THE SNOW IS ALMOST GONE, AND IT’S TIME FOR SOME SPRING FEVER SEX
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
The snow is melting, bodies are emerging from under layers of wool and gortex, the possibilities of summer are springing to mind—sex is the air. If you have even one iota of desire to, you should have sex. You should stretch, take a shower, brush your teeth, smile at yourself in the mirror, put on your favourite shirt and leave the house right now to go have sex.
Walk to where you know queer people who have sex congregate—the bar, a grocery store, a coffee shop, a bathhouse, a house party ... whatever. Smile at someone you want to see naked. Flirt and let yourself be flirted with. Talk to someone you find sexy; make jokes, laugh—if they don’t laugh then walk away and try again with someone else, because sex should be fun.
Ask questions; get a feel for them before you cop of feel of them. Do they have a sense of humour, a sense of self, clean teeth, good breath? These things are important. Look at their hands, when you imagine those hands on your body does it excite you? Is that what you want?
Have they asked you questions? If yes, stay put, keep the conversation going. Have they answered your questions? If yes, stay put and keep the conversation going.
Now steer the conversation to sex. Start by talking about your body. Say how nice it is to feel the warm weather on your skin or talk about aches you might need massaging—this is testing the waters. How do you feel as you are talking to them?
From the moment you leave your house do periodic check-ins with your body. Note when you get goosebumps, shivers or feel the urge to dry heave or dry hump. Keep tabs on your private parts. Are they up? Down? Engaged? Engorged? Excited? Lethargic? Be aware of when you are grinning, biting your lip, moving your hand over your body. If you find yourself covering your mouth with your hand more than once, know that you are feeling repressed. Sex is the opposite of repression, it is about release, exploration and expression.
While you are talking about flesh and the body watch for their physical and verbal reactions. Are they participating? Learn more about their body: ask questions, steal glances at areas that turn you on, allow visible parts of your body to brush against public parts of their body—did you like it? How did they respond?
Think about what you want to do with your body and what you need to do it: another person, privacy, an audience, condoms, lube, love, safe words, a chair, trust, a flat surface? Have deal breakers, negotiate, know what you will do and not do and be balanced. Be flexible without being fatalistic. Take a chance in the moment but not with your life or the health of your genitalia.
If things are going well and you find yourself grinning, wanting to use your private parts and are communicating then know that you are already engaged in the act of sex. Keep going if you want, walk away if you want. Are you smiling? Then you have made the right choice.
When you are using your body, go some place where you feel safe, where you can be free and loud. Watch how they take off their clothes—this should be part of the fun. Oh yeah, if you take off your underwear remember where you throw them just in case you have to make a quick exit.
Smell their body. Do you like it? Do you want it in your mouth? Against your skin? Is the person you were taking to the same person you are touching? Are you having a laugh?
Make eye contact, say words, make sounds, have fun, pitch the tip. Work hard, be an active participant—even if you are being submissive, passive and receptive.
Listen to the sounds they are making- guess and act on what you think they mean—ask with your hands, your body—they will answer with their body if you are right. Stop if they say so. Stop if you feel threatened. In all other cases, keep going. Enjoy every moment, even the possible self-conscious ones. It is part of the experience.
After it is all done, stretch, be good and clean up after yourself, throw condoms in the garbage not the toilet, look the person in the eyes. Do you feel great? Then say so. Promise yourself to masturbate about this at least once. If you do not feel great then leave and call a friend, write in your journal, take a shower or grab a coffee and do not have sex again until you understand what just happened.
This is spring fever sex. Have fun, don’t hurt anyone against their will, don’t hurt yourself, be selfish, be slutty, be smutty, be safe, be a tease, be sexy, be self aware, be satisfied. Tell me about it!
Saturday, June 7, 2008
QUEERMONTON Week of April 17, 2008, Issue #652
WELCOME TO QUEERMONTON, VRIENDBERTA, CANADA
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
In my last article I suggested that there have been three waves of queer activism: standing up/standing proud, gaining our rights and living our rights. I think we are currently at the beginning of the third wave, which I see categorized by the personal being recognized as political in regards to queer lives, animating the rights gained during the second wave through everyday living, and expression being used and recognized as a form of activism.
This week I want to discuss how Edmonton became an illustration, if not a thriving example, of the third wave in action.
Edmonton is the perfect storm; it is North America’s only Human Rights City and it has a creative, connected queer community working both independently and collectively on rigorously created work and events that are inspired or informed by an authority to rail against (the provincial government) and a supportive local community to work and live in (Edmonton).
The last few years Edmonton has been home to a silent queer renaissance that is beginning to be heard. It is no coincidence that it has happened when the city has a forward thinking, informed, if not strategic-minded, mayor.
Being a fan of Richard Florida’s The Rise of the Creative Class, Mayor Mandel has embraced Florida’s hypothesis that a city flourishes when brimming with creativity and diversity. He has put Florida’s ideas into action by being a champion of the arts and the queer community. His endorsement of these not-mutually-exclusive communities has created stability and a sense of esteem that has allowed both to be bold, feel supported and think long term.
Edmonton is increasingly becoming home to artists who are queer that feel able to show their queer work, and institutions like Latitude 53 and Northern Lights Theatre that feel confident to program queer work.
