Monday, September 24, 2018

Raise a Little Hell, New Brunswick.

I've never voted in a New Brunswick provincial election; I left home at 17. I tried to cut short my trip down the road and returned in 2015 with a fresh MA in hand. 10 months of brutal fruitless jobsearch later, I moved back to Ontario.

Nevertheless, I feel a deep connection to New Brunswick, and elections crank that feeling into overdrive. Truth be told, my name would have been on a ballot for the Green Party if I was living there right now.

Why do I care so much? 90% of my family lives in New Brunswick. My niblings (nieces & nephew - 10, 6, and 2) are growing up in King's County. I don't want them growing up thinking a call center job in Moncton or an Irving job in Saint John is the only way to make a life in New Brunswick.

I live in Ottawa; when New Brunswick surfaces in the political speak, it's as a cautionary tale. The Irvings have too much media control and practice the most egregious pricing-transfers the law will allow. Bilingualism is bankrupting the province (it's not). First-past-the-post gives rural voters disproportionate influence and keeps unsustainable service models running deficits. Palpable brain drain and population decline. Fracking. Reprehensible indigenous relations. Massive flooding. Blizzards. Pet snakes that escape and kill children. And have you ever smelled the air in Saint John?
New Brunswick pride is being proud of the struggle.

When we started Canada we had a brighter outlook than we have now, and that sucks. The dismal state of public affairs in the province is equally the fault of the Liberals and Progressive Conservatives. The parties have played hot potato with the hard questions for generations.


Tomorrow's election is the best chance the province has to disrupt this trend. Leader David Coon (Fredericton South), Kevin Arsenault (Kent North), and Megan Mitton (Memramcook-Tantramar) may for the Province's first Green caucus; they might even hold the Balance of Power, just like they do in British Colombia.

A Green BoP would be a game-changer for New Brunswickers. Parties have to co-operate to govern, meaning unprecedented accountability to the our citizens. There will be no more back-room deals. There will be a serious conversation about electoral reform, and there will be a leash on the Irvings for the first time in Canadian history.

With beliefs grounded in kindness and long-range planning, David Coon is the hip grandpa New Brunswickers didn't know they needed. Even if you don't live in one of the targeted ridings, Green votes matter. Every Green vote entitles the party to a per-vote subsidy. Voting Green makes politics Greener, whether your candidate wins or not.


The children of Gen Y judge this election. Climate change impacts are just getting started, and we know it. It's not too late to pivot to sustainability.

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

RE: Decolonize Your Drag Pageant

Dear Capital Pride,

As Ottawa's Pride festival approaches, I implore you to decolonize your drag pageant.

The problem is your invocation of titles. Titles are a tool of colonialism. Settlers gave titles to indigenous people to conscript them into White class and gender ideals. Titles have the colonial baggage of being an empty "gift" colonizers gave the "good Indians". The politics of respectability are the politics of binary gender, feminine disempowerment, classism, and white supremacy.


For trans, two-spirit, and non-binary people, titles are a constant marker of non-belonging. The addition of Mx. is not justice.

Separate is never equal, and drag exists to destroy gender expectations. The three competition categories are antithetical to the aims of Capital Pride and ought to be consolidated into a single 15-person competition.

There is an observable hierarchy in drag; all you have to do is follow the tips. Hyperdrag, masc, trans, and androgynous performers are never given an equal stage with the cis guys who transform themselves into passable women characters. The oppressive notion that the competition reinforces is that drag as impersonation is better than drag as authenticity.

As a non-binary man in club kid masc drag, I didn't see a place for me in your competition. My personal dilemma was having to choose between Mr & Mx. I shan't be forced into strategically choosing a gender expression for the sake a competition. I couldn't possibly make myself fit into one of those 3 neat gender boxes.  (To be honest, I'd also want to be ~4 drinks in.)


Winners are to assume nominal commitments as community ambassadors. Cool...Then why can't that be the award? Gold, silver, and bronze Capital Pride ambassadors.

Let's also talk about the "straight ban". Anyone who wants to do drag competitively is queer enough for me.


