Stress? What stress?

Sometimes stress can just creep the fuck up on you (kind of like the cat that is currently licking the back of my head and tickling me with her tail).  Last week I went to a new chiropractor and we started talking about stress and I said something like, "I don't have anything to be stressed out about right now, life is good."  Three days later an old lady accosted me on the street to criticize my parenting and I wound up yelling at her and bawling on a bench with a confused three year old.  Later that same day I was trying to work on a research paper and I started hyperventilating.  Naah, I ain't got nothin' stressin' me.

So what the hell is wrong with me that after 34 years I still get surprised by my stress?  So here's the run down: My kid just started school, it's only in the afternoons so while I do get 4 hours a day out of it, my weekdays consist of keeping the mornings interesting for the both of us, scrambling to feed her lunch and get her to school on time and then seeing how much productivity I can cram into the next 4 hours (minus travel time). And let me tell you I need those four hours.  Graduation is looming and I'm under a deadline to write my research paper, while at the same time seeing three clients, taking 4 hours of classes a week, cooking, shopping, trying not to let my house become a contender for "How Clean is Your House?" and all the while waiting to go under the knife to get my hooha cut.

Stress? What stress, life is good.  I have this blind spot that keeps me from acknowledging that life can be good and still be stressful.  So I sit here and I wonder why do I keep craving pastries and chocolate?  Why does my back hurt so much?  Why am I watching so much damn TV? And where the fuck is that cup of tea I  ordered?!!

Fine, I accept it.  I am stressed.  But one cup of tea, some screaming along with Rage Against the Machine and a self-indulgent blog post later, and I'm starting to feel a little relief.

Tear gas and riot gear and cops, oh my!

So last Saturday I posted a response to the Black Bloc tactics used by a small contingent of G20 protesters.  At the time I thought I wouldn't post about the cops because cops going overboard is nothing new, but then Sunday happened.  I spent the first half of the week fighting of the tears as I followed links, read posts and articles and watched Youtube clips documenting just how far the cops went.  So here it is, my inevitable post about the horrifying  violations of civil liberties perpetrated by the cops during the G20 in Toronto.

Before I get into it, let me share a story.  When I was seventeen I lived in my own apartment in St. Catharines which, at the time, had a real problem with neo-nazi boneheads (the city not the apartment).  I had friends who had been viciously beaten by them and their presence was a constant threat.  Then one day one of them moved into the apartment next door.  That night I was having a few people over and the bonehead was having a housewarming party which took over the common stairwell and much of the hallway.  The end result was me and two friends locked in my apartment calling the cops as one of the party guests pounded on my door screaming, "Fucking faggot!" and other equally imaginative epithets.

It was probably an hour later when the cops arrived and by that time the guy had tired himself out and left the party.  The important part of this story is how the cops responded to us.  As we tried to tell them what had happened they interrupted to ask questions like, "how do you get your hair that colour?" and "is that nail polish or marker?" we were told that no crime had been committed because he hadn't actually hit us.  The fact that the only thing that stopped him was the solid wood door was, apparently, irrelevant.  But the most alarming and upsetting thing was when the cop looked right at me and said, "well, when you look like that you have to expect people to treat you this way." 

So there it is.  We asked for it.  We didn't have the right to expect to be treated as human beings or to expect to be protected by the cops.  I was used to being watched by store clerks and I knew that cops engaged in racial profiling, hell this only happened a year or so after the Rodney King acquittal.  But on some level, I still expected the cops to be there when I needed them.  I've known women who's rape reports were turned against them, leading to charges of mischief in one case where the small town chief of police was friends with the rapist.  Since high school I've moved into a neighbourhood with a large public housing complex.  A few weeks ago my fifty-something black babysitter who's lived there for twenty years was randomly stopped by cops and grilled because "they hadn't seen her around here before."

So, am I surprised by what happened this past weekend?  I guess not.  Or, that is to say, I wouldn't be if they had only done it to protesters.  And that's why the shit just might hit the fan this time.  Because the cops didn't just violate the rights of peaceful protesters who they could paint as radical activists with violent intent (however false that characterization may be).  No, this time they grabbed journalists, transit employees in uniform, tourists and soccer fans.  Add to that the prevalence of camera phones and the ability to spread information through online social networks like Twitter and Facebook and the cops have officially lost all plausible deniability.  One of the most detailed and heartbreaking accounts came from Tommy Taylor on his Facebook profile wherein he provides a detailed account of his arrest and detention for nearly 24 hours at the Eastern Ave. temporary detention centre.  Because his post was on Facebook, and as such not available to everybody I have gotten his permission to reprint some sections of his post.