Last year saw the arrival of Exposure: Edmonton’s Queer Arts and Culture Festival, which aims to bring queer artists to new audiences and new audiences to queer work. In the process they are raising the bar of queer art in Edmonton and casting Edmonton as a leader in queer expression on the Canadian art stage.
Edmonton is also home to Camp fYrefly—Canada’s largest LGBTTQA art-centric youth leadership camp founded by the University of Alberta’s Dr Andre Grace and PhD candidate Kris Wells. They are also behind the newly announced Institute for Sexual Minority Studies and Services, which within two years will be offering North America’s only minor in sexual minority studies. All this just reinforces the national rumour that the U of A’s english and film studies department is the queerest in Canada.
Being an artist myself, I don’t subscribe to the notion that artists have to be tortured to create. But as Edmonton-based writers and actors Chris Craddock and Nathan Cuckow, concede, “living in Alberta adds more fuel to the fire.” And that fire leads to award winning, politically and emotionally charged work.
Last month their hip-hop musical Bash’d received a GLAAD Media Award for Outstanding NY Theatre. Their show, which debuted at the Roost and will soon begin its commercial run in New York City, is set against the backdrop of the same-sex marriage debate in Canada, during which hate crimes against homos spiked in Alberta.
Compared to the liberal, open atmosphere the Edmonton municipal government provides, the Province of Alberta has been unsupportive and judged by the highest court in the land to be legally negligent of queer human rights.
The historic Vriend v Alberta case had its home in Edmonton when Delwin Vriend was fired from his job for being gay. Seven years of legal battles later, and a decade ago last week, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled in the case that the province let down its population by not protecting Vriend from being fired, and decided that sexual orientation should be covered in human rights legislation across the country. Many provinces have already begun to rewrite legislation as a result of the ruling, but Alberta still has not.
By not changing the legislation, the government is allowing a culture of discrimination to fester and is communicating to the people of the province that the rights of the LGBTTQ community don’t matter—and so the rights of minorities in general don’t matter.
Lindsay Blackett, the new Conservative culture minister, would only comment that before action was taken he would need to review the entire act. While I do respect that he is a new minister who deserves the benefit of a doubt, this kind of “possibly” rhetoric is what queers have been hearing in this province for decades. The PC’s unwillingness to write protections for sexual orientation into legislation shows a lack of leadership on equality and has cultivated a culture where hatred is tolerated. It has also created tension, and thus fuel for artists to work both against and towards.
As the third wave develops, we see that having rights granted and rulings written in are only one part of activism. It is how queer people exist in culture and impact the world around them that has an affect on attitudes and actions towards queers.
“All this talk of rights won’t necessarily stop you from getting a punch in the head,“ says Edmonton writer and musician Marshall Watson, a member of the gaysian invasion band Spreepark. “Laws can only do so much, they don’t change social behaviour the way we can on a personal level.”
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
In my last article I suggested that there have been three waves of queer activism: standing up/standing proud, gaining our rights and living our rights. I think we are currently at the beginning of the third wave, which I see categorized by the personal being recognized as political in regards to queer lives, animating the rights gained during the second wave through everyday living, and expression being used and recognized as a form of activism.
This week I want to discuss how Edmonton became an illustration, if not a thriving example, of the third wave in action.
Edmonton is the perfect storm; it is North America’s only Human Rights City and it has a creative, connected queer community working both independently and collectively on rigorously created work and events that are inspired or informed by an authority to rail against (the provincial government) and a supportive local community to work and live in (Edmonton).
The last few years Edmonton has been home to a silent queer renaissance that is beginning to be heard. It is no coincidence that it has happened when the city has a forward thinking, informed, if not strategic-minded, mayor.
Being a fan of Richard Florida’s The Rise of the Creative Class, Mayor Mandel has embraced Florida’s hypothesis that a city flourishes when brimming with creativity and diversity. He has put Florida’s ideas into action by being a champion of the arts and the queer community. His endorsement of these not-mutually-exclusive communities has created stability and a sense of esteem that has allowed both to be bold, feel supported and think long term.
Edmonton is increasingly becoming home to artists who are queer that feel able to show their queer work, and institutions like Latitude 53 and Northern Lights Theatre that feel confident to program queer work.
Last year saw the arrival of Exposure: Edmonton’s Queer Arts and Culture Festival, which aims to bring queer artists to new audiences and new audiences to queer work. In the process they are raising the bar of queer art in Edmonton and casting Edmonton as a leader in queer expression on the Canadian art stage.
Edmonton is also home to Camp fYrefly—Canada’s largest LGBTTQA art-centric youth leadership camp founded by the University of Alberta’s Dr Andre Grace and PhD candidate Kris Wells. They are also behind the newly announced Institute for Sexual Minority Studies and Services, which within two years will be offering North America’s only minor in sexual minority studies. All this just reinforces the national rumour that the U of A’s english and film studies department is the queerest in Canada.
Being an artist myself, I don’t subscribe to the notion that artists have to be tortured to create. But as Edmonton-based writers and actors Chris Craddock and Nathan Cuckow, concede, “living in Alberta adds more fuel to the fire.” And that fire leads to award winning, politically and emotionally charged work.
Last month their hip-hop musical Bash’d received a GLAAD Media Award for Outstanding NY Theatre. Their show, which debuted at the Roost and will soon begin its commercial run in New York City, is set against the backdrop of the same-sex marriage debate in Canada, during which hate crimes against homos spiked in Alberta.