Queer is a verb. 
Drag as an artform queers space and time. 
Drag is queer inherently; it is not "owned" by people who call themselves queer.

Drag can't be straight.

The language chosen to weed out the breeders insists on sameness of queer and gender diverse people that does not exist in reality. The idea of singular community is exploited by Pride festivals in Canada's large cities by corporations, charities, and community organizers alike. The homogeneity (giggity) of queer and gender diverse experiences and opinions is insisted upon for profit and political gain.

Your materials need to pluralize communities.

I'm equally disappointed that the language in your title description conflates sex and gender. If Capital Pride cannot produce materials in gender inclusive language, they need to contract out their publications to queer and gender diverse freelancers who do. (Wink!)

I posted a question about how the categories were being administered on the Facebook event, and the comment was never approved for publication. Silencing critical questions is not something to take Pride in.


Thank you in advance for making appropriate changes to your programming.

Friday, July 13, 2018

Doug, Stop Censoring #SexEd

Hey Doug,

You said you'd lead a government for the people, but did you mean it?

The reversion of Ontario's sex ed curriculum to its 1998 edition is the most hypocritical thing your government could do.
"The party with the taxpayer's money is over."

That's not what this looks like, Doug.

You're putting your ideas about the way things should be above the free exchange of evidence-based ideas between Ontarians. More and more relevant facts are available in the present curriculum.

Doug, you're censoring queer and gender diverse people out of the curriculum; you're the government telling me how to raise my family.


Let's be very clear about the "mandate" you have in relation to sex ed. You never released a costed platform. How much is this policy change going to cost? And will it be worth it? Spoiler: no. It's not worth it to rob a generation of consent and diversity education.

Young Ontarians have been learning the curriculum for three years now. The sky has not fallen. The new normal is nothing like 1998.

A small interest group expressed its discontent with the update, and you let them dictate your educational policy for the rest of us.

If they want the old curriculum, let 'em have it. Why does that have to affect anyone else? Offer the 1998 curriculum as an opt-in option. Don't put a single dollar into censoring valuable facts out of the Ontario curriculum.  

Where insufficient opt-ins exist to conduct a physical class, online courses can reach every corner of the province without significant human resources and retraining.

You need to live your promise to make a lean pragmatic government for the people. If you cannot be both progressive and conservative, history will mock you. 

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Wilful Ignorance: A Biopolitical Diary Entry

When I arrived in Toronto I wrote that I felt like the city would bring out my innermost Slytherin. I now realize that feeling was terribly optimistic. In a more accurate account of reality, I had a libertarian tryst with Toronto.

Toronto was the blank slate I chose after lighting my old life on fire with a hard turn into radical authenticity publishing my deepest confessions as my 2016 #Thisisme blog challenge. I thought being authentic and unapologetic was enough to thrive in the Big Smoke. I was wrong.

I’m quite proud of how alternative my life was in Toronto. The bubble I built myself was full of cannabis enthusiasts, kinksters, and artists, but something about the bubble never stuck.

Becoming a Torontonian crept up on me. I remember the moment; I was walking down Church Street, and a street car drove by down Queen Street. It clicked how much easier it would be to walk a few blocks South and streetcar to Queen West than take the subway to St. Andrew station and walk. And that was it: the moment I was 'one of them'.



Coming from small town Atlantic Canada, there's an internalized resistance to Ontario and Alberta. Significant brain drain leaves a bitter taste toward expats whose lives take them 'down the road'. Landing in the rest of Canada is met with much more optimism.

For a lot of us East Coast ex-pats, Ontario was supposed to be a phase. Get a degree or two; have a career job for a few years. Then it's on to Montreal, Vancouver, or some international city for a high life before trekking back East to start a family or retire.

Sometimes Ontario becomes home, and that's OK. It's not settling or a step back to change your mind about how you feel about a place. I made peace with being an Ontarian in Ottawa, but Toronto is a city without a silver lining; it's fast and harsh. The good never catches up to the greed, and the proof is in the streets.

