barn loft dance floor had been beautifully decorated in a manner that was very reflective of the cause, flowing red and pink fabrics, fastened along the peak of the roof and draping down labially. Eventually the party started to fill up and each of the 5 or so out trans folks at the party along with a couple friends and partners took turns collecting cash at the door. The party turned a decent profit, but that is not really what this whole post is getting to.

Alfred Kinsey said that what he found from his research was that approximately 10 percent of people are 100% straight, fully woman identified women who are attracted solely to 100% man identified men and vice versa. 10% of people fell at the other end of his 6 point scale, being 100% gay. I would like to propose that this scale and perception of the human population could also be applied to displays of rude ignorance. There were a couple people doing a really good job of saying inappropriate things, a couple people calling them out, holding ground or otherwise dealing, and then the other 80% of people were somewhere in the middle. Not offensive, but maybe also not even noticing. For those 80% I write this. For those of you who aren't doing the work of noticing and addressing this sort of thing, or maybe you notice, but you use your passing privilege to let it be someone else's struggle. Because those who are doing the standing up, well we know. And that other 10%, I don't have the time or energy to devote any of my free time to attempting to educate you anymore than I already do. And did last weekend.

longest intro... but here we go....
I was standing out by the fire when a woman complimented my facial hair. I have 2 little tufts that grow long from my chin. I responded, thanking her.
Upon hearing my voice she retracted her complement by saying, "oh, I thought you were a girl dressed up as a boy."
I responded, "no, I'm neither, dressed up as neither"
She continues, "oh!? are you a hermaphrodite?"
I glare at her and tell her that she is being rude and that word is probably not one she should use. I give her the term intersex and briefly explain the relationship between intersex people, identities and medicalization that has led the H word to fall from favour. *already more than she deserved, but I allowed myself to turn on my educator brain, thinking that it would be a part of my contribution to the cause we were raising funds and awareness around. If people were going to attend a SRS surgery fundraiser a little bit of trans education may be in their best interest to prevent hurting or offending someone else. I stepped up to the plate and turned on my teacher hat.
She listens. Scoffs and mutters something along the lines of, "oh well, how ever is anyone supposed to keep up with all of this people changing words and stuff anyway." then turns to me and asks, "so are you intersex then?"
I retort by asking the measurements and dimensions of her clit and labia.
She finds this offensive. HA! And tries to argue that that is totally different.
I inform her that it isn't. I give her a brief run down of the wide spectrum of intersex conditions, some that display visible at birth, some that show up at puberty, and some that never do. I explain the criteria that would lead to an intersex diagnosis at birth, namely the size/shape/appearance of ones genitals. So, not in fact that different than asking a woman the size of her clit, would be asking someone if they are intersex.
She pushed on, demanding that there must be some polite way to ask. I ensured her that there wasn't. That asking about the size, shape, surgical status or reproductive viability of someone's genitals is and always will be inappropriate.
I proceeded to give her definitions to the terms trans*, transsexual (the identity, not the orientation, she wasn't ready for that), and transgender. I gave her a piece of advice around asking about someones' pronoun preference and told her that if she stuck to that as her invasive question that she may find her self being trusted and respected more than with her original attempt.
She said that being at a gender bender party was confusing for her because she didn't know where the men were or who she should be attracted to. I didn't even go there. I hope that maybe later, if she remembers any part of that conversation she might realize that was a moment of acknowledging her privilege. A moment where she was given a lot of patient attention from someone who could've just told her to fuck off and suck my clit, for whom the world contains that type of confusion EVERY DAY. Who may be attracted to a neither, dressing as a neither? Will it be gay men? Dykes? straight people (not to mention the self identity crisis processing that can come with that)? pre-post-non op trans people? Who am I "supposed" to be attracted to? And what does that even mean in a world that may not have words, let alone understanding or compassion for me?
So for the 80% of you in the middle. Maybe you are unaware. Or unsure of what you could do. Maybe you hear these conversations happening and they make you feel uncomfortable too. I ask you this. Next time you see or hear this type of thing going on, try to make eye contact with me, or the person playing the role of me in this scenario. If it seems at all reasonable, chime in, suggest some alternate routes that people can take to learning this stuff that doesn't involve pulling the people who live in the position of the oppressed to educate their oppressors. Maybe after this has happened you wanna try and track me down and check in, give appreciations, or offer a hug or a smoke. Or maybe you want to throw together a little circle of people working in solidarity, people striving to being allies. You could process this shit with each other and it would take a big weight off of folks who would really just need to dance without having to worry about this.

it was the end of times, it was the best of times

Times are a changing. I know that there was a lot of speculation, misunderstanding and generally racist assumptions being made over the past months leading up to the end of the Mayan calendar cycle. People were talking about end times in on of the most widely spread ways I have seen in my lifetime. The speculations made their way onto network TV shows Raising Hope and the theme of "end of the world as we know it prevailed, with shows like Revolution, Terra Nova, Continuum, movies and books like the Hunger Games. The pop culture world is buzz with schemes and plots and story lines built around what comes next, or how to survive the coming end times. Meanwhile, other interpretations of the end of the Mayan cycle explain that this cycle that has just ended is one of the paternal and the start of the maternal, emotion driven, heart centered time of shift. I connect this with the falling of the great empires of our time, which appears to be happening. This also seems a very logical connection to the large scal organizing that is happening and bringing women indigenous leaders to the forefront of political action and change, like Chief Theresa Spence who is in day 16 of hunger striking in attempts to arrange a meeting between PM Harper and First Nations leaders. The actions associated with Idle No More are challenging the paternalistic, oppressive systems that have dictated this place and the people within it for too long. The movement is spreading world wide and people are calling for an end to colonial structures of oppression. The Zapatistas re-emerged from their already established and highly secret autonomous communities in the largest public action since their armed uprising in 1994. Their demonstration was silent and presented upwards of 40,000 people. Mean while across canada rail lines, border crossings, malls and highways are being blockaded and filled with the sounds of war drums and the songs and dances of people tired of living under opposed colonial rule. So maybe the world didn't all end at once, the polarity of the earth didn't immediately shift, computer systems didn't cease to operate, but I would like to hear how this is NOT the end times. The end of colonial times, the end of paternalistic oppression at the hands of the rich white men who have been in power for far too long. Maybe the needs to stockpile food and prepare weapons aren't the same ways that TV has prepared us for, but being prepared for the boats to stop delivering your tea and oranges all the way from china may be a pretty good idea. Oil is becoming more and more expensive and there are 1000s of people putting their lives in front of oil development. We are at a point to choose to stay the same, or move forward choosing light and love and self sufficiency and community support.