Compared to the liberal, open atmosphere the Edmonton municipal government provides, the Province of Alberta has been unsupportive and judged by the highest court in the land to be legally negligent of queer human rights.
The historic Vriend v Alberta case had its home in Edmonton when Delwin Vriend was fired from his job for being gay. Seven years of legal battles later, and a decade ago last week, the Supreme Court of Canada ruled in the case that the province let down its population by not protecting Vriend from being fired, and decided that sexual orientation should be covered in human rights legislation across the country. Many provinces have already begun to rewrite legislation as a result of the ruling, but Alberta still has not.
By not changing the legislation, the government is allowing a culture of discrimination to fester and is communicating to the people of the province that the rights of the LGBTTQ community don’t matter—and so the rights of minorities in general don’t matter.
Lindsay Blackett, the new Conservative culture minister, would only comment that before action was taken he would need to review the entire act. While I do respect that he is a new minister who deserves the benefit of a doubt, this kind of “possibly” rhetoric is what queers have been hearing in this province for decades. The PC’s unwillingness to write protections for sexual orientation into legislation shows a lack of leadership on equality and has cultivated a culture where hatred is tolerated. It has also created tension, and thus fuel for artists to work both against and towards.
As the third wave develops, we see that having rights granted and rulings written in are only one part of activism. It is how queer people exist in culture and impact the world around them that has an affect on attitudes and actions towards queers.
“All this talk of rights won’t necessarily stop you from getting a punch in the head,“ says Edmonton writer and musician Marshall Watson, a member of the gaysian invasion band Spreepark. “Laws can only do so much, they don’t change social behaviour the way we can on a personal level.”
Sunday, April 6, 2008
QUEERMONTON Week of April 3, 2008, Issue #650
HOW JUST BEING YOURSELF BECAME A FORM OF ACTIVISM
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
Last week I sat down with Michael Phair to talk about queer activism both before and after the Vriend v Alberta case. Looking back I always find myself inspired that the case had its beginnings in Edmonton, that our queer community came together to raise money, awareness and that we had an impact on the eventual victory. When I look back I wonder where is the community now? Why aren’t we more active?
It was these questions that made me think that this week’s column, coinciding with the Vriend v Alberta Supreme Court verdict anniversary, was going to be a Larry Kramerish essay telling homos to get off their asses. I met with Phair hoping that he felt the same way and would provide me with a quote. He did not oblige, instead we had a conversation in which he said a simple and insightful thing: “Things have changed.”
These three words gave me permission to look back on our history with more clarity and kindness, with less judgment and impatience. It allowed me to see that the present is vibrant with action, and I just hadn’t recognized it.
Then I started thinking, what has changed, how has it changed and where are we now? Being something of a compartmentalizer I walked away from the conversation and began to organize what I know about queer history and activism. I came up with seeing our history in three waves.
Mattachine to the Bathhouses: Standing Up and Standing Proud
The first wave of queer activism was about gaining recognition of homosexuality in the mainstream culture through targeted efforts or responses to systemic violence. Groups like the Mattachine Society, founded in 1950, worked to “unify ... educate ... assist [homosexuals].” The group communicated and worked towards achieving their goals through meetings and publications like One and The Mattachine Review.
One of the most defining moments of the first wave is the Stonewall riot that took place on the night of Jun 29, 1969. It was one of the earliest and now one of the most often referred to moments of homosexuals fighting back, in this case against police, mafia intimidation and blackmail. Stonewall is also the reason we celebrate Pride in June.
Laying the foundation for the second wave were the bathhouse raids that were happening across North America, specifically in the early ‘80s, including the 1981 Pieces raid in Edmonton. Typically men were either charged or threatened with out-dated and rarely enforced “bawdy-house” laws. Most charges never made it to court but the experience changed the lives of those involved, most often leading them to come out about their homosexuality (either voluntary or otherwise) and/or become politically active.
The efforts of the Mattachine Society and the experiences of the Stonewall riots and the bathhouse raids created a sense of empowerment that informed homosexuals that they didn’t have to be ashamed of who they were and that they deserved fair treatment and equal rights.
AIDS to the Courthouse: Gaining our Rights
Empowered and angry by the experiences of the first wave, the second wave of queer activism is built upon the lessons learned from being on the defensive and applying them offensively in securing rights, privileges, freedoms and access for all sexual minorities.
The AIDS epidemic provided poignant reasons for homosexuals to get organized and political. As thousands needlessly died, both the media and governments remained silent about what was being called the gay plague. Queer-led groups like ACT UP created media spectacles that captured people’s attention and shamed businesses and politicians into lifesaving action including research and development. Out of the AIDS crisis many queer leaders and groups, like The Lesbian Avengers, emerged.
The cornerstone of the second wave is the legal victories. Vriend v Alberta as well as same-sex marriage debates that were happening around the world ensured that more than just being seen, queers were being protected under the law and recognized as full citizens for who they were.
Suburbs to Art and Culture: Living our Rights
For me the third wave of queer activism is the living out and animating of our hard-won visibility and rights. It is about applying the notion that the personal is political to queers and that everything we do no matter how abstractly, is a form of activism. We are our activism.