Cops surround peaceful protesters on the Esplanade:

Then they start singing "Give Peace a Chance", wow- it's actually a cliche of a protest! It was a lot of fun, a great thing to witness live instead of stock footage form the 60's and 70's when people were changing the way sexuality, gender and ethnicity are treated in North America. Without public protests we would still have slavery and women couldn't vote. Would you go back and tell those people to go home? No word from police yet, and why would there be? It's 10:00 at night on Saturday on small sub-street in Toronto with no traffic tonight. Everyone's peaceful and out of the way, and only in a number of 200. It actually seemed like just a little whimper from the numbers I saw together earlier, but at least they had heart and spirit. We join in singing "Give Peace a Chance" - how could you not, it felt so great. Then, riot cops show up on the sides of the street. Uh-on. They're blocking it off, time to go.

We head towards them to leave; they say 'Get Back', no problem. We turn to leave the other way, more riot cops "Get Back". Okay, We ask if we can please leave - no response. They haven't said anything. There are journalists in here, a couple comes out of The Keg and tries to leave, they are told, "It's too late." Too late for what they ask, and are told nothing. We ask again (Kate has become quite distraught and upset) if we can please leave and are told, "You should have left when we told you." Wait, what? When? Everyone is saying the same thing. They the phone number for legal aid starts making the rounds, people write it on their arms and hands (I already had it on a post-it note). They guy from the Keg can't believe it. They guy in the wheelchair on his way home is stunned. The confused guy with cerebral palsy is freaking out and scared. A few First Nations people around us say, "Well, this is familiar. Welcome to our club everyone." A gay couple hugs, in tears. And older lady (the splitting image of Jane Goodall) asks what's happening. The media with the huge cameras seem at a loss. The riot police have the full gear, shields, helmets, masks down, saying nothing. The leaders of the march ask for negotiator to get people out of here. No response. They give official media a chance to leave that have badges, but no one else. Not even people who have obvious news camera and photo cameras. Steve Paikin from TVO managed to get out. We all chant, “Let us go!” They begin pulling people out of the sitting crowd and take them away. There was no resisting, they turned around and offered their hands. Then a riot cop with a classic cop mustache announces, "You're all under arrest. You will all be charged and you cannot leave. "

They arrive at the detention centre:  

Inside the former movie studio, I almost can't believe it. I've never seen this outside of movies. It is almost unreal. There are no windows to be had. The cavernous ceiling is 200 ft high, I can barely see it. It makes the warehouse from the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark look small. Hanging about down to about 15 ft off the ground are rows of intense florescent lights. Dozens of rows as far as I can see in either direction. Over each cell is a small black pod container a camera. It appears to be a maze made of industrial shelving, construction office trailers, wooden decks and walkways and cages. The cages are roughly 12' by 20' and around 10' high. There is sheet metal on 3 sides; the front side has a sliding door section that locks. Inside each cage is a porto-potty with the door removed, no toilet paper. It reaches close to the ceiling is about 4'x4' around. Those potties -bright orange, with an elaborate art deco style molding. A 1.2 billion dollar porto-potty to be sure. I pass rows of the cages with people bleeding, crying slumped on the concrete floor. Huddled, asking to call family, asking for water, asking what the charge is, wanting to know their rights. All the officers were ignoring them and laughing. Laughing at people. I have never seen anything like this.

 Excerpts from 'jail':

I was now around 2:00am. I've been held since 10:30pm, not read my rights, not explained anything, not yet charged, no phone call. And in an overcrowded cell with no access to water. Every guy had to pee; there was a line around the inside of the cell to piss. Trying to pee with your hand cuffed together was horrible...but we all managed...the outhouse was messy. No toilet paper. So, here we all were. Ages from 16-78. Three German men asked why the guard made a joke about Auschwitz. They were here from Germany, left a bar, got arrested. They said they had no idea Canada was like this; they said the world thought we were free. The said "poor Canadians, this is shame".  . .

. . . One black, shorter male Toronto Officer came over as we began pleading for an explanation, for water and for some of use to be moved into another cell. He came over and said, "This is wrong. Guys, I'm sorry, this is fucked up. But there's nothing I can do. This place is just chaos. I'm sorry." he leaves. Very thirsty. . .