Bullying: Hot Topic

This week I have noticed, and how could you not, the explosion of press attention given to bullying. Following the death of Amanda Todd after online disclosure of extreme bullying, school boards, radio shows, community organizations are once again stepping in to say that something must be done. This seems like something that I have seen ebb and fall, as another death or high profile case hits the mainstream, people get really worked up for a spurt before having the issues of bullying return to the closets, PM feeds, and notes passed in the backs of class, under the eyes but without the attention of the millions. I want to throw my own thoughts about bullying, and how we need to address it as communities affected into the ring. I wish to self identify myself from the start as a former victim of school yard bullying, and a trans gender adult who continues to see bullying behavior play out on the street side as a witness and target of this attention as well as occasionally the bystander who has spoken up and stepped in. I would like to add some of my thoughts about this idea, about bystanders not standing by and what it takes to step up or step in. A prominent memory that flashes into my head when I think of school bullying, takes place in my aunts kitchen. My mom was working as a house cleaner for her sister, while I would be occasionally hired to watch her daughters. This particular memory may have followed a particular incident, or it may have just been a point where a dam broke, and after years of teasing, exclusion, name calling and physical violence I couldn't hold it together anymore. I remember buckling over in tears, sputtering through my gasps to my mom and aunt the ways that I had been targeted. I cried and asked them in earnest if it would ever stop, why the other girls at school were so cruel, and what I would need to do to protect myself. I was able to tell even at that point, probably 7 or 8 years old, that the specific details that the bullies would pick out and make a scene over never seemed to run out. Coming from a working class family where clothes were either home made or second hand, being tall and lanky at 6' 0" by 6th grade, religious associations, not fitting gender expectations, being asthmatic, being double jointed, music tastes, and intelligence; it didn't seem to matter, there was always something to be picked out. At this point, 7 or 8 years old, I was unsure I could maintain the pressures. I thought about getting out of the school system, but also had known the bullying that extends to the ever awkward and outside of social norms 'homeschoolers'. My aunt tried to assure me that it would get better, that eventually I would come out on top stronger for it. The "it gets better" mentality around bullying and harassment is a long time stand by. Dan Savage kicked off his campaign a little more than two years ago, which now hosts over 30,000 videos of people giving their version of the hold on, get through, it will be better on the other side message. Although from the best intentions, from my aunt in her kitchen, and from thousands of strangers on the internet, it falls short. I would like to point out that once I got through school, bullying didn't go away, and in some ways, it got worse. Primarily because navigating the systems in which to find support and hold bullies accountable in the work place, in the housing market, and while walking down the street, are a lot less easy to identify than the pamphlet filled offices of the high school guidance counselor. When I worked as a bike messenger, my dispatcher was a bully, later working in a bike shop, a older male owner was a bully, trying to access community spaces I've encountered bouncers and bar tenders exemplifying bullying behaviour. I've become well practiced at filing complaints, leading boycotts, and finding ways out before situations get beyond my control. One of the things I have learned, as a life long victim of bullying, is that often outside the school yard, people call it something else. It's sexism, it's homophobia, transphobia, it's predatory sexual advances, it's discrimination, classism, ablism. I think it's time that we start calling bullying what we call it when it happens to adults. I think that calling sexism and predatory sexual advances bullying down plays what it really is and how it affects those on the receiving end. We could serve the victims of school aged bullying by giving them the empowerment involved in acknowledging their struggle as real; I think the cultural perception of "bullying" discounts the experience as people imagine thumbs on noses and lines of taunting. Let's call it what it is- a wedgie is an act of physical assault. Posting photographs of someone without their consent is theft and in many cases of 'school aged' cases, distribution of child porn. Bullying is a softened word that describes the intersectionally oppressive practice of abuse, harassment, violence, destruction of personal property, character defamation and use of hate language. Surviving ongoing onslaughts of this type of behaviour is a challenging and commendable feat. Finding ways to thrive are that much more important. The ways that the 7 year old girls would make fun of my pants being too short with taunts and exclusion, the ways the 10 year old girls convinced my only friend that she could be cool if she stopped acknowledging my existence, the knee of the 10 year old boy bruising my pelvis in response to my attempts to play soccer with the boys, the way that the 11 year old girls excluded me from their spin the bottle and truth or dare games rationalized by my yet to be developed breasts, the way the 13 year old boys named me "manchild" as a way of drawing attention to my failures at performing "girl", the way that the grown men employing me as an adult woman would make explicit suggestions and inappropriate and unwelcome advances, the way that sales people direct me to the side of the store they feel would be more appropriate to my perceived gender and the yells I hear walking down the street when the bars let out. They are all unacceptable, they are all "bullying", but they are also so much more. Understanding the intersectionality of these issues is important. I have heard a lot of media around vigils being held in Amanda Todd's honour today. Today is also the day that queer and trans communities have been drawing attention to these issues within our communities for years already. A few more weeks and we will be approaching Trans Day of Remembrance, another case of communities who have been living with a personal understanding of how these issues affect us for a long time, that have been finding ways to address and honour the victims for years. I am glad that more school districts are recognizing that these are issues to talk about up front, but I challenge them to find ways to look at what has already been happening and integrate the energy into a unified front. School districts and community organizations organizing vigils and discussions this week are calling students to step up and not be silent bystanders. I think that this is an important step in creating safer schools and communities, I think it's vital to look at what taking a stand takes. Many times, the threat of becoming the next target keeps bystanders silent. The threat of retaliation for being a 'narc' from cohorts is real. As well, many people don't speak up, as they don't see the behaviour or don't recognize its problematic nature. As well, knowing what will happen if attention is drawn to an issue is an important factor going into the choice to step up. When threats of personal harm are on the table, and we aren't sure that our actions will have any affect, or an affect we agree with, it can keep witnesses silent for their own calculated interests. I believe having upfront and open conversations about approaches of justice in schools, work places, and communities could prove incredibly valuable. Knowing if a student bully would serve punishment, and what that punishment could be is a make or break element of this challenge. If a bully is given a suspension as a result of bullying, all that means is that they have time off campus to prepare a next assault. It could mean that a bully is laying in wait, right off the school grounds, right outside of the arm of the schools' jurisdictions for the 'narc' to walk into their trap. Whereas, engaging students, employees, community members in ongoing accountability dialogues, wherein issues can be identified, addressed and explored can create a container for the pain and trauma which causes people to enact hateful and violent behaviours on each other. Within this container compassion can be bloomed, understanding can be planted, and cycles of violence and trauma can begin to heal. This type of dialogue and process cannot exist in a bubble. It cannot exist in divided categories where the queer and trans youth are discussing homophobia and transphobia in segregated settings, without the support of het and cis allies. This type of dialogue cannot happen once a year, in a large group setting without ongoing follow up. This type of process requires a large scale commitment to delve into the really hard and painful things that lie under the surface of 'bullying'. Addressing the ways that the legacies of colonization and institutional racism spawn slurs on the playground, addressing the ongoing sexism that exists in the "binders full of women" world we live in, addressing economic inequality, addressing child poverty and sexual exploitation of minors and alcoholism and drug addiction and ablism are not easy one afternoon topics, that can have a candle lit for them and have them go away. They don't get better when you survive the institution, especially if you are living in the intersections of oppression. Addressing oppression is required to end bullying, so when we talk about making schools safer, we must realize that we are really talking about a societal paradigm shift. Perhaps this increased attention will be a key piece in creating that shift. I hope that as the topics enter conversations online and off that you may be a part of, you can challenge the idea that bullying is a school yard problem. I hope you can be a part of this change within your own families, communities, and work places and I look forward to hearing about the ways that this is working where you are.