Of course Michael Phair has been providing Edmonton with an example of third wave activism for almost two decades. During his 15 years on city council he went from being the gay one to being a much-loved symbol of what makes our city great.
We see the third wave activism in the mainstream through Ellen, who early in her career wouldn’t even come out, but has now become a 21st-century icon. Seeing her every day on TV, knowing that she is a lesbian, has a transforming affect on the viewers. Gay goes from exotic to ordinary, which some queerists may argue is a step back for true queer activism and is part of the danger of having queer culture be lost to the mainstream.
More actively we see third wave activism being practiced through art and culture including sport. Groups like Team Edmonton and events like the Outgames counter popular misconceptions that gays can’t throw and lesbians can’t dance while creating a space outside of nightlife for queers to be social and feel good about themselves, while the Exposure Festival and the musical Bash’d, which recently won a GLAAD award, use art to showcase the queer contribution to the modern human experience, often enlightening a viewer to the realities of queerness.
In the end third wave queer activism is as simple as writing this column—or reading it for that matter. In my next column I will look more into the third wave by suggesting that Edmonton is an illustration, if not an epicenter of third wave activism
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
Last week I sat down with Michael Phair to talk about queer activism both before and after the Vriend v Alberta case. Looking back I always find myself inspired that the case had its beginnings in Edmonton, that our queer community came together to raise money, awareness and that we had an impact on the eventual victory. When I look back I wonder where is the community now? Why aren’t we more active?
It was these questions that made me think that this week’s column, coinciding with the Vriend v Alberta Supreme Court verdict anniversary, was going to be a Larry Kramerish essay telling homos to get off their asses. I met with Phair hoping that he felt the same way and would provide me with a quote. He did not oblige, instead we had a conversation in which he said a simple and insightful thing: “Things have changed.”
These three words gave me permission to look back on our history with more clarity and kindness, with less judgment and impatience. It allowed me to see that the present is vibrant with action, and I just hadn’t recognized it.
Then I started thinking, what has changed, how has it changed and where are we now? Being something of a compartmentalizer I walked away from the conversation and began to organize what I know about queer history and activism. I came up with seeing our history in three waves.
Mattachine to the Bathhouses: Standing Up and Standing Proud
The first wave of queer activism was about gaining recognition of homosexuality in the mainstream culture through targeted efforts or responses to systemic violence. Groups like the Mattachine Society, founded in 1950, worked to “unify ... educate ... assist [homosexuals].” The group communicated and worked towards achieving their goals through meetings and publications like One and The Mattachine Review.
One of the most defining moments of the first wave is the Stonewall riot that took place on the night of Jun 29, 1969. It was one of the earliest and now one of the most often referred to moments of homosexuals fighting back, in this case against police, mafia intimidation and blackmail. Stonewall is also the reason we celebrate Pride in June.
Laying the foundation for the second wave were the bathhouse raids that were happening across North America, specifically in the early ‘80s, including the 1981 Pieces raid in Edmonton. Typically men were either charged or threatened with out-dated and rarely enforced “bawdy-house” laws. Most charges never made it to court but the experience changed the lives of those involved, most often leading them to come out about their homosexuality (either voluntary or otherwise) and/or become politically active.
The efforts of the Mattachine Society and the experiences of the Stonewall riots and the bathhouse raids created a sense of empowerment that informed homosexuals that they didn’t have to be ashamed of who they were and that they deserved fair treatment and equal rights.
AIDS to the Courthouse: Gaining our Rights
Empowered and angry by the experiences of the first wave, the second wave of queer activism is built upon the lessons learned from being on the defensive and applying them offensively in securing rights, privileges, freedoms and access for all sexual minorities.
The AIDS epidemic provided poignant reasons for homosexuals to get organized and political. As thousands needlessly died, both the media and governments remained silent about what was being called the gay plague. Queer-led groups like ACT UP created media spectacles that captured people’s attention and shamed businesses and politicians into lifesaving action including research and development. Out of the AIDS crisis many queer leaders and groups, like The Lesbian Avengers, emerged.
The cornerstone of the second wave is the legal victories. Vriend v Alberta as well as same-sex marriage debates that were happening around the world ensured that more than just being seen, queers were being protected under the law and recognized as full citizens for who they were.
Suburbs to Art and Culture: Living our Rights
For me the third wave of queer activism is the living out and animating of our hard-won visibility and rights. It is about applying the notion that the personal is political to queers and that everything we do no matter how abstractly, is a form of activism. We are our activism.
Of course Michael Phair has been providing Edmonton with an example of third wave activism for almost two decades. During his 15 years on city council he went from being the gay one to being a much-loved symbol of what makes our city great.
We see the third wave activism in the mainstream through Ellen, who early in her career wouldn’t even come out, but has now become a 21st-century icon. Seeing her every day on TV, knowing that she is a lesbian, has a transforming affect on the viewers. Gay goes from exotic to ordinary, which some queerists may argue is a step back for true queer activism and is part of the danger of having queer culture be lost to the mainstream.
More actively we see third wave activism being practiced through art and culture including sport. Groups like Team Edmonton and events like the Outgames counter popular misconceptions that gays can’t throw and lesbians can’t dance while creating a space outside of nightlife for queers to be social and feel good about themselves, while the Exposure Festival and the musical Bash’d, which recently won a GLAAD award, use art to showcase the queer contribution to the modern human experience, often enlightening a viewer to the realities of queerness.