. . . 7 hours into custody, the people break. A shout for water breaks into a little riot, all cells yelling water, shaking the cages, and kicking at the doors. People with cracked lips and cracking voices - I've been awake for 22 hours now. Luckily a guy in our cell kept a watch. The place is going insane, we are told by guards “We're working on it!" some are apologizing, some are obviously lost and confused, others are laughing. . .

. . . Finally water reaches our cell. They have a blue jug on an office chair, rolling it around with one officer pushing, one with a key, and one holding styrofoam dixie cups. We are told to line up. Many of the men say "Thank-you". I had to beg for water. BEG FOR WATER. For 9 hours. I hated being made to feel grateful for this tiny sip of water. Many gulped their cup down, some took it slow. "So shut-up now." said the officer. Well, guess who was starting to get hungry after 8 hours in custody? . . .

 . . . People are hungry. We plead to the passing guards for food or and explanation, or to tell us what's happening - even too split us up so we can lie on the cold concrete. They say will be processed, interviewed, charged and released in about maybe 3 hours - we can also make a call then to legal aid. And food? "We're working on it." We ask they guards how they could be a part of this. Some look guilty as hell, some laugh. We get the attention of Toronto Special Constable White, a short balding man with glasses. He comes to us; we all desperately and calmly explain what's happening to us. White listens, apologizes, admits that it's wrong and says, "I'm just a pea in a pod. I can't help." So, the old "I'm just following orders", which followers of human right violators have used for ages - wrong is wrong, whither it's your paycheck or not. But hey, this is the G20, blood money for all! . . .

. . . We've been in the cage for 10 hours, crammed together. Finally food arrives in the form of a plastic wrapped dinner roll with a slice a processed cheese in it, and slathered in butter. Everyone digs into their food, devouring them. It's around 8:30am. . . 

. . . We are thirsty again; it's been 15 hours in police custody. Still 39 guys overcrowded. Getting very scary. Awake for around 30 hours. Had one sip of water and cheese shit-bun. The 16 year old hasn't been able to call his parents. We yell for someone to help us, to help this 16 year old kid - for someone to do anything, to please help us. . .

. . . We yell for help, some cops are laughing, some look devastated and helpless. I'm so thirsty and I'm screaming for water. It felt like nothing I've ever felt before. A prisoner. Innocent. Screaming at my captors for water. Right then my heart broke. . .

. . . I looked around at the screaming men, the scared kid, the huddled couple, the disgusted Germans, the confused old man, the First Nations man who didn't seem surprised at all, the guards laughing, the others dismayed. Thought about the peaceful things I saw at the park, the grandmothers with AIDS orphans, Kate taken away in handcuffs, the kid with CP roughed up, begging for water and my heart simply broke. That's the only way I can describe it. My beloved country, my city. I looked down at my t-shirt - bright blue with a big white maple leaf and in bold, caps letters below: FREEDOM. I kid you not. I was proud to wear that shirt earlier that day. Now it stung. I was so helpless and empty. For those of you who may not think this sounds like much, or is justified, you weren't there. People from all walks of life were breaking in that place, including police officers. One guy lost it and went into "Fucking pigs! Fucking giving us swine flu! Fuck you!" I always thought people who said things like this don't appreciate that the police have a hard job and deal with so much crap. But right then, I got this guy and those people. People who have been victims of the police. Are all bad? No. But they give into their own kind of mob mentality. I saw the blood lust in those Riot Cops eyes and the disregarded from some of these guards. One man yelled 'We are people! We pay your salary through taxes!" the officer yelled "You don't paying any fucking taxes, look at you!", the university educated, employed man in awe asked "What the hell do you mean?" He walks away laughing. . .

. . . My mouth was pasty and dry. Some guys mouths were cracked. We were once again ignored and told to wait. More promises of the Otherside. Some try to sleep on the concrete and share the single metal bench. Officers wander the hallways aimlessly, some calling out names, asking each other what happened to certain prisoners -confused. Several officers repeatedly pass our cell asking for the same names and numbers. Why don't they know where they put anyone? There were hundreds of officers in this place. Why so slow to process? What was the charge? Where is our phone call? I beg for more water. I'm getting dizzy and have been up for 31 hours. The lights never dimmed, no blankets. The majority of everyone I've met so far lives in Toronto. . .