I survived this two-year chapter paying my bills with sin-money. Both my jobs would have offended the sensibilities of many; I was dispensary staff at Cannabis Culture Church Street and a front house employee of Oasis Aqualounge, a popular sex club in Toronto. Despite the great party introduction, my “fun jobs” came with their own unique drawbacks.

Each job had I took a different toll. The legal context of Cannabis Culture and ethical concerns with Oasis were huge sources of anxiety. The duties of both required repetitive upper body movement that fucked up my neck and shoulders. The extreme compartmentalization that facilitated my employment came at an interpersonal cost; I had to banish the whole idea of work from my mind when I walked out the doors. Unfortunately, that process dissuaded me from forming closer friendships with co-workers. In the end, neither are businesses I will champion moving forward in my career.

Regardless, Cannabis Culture changed the course of my life, and I look at that time with fondness.

***

After a couple weeks as a customer, I talked my way into my retail first job by reminiscing about Amsterdam and speaking of my commitments to civil liberties. Marc Emery personally interviewed me and offered me a trial shift on the spot. That was my first of many days.

Marc and I had a mutually beneficial relationship that didn’t require much interaction. We couldn’t be two more different people, both impressive in our own rights. My tolerance for him would sour as I began to understand his approach to women. A self-professed hedonist, it was clear that Marc’s first consideration of a woman was sexual, and all her other details were secondary.

He was a horrible boss to women. I witnessed so much inappropriate workplace touching that I don't have one particularly jarring incident to share: cheek kisses, lingering hugs, massaged shoulders. Boundaries were more of a suggestion.

Cannabis Culture operated in a (dark) grey part of the economy. We were a registered business paying sales taxes, and the legalization had been politically promised. Staff were compensated well but offered no job security or mechanism for ensuring workplace standards. The role I performed was civilly disobedient and pre-legal. 

The storefront and lounge openly sold weed. Weed came from jars. Jars came from the safe. That’s all I knew. That’s all I wanted to know.

We were always busy, and our risk was compensated well. Pay was $15/hour and a cash daily bonus if the store hit predetermined sales targets to a maximum of $420 for over $65 000 in sales. At our peak of business, we exceeded that target each day of the week and cleared one million dollars in sales in one month. Obviously, they were going to shut it down.

It’s easy to look at CC with nothing but nostalgia, and I love it for that. I loved serving the most diverse cross-section of society I could possibly imagine. Literally, every type of person rolled through 461 Church Street. The anxiety melts away when you’re reflecting and not wondering if you’re going to be arrested during your shift.

I was really good at the job. I had the right combination of customer relatability, product knowledge, and efficiency behind the counter. Five of six of us at any given time would be dancing between one-another holding giant jars of weed. Eight hours of my day was near full-volume unchoreographed collision-prone budtending retail transactions. I miss it all the time, but I have to hold the experience to full account.

Cannabis Culture was problematic. 

The worst thing I saw on the job wasn't sketchy; it was mean. Marc yelled at a 5'0 employee until she quit for something I did and told Marc I did.

During a rather slow day, I'd been facing our retail case for a bit with my co-worker. The day before a vendor rep (from EDT) came in during business hours when Marc wasn't around and demanded a better position for his products. With no direction otherwise, the manager on duty agreed.

The following day, I was cleaning up the mess of the Happyface pens from the askew from busy night before. What started a disorganized pile, I replaced with as many unique varieties as the glass-space allotted would allow and an elastic-bound set of duplicates behind. Not idiotic, right? 

At a very busy point near the end of my day, Marc asked me "who set up the Happyface pens? I'm really upset about that." To which I responded: "Oh, I did. You know the EDT rep messed everything up yesterday, right?" I see that he's about to launch into a rant, so I looked at him coldly and said "Well, I'm going to help the next customer..." And I did.

As I did, Marc literally spun around to find the first person he could take his feelings out on; I won’t name her. Co-workers told me after the fact that they’d kept an attentive eye on that conversation because they were worried about the possibility of violence. 

After Project Gator raids across the country, Marc and Jodie Emery were arrested, and Village Cannabis Dispensary was resurrected in the ashes of Cannabis Culture Church Street. Jamie McConnell took the reigns of the dispensary; one of his first decisions was to call her, apologize, offer her job back, and promise that she would never be spoken to like that as long as he was owner.