First times, hopefully gentle.

The facebook status I most recently posted said: “…. is rallying all the glamour of fairy queens past, present and future where they rest in my closet dancing to Abba to properly honour the momentous occasion that is Castlegar Gay Pride. THIS IS A REALLY BIG DEAL. I am so excited to be able to bring my wholeself to Castlegar, a place that I usually leave a few of my selves at home or in the car when I go there. A place that I have felt a need to butch up to feel safe. And tonight, we will create safety in numbers. An opportunity to celebrate our diversity, fabulosity and create space so we won’t have to check ourselves at the door, and most importantly the next generation of people growing up around here may never have to learn this survival mechanism at all.” _______________ I wanted to share with you internet about how incredibly excited I am for this incredibly important occasion. As my followers know, I have been living and finding space for this genderfucked fancy self in a part of rural Canada that has a pretty decent reputation of being radical, accepting and weird. There are 2 small cities equidistant from my home. Nelson being one, and Castlegar being the second. Castlegar is where I usually go shopping, as the thrift stores are amazing and they have much cheaper groceries. Sometimes occasionally I will go see a movie in Castlegar since Nelson doesn’t currently have a theatre. But almost always going to Castlegar takes some degree of warm up, a specific kind of outfit, appropriate footwear etc. I think preparing to go Castlegar is sort of akin to what some people who are closeted must wrestle with every morning. How much can I be real, and still be safe? What can I pull off and slip under the radar, not raise any eyebrows or red flags? Usually I butch up when I go to Castlegar. I very rarely bind, but I like to wear overalls, baggy sweaters or a distracting amount of layers when I go to Castlegar. This got me into trouble when I first arrived. I over heated and passed out while in Fabricland. I have to say, if there is a good place to pass out, a fabric store is it. My head was bolstered by a bolt of polar fleece and I awoke to a small crowd of grandmothers, retired cardiac nurses and quilt crazed cougars. I wasn’t sure how they would react to my trans-ness. They were shocked at the amount of clothes I was wearing, I passed it of as being attributed to adjusting from a recent move from the coast and not being able to warm up in the ice yet. I was taken to the hospital in Castlegar, which is very small. I remember a room with out 5 or 6 beds in it being the ER, possibly even the whole thing. I told one of the paramedics that I was trans, and tried to explain that I didn’t really want it to be a thing. I don’t really remember how exactly everything went down, but I remember being generally impressed. Which says a lot, I’ve had lots of experience with hospital emergency rooms, and I am rarely satisfied, let alone impressed. The hospital staff grabbed one of their mental health workers to drop by and introduce himself before he left for home. I was introduced into their system, considering that I had all sorts of warning signs; new to the area, depressed, isolated and overwhelmed. I met with one of their workers for a bit, which in some ways felt like I should have been transcribing a book called, “how I feel about being trans in this place.” I don’t really feel like that is the best way to encourage healing and balance in my life so I dropped out. Castlegar is the place where I usually won’t try on dresses or skirts without buying them, and sort of convince myself that I am buying them for a friend. I try to pass, trying to access as much male privilege as anyone will give me. Tonight I will be busting it all out. Two outfits, one to appear in, and one to change into as the night lets loose. But neither one of these outfits is attempting to pass as male, or straight, or normal. Tonight is the Pride party. For the first time in Castlegar, gays (their language not mine, I think the crowd will be a lot more queer+) will organize and appear en mass publicly. Tonight we make history.

Groaning and Toning

these times can be dark ones. I won't lie and say that the adjustment to living in a new place, a rural place, a place where I know very few people, have very little structure and am facing mental health problems that I have been attempting to hide, be too busy for and run away from head on in some pretty intense ways is easy. It's not. I've been watching a lot of downloaded movies and TV, catching up on entire series that I had otherwise missed out on for what ever reason. Including Harry Potter, Star War, Skins (the british show), Weeds, and United States of Tara. Most recently I have watched 4 x-men movies. I quite enjoyed them, I liked the superhero meets mutants take on civil rights and overcoming oppression, but I found myself particularly fond of the character Beast. The story presented in the movies I have seen is about a mutant boy genius who can make super cool inventions and can run really fast and hang upside down with his 2nd hands on his feet. In "first class" he attempts to make a cure for the visible parts of the mutations that both him and Mystique face attempting to exist and blend in in the human world. It back fires, targeting and enhancing instead of decreasing the effects of mutation. He becomes blue, hairy and super ripped. His attempts to hide, change himself in a way that would make him invisible instead made him so super visible that in some ways he is tasked with being an advocate and leading the cause for mutant rights. This morning I took a call from an organization that is hosting a conference I am interested in attending. I called them after attempting to apply, when I got to the second question that was a drop down menu requiring me to choose M or F to be able to submit the form. I became an advisor to their application process and gender related policies as well as an applicant. I feel, at times, I have little choice declaring my transness, as it is something that I feel is visible all the time. This is what feels honest to me, this is what feels genuine. Beard and pearls, deep voice and long hair, skirts and work boots. This is who I am and I cannot pretend to blend in. I think this will be especially true if I become pregnant, which is a desire of mine. I think in some ways seeing the story line of Beast and his injected attempt to "fix" how visible he was instead made it impossible for him to ever hide again is the closest I have ever seen my relationship to Testosterone represented in film. I feel stronger, and more truly me living with the legacy of having injected t, but I cannot expect to ever be cisgendered, even as a femme with a cunt in a dress, my transness is always going to be a part of that. As beast comes to terms with being a mutant, a visible one, a strong, fast, hairy one, so do I. I feel really lucky to have a beautiful hall to go to a couple times a month to explore voice and sound with. A facilitator leads different activities in our bodies, our voices, our emotions, some interacting with each other, cooperating in creating a resonant truth in the space, and other times just being totally honest with our own. It is the type of thing that to an outsider walking in it would look like a whole bunch of crazies (and I say that as one) writhing on the floor and laughing hysterically, chasing each other around like cartoon villains, and sitting in circles for extended live vocal looping. Its beautiful, and magical and at times challenging, but it is one of those times where my facing my transness, if only for myself, is unavoidable. The effect of 3 years of T on my voice is that of extended range, occasional cracking and a general state of not knowing what might come out or for how long. I haven't done much singing out of the shower since I was a young kid singing in church, so exploring what my voice can do, its range, its growing strength and comfort in itself is empowering. Through the squeeks and cracks, through the growls and snarls, I am coming into myself. Mutant and proud, Trans and proud. Knowing that I have something, that living between genders is a super power, that it is useful and powerful in the world. To be a superhero I must train, know my powers, know their limits and control them so they don't control me.