. . . I passed out. After begging for water. I passed out and fell over in jail. What was happening to me? No sleep, no water. They men went nuts "Is this what it takes, a guy passing out! Christ!! What's wrong with you monsters!" My head kills, they ask for medical attention for me, I second the motion and we're told "Not right now". Guys slump to the floor in defeat. The female officer who helped me aids in bringing some watery orange Tang to all the cells. We line up, quietly and broken for our drink. I find out from Kate that this same female officer broke down and cried with the women at their cell. She was sobbing and apologizing "This is wrong, you shouldn't be here. This is all so wrong". There own officers couldn't handle it, she was worn down by the injustices she was being ordered to do. This happened in Toronto. . .

. . . The only evidence I can see that it's the day is a tiny hold 200 feet up with light on the outside. I wonder if anyone knows what happened down at the Novotel or what's happening in here? We've only seen officers - no lawyers, medics or media (other than the ones in cages). It's getting close to 24 hours in custody. I haven't slept in 40 hours and new prisoners are being brought in.. We're told they are trying to process the women first, as they are out of room for female prisoners. I find a silver lining in that, hoping Kate might have gone home. . .

The release after 23 hours: 

We're told we're being taken straight outside. No processing, no interview, no phone calls. We're leaving. The officer who was there when we first arrived and made the Auschwitz joke comes back in for his next day of work, sees us and says, "Holy shit, you guys are still here? What the fuck is going on here?" and walks away. A few more guys are taken from our cell, we're all calling each other brother now, pounding our handcuffed fists and reminding each other of how we'll stay in touch and to tell everyone what's happening in here. Then there is a loud steady booming. A rainstorm. The sound fills the entire chasm. Sounds like heavy rain. They finally take the 16-year-old kid. . .

. . . The detention centre was as Eastern Ave. and Pape. I have no money, no wallet, no phone. My head is aching, my wrists raw, body sore and awake for 43 hours. I walk up Pape to Queen. I have a long walk home to Jarvis/Gerrard. My keys and shoelaces are in a bag. Some people didn't get their shoes back. Standing in the rain. No shoes. The angry is whelming up inside, my brain is exploding, tears are filling my eyes and I scream and punch the construction wall next to me. How did this happen? Where are my friends? What did I do? Who was in charge in there? I'm crushed, lost and might as have been hit like by a truck.  

Now what?

That's all true. Think about it. Is this Canada? Do you think this is right? You don't want to live in a country where this happens. It's changed my whole outlook and attitude on life. My responsibility to every human being in this world. Plato said, "The Price of Apathy towards public affairs is to be Ruled by Evil Men." I used that as a tagline for a play I co-wrote and directed in the 2006 Toronto Fringe, called Lifeboat. Back then I felt pretty good that I explored these issues in my theatre work. Now I know it has to be a part of my life. The World needs you. Educate yourself. Your comfort is shame; your looking away kills people. You're not small. You're not helpless. You can something. You have a voice, don't let them silence you before you even try to speak. 

If you're still not convinced here are some more links worth following:

• Toronto Star: 20 people's stories - http://bit.ly/aPJF06 
• Queers segregated: Youtube video - http://bit.ly/cjhdil
• The National Post photographers arrested - http://bit.ly/9kLb1Y
• Xtra: editorial - http://bit.ly/dmADl1
• Globe and Mail: cops lied about 5 metre rule - http://bit.ly/aJtoXL
• CBC: detained/assaulted journo's suing - http://bit.ly/a3XR42
• CityNews photographer detained - http://bit.ly/deCVuV
• Police State Murray Dobbin: http://bit.ly/clUi1h
• The Toronto Sun??!!! (right wing paper) - http://bit.ly/cGSwNg
• Toronto Sun: Seized "weapons" - http://bit.ly/atLbPG
• Torontoist: The fourteen essential G20 videos - http://bit.ly/bCqnSX
• Woman hit by muzzle blast (video) - http://bit.ly/aVzPyJ
• TTC fare collector held for 36 hours - http://bit.ly/c1W6hH
• BlogTO: shots of the inside of the detention centre - http://bit.ly/d0GZje
• Toronto Star: editorial - http://bit.ly/dDvbJM
• Another first hand account - http://bit.ly/9VQ15r

 People are calling for the resignation of Police Chief Bill Blair.  Not that I can't get behind that but does anyone really think that a different chief would make a difference?  Does anyone really believe that he made all those calls on his own?  I was talking to a friend about this and he asked, "why didn't any of the cops refuse to do it?"  So out came my inner social psychologist.  I talked to him about the Milgram Experiment, the Stanford Prison Experiment and the theory of groupthink.  So I understand why in a situation like this no individual cop would risk objecting.  This isn't about Bill Blair, this isn't about individual cops, this is about the police being organized on a militaristic model which divides the world into us (the cops) and them (the public).  This is about an organizational culture that attracts people with a black and white outlook who like wielding their power and pushes out people with a more complex world view who sincerely want to help people.