Side bar: Jamie's a great guy, and he runs the city's best dispensary - I encourage any Torontonians looking for an elevated cannabis retail experience to check his current spot, Sea of Green, 2140 Dundas St. W.

Cannabis Culture management was oblivious to the dispensary's position in the Church-Wellesley village. CC pinkwashed so hard it ought to be used in introductory gender studies textbooks.

Local events company, and self-appointed queer community ambassadors, MOJO Entertainment contacted Marc to complain that they’d heard about patrons who were disrespected or harassed in and in front of the store. Legit concern? Yes. Legit response? Not quite.

The answer was drag show called Ganja Queens produced by MOJO Entertainment and a few thousand dollars donated to an HIV-related charity. MOJO Entertainment stoked the criticism of Cannabis Culture as inadequately queer-friendly in an ingenious/insidious play for business. Indignation on behalf of queers was the brand and ignorance was the customer. Rather than administering the space in a meaningfully inclusive way, a transaction was amends enough.

The problem was deeper than a drag show. Cannabis Culture hosted the wildest instance of transphobia I’ve ever been witness to. As I’m telling my cis gay co-worker in his 40’s why he shouldn’t be referring to trans women as "'trannies", a trans woman walked into the store. He pivoted and clocked her immediately asking: “It’s ok to to say tranny, isn’t it? We’re on Church Street.” She had an accent of some kind, but her response was cold and clear. “No. Don’t say “tranny”; it’s as offensive as “nigger””. At that point, I apologized on behalf of my co-worker and filled the woman’s order. I’m pretty sure I gave her great count for her troubles.

Indigenous profiling was rampant. Marc, to be consistent with his tax-hating libertarian values, wanted us to honour the tax-exempt status of card-holding indigenous patrons. Some of the staff took it upon themselves to pick out people who “looked native” and tell them about the policy. They thought they were helping, but we were selling weed openly and pre-legally. Making the transaction immediately about indigeneity was not a good idea.

Cannabis Culture was like Studio 54. It was magical because it was always a limited time offer. Only the handful of people who lived it know what it was really like. For all the memories I have from that place, it’s not a brand I’ll be supporting in the future.

Until Cannabis Culture, I’d never used a cash register, and Oasis was the first time I found myself on the merchant side of a debit machine. I didn’t sell weed before or after my time at CC/VCD, and I had never set foot in a sex club before the Oasis interview where I was offered a position.

Oasis is a sex club. Cis men had an observably hard time understanding that a sex-positive space is not necessarily going to get you laid. A lot of straight guys thought we were a brothel, and many gay men thought it was a bathhouse for straight people.

None of the above. A bar with a pool where you're allowed to have sex isn't that complicated. If you want to get laid, show up with a partner. Lots of singles hook up, but it couldn't be further from a sure thing. Many patrons joined for the facilities and the alternative social atmosphere the club fosters.

Oasis shifts were brutally long. They actually adopted shorter shifts during my last week, but during my time, a cleaner shift lasted from 9:30 am-7 pm. A day bar/day float/door shift lasted from 10:30 am-7 pm, and night shifts began at 6:45 pm and lasted until 4 am on an average night. My shifts were a mix of day bar, cleaner, and night float. I bar-tended two nights, but night shifts were hard on me.

The anxiety drugs I'm on are to be taken at the same time every day. They're uppers, so they regulate sleep times. A night shift or two per week meant throwing my neurochemistry out of balance, quite often agitating an immune system crash and getting me sick. Unfortunately, the fiscal reality of Oasis was that night shifts were worth almost double a day shift with tips calculated in.

Oasis, like Cannabis Culture, was a magical place where the everyday rules of society were suspended by default. Customers could skip niceties because of the sex-positive nature of the club; things could take a funny or serious turn in an instant.

Day bar was my favourite. Being personable and knowledgeable were more important than discerning taste. I’m not a great bartender; I barely drink and it’s not a sophisticated consumption when I indulge.