In the end third wave queer activism is as simple as writing this column—or reading it for that matter. In my next column I will look more into the third wave by suggesting that Edmonton is an illustration, if not an epicenter of third wave activism
QUEERMONTON Week of March 20, 2008, Issue #648
KNOWING BUT NOT SAYING: BEING GAY IN THE FAMILY
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
Growing up gay you learn how to record your life in two ways: an edited version that you can share with everyone and a second one that is the truth, full of excitement and shame.
The first version is the one you share with your family, it is your way of protecting them from the things about yourself that scare you the most.
All children pick up signs that tell them what is acceptable in the world around them, what will cause grief, what will bring joy. As a gay kid you are even more sensitive to signs and signals, especially to things around gender and sexuality. You might not know what the words mean, but your ears perk up when you hear the word faggot, your heart drops when someone says the word sissy. You fear deep down that you are these things so you do everything in your power to distance yourself from the words and the feelings. In the process you push people away, creating a moat of unspoken words and Swiss cheese stories.
I think about all this now, almost a week after my Grandma died. She survived the depression in rural Europe, a bombed out London during WW II, endless winters on the plains of Alberta, the death of her only child at a young age, the loss of her husband in the bed right beside her and yet under the childlike guise of wanting to protect her I couldn’t bring myself to tell my Grandma that I was gay—and now it is too late.
I was close to her. Really, I was my Grandma’s only living relative and she was my last connection to a past. I was her precariously last genetic link on this chaotic planet of strangers. We were each other’s past and future. I see now how I kept parts of myself from her as a way of preserving our bond, a misguided attempt at protecting her, when really it was me that was afraid.
I would visit her at least once every two months at her home in Innisfail, staying the weekend, collecting the stack of Reader’s Digest books and MacLean’s magazines she had saved for me, spending the Saturday night talking about history, current events, politics and the plight of celebrities. I would call her about once a week, listen to what was new in town and then tell her about work and friends, nothing more.
Last week, as I sat in palliative care watching my Grandma sleep into death, I realized that the time had passed in which I could tell her about who I really was and whom I loved. I knew that I was not going to play out a cliché, self-serving scene of confession where I got to feel better by unloading my baggage on to her soul that was preparing to move on up.
She didn’t deserve that. She had never tried to stop me from telling her I was gay and I had never attempted to tell her. I knew I was gay, I was pretty sure she knew I was gay and the silent, shared knowing was going to be the closest we would come to acknowledging it in this lifetime.
By not asking about girlfriends, relationships, marriages or the prospects of great grandchildren she was communicating to me that she knew I was different. By keeping the silence I was confirming to her that yes, indeed I was.
Although I could blame a culture that supported this unspoken agreement as an excuse to why I never felt secure enough to talk to my Grandma about me being gay I must take responsibility for my actions. It was me who chose not to break through the comfortable impasse we had reached and thus robbed us both of an opportunity to grow and transcend a little in this lifetime.
By not “coming out” to my Grandma I gave life to the culturally inherited, wrongly held, internalized homophobic belief that says people will not accept you, that loved ones will turn their backs. I didn’t give her an opportunity to prove it wrong and I didn’t give myself a chance to be accepted by her.
Earlier this week, after seeing my Grandma laid to rest, my boyfriend took photos of me in my Grandparent’s old neighbourhood. Standing there paralyzed by posing for the camera I remembered pacing those streets convincing my 11-year-old self how easy it was going to be to keep my gayness a secret for the rest of my life, resolving never to get married to a lady and just keep my feelings about other dudes to myself.
Of course the resolution was not to keep. I “came out,” got involved, made friends, had sex, found myself in relationships with men, all without sharing it with my Grandma. It was what I knew to do.
Sitting on her couch one Saturday night a week or two after she saw Brokeback Mountain in the Innisfail Theatre, my Grandma mentioned how sad she was that the two cowboys never got to walk off into the Alberta sunset together.
It was a tender, small, giving moment that I let pass. In all her generosity and kindness she crossed the moat and I chose to remain uncomfortable and silent. I see now that by saying that, in her own way, my Grandma had said it all for both of us.
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
Growing up gay you learn how to record your life in two ways: an edited version that you can share with everyone and a second one that is the truth, full of excitement and shame.
The first version is the one you share with your family, it is your way of protecting them from the things about yourself that scare you the most.
All children pick up signs that tell them what is acceptable in the world around them, what will cause grief, what will bring joy. As a gay kid you are even more sensitive to signs and signals, especially to things around gender and sexuality. You might not know what the words mean, but your ears perk up when you hear the word faggot, your heart drops when someone says the word sissy. You fear deep down that you are these things so you do everything in your power to distance yourself from the words and the feelings. In the process you push people away, creating a moat of unspoken words and Swiss cheese stories.
I think about all this now, almost a week after my Grandma died. She survived the depression in rural Europe, a bombed out London during WW II, endless winters on the plains of Alberta, the death of her only child at a young age, the loss of her husband in the bed right beside her and yet under the childlike guise of wanting to protect her I couldn’t bring myself to tell my Grandma that I was gay—and now it is too late.