Mental Migration

I have made the move. I currently set up in a little farm house on a couple of acres, with a big garden out back that hauled in 100+ lbs of tomatoes this year, and i'm sure at least double that for next year. I am looking after the dogs, cats and chickens of two of my friends (to read more about the land and the lovely family that makes their magic here check out: This Rural Life.
During the day I drive up the hill to our new home, a single wide trailer sitting on the hillside.

Picture this:
When you stand up from lighting the woodstove, the cats brushing by your feet to get a taste of the toasty warmth you've ignited, you look out the window. The view, past the trees filled with squirrels and bluejays, the hillside goes down and down until it reaches the large and dammed kootenay river, and then back up the other side to a tree covered hillside. When the sky is clear out here the stars are so plentiful and bright that they look to a city kid like "movie stars". Stars like in some movie where a romantical scene is playing out on the front of a car, lovers looking into each others eyes while shooting stars blaze across the seemingly painted milky way.

I live in that storybook now.

I am grateful that I escaped the city. And today I honestly answered someone for one of the first times about what brought me here. I was buying a mattress off of some guy from the internet and he asked me what brough me up here. I told him straight up, "mental health." He echoed my words to assure that he had hear me correctly. I assured him that yes, I can't handle the city, and I am hoping that the quieter life helps.

The last few weeks in the city really served as a climax, confirming that I did in fact NEED to leave. In some cruel act of conspiracy against me the city was ensuring me that I needed to leave. I was having panic attacks almost everytime I left my house. Going out for meals, shopping on a busy street, or taking a bus were out of the question. My anxiety had sky rocketed. My sensitivity to everyone and everything around me felt like it was being pumped through an over driven amplifier. A new family moved in upstairs. We lived in one of those houses which had never been designed or even properly remodeled to have 2 separate groups of people. The power box for the whole house was in our bedroom (a corner of the somewhat finished basement.). The upstairs families storage room was mysteriously downstairs in a room that saddled both our rooms, with walls made of a single layer of drywall. And the upstairs family wanted a reasonable living condition for their babies. I get that, but it doesn't happen easily in Vancouver. So many landlords know that they can turn down requests for upgrades and repairs, because they will probably find another tenant who will pay more for a continually degrading living condition. Housing vacancy rates are very small (about 2.2% as of 2009) and affordable units make up even less of that. Anyways, by some type of strong arming or coercive 'the secret" style jedi mind trick manifestation, the new tenants had managed to get the landlady to assess and address the faulty electrical, falling off gutters, leaky roof, broken windows, and unstable back porch. This may have been fine, but it was headed up by the house next door, which had just been sold to new owners, being completely dug up to have water and sewage mains replaced and the foundation re-sealed. Given the density of the houses, this meant there were crews of men slinging gravel and operating mini-excavators about 2.5 feet outside my single pane bedroom window. Then, as construction of the house immediately across the street picked up, the city joined in, digging the street up and cutting pavement every morning starting at 7am. As the combined projects ranged from city crews to 2nd shift temp labourers, the heavy noise would sometimes go for 13hrs a day. Then the landlady started pricing out the electrical work, which would involve rewiring the entire house up to code, laying new cable from the street and addressing the fact that the house had not been properly grounded. So the crews were coming in to my space, and shutting off the power. With so little escape the panic and anxiety continued to skyrocket. When I tried to go out for a walk a ship would be pulling into the shipping port, sirens would be going off and helicopters would fly low overhead. Luckily my lovely partner and some dear friends were able to help with the packing and moving. Dealing with all of this left me feeling like I had been run through the spin cycle on a washing machine with cheese grater sides. Eating, sleeping, forming sentences, all had becoming more complex tasks than I could undertake alone. I watched endless amounts of television in an attempt to mentally escape to Weed's Agrestic, Big Bang Theory's Pasadena, or the quiet village where Angela lansbury and her army of magic dancing nylons and armoursuits defeat a nazi raid in Bedknobs and broomsticks (disney1971). I couldn't find a way to maintain peace, order or sanity in my own home, and it became addictive to escape in these alternative universes.

I got out. I won't say unscathed, but I got out. I have some recovery and healing to do. I am feeling it start as my days start feeling longer. I am not spending so much of the day waiting, running away, or hiding. Going out to a book launch yesterday wasn't too overwhelming, as I knew there would be less than 20 people in the room. When I got there I was relieved to be reminded that there is no cell phone service in the remote location. 20 or so people, without the unpredicatablity of all of those people tapped into a broad network of everyone they know via smart phone, facebook, texty texty tech. I realize that as my anxiety has elevated, my paranoia about people, environmental disasters, surveillance and general apocalypse stuff has gone right along for the ride. I hope to write another post about the book launch once I've given the book a read, but so y'all have the heads up its by a woman named Marcia Braundy. It's a book about men's resistance to women's participation and general integration in tech work spaces. I am looking forward to reading the book and hopefully getting to know this woman and swapping ideas and experience with her. Book is available through Fernwood Press and is called Men, women and tools.

I hope that this is the magical place of healing and growth I need right now. I need to build myself back up. I am tired of feeling broken and vulnerable in a space I can't seem to trust.
and ... mad gratitude to the many of you who've done your part to keep me alive and close enough to well in the city for the last few years. It's a tough place for lots of us; I want to give credit to the teamwork that kept it going as long as we did. Thanks.

I did it. I quit facebook. I downloaded all my data, deleted it all from my online profile. I have essentially attempted to remove myself from the service. It's not designed to be quit-able. I hope people will still send me emails and call me up. I just don't want all my interactions to be filtered through a sink hole of online marketing propaganda and data mining any more. When you want to hang out, give me a call. Want to make plans? send me an email. Stop by and knock on my door. But don't expect that FB will reach me anymore.

Ins and Outs

I almost always have trouble writing when I haven't been reading enough. It's a pretty even equation.