I am, however, a great person to stick behind a bar at a sex club. I don’t flinch, and I practice utmost diligence with inclusive language (minus swearing all the time). Day bar was where you could actually have a good conversation with the patrons.

Cleaner shifts were laborious and repetitive, and that’s what I liked about them. I felt like my time had the most purpose cleaning. I could avoid people almost entirely if wanted to, and I conceived it as a work out. It was one.

Float shifts at night were hit or miss. It was when I'd see the most sex going down.
Because you’re going to wonder: it took 3 weeks for the “holy shit, everyone is just having sex around me” to wear off. And the most extreme thing I saw was two rows of flesh pierced on a woman’s back. Each was fitted with a silver hoop through which a ribbon had been strung.

As mentioned, Oasis is not a business I will champion. If you've ever read anything I've written in the last seven-ish years, my flagrant opposition to gendered admissions and pricing discrimination would have been assumed.

Enter the ethical qualm: Oasis gender polices for profit. Single men's admission is restricted or billed differently depending on the day's events. Two men are not eligible for the couple's rate, and AMAB non-binary patrons have their identities challenged. These are not practices I condone; these are not practices I believe are compliant with the Ontario Human Rights Code.

I made peace with the arrangement in a few ways. First, they were the kind of business who I would take money from, but not give money to. I refused door training; I would not be personally gender policing anyone. I also skipped all of the staff meetings where I may have been asked my opinion on operations. At one point I considered throwing a costume-themed event at Oasis, but I couldn't put  my name on an event in a space that gender polices.

I agreed to disagree with Oasis in silence only as long as I financially needed the job. My late March resignation was my first big step out of Toronto, and it felt gooooood.


The no-holds-barred resignation letter I handed in solicited an unexpected response from the principal owner. I haven't and won't be reading that email. My gift to myself and to Oasis is letting it go. Richard is a kind, reasonable man, and I suspect he would want to talk about it. I don’t though. My peace came at a cost too.

The decision not to file a human rights complaint against Oasis was not one I arrived at lightly. As an activist and a non-binary person, I constantly advocate legal gender pluralism. My complaint could have significantly advanced judicial consensus toward gender justice, but the personal cost was too much.

Filing against Oasis would have meant months, if not years, of investigation and bureaucracy. It meant having to publicly vilify people I considered friends. I continue to believe that Oasis policies are discriminatory, but I cannot take on the duty of seeking legal gender pluralism alone.

So here I am, fleeing Toronto 22 months after arriving. I didn't get what I expected out of the city, but I appreciate what I did get.

I made a lot of peace with my body. I sold original art. I got way better at makeup and owned my identity as a club kid. I reconnected with some of the best people I met at Carleton. (Shout outs to Laura, Tim, and Hayleigh!!)

I'm also super proud of myself for being open to romantic relationships. Toronto is a great place to be an unrepentant slut, so I'm happy I found something more than that. It's a big deal because isolation is one of my more unhealthy responses to anxiety. Being open to a serious relationship was a concerted step toward a balanced life.

I don't date in a conventional sense. I usually know by the end of a first date if there's long-term potential or not. If there is, I don't fuck around. Either they're the co-pilot or they're not; let's not waste time.

While, I'm leaving as single as I came. I had someone I loved, who loved me back. The relationship was fast, bright, and ultimately incompatible, but I did find love, however fleeting.

A lot of days I feel like Toronto won, and I lost. In reality, Toronto was a growth opportunity, not a game. I leave with mixed feelings, surer of only one thing now than I was when I arrived: talent does not stay still.


Friday, October 20, 2017

Spaces I Love: The Shed

I'm doing a new writing project because everything I write about is intense and/or political and/or me dealing with the flaming sphere that is the Earth. Here goes:



The Shed, Meadow Crescent, Sussex Corner, New Brunswick, Canada. 

In the back left hand corner of my mother’s yard, there’s a shed I loved.

The only pic I have.
The shed must have been built a couple years before or into my life. I never remember it not being there.

It started a dog shed. The area was a kennel when it was functioning as intended. There was a perimeter of wire fencing panels around a poured cement slab, and doggie doors were cut into the side of a sturdy purpose-built 4m x 5m structure.