I was close to her. Really, I was my Grandma’s only living relative and she was my last connection to a past. I was her precariously last genetic link on this chaotic planet of strangers. We were each other’s past and future. I see now how I kept parts of myself from her as a way of preserving our bond, a misguided attempt at protecting her, when really it was me that was afraid.
I would visit her at least once every two months at her home in Innisfail, staying the weekend, collecting the stack of Reader’s Digest books and MacLean’s magazines she had saved for me, spending the Saturday night talking about history, current events, politics and the plight of celebrities. I would call her about once a week, listen to what was new in town and then tell her about work and friends, nothing more.
Last week, as I sat in palliative care watching my Grandma sleep into death, I realized that the time had passed in which I could tell her about who I really was and whom I loved. I knew that I was not going to play out a cliché, self-serving scene of confession where I got to feel better by unloading my baggage on to her soul that was preparing to move on up.
She didn’t deserve that. She had never tried to stop me from telling her I was gay and I had never attempted to tell her. I knew I was gay, I was pretty sure she knew I was gay and the silent, shared knowing was going to be the closest we would come to acknowledging it in this lifetime.
By not asking about girlfriends, relationships, marriages or the prospects of great grandchildren she was communicating to me that she knew I was different. By keeping the silence I was confirming to her that yes, indeed I was.
Although I could blame a culture that supported this unspoken agreement as an excuse to why I never felt secure enough to talk to my Grandma about me being gay I must take responsibility for my actions. It was me who chose not to break through the comfortable impasse we had reached and thus robbed us both of an opportunity to grow and transcend a little in this lifetime.
By not “coming out” to my Grandma I gave life to the culturally inherited, wrongly held, internalized homophobic belief that says people will not accept you, that loved ones will turn their backs. I didn’t give her an opportunity to prove it wrong and I didn’t give myself a chance to be accepted by her.
Earlier this week, after seeing my Grandma laid to rest, my boyfriend took photos of me in my Grandparent’s old neighbourhood. Standing there paralyzed by posing for the camera I remembered pacing those streets convincing my 11-year-old self how easy it was going to be to keep my gayness a secret for the rest of my life, resolving never to get married to a lady and just keep my feelings about other dudes to myself.
Of course the resolution was not to keep. I “came out,” got involved, made friends, had sex, found myself in relationships with men, all without sharing it with my Grandma. It was what I knew to do.
Sitting on her couch one Saturday night a week or two after she saw Brokeback Mountain in the Innisfail Theatre, my Grandma mentioned how sad she was that the two cowboys never got to walk off into the Alberta sunset together.
It was a tender, small, giving moment that I let pass. In all her generosity and kindness she crossed the moat and I chose to remain uncomfortable and silent. I see now that by saying that, in her own way, my Grandma had said it all for both of us.
QUEERMONTON Week of March 6, 2008, Issue #646
DOIN’ IT SIDERITE: QUEER ALLIES CLAM UP TO MAKE SOME NOISE
“The moral issue raised by this case is not about homosexuality,” said Lyle Kanee, lawyer for the Canadian Jewish Congress (CJC) during the 1998 Vriend trail, “it’s about equality.”
The CJC, Alberta Civil Liberties Association and the Canadian Human Rights Commission were intervenors in support of Vriend during the Supreme Court case. As allies (straight supporters of LGBTTQI rights) they understood that the fight to ensure sexual orientation was protected under the law across Canada was about more than sex—it was about human rights. Through their work, the allied groups illustrated effectiveness and the need for contributions from allies in creating change. They also set the standard for allies that would come after them.
A currently active ally is U of A student Gillian Scarlett, who, along with a full course load and other volunteer activities, is also the Siderite Coordinator and organizer of the upcoming Day of Silence.
Her busy schedule and commitment to queer rights is how she has always led her life. “Social responsibility should be encouraged,” she says. “Everyone in society should work towards queer rights because it’s about human rights over and beyond being gay.”
It was a notion that Scarlett formed growing up in Lacombe, Alberta, with one gay friend and a lot of time on her hands to think.
Making the jump from rural Alberta to the U of A was a relief and confirmation that “campus was more open-minded than my small town.” What she realized, though, was that there was still human rights work to be done.
In her first year Scarlett joined Siderite, a U of A campus group that brings the University and students living in residence together to ensure that the campus is a queer-friendly place to live. As an allied group, Siderite founder Sarah Flynn explains the nerdy yet appropriate name “refers to a chemical compound that becomes stronger as particles join together and do not break down when attacked by outside chemicals.”
Creating the group was Flynn’s response to the 1998 death of Mathew Shepard, “and in recognition of the homophobia I was experiencing and witnessing in rez—I mean, really, how different is Wyoming from Alberta? It seemed just as likely that something similar could occur here.”
In its first year Siderite members were victims of a gay bashing and property damage, which Scarlett points out “wasn’t that long ago. This is not ancient history.”
Last year, less than 10 years since its creation, Siderite was in danger of folding because it did not have an incoming coordinator. “We were struggling to find someone,” recalls Scarlett. “There were a few obvious choices but they were already overextended.” Not wanting to see Siderite fall, Scarlett took on the role as coordinator herself.
Initially she had reservations about her role, but thanks to the group’s support she came into her own while beginning to develop a broader understanding of what queer could mean. “Queer is all-encompassing. I have queer thoughts and life. Standing apart and having my own experience is important to me and informs what it means to be queer.”