I'm hoping that there is an official inquiry into what happened at the G20.  I would love to see the police held accountable for these gross injustices.  I would love to see more measures put into place to prevent the erosion of our civil liberties in the name of "security."  But the reality is that the real problem is endemic to the system and so long as this system remains as it is there's only so much progress that can be made.

 

The end of the world is nigh, and I forgot my gas mask

vi·o·lence adj.

1. Physical force exerted for the purpose of violating, damaging, or abusing: crimes of violence.

2. The act or an instance of violent action or behavior.
(http://www.thefreedictionary.com/violence)

I have been dreading the G20.  For the last week or so I've been listening to news coverage of all the security measures they've been putting in place downtown.  On one hand I was worried about overzealous riot cops geared up to "show those activists a thing or two" and on the other hand I was dreading the inevitable reports about violent protesters.  Ten years ago I would have been worried about the media exaggerating the violence of the protesters and  invalidating the very real issues at hand.  Now, with this new(ish)wave of anti-globalization activism it seems we can't get through an international summit without some faction of the protesters getting belligerent, offensive and flat out violent.  This pisses me off so fucking much that I struggle to get the words out.  So before I continue with that rant let me give you some of my background.

I grew up with a real hippy mom.  Not a pot-smoking, free loving "groovy" hippy, no.  I mean a strongly political, true pacifist who taught us to speak out and stand up for what we believed in.  I went to environmental rallies and talked openly with my mom about sex, drugs and being weird.  When I was in high school I joined the Environmental Youth Alliance and helped organize a peace rally during the first gulf war.  Later, when I moved to Guelph I got involved with an activist teen 'zine.  As a result of joining the 'zine I got involved with the International Socialists (if you know them I can only say I had yet to learn what they were really about).  I joined this group thinking I had found a group of like-minded activists.  It didn't take long for me to see that they were mostly bullies dressed in activists clothing.  I never doubted their commitment but they were rigid, unimaginative, and frequently unkind.  They believed that their way was the only way and there was no room for real discussion and exploration of the issues.

After I left I.S. I stayed in Guelph and went to school there.  My years there, always in fairly close contact with "activisty types" I got more and more frustrated and fed-up with this brand of activism.  Put simply I have no tolerance for violence, I have no tolerance for hate, and I have no tolerance for the belief that the ends justify the means.  And let there be no confusion, violence is an act of hate.  There can and will not be any positive change as a result of hateful actions. 

I've heard a few people say about the madness that hit Toronto today that "There was no violence, only property damage.  That can be fixed with money."  Let's be perfectly clear, throwing bricks and rocks through store windows is violent.  Throwing shit at a store (literally, they actually threw feces into a store) is violent.  Destroying and setting on fire cop cars is violent.  This is not something you do because you believe that it will create real change (if you do, you're fucking deluded).  This is something you do because you like to "fuck shit up" and activism and anarchism give you some kind of thinly veiled excuse to be an asshole.  And by the way, what kind of anti-capitalist use the argument that it's okay because "money can fix it." Last time I checked that was the attitude that got us into this fucking mess.

So let's break it down.  A small faction (and I do mean small, like 1%) of the protesters broke off, fucked some shit up, and then tried to blend back into the crowd so they wouldn't be arrested.  If you're going to disrupt an otherwise peaceful protest with this violent bullshit the least you can do is fucking own it.  But no, you use the presence of the people whose protest you thoroughly fucking undermined to escape arrest.  That's not courage, that's not commitment to the cause.  The kind of activists I was raised to admire were the ones who were willing to get arrested and used passive resistance to emphasize the excessive nature of the police reaction.  With morons like the "Black Bloc" running around it's pretty  bloody hard to make the argument that the security measures are out of line. 

Okay, so now that we've established that these people have no clit to speak of let's move on to the fact that they have completely overshadowed what the other 9,900 people had to say.  Or how about the fact that the actions of the clueless few are endangering the safety of all those other protesters.  Tear gas, sonic cannons and rubber bullets are indiscriminate and when the shit hits the fan it's not only the shit disturbers that get hit.

Simply put: if you don't want to live in a violent world, don't live a life of violence.  If you don't want to life in a hateful world, don't act out of hatred.  And if you think the ends justify the means, you're missing the point.  Because one thing I know is that we are defined by our actions, the ends don't justify the means because the means are and end in themselves. 