Rather unfortunately, the setting of this memory is also a flood plane. Trout Creek, a tributary to the Kennebecaisis and later Saint John rivers, occasionally swallows chunks of the Meadow Crescent/Cunningham Ave area. The house has been completely surrounded by water more than once.

This shed had the shit kicked out of it. When my parents divorced, and no dogs lived there; it became an unsightly storage shed.

Someone at some point gave my brother and I neon pink spray paint, which ended up in mostly abstract/illegible splashes of color inside and outside the shed. Against the dark wood walls and rotting wood floor, the neon pink was a pleasant contrast.

Aftfer my MA, I landed in Sussex Corner for 10 trying months. The winter was harsh as fuck that year. There was so much shoveling. I baked, and I cleaned, and that’s when I finally started exercising regularly.

So my cleaning impulse was particularly ambitious a set of warm spring days. The space I began with was awful. There was garbage covered in rotting leaves grown over by saplings and weeds. The yard was destroyed by the Winter; whole trees had fallen, and chunks of bark littered the back half of the lawn.

So much sweat and muscle strain went into cleaning up that lawn and shed. I suppress that part of the memory wherever possible.

I was motivated by a clear vision, a cement patio with a bistro set and white lights wraped around the 10-15 year old trees growing up beside the slab. Tbh, if you were looking into the woods and not at all at my mom’s house, it totally would have felt like a shed you’d find in the woods of a Disney tale.

Among the things I hauled out of that nasty corner:  a plastic wagon, turtle shaped flutter board, rusted tonka trucks, ~2 broken windows worth of glass shards, and two of those weird snow brick makers.

The shed hosted a selection of wood panelling that used to hang on the basement walls. Eight or so panels in various states of moisture and decay. But sandwiched between two of these pieces of paneling, I found an antique coca-cola sign, which turned out to be quite valuable.

Structurally, the shed was sound, but large chunks of the floor were rotted through, and a thick layer of moss covered the roof. It didn’t leak, and it offered some privacy and shelter from the wind.  I epoxy’d a window back into place - like a pro.

It smelled earthy - almost a smell I'd call innocent like that rare instance when nature’s on your side. It kept cooler than the house in the height of the summer. Goddamn, New Brunswick has extreme weather.

I emptied it entirely, and I swept until I couldn’t sweep anything else up. The process started with a shovel, box and dust mask, and ended with windex and paper towel. A meager furnishing; a lawn chair, a card table, and more often than not my foam mat, initially for camping but re-purposed for exercise, and a few blankets.

This was my kingdom. I forged it from a wasteland into my favorite space on the property. I made myself an escape from my mother and her regular string of guests. I mostly used/loved the space because I could smoke weed without having to worry if anyone would care. I would load up a show on Netflix or a job posting I was responding to and bring my laptop down to the shed for a couple hours.

I got a little smarter though. The router was in my room at the back of the house. I found a longer coaxial cable and hung the router out my window and the signal was weak, but it made it to the shed! Game-fucking-changer!!

I also had mediocre sex in the shed twice. Couple of super closeted bottom guys off of grindr probably a month apart.

As much as I love weed and sex, the space meant so much more than that. It was a metaphor for survival and grit. It was a project of renewal and re-purposing, and it was a space I loved.

Friday, October 13, 2017

Cruel Summer: A Biopolitical Diary Entry

That feeling of clarity when you’re on the other side of something awful is one of the best feelings in the world. I have that feeling.

Today is my last day in household agony. Well, it better fucking be. Until recently, I was smothered by things I couldn’t control, but my senses of purpose and hope have been replenished. A very dark chapter in my life is closing today.

As I’ve told the internet, I think about suicide all the time, but it’s usually not an issue. Things are bad when suicide dances on the line between benign consideration and desire. Things are worse when those thoughts get played on high rotation in the internal narration of my life. Things are dangerous when a desire becomes a plan. Thankfully, a suicide plan was never part of the summer's trauma, but the thoughts on repeat were enough for me to ask for an increased prescription. 