As for reaction to Scarlett as a “straight” woman leading a queer organization, the only dissent came from members of social activism groups like Make Poverty History and Save Darfur. In a level voice she reenacts her response to them: “What about you? You’re not living in a Third World country; you’re not living in the Sudan. Why do you care about those issues?”
By turning the tables and asking them to consider their motivations, Scarlett empowered the social activists to see the interconnection of human rights.
It is this kind of strategy that expresses Scarlett’s queer-mindedness and how thriving in rural Alberta gave her diplomatic skills. “Being from a small town with liberal-minded parents had its advantages” muses Scarlett. “It taught me to see both sides of the fence because I had to witness bigoted perceptions that I didn’t agree with. I learned that you couldn’t come across aggressive if you want people to consider what you are saying. Kindness counts for a lot.”
Growing up, Queer as Folk was an early favourite, providing her a role model in the form of Diane, the earth mother “fag hag” who minded a diner while partying and occasionally raising hell with her de facto queer family. Along the way Diane ends up queering the group by having her voice as part of the conversation.
It is voices, or rather the absence of voices that the Siderite-led Day of Silence is about.
Students and the general public are invited, says Scarlett, “to spend the day in silence to echo the silence queer and ally students face everyday to protect themselves from homophobia.” People are also encouraged to wear green to create a sense of solidarity.
The Edmonton Day of Silence will be observed on Apr 2, the 10-year anniversary of the Vriend decision, which still has yet to be read in to the Alberta books. At 3 pm everyone is invited to the U of A Celebration Plaza in front of the Students‘ Union Building to break the silence and feel the weight of repression lifted together.
“For me,” Scarlett grins, “the Day of Silence along with the other Vriend-related programming is a fantastic week for human rights in Alberta. It honors an important legal precedent, increases dialogue in the human rights community and speaks to the power of collaboration.”
“The moral issue raised by this case is not about homosexuality,” said Lyle Kanee, lawyer for the Canadian Jewish Congress (CJC) during the 1998 Vriend trail, “it’s about equality.”
The CJC, Alberta Civil Liberties Association and the Canadian Human Rights Commission were intervenors in support of Vriend during the Supreme Court case. As allies (straight supporters of LGBTTQI rights) they understood that the fight to ensure sexual orientation was protected under the law across Canada was about more than sex—it was about human rights. Through their work, the allied groups illustrated effectiveness and the need for contributions from allies in creating change. They also set the standard for allies that would come after them.
A currently active ally is U of A student Gillian Scarlett, who, along with a full course load and other volunteer activities, is also the Siderite Coordinator and organizer of the upcoming Day of Silence.
Her busy schedule and commitment to queer rights is how she has always led her life. “Social responsibility should be encouraged,” she says. “Everyone in society should work towards queer rights because it’s about human rights over and beyond being gay.”
It was a notion that Scarlett formed growing up in Lacombe, Alberta, with one gay friend and a lot of time on her hands to think.
Making the jump from rural Alberta to the U of A was a relief and confirmation that “campus was more open-minded than my small town.” What she realized, though, was that there was still human rights work to be done.
In her first year Scarlett joined Siderite, a U of A campus group that brings the University and students living in residence together to ensure that the campus is a queer-friendly place to live. As an allied group, Siderite founder Sarah Flynn explains the nerdy yet appropriate name “refers to a chemical compound that becomes stronger as particles join together and do not break down when attacked by outside chemicals.”
Creating the group was Flynn’s response to the 1998 death of Mathew Shepard, “and in recognition of the homophobia I was experiencing and witnessing in rez—I mean, really, how different is Wyoming from Alberta? It seemed just as likely that something similar could occur here.”
In its first year Siderite members were victims of a gay bashing and property damage, which Scarlett points out “wasn’t that long ago. This is not ancient history.”
Last year, less than 10 years since its creation, Siderite was in danger of folding because it did not have an incoming coordinator. “We were struggling to find someone,” recalls Scarlett. “There were a few obvious choices but they were already overextended.” Not wanting to see Siderite fall, Scarlett took on the role as coordinator herself.
Initially she had reservations about her role, but thanks to the group’s support she came into her own while beginning to develop a broader understanding of what queer could mean. “Queer is all-encompassing. I have queer thoughts and life. Standing apart and having my own experience is important to me and informs what it means to be queer.”
As for reaction to Scarlett as a “straight” woman leading a queer organization, the only dissent came from members of social activism groups like Make Poverty History and Save Darfur. In a level voice she reenacts her response to them: “What about you? You’re not living in a Third World country; you’re not living in the Sudan. Why do you care about those issues?”
By turning the tables and asking them to consider their motivations, Scarlett empowered the social activists to see the interconnection of human rights.
It is this kind of strategy that expresses Scarlett’s queer-mindedness and how thriving in rural Alberta gave her diplomatic skills. “Being from a small town with liberal-minded parents had its advantages” muses Scarlett. “It taught me to see both sides of the fence because I had to witness bigoted perceptions that I didn’t agree with. I learned that you couldn’t come across aggressive if you want people to consider what you are saying. Kindness counts for a lot.”
Growing up, Queer as Folk was an early favourite, providing her a role model in the form of Diane, the earth mother “fag hag” who minded a diner while partying and occasionally raising hell with her de facto queer family. Along the way Diane ends up queering the group by having her voice as part of the conversation.