To paraphrase Forest Gump's mother, "violence is as violence does" so put down your rocks and bricks and chill the fuck out.

How to look good naked (so long as you look like a girl dammit!)

For a while one of my guilty pleasures was watching "How To Look Good Naked."  For those of you who haven't seen it in any of it's permutations (British, American or Canadian) here's the formula.  Take one average woman whose body image is so bad that she won't get naked in front of her husband (I only ever see straight married women on this show) and introduce her to her saviour in the shape of the benevolent gay host committed to showing her that she is beautiful just as she is.  Once we're introduced to our heroine and all the reasons she hates her body we watch her strip to her skivvies in front of the host and a three way mirror and cry.  The host chimes in at this point to tell her all about how beautiful she already is and how mistaken she is, hugging her all the while, and she tearfully agrees that yes, she would like to feel good about herself.  By the end of the show she is doing a nude photo shoot and modeling lingerie in a runway show at some mall while her family tells us through their tears how she's a new woman now.

There are a lot of things I like about this show.  I like how they show women how distorted there body image is.  In every episode the subject is asked to place herself in a line of women sorted from smallest (hips, ass, belly, depending on the woman's most hated body part) to largest where she thinks she fits.  Invariably she thinks she's bigger than she really is and has an aha moment that goes something like this, "well she's got a gorgeous hips/ass/belly and she's bigger than me?  Wow! I can't believe I was so off!" 

So yes, I appreciate that this show gives all women permission to feel beautiful in their own skin.  I love that they don't give weight loss tips or put them through booty boot-camp.  But as far as debunking the beauty standards it leaves much to be desired.  First, don't tell me that there's nothing wrong with my belly and then put me in a body shaper.  I've tried a body shaper, and while I liked not having a "muffin top" I was hot, the waist-band of the damn thing kept rolling down to my waist giving a lovely double muffin top and I had a weird muffin thigh thing going on where all the displaced leg fat popped out of the bottom of it.  I would rather make peace with my jiggly bits as they are than squeeze myself into that instrument of shame and torture again.  But I digress.  The body shaper is really only a minor quibble.  The real issue for me is much more fundamental.

The thing that really gets my granny panties in a twist is that there is still really only one kind of beauty.  As soon as we get into shopping and hair and make-up it's the same hyper-feminine commercially viable twaddle as "What Not to Wear."  First, you must where heels.  You cannot be beautiful or confident as a woman without some back breaking, foot squeezing stilettos.  You must wear conventional trendy clothes and you must "dress your age."  If someone pleads comfort it's dismissed as so much nonsense.  Comfort, clearly, must never be allowed to trump fashion and confidence comes from feeling sexy.

So maybe that's why all of the women seem to be straight.  Because queer women know that you can be butch and beautiful, you can be a boy-dyke and be the hottest thing at the bar.  You can be a fat girl in a mini skirt with belly rolls and if you own it and carry yourself with confidence there is no questioning that you are fabulous.  If you really want women to love themselves as they are you have to embrace the whole range of gender expression and gender identity.

When I was a teenager hanging out with all of my alternative friends in the alternative scene I felt damn hot when I walked down the street in steel toe boots, leggings, a mini kilt and an over-sized L7 t-shirt.  Now that I'm a mom and married to a man I'm surrounded by "normal" straight people and I have to constantly shut down those voices in my head that make me feel inferior because I'm not femme enough.  These makeover shows just amplify the already overwhelming pressure to toe the gender line.

While I'm glad that some people are starting to talk about fat phobia and fat acceptance I'd feel a lot better if the gender police would just back the fuck off.  If you don't know what I'm talking about ask yourself how many times you've heard some woman disparaged because she didn't shave her legs or pits.  Or how many times you've hears someone say, "she could be pretty if she just tried."  Because seriously, who the fuck says that smooth legs and pits are more feminine, and who says a woman has to be feminine anyway.  And what does it even mean to 'try' to be pretty.  As one woman I know and love said when confronted with that particular line of crap, "I've got better things to do."

Well, I've got better things to do than worry about if my gender expression is threatening to others.  I've spent my whole life not fitting in.  I didn't fit into to the mainstream but I didn't fit into any of the alternative boxes (punk, mod, hippie, grunge etc.).  I'm not straight but I still like men.  I'll wear a skirt and make-up one day and army shorts and boots the next.  I shave my legs but not my pits.  I love to cook and knit but I'm the "handyman" in the house.  By Sandra Bem's Sex Role Inventory I am androgynous, meaning I am high in both masculine and feminine identification.  I like this definition, I embrace it.  But it sure does seem to confuse people.  So, as with so many other things, I say, "Fuck 'em"  because life is too short to let other people tell you who to be.