Let's start at the beginning, After a series of dispensary raids, my tenure as a well-paid budtender on Toronto’s Church Street came to an end. I had saved responsibly, and I was in good financial shape in April, when life began to crack apart ever so slightly.

It began when I found a bed bug on my pillow.

Sidebar: pests are a common urban issue, not a measure of cleanliness or poverty. Google it before you embarrass yourself with a douchey comment.

Naturally, we put on our grown up shoes and told our rental company right away. They scheduled Orkin bedbug treatments, two chemical sprays two weeks apart in early May. 

Because nothing is ever easy, the next months snowballed from a routine pest control incident into months of feeling homeless, hopeless, and suicidal.

In order to prepare for the chemical sprays, everything had to be stripped from dressers, closets, desks and shelves then stored in sealed bags or bins. All clothing was to be washed in hot water and dried on high. It was fucking arduous.

I love my roommate, but she owns an impractical truckload of belongings. The volume of objects she had to pack was just stupid.

Courtney is half of Drag Coven, a creative duo that documents and does drag, so she travels a lot. I would say she’s gone 50% of the time, if not more. Travel schedules meant Courtney's unpacking/ prepping availability was quite limited. The balcony hosted many of her belongings the entire summer.

A post shared by Drag Coven (@dragcoven) on

(I can't shrink this embed..)

Mental state level: Not good, and declining proportionally with savings, but Europe!!

Evelyn, the best friend I got out my MA at Carleton, and I had been dreaming of Iceland for 3 years. She’s living in Geneva, so we knocked one off the bucket list and met in Iceland to begin our mini Eurotrip (Reykjavik, Zurich, Geneva). It’s great feeling to know you have someone who will meet you on a cold island in the middle of the North Atlantic.

Zurich was the runway favorite destination of the trip. The city let me learn about myself in ways I hadn’t.

Zurich made me think about my relationship to space and language. I am not a fan of Toronto, and it was so nice to feel genuine appreciation for the space I occupied. I realized space and place are elements of life I need to prioritize for my ongoing well-being.

The Toronto I live in (Church-Wellesley Village) is daily displays of poverty, starved for social services, and fueled by a culture of drug and alcohol use. The queer communities here are rife with internal discrimination and advertisers and non-profits use stereotypes to decorate most of the villages's posters. Nature is a subway ride away, and housing is expensive and scarce. Toronto has lots of nice places and things to do, but the bare bones of the city are ugly. If money was no object, I could like my life in Toronto, but I don't.

Zurich tuned me into the importance of sense of place. I realized I’m happier in non-English cities. My anxiety is calmed by being required by surroundings to be more present in the moment. Having to pay more attention to the space I’m in occupies my mind, so that I don’t have the capacity or impulse to overthink and project myself far into the future.

So the summer started with a nice boost. Things were manageable, but unemployment was a source of stress.

Then we found more bed bugs in July. Courtney was being bitten, but there were no traces of bed bugs in her room. Then I found bites and went looking. I found them living in the tiny holes in my bedframe. It’s an Ikea bed that had different pre-drilled holes to adjust the depth at which the mattress would sit. My bed sits on the middle one.

Obviously when I see a bunch of tiny beetles living in my bed frame I freak the fuck out and grab a torch to kill them with. I crushed and roasted all of them I could find and soaked my whole bed frame with furniture polish.

So once again, we had to pack our lives away.

At least we were smarter, if not more fortunate, smarter about how we were going to store all Courtney’s stuff. We missioned to Ikea to buy pop-up tent style wardrobes. They each held about a closet’s worth of crap, so Courtney bought and filled three. I bought one that still isn’t built. (TBH building tents was my least favorite part of camping.)

With this preparation, my sense of home evaporated. The balcony was refilled to the rail, and three ugly white wardrobes took up permanent residence in our dining room (craft room). I lost all will to host guests, maintain the space to my usual standard, and I noticed deep depression when I spent too long at home alone. I felt I was living amidst constant reminders of failure and poverty.

The visual imposition was not good. Even just the balcony being literally filled against a wall to wall window with no curtain dragged me down mental health wise. I used the balcony almost every day. It was one of my best thinking spots, and I still miss it.