> Reading = >writing
Since waking up today, I have read 3 different books. A young adult novel about fairy princesses, a collection of short stories and a thoroughly inspiring non-fiction book around radical organizing across barriers.


Also, I have had at least 3 people ask about my blog lately. So, I am reminded that people will read if I write. These 2 factors, add in my new state of unemployment and exciting upcoming transition I have the pieces.

• Content check
  
• Encouragement check
  
• Time check
  

So. Here Goes.

I'm in the process of throwing it all up in the air, hoping I can get the pieces to fall in order, get it right. I'm finished working in Vancouver, starting off on unemployment as soon as it comes through. Just bought a car, a subaru forester '00, real "family goes 4 x 4ing" as a friend said last night. I've got friends scouting mountain hideaways for me and my partner to run away to in the looming very near future. I am taking the steps I need to go and live that dream. The one that almost everyone of my friends admits to having in some variation.

• move to the woods
  
• grow food
  
• make babies
  

Setting off to be that live-off-the-land-lesbian I am deep down inside. Or more like, find-ways-to-make-rural-living-accessible-and-sustainable-queers... but they are only a slight mutation away from one another.


I've been asked if I will be accounting my experiences, to which I say, "sure, when I feel like it." As I am taking on some pretty big exciting things, I may very well get all stoked and want to share it in longer form than status updates allow. And telling y'all now, getting feedback helps. When I hear from readers that I have said something that resonated with them, it sets me up to write more. If you are however the type of reader who reads this to send inflammatory hate driven spews of discrimination, disgust or disagreement- just keep that to yourself. Maybe you should think a bit, about how the things that you write on the internet go to actual people out there. People like me who have opened their heart and experience to you. I hope that my writing can challenge things for people, discuss the topics I write about with your friends, family members, share it on your facebook, tweet it, maybe take it to counseling if it fills you with things that are gross and mean. *hate mail inspired heart rant over


As I write this I have pots on the stove making hot salsa from green tomatoes from my garden. I added habeneros, sweet peppers, red tomatoes, onions, salt, pepper, apple cider vinegar and Innis and Gun beer. I am excited to have things put away for winter, so far peaches, red chunky salsa, tomato sauce, whole tomatoes and now this hot salsa. I am especially excited about these things as I will be moving up to a snowy mountain side in about a month, where I will have a winter filled with dreaming, scheming, crafting, setting up shop, and playing in the snow. My dreams are filled with snowshoes, ice skates, sweaters and wood stoves. I'm hoping that I will be also doing the school starter course through AERO, and that I can use that to help solidify some of the details of my school/learning center/knowledge exchange hub that I have been dreaming about making happen for years now. I'm pretty sure that if I looked through old files I'd find markered up sheets of the first visioning that I did for this project about 5 years ago.


It doesn't all look exactly the same, but here's the basic. I think that a big issue that looms over us as peak oil passes us by, climate change hits hard, economies plummet and governments do stupid things like the omnibus crime bill (which for those readers south of the border and over and about, is an attempt by canada's current super right wing government to "crack down" on crime and make canada safer by locking everyone up. The legislation creates mandatory minimum sentences for non-violent crime like possession, creating more challenges for canadians already taking the shit end of addiction, poverty, pain, and marginalization. I guess I have some opinions. But I feel they are pretty well grounded, like in science and numbers, since research everywhere has proven that prisons don't work as mental health treatment centers, addiction recovery centers, job training centers, health care centers or deterrents to crime. Even the united states is pulling back from mandatory minimum sentences and the war on drugs more than canada, there's a long way to come, as Troy Davis could tell you in his last hours today. Our "criminal justice" are criminal, and busted. The numbers say it straight, prisons cost a shit tonne and they don't "work" for the things that their proponents are proponing them to. Even a coalition of churches is advocating against prison expansion, you can check it out here: The Co$ts of Prisons
*politically inspired heart rant over

As we face a world that is falling apart at the seams and more and more people are catching on to the "we have to do something different if we are going to survive" thought wave, we need to find really good ways to do this. By this I mean share the knowledge, explore the options, make the changes. Can we do that in ways that consider those who have often been left out of such knowledge exchanges? Can we find ways to address the sexism that is often overwhelmingly present in technical learning spaces to ensure that our community members, all of them, have access? Can we find ways to make the ways that we share survival, and THRIV-IVAL skills inclusive of people with disabilities? Can we find ways to involve dialogue around "dirty work" and attitudes around manual labour that involve honesty and growth about the racism and classism interwoven in the ways that we address these issues? I really recommend this book, Bridging the Class Divide: And Other Lessons for Grassroots Organizing for more on these questions and how they may apply to other ideas.


I think we can. That's what I want to do. I want to start by creating a place that acknowledges and processes the intersecting oppressions that are default in spaces of learning the hands-on, creating safe and supportive learning spaces, and using that as a hub for intergenerational, interexperiential, knowledge exchange of the tools we need to make this global shift on a level that is practical and useful to the local area of the West Kootenays. I have been reading a really amazing book that has been a huge reminder and re-inspiration, I really recommend Walk Out, Walk On for those that are nodding along to this dream scheming I am dribbling out here.


So long story short, I am running away to make my dreams come true. I look forward to sharing the stories, and the salsa with you along the way.

Tired: An open letter to Gay Bars

I'm tired. So fucking tired and I don't want to write this. But I will, because I need to. It needs to be written and I wish it didn't. Maybe if I write this this time, I won't have to write it again, won't have to feel this again, and maybe, just maybe, it might get better.

I tried to go out dancing on Saturday night. I was visiting my home town, and I really love going out dancing with my mom, her sisters, my hometown friends. I like being able to get a little loose and shake down. Unfortunately, the choice in my hometown, Victoria, is fairly limited. The one gay bar with a dance floor and DJs is called Paparazzi, or the Pap. And I can tell you that I would rather have my cervix scraped than have to go back and put up with the same nonsense they pulled this past weekend.

My mom and I got to the bar fairly early. It was still dead. I got on my phone and texted most of the queers I still know who live there. I made some calls and an hour later filled a table. We were all being good customers; drinking consistently without becoming messy, belligerent or violent. If I owned a bar I would crave customers like us, looking hot, buying drinks, dropping some fine moves on the dance floor and making it look like a real fun place. As the bar filled up, and the dance floor got more crowded, fairly typical gay bar behavior ensued. Servers were topless and bringing drinks around to the tables, topless twinks on the dance floor grinding up against strangers, and super perky staff performing strip shows in the intervals. As I got more into the dancing I couldn't keep my top on. I pulled my t-shirt and binding undershirt off and left them at my table and made a round of the dance floor. I heard the comments, a murmuring hush of the word "boobies" around me and I danced through it all. I was dancing really hard, harder than I could've done with something restricting my breathing or bumping my body temperatures to unsafe levels.