Try not to laugh: adolescent poetry (1st installment)

Okay, to follow up that last post here's the first installment of my teenage angst in verse.  I know a lot of people have been doing open mic night where people read their adolescent poetry to the great amusement of the crowd.  This is not what I'm doing.  I'm not putting this out there so we can all have a good laugh at how silly teenagers are.  I'm doing this as a way to talk about how real those feelings were.  Once we grow out of the crazy emotional roller coaster that is adolescence it can be easy to dismiss teenagers as being over-dramatic.  This attitude is invalidating, insulting and flat out inaccurate.  If teenagers express their emotions in a way that seems overblown and larger than life it's because that's what they are truly feeling.  I remember one particular high-school dance at another school and I found myself sitting on the floor crying (again), not an unusual occurrence in my frequently depressive state.  One of the cops who was working the dance said to me, "What's wrong?  It can't be that bad, you're only fifteen!"  I didn't say anything.  I wanted to say, "Only fifteen?  At fifteen I could be getting abused at home, assaulted by my boyfriend, mercilessly bullied, struggling with addiction etc. etc." Life can throw crap, even devastating crap, at you at any age.  And it's about time that we start to really hear what kids and teens are trying to tell us about their lives and their perspectives.  So, to serve that end I share with you the darker places I went to as a teenager struggling with depression, bullies and not so healthy relationships.

Installment 1:
Doubt (1991 - grade ten or eleven)
Every time the platform starts to balance out in weight
a leaden rock descends upon the shoulder scales of fate.
I await the day the bulging mass dissolves into the air.
Although I know it's foolish, the pointless hope is there.
External woes surround me, eating at my mind,
creating inner turmoil, my self created bind.
I can no longer separate to whom the fault belongs,
Whether self inflicted or to the hostile throng.
If I be the instigator of this sad demise
then shall I seem so pitiful in those others' eyes?
I would that they refrain from taking such a view.
Unknown to them is the strength that I've  begun to lose.
The one remaining hope is now a distant dream
I cling to this with every fibre of my meagre being.

When I was a teenager sharing my poems with others I often liked to ask, "Can you guess what this one's about?"  I'll spare you that question.  It's pretty clear that this was one of many poems about depression plain and simple.  Stay tuned for the next installment (with much less preamble).

Crying jags, a "strong" woman's best friend

I am supposed to be together.  I am supposed to be strong.  I am supposed to have overcome my struggles and beaten depression.  Most of the time I feel like this is true.  But every once in awhile I get kicked in the gut by by those gut wrenching tears in the middle of the night.  You either know what I mean or you have no idea what I'm talking about.  I can have a dozen  people who would be there for me in a heartbeat but it's almost 2 in the morning and we're not teenagers anymore.  Calling people in the middle of the night just doesn't apply anymore.  I have a partner soundly sleeping upstairs who would want me to wake him up and let him hold me, but I don't want him to know that I'm not okay.

I feel like I've taken the people who love me around this little theme park one too many times.  If I talk to someone about it then I have to admit to what I'm feeling and thinking.  I know that there is nothing new about these doubts and fears.  They've heard it all before.  And I'm supposed to be okay now.  I'm supposed to be better and stronger and free of self-doubt.  And yes, I know how ridiculous it all sounds.  I know that I would feel better if I could talk about it, but I just feel so damn stupid.  I feel like I should know better and that no one who's been there for me over the years should have to listen to anymore of it.  They've done their time.

Ninety five percent of the time I feel fine.  Fuck, I spend a significant amount of time thinking about all the things for which I'm grateful.  But at two in the morning when everyone else is sleeping and all the lonely feelings and niggling self-doubts start to bubble to the surface I may as well be thirteen again for all the tears and sobs and hyperventilating.  So I curl up on the couch with my go-to sad songs and curl up into myself.  And I know that the only way to get through this, short of crying myself to sleep, is to get out of my head.  And since there's nobody to talk to at this ungodly hour, I write.  And since I know that I can't just keep it all to myself, I blog.  Because if this blog is about honestly putting myself out there then this is it.  Because depression isn't just something you go through, get better and leave behind.