It is voices, or rather the absence of voices that the Siderite-led Day of Silence is about.
Students and the general public are invited, says Scarlett, “to spend the day in silence to echo the silence queer and ally students face everyday to protect themselves from homophobia.” People are also encouraged to wear green to create a sense of solidarity.
The Edmonton Day of Silence will be observed on Apr 2, the 10-year anniversary of the Vriend decision, which still has yet to be read in to the Alberta books. At 3 pm everyone is invited to the U of A Celebration Plaza in front of the Students‘ Union Building to break the silence and feel the weight of repression lifted together.
“For me,” Scarlett grins, “the Day of Silence along with the other Vriend-related programming is a fantastic week for human rights in Alberta. It honors an important legal precedent, increases dialogue in the human rights community and speaks to the power of collaboration.”
Friday, February 22, 2008
Queermonton: Week of February 21, 2008, Issue #644
QUEERMONTON
YOUR VOTE CAN MAKE THIS AN ELECTION ABOUT HUMAN RIGHTS
TED KERR / ted@vueweekly.com
The Mar 3 provincial election is important to all Albertans. It’s an opportunity for us to speak through our vote and tell the current government what we think of its leadership. It also provides an opportunity to empower new voices to be heard.
Sarah Flynn, interim administrative professional officer at the U of A’s new Institute for Sexual Minority Studies and Services says that she casts a ballot “to make sure that irrespective of whether the candidate or party I support actually wins, at least I’m showing my endorsement of those willing to discuss and address human rights.”
Kristy Harcourt, queer activist and former host of CJSR’s Gaywire, agrees, especially when it come to issues of human rights. “Gay people need to vote. Our rights are recent, fragile and we have a say over what our governments do in our name.”
Voting is the simplest form of political action afforded to a citizen that is often taken for granted. For NDP activist Robert Smith, who had a hand in creating the party’s first gay and lesbian caucus, voting is the opposite of apathy: “You can’t expect change to happen, you have to be part of the process—voting is part of that.”
Another part of the process is getting informed. The Progressive Conservatives have been in power for almost 37 years. In that time they have done some good for Albertans, but in the last 15 years they have let the promise of their vibrant beginnings slide.
In 1971, a modern, urban-centric leader by the name of Peter Lougheed led the PCs to a surprise victory in the Alberta provincial election, upsetting the seemingly entrenched Social Credit Party that had been in power for 36 years. The Harvard-educated former Edmonton Eskimo went on to lead the PCs to three more electoral victories and leave a legacy with the party that has helped them maintain power for over three decades.
During his time as premier, Loughheed introduced the Alberta Bill of Rights, stood up for Alberta by fighting with former prime minster Trudeau over the National Energy Program and started the Alberta Heritage Fund to ensure that the profits from our province’s natural resources would benefit Albertans for generations to come. He also empowered Horst Schmid, the PC Minister of Culture, to let the arts flourish in Alberta.
In the years that have passed the Conservatives, primarily under the leadership of former premier Ralph Klein, has moved sharply to the right of the political spectrum, squeezing out diversity and social welfare, and in doing so have eroded many of the Lougheed government’s accomplishments. The Ministry of Culture has become the monolithic Tourism, Parks, Recreation (and, oh yeah) Culture portfolio, health care is on the road to becoming two-tiered, the environmental damage of the oil industry is the smelly elephant in the room and the recent activity around royalty payments points to a government, even under new leadership, that is more loyal to business than citizens.
For queer citizens the most poignant of erosions was the Conservative government’s 1998 refusal to read sexual orientation into the very Alberta Bill of Rights that the party created. By ignoring the Supreme Court of Canada’s 1998 decision in the Vriend vs Alberta case, where the Alberta provincial government was sued for not protecting the rights of a citizen, they have effectively said that queer Albertans are not citizens worth protecting.
In 2000, two years after Vriend, the government added to the erosion by creating an amendment to the province’s marriage act that defined marriage as being between a man and a woman. The amendment included a notwithstanding clause, which is like a veto card that legislators can use to override certain charters in the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. In theory the clause would have allowed Klein to override the then-upcoming 2005 federal ruling that legalized same-sex marriage in Canada. In the end the clause was more symbolic because marriage is a federally granted right.
Klein’s actions are emblematic of the PC party’s stance on human rights. By attempting to deny one group protection the government has created a precedent for how all minorities could be treated.
The travesty of lost promise within the Progressive Conservative party lies not solely within the party itself but with Alberta’s electorate. We voted them in, or worse, by not voting, we stood by powerless as they abused us. But a change is possible.
By not voting we are rendering ourselves mute and empowering someone we disagree with to represent us. By not voting we are paving the road to corruption and are allowing the very people who want to curb our rights the opportunity to do so. If there is someone who knows the power of voting it’s five-time city councillor Michael Phair.
“There are thousands of excuses for not voting and that’s the reason you end up with a government that you don’t want—so vote and elect the government you do want,” Phair says.
To get to know the candidates better, join Team Edmonton for its free Feb 23 mixer at Amber Brewery, where representatives from all the major parties have been invited to join the fun. It is an opportunity to get involved and talk to someone who might be representing you at the legislature. V
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