The DJ announced the last song, thanked the crowd for a good night and I went to go and try and grab my stuff. I have trouble with stairs, and unfortunately this place is at the bottom of a pretty intense flight. It's one thing to hoist myself up, but another entirely when I am fighting crowds of drunk and tweaky gays. I got part of the way to my table and one of the topless bartenders called me over.

"I'm gonna need you to put a shirt on."

I asked why. He went on, saying that he didn't have to wear a shirt because he was a man, but that I had to because I had boobs, and it was indecent exposure. I told him that the law doesn't actually restrict that, (I went home and checked- the law was changed in 1996 in Ontario, and since then it has stood as a precedent- leading to the city of Vancouver changing their regulations in 2008. Check out TERA or Topfree Movement for more on this.) and that if we were really going to get into legality, my legal government issued ID says Male, and regardless of how my body looks or what my ID says, I didn't come to a gay bar to have my body or gender presentation policed. He deferred to security, who came over to our table and attempted to eject me. I told him I would leave, because they were closing, and because I could tell that I wasn't welcome there, but that I would not leave because I was not dressed appropriately. And no, I wouldn't put a shirt on. I could go out into the street and not face any charges or difficulty with my bare chest, and I'd be damned if it would happen in a space set up to be a community gathering place for folks of diverse sexual orientations and gender presentations. I asked to speak to management when it became clear that the security guard didn't want to respect me or my friends. This request was denied.

According to the website of the club they are "Hottest Premiere Gay and LGBTS Community Nightclub in Victoria." and "created for a clientele in demand of unparalleled customer service". I've heard people say that often in the LGBT acronym, the T is silent, and I will say that this venue takes things one step further. Not only are they restrictive and policing of how trans people can present themselves in the space, but the bar staff feel entitled to assign sex/gender to their clients and hold up bogus "laws" to enforce their assumptions. This bar has marked male and female washrooms only, and has been known to forcefully remove clients who they think are using the wrong one. This has led my friends to boycott the place on numerous occasions, write letters, organize alternative parties. All of these things are great, but don't seem to be making the type of impact that is needed. The management and staff of Paparazzi (and too many other bars in too many other cities) think that they can treat trans people in this way, neglecting and disrespecting us, telling us how to conform and how to be "good gays".

I think that it's time that management and staff of gay bars take a look back to their history. Before stonewall and the social justice advancements that followed gay bars were under constant police scrutiny and raids. If it weren't for the brave gender warriors who were fed up with being told that their clothes didn't match their gender fighting back these bars could not now exist. Women like Sylvia Rivera are the ones who threw the first bottles, fought back against police repression of gathering of queers. If you want to include the T, there is some work that needs to happen.

1. For start, acknowledge the important role of transpeople in your history and communities. Do some reading. There is no shortage of writing about us or by us out there. Read my blog, do a google search for transgender history. Read Transgender Warriors. Read wikipedia.

2. Think about the way you set up your space. You run a gay bar. Queers of all stripes have been challenging the gender binary for all of eternity and people of all types have, and will continue to urinate so long as we can. The thing about having a bar that is supposedly for the queer (T inclusive) community, but then only providing binary options for urinating sort of cancels each other out. It's not a tricky thing to take down the signs on your washroom, label them as stalls and urinals or left and right, I don't really care. But your clients don't all fit in the gender binary, so your bathrooms shouldn't either.

3. Drop the double standards. Whatever your wait staff and performers wear sets the standard for what your clients can wear. If some boys are welcome to be topless and others are not, check where you draw that line. Because you are probably using a line that constitutes discrimination. BC is in the process of becoming more explicitly clear around what discrimination of trans people is, and how it is wrong. You may want to look into this and think about how your business would fare with a human rights case on it's hands.

4. Train your staff. If you want to hold your claim as "Hottest Premiere Gay and LGBTS Community Nightclub in Victoria." and "created for a clientele in demand of unparalleled customer service". You need to do some work to show that. One staff member approached me afterwords saying that he was appalled, and that he felt it truly unjust that he was paid to take his shirt off, while I was kicked out. If you want the queer community to frequent your bar, hire more staff like him. And let the other folks go. Especially if you offer them some type of cultural sensitivity training (maybe- given your track record, outsourcing this would be a good idea. How about calling in PFLAG or Transaction or another group that does really good work with the trans community in Victoria.) for working with the trans and queer communities and it doesn't stick. Your staff should understand that policing someones gender expression is a pretty class one No-No and have some skills to have conversations with patrons that show that they respect and honour their identities.

5. Expect a slow down in traffic. I have a pretty wide readership, and I know that a number of very influential community organizers were with me that night. Expect that queers and allies in Victoria will find (or make- like homospun: this party was started in a response to lack of safe and inclusive spaces to party behind the tweed curtain) alternatives. People will tell their friends. People will hold you accountable to your supposed "inclusion". You will need to show some pretty serious changes in the ways you operate to rebuild the trust of the queer community. This isn't just about a small population of trans people either. I trust that you will get letters, and not business, from gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, queers, and allies that want to be able to party in a place where the T is not silent. I'm hoping that you will take the extra time on your hands to make some change.

6. Don't stop working on this. You will always be hiring new staff, having new customers. Standards of acceptable practice will improve and you should do what you can to lead the way on this. Find ways to work with your community. Conduct community needs assessments. Invite feedback from patrons. Once upon a time, in my highest of drag I was asked to have a regular show at Paparazzi, I didn't take them up, because my lack of safety in that space, and their complacency of other performers playing disgustingly racist pieces I didn't feel I was up for the uphill battle. Maybe, once you've done some of those first steps you will be able to find some really rad people with good anti-oppression politics who want to run programming in your space. It's not really ideal considering it's physical inaccessibility, but working WITH your community will be a good way to help make sure that they don't shut you down or leave you empty over pride weekend.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for acting. Thank you to the queer and trans people and my lovely and supportive straight mom for having my back Saturday night. Thank you to friends and community members who will write the bar management and tell them what you need to feel safe in their bar. And thank you to all of you who can manage to find other places to get your dance on until something changes. This may be the summer of kitchen dance parties and late night beach fires. But hopefully, this will be the kick in the pants bar management needs to take these things seriously.

24 article response

This article was published in todays' 24hrs Newspaper. This paper is widely distributed across transit in the Greater Vancouver area and syndicated across much of the country. I often flip through it to get my trashy celebrity gossip and horoscopes, but this morning I stopped on page 4, where I couldn't go any further without responding. Here is my response:

I wanted to write you to give some feedback on your article published in today’s 24 newspaper here in Vancouver.