Before I went on antidepressants I knew that, even when I wasn't in a depression, it would inevitably return with little warning to suck the life out of me for another year or two.  Now that I'm medicated it hits me on the occasional lonely night.  If it's really bad it sticks around as a low level numbness for a few days.  But even when I know that the feelings are temporary they are so real and so intense that I just get swept away on the tide for a few hours until I finally come back to the surface.  And I don't really want anyone to know.  And that's not okay.  Because once you start hiding it, whatever it is, you're already losing the battle and letting it control you.  So for now I blog and in the morning I'll tell H.  And just for good measure I'll make sure to get a great big hug from the girl.  Because God knows that's all the love I need.

Life in the weird lane, part I (or why the bullies hated me so)

The other day I was listening to CBC and they were talking to someone from Big Brothers and Big Sisters Canada about a survey they had done looking at what parents are most worried about.  As always, one of the top concerns was bullying.  We've been hearing a lot about bullying over the last several years.  A few years ago when "Mean Girls" came out it got everyone talking about how girls bully differently, humiliating each other by using popularity as the bait in a nasty game of shame.

This kind of emotional bullying is cruel, hurtful and malicious.  It also only works if you give a shit about fitting in.  Me, I didn't give a rats ass about popularity or fitting in.  I thought popular kids were conformist and often assholes.  I was weird from day one and my Mom always encouraged me to be "an individual" so I had no pressure to fit in on the home front.  Even before I got into middle school and started experimenting with my unique sense of style, I and all the kids in my class knew that I was weird.  In elementary school this meant I was a social pariah. 

I remember when my 'best friend' became popular in grade 5 and told me that she could only talk to me behind the shed because she couldn't be seen with me.  That year I read "Blubber" by Judy Blume.  If you haven't read it it's all about the sympathetic, exceedingly normal girl who has to do a project with the fat outcast (not, by the way, a very sympathetic character.  I wanted to like Blubber but she was kind of an irritating and dull character).  We get to explore the cruelty of bullying without actually identifying with the bullied kid or frankly, even liking her.  It's nice and safe and totally targeted at bystanders rather than kids who actually experience bullying and teasing at school.

I was an avid reader and watcher of the tube so I had an acute sense of types and archetypes.  It wasn't until I read "Blubber" that I realized that I was 'that kid.'  I'd never thought about where I fit into the social hierarchy but when I read that book it clicked, I was the kid that everyone makes fun of, that was my place in the social landscape.  I'm kind of vague on how bad it was and I'm pretty sure it was more isolation than straight up bullying but I do think it was bad enough to get me crying in bed fairly regularly.  All I can say is, I pined for a group of friends like The Babysitter's Club or the girls on the Facts of Life to stick by me through thick and thin but that was definitely not in the cards for me.

It wasn't until my family moved and I started high school that things turned from the pain of social isolation and general teasing to the world of sexual harassment and threats of violence.  It wasn't just that I was weird looking with my shorts and tights and peace sign and (God forbid) un-permed, un-teased hair. Or that I listened to weird music like the Violent Femmes and the Dead Milkmen. I also didn't fit in to any of the social strata.  On the one hand I didn't drink, I didn't smoke or do any drugs and I didn't put out (despite what so many liked to say) so I couldn't gain acceptance by partying hard.  On the other hand I swore like a trucker, wore tight clothes and didn't believe in God so the bible thumpers wouldn't have me.  To top it all off I was loud and outgoing and refused to just quietly sit at my locker and keep to myself.  Nobody knew what the fuck to make of me.

I usually managed to have some friends but I also lost friends on a regular basis.  One person didn't want me bringing down his popularity quotient so he unceremoniously ditched me.  Another said her parent's thought I was a bad influence (she's thirteen with a 20 year old boyfriend who's regularly drunk but I'm the bad influence).  And others just found other people that they could better relate to.  There were a few people who stuck by me right through and for that I will always be grateful but through all of this the one thing that was never an option was fitting in.  No matter what they did I knew that I would never change for them.  I'd rather be alone and respect myself than fit in and lose myself.  I think a lot of people would say, why not just make it easy on yourself and stop dressing so weird?  But for me there would have been nothing easy about that.  I only know how to be one person and to try to be someone else, for the sake of fitting in no less, would have been the worst kind of betrayal.

Even then I knew this one all important fact: So long as you stay true to yourself and your values, they will never win.

So let me finish with my favourite Molly Ringwald quote. In Pretty in Pink when she decides to go to the dance alone in her self-made dress, "I just want to let them know that they didn't break me."

Stay tuned for Part II