I am a transgender person living with mental health challenges and it always excites me to see the mainstream public advancing their knowledge about both mental health and transgender issues. Seeing your article in this morning’s paper gave me hope of this being a very “mainstream” outlet from which to continue to advance these conversations. I was however upset to read your article and see how much it continued to muddle issues around gender identity and presentation with that of sexual orientation and mental health. Many trans people are queer, or read as such, but not all are, and discrimination based on gender presentation may be linked to the perception of someone’s orientation, it is actually something else altogether, most commonly referred to as transphobia. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transphobia) . Please allow me to make a few points of critique to your article. I am excited that you have such a broad based audience to engage in education and dialogue around mental health, I’d like to provide this feedback to further this dialogue.

Last week, a ladyboy was my waitress as I dined in the small city of Pattani, also a few days later at a Burger King in the seaside town of Hua Hin. Last month, fledgling Thai airline PC Air hired six transsexuals as flight attendants, all of which will be given special uniforms that identify them as the “third sex.”

Understanding that biological “sex” can be determined by genitals, hormones or chromosomal make-up and that gender is the correct term that refers to someone’s presentation or identity. This can be most simply broken down by understanding that sex is what’s between the legs, gender is what’s between the ears. For some folks that is the same (cis-gendered or non-trans people) and for others it is not (trans as umbrella, or transgender meaning that the gender is different than the sex assigned at birth) while for others that is something that they wish medical intervention with (transsexual- using surgery, hormones, electrolysis etc to change the sex characteristics of a persons body). It is also important to note that within Thai culture, according to my understanding and echoed by your statements here, “lady-boys” are not accepted into society as the gender they feel or present, but are given the option of “other”. This is great for some people, myself included, who do feel other from the options of male or female, but in the larger context of transgender and transsexual acceptance and understanding it’s important to note that some trans people do not want to exist merely as “other”, but would like to be accepted as the gender that they feel and present and respected within that. This would mean transwomen (MTF or male to female transgender or transsexual individuals) would be hired, uniformed and treated as women. Creating a separate category, as exists within Thai “ladyboy” culture or India’s hijra class where trans people are “accepted” but still treated as “less than” is not equality or true acceptance.

In Canada, attitudes are slowly changing, but unfortunately homophobia is still rampant. Last year, a teacher at a Catholic high school for girls in Vancouver was told to work from home after parents complained about having a lesbian teach their kids, and sadly a year hardly goes by with out some rednecks “gay bashing” an unfortunate gentleman in the West End. Yet, we are far away from accepting “ladyboys” in our workforce.

These are examples of violence and discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation, not gender identity or presentation. There is no shortage of examples that can actually refer to what you seem to be attempting to communicate here, transphobic violence or discrimination. One place to find such reports is here: http://www.transgenderdor.org/ the online home of the Transgender Day of Remembrance, a day set aside to acknowledge and remember the violence perpetrated against members of trans communities. Also relevant to this would be information about the bill C-389 which recently died on its way through government due to the call of election, this was a private members bill sponsored by Burnaby MP Bill Siksay which would add gender identity and gender expression to list of discriminations protected under the Human Rights Act.

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders is the authoritative source doctors use to classify mental illnesses. Presently, the field of psychiatric medicine is using the fourth version, DSM-IV. But as cultural attitudes continue to change and psychiatric knowledge continues to grow, there will undoubtedly be a fifth edition and then later a sixth.
A person can freely express himself in one culture and be mentally healthy, and yet in another time and place they would be deemed disturbed. In Canada, people who don’t fit into the dominant heterosexual orientation mold, the stress of either hiding or expressing their sexual orientation can be very severe. To be mentally healthy, a person needs to feel like they belong.

It’s important to remember that although homosexuality was removed from the DSM-II in 1973, gender identity disorder remains on the DSM-IV, which means that people whose gender identity doesn’t match their body must access mental health services and be diagnosed with a mental health condition (GID) to access hormones, surgery and other physical remedies to this physical health and societal condition, which for some reason remains a classifiable mental illness. We can hope that GID will be removed from DSM-V, but the debate remains amongst cisgendered health care professionals about how best to treat conditions of gender diversity in the medical system. Being a “mentally well” trans person is greatly dependant on societal attitudes, matters of acceptance and freedom from fear of discrimination and violence; but as the matter stands, any trans person who wishes to access medical assistance or intervention must be diagnosed as mentally ill according to the DSM-IV.

Isn't it interesting to think of the prevalence and variations of mental illness diagnoses within the context of cultural differences? Let us not forget that a cultural shift in attitude can bring about positive changes in mental health.

You do pose a good question in asking the public how a reframing of mental illness according to how cultural understandings of “normalcy” shift. I think that this cultural shift is dependent on a clear understanding of the issues at hand, including the distinction of sex and gender, the differences between transphobia and homophobia and the ways that the mental health systems holds the reins on transition services for people outside the gender binary. Thank you for bringing discussion of mental health into such a mainstream publication, hopefully this dialogue and discourse can continue to develop a better understanding of mental health issues. This development of understanding and public dialogue is needed to end the stigma surrounding mental health; I look forward to where you may take it next.

Dear you/me,

I know we've had a real up and down relationship over the years, but I wanted to take this opportunity to air the drama, and lay it out clear where we stand today. We've made it through so much, as we've both changed, changed names, changed bodies, changed pronouns, changed politics. We've both grown and I am glad to say, from where I sit today, I feel we may be as close as ever.

I remember when we first met, slow starts, playful glances and pushing boundaries. Poking at flesh, all pinkish and young and warm and fresh, as I pulled and poked I grew to know you. I learned the sounds you could make, the places you could take me, and the ways that working together was to our best advantage. I remember the early years, where neither of us could be entirely sure who we were, trying on different truths to find safety, acceptance, inclusion. Sometimes going back and forth on such extremes neither of us were recognizable from one setting to another. Victim, rebel rouser, hide, stand out, draw attention, disappear. I was so glad to get to know you more and more, enough that we could eventually be public about our love. As oversized hoodies and jeans 3x bigger than either of us or our insecurities found their way off the front lines the truth could begin to be shown.

As you started meeting other guys, and then girls, and then guys and then guys who were once girls and girls who were raised as guys you showed more and more of yourself through them. I am grateful for everyone of them, and that first copy of "body alchemy" that found its way off the shelf and into our hands. As we flipped the pages I remember your side eyed glances, the hmmm, you think? Could it be? How would that be? Maybe that's what this is about? And the arguments we got stuck in for the next couple years. The fight for life, where I tried to throw you off the roof top and you pulled me on a trip through your darkest corners, the parts that terrify you and paralyze you. Thank you for going through that with me. Thanks for pulling through that with me. Your vulnerability and strength showed me that I am filled with more than the world ever told me about, and that as much pain is there, there is also beauty, magic, potential, art, music and so much fucking hotness.

That brings me closer to the now, I can't tell you how I feel about you without acknowledging the ups and downs we've been through, but once thats been said there is so much more too, the survival and everything that's made it worth it. I've watched you change so much since then,  wither, bulk, tits turn to pecs and back again, asses melt to little bellies and back to curvy hips. I've watched the boy sprout through the flesh on your face, scratching it's way to the surface. I've watched the femme and your sparking princess find it's way out, rhinestones and bike grease, you shine in the ways that make me excited about the world. I've watched you lose strength, going from tank messenger legs riding mountain ranges like they were your breakfast to struggling with walking, stairs, and I see the way your smile melts when you glance over your bike, knowing that no matter how equipped it is for touring, hitting the road at the perfect pace to see and hear and feel the world around you, that knees and backs that've taken the impact of an s.u.v. aren't as amicable to such plans. I see how you hate yourself, I hate it, I see how sometimes getting fucked up enough to dance your ass off without feeling the pain in the moment is what you need to do. I see how your tumultuous relationship with alcohol and drugs spin you around, and how these relationships are tied to daily pain and aches and the pain of losing a physically fit body at 23 and the years before then, marked with the scars of self hate and the strains put on a body that hasn't fit the world's expectations.  I know you well enough, i see how messed this whole thing is, and all the ways it makes sense. I see when you wince and wheeze your way through the day, and i want you to know i know about your inner strength, I know about your secrets, and I know your beauty.

I love the way that you adapt. I love your flexibility. I love the way you build compromise at the closet, balancing physical ability,safety and fancy. I love the way your tattoo stretches and ripples over your ribs. I know you've had mixed feelings about protruding hips and shoulder blades that play angel wings. I know you've heard the bullshit, the harsh accusations of ill health and disordered eating. I know how that makes it hard to love knobby knees and the parts that show the female strength and "childbearing" hips, especially when the knees throb and the hips carry a little dick, not quite one or the other, and skinny, and being both and neither and everything and nothing is hard work. But I'm into it. I'm into the way your tits bounce when you ride a date, and I love the way your sweat pools on your mustache when you pound the shit out back out of them. I'm into the ways you figure out to make the things that hurt work, I love the way you use your cane like a pole to dance up on and keep yourself up with this highly eroticized extension of self. I'm into the way you smell, and the ways you scrub yourself, in the lawn chair in the shower, letting the warm water melt some of that pain and free up your breathing, getting heavier as your soap your cunt and ass. I love the food you make, you blow me away again and again with the ways you can translate the dregs in the bottom of the fridge into a meal that nourishes my soul. I love the way you do your work, I love the way you talk about consent, barriers, self confidence and communication and admit that you continue to learn about all of these. I  love the way that you learn from your own lessons. I love the way you figure things out as you go. And I love the ways you've figured me out. I feel safe with you now, I feel like I can show you how broken I am, how shattered i feel. I know you'll get it, and I trust that you'll help me figure it out.

I'm a survivor and in this case, like attracts like. Your survival, your modifications, your adaptations, your rewriting any rules the world may have told you to follow... It gets me going. It makes me want to stick around and see what we can possibly collaborate on next. This is the most exciting relationship I've been in, and you've seen me through all the others, so you know that you and me, we have something big, something that lasts, we've made it through so much, and we've found the ways to compliment each other. You are my other half, you are my outer self, my mirror, corporeal to spirit, and I am so into you.

<3

This was written for a project that can be found in full here http://innerfatgirl.tumblr.com/post/3965073330 soon. Thanks legay

Bill c-389

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/politics/ottawa-notebook/transgendered-rights-bill-headed-for-defeat-in-tory-held-senate/article1902266/

With the passing of Bill C-389 the government moved one step closer to legally protecting the rights and self determination of trans people. As some people celebrate the passing of Bill C-389 this week, others wonder where it will go from here. It may be another thing that gets clogged through the appointment seats of the part of government with the least amount of accountability to a votership.

I worry about this, and my worry comes from what I see as a separation of understanding. People who are resisting this change, people and parties who are framing trans people as predators, are doing so from a comfortable distance from trans community resistance, and trans lived realities of mistreatment, unemployment, homelessness and other things that a bill like this may have a impact of change around. Trans people are not a part of their everyday lives, their families, their communities. For large part due to the economic segregation of people facing oppression like transphobia, but also in a culture that extols gender variant people as sex offenders, not including them, even in your own families seems natural. I don't know of any specific trans people who have been excommunicated from their politician families, but I have seen it happen across other socioeconomic and cultural landscapes. So what is it in the values system of people on the "moral right" that thinks that this type of behavior should go unnoticed, unprotected? I attended a service this morning, at the Unitarian church. The sermon was talking about moral and religious involvement with politics. This is a complicated and many faceted topic, but one thing that really came in to my head from the sermon and following conversations was this:
The "moral right" is bringing "religion" into politics, so without the moral logic of social justice minded individuals creating a balance, where democratic thinking and ideas, human rights and equality within diversity can be shared on the same platform, the platform will by default be overwhelmed with the attempts to de-humanize individuals by forcing fucked up power driven decision making "values" down our throats.
Another thing that was re-brought to my attention, both this week and over the last little while in general is that the bible, the supposed moral compass of so much of this fucked up shit we see from the barring of trans rights and protections to the shutting down of women's health centers to the barriers to accessing clean rigs, is FULL of things like this:

Isaiah 10

¹ Woe to those who make unjust laws, ¹ to those who issue oppressive decrees,

² to deprive the poor of their rights ² and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people, ² making widows their prey ² and robbing the fatherless.

Guess what "moral right", we can read your scriptures too, we can see what you are supposedly basing decisions off of. And I call BULLSHIT! You want to know who are oppressed of your people?

The people you are posing as villainous creeps out to molest your daughters; our own daughters and sisters who continually get fucked over by the presumptions that people make about their identities because of parts of their bodies or pasts. The people that have been stolen, murdered, fired, evicted, beat up, raped and terrorized; the women, queers, trans people, indigenous people,immigrants and refugees, people with disabilities... need I go on. And guess what, some of us fit into more than one of those categories! And fucked up shit happens all the time, especially to those of use who fit in these up little boxes (which have their own complication as they restrict us down to one element of self) . We are the widows become prey, widowing large segments of a generation ravaged by the effects of HIV and stigma. We are the fatherless, as more and more trans youth end up finding themselves at younger ages, parents still kick people out, cut people off because they are self determined. Are these the people that the "moral right"want to "save the world" from with their unjust laws? Look at your moral compass conservative party, there's a very clear direction. Are choices being made by values? Cause I'd like to call yours to question.