It got worse.  As Courtney went the summer in various degrees of belongings sealed away between the balcony and in the three space pod style wardrobes, I lived off dwindling savings and became increasingly stressed about job prospects.

I’ll be frank, I can’t function in traditional job settings. The times I’ve tried, I experienced mental health crises and quit. I had enough saved to spend the whole Summer trying to find a job with a good fit, but that wouldn’t come along until August. July-August was dark for me. I spent too much time alone in a space that I hated.

My anxiety meds got upped, and I found out the hard way how prescription medication is always a gamble with your health. I went on 300 mg of slow release bupropion, and it basically shut down my digestive system. I was in pain and constipated within a couple days of starting the new pills. After 3 days of passing more blood than stool, I stopped the pills and the symptoms began to subside. The fifth day there was blood passed was the last. I got a colonoscopy that would diagnose Irritable bowel syndrome.

Digestive issues and dietary sensitivities have been on my radar for a few years. So not much of a surprise, or an answer. Figure out what fucks with my digestion and don’t eat it. Cool.

Before this wave of digestive trauma, I’d completely cut soy, and dairy was reserved for cereal and coffee. Cheese got phased out over the summer, and I’m doing lactose free milk. Removing cheese had an immediately noticeable benefit, and I think there’s a nominal benefit from the lactose free milk.

This rare reaction does happen to other people. I Googled it, and the guy in the case study didn’t clue in to stop taking pills as early as I did, though. He sustained internal damage that need surgical repair. At least I wasn’t that guy…

Mid-August: I got an interview at a sex club practically around the corner from our apartment, and I was offered a job at the end of it. Since mid-August, I’ve been an employee of Oasis Aqualounge, but I didn’t really feel settled and safe in the position for several weeks. Oh, and I broke my baby toe on my left foot the first weekend after I got the job at Oasis, because the universe hates me.

August wasn’t all sunshine and new jobs. That’s when we found cockroackes! And guess what? There’s an extensive preparation for that too.

Wait for it though.

During that preparation, for a third time, we found bed bugs once again.

The balcony stuff had never come back in, and I own few enough things to have washed it all through in hot water several times. (Oh and fuck the environment, I've been washing in hot water for months because of bed begs).

Whenever something catches my eye I think it’s a bug. It’s unsettling, and it’s been inescapable for months now.

The cockroach spray happened and, we *think* it was effective. There is a period of increased activity when they trudge through the poisoned corners then die. We saw a few shortly after, but haven't in a while now.

Boot to teeth time: the bedbug treatment was being scaled up to a heat treatement. The apartment would be brought up to 60 degrees Celsius for four hours, and that should fry all the bugs and eggs on anything in the apartment. That treatment was supposed to happen last week, but it was rescheduled last minute by our building manager, and is now happening today, Friday, October 13th.

So fucking kill me. I’m still paying $940/Month to feel homeless. We are seeking rental rebates.

My one saving grace over the whole Summer was that I was going to film school in September. Back to school, creative life, new experience blah blah fuzzy feelings that kept me alive. I’m trying to ignore the ruin that is my home space while I start the new adventure of Centennial College’s Advanced TV & Film: Script to Screen program.

It lasted a week.

Film school may have been a description that’s too generous for that program. The program was a post-graduate certificate. Everyone had a bachelor’s degree, and it was only 8 months long. The program was entirely oriented around creating a collaborative short film that could be submitted to festivals. It was all group work and light on technical training. All of the instructors were contract, 3/5 first time instructors to the program.

The grades were made up, and nothing felt serious. The program director and writing instructor begged us so genuinely during both introductory sessions to come to class. That blew my fucking mind.

I realize I went to grad school, and that experience is completely different from undergraduate studies. If you miss a grad class, email your prof with a genuine apology. If that's not your approach, don't go to grad school. I was the MA student who did like 90+% of the required readings. I was there to talk about what we agreed to talk about. And I was for college too.

I’m too serious of person for that style of education. I want to be taken seriously by other serious people. This was not what was going on with this program. The experience was too character driven and not enough focused on imparting skills that would advance a videomaking career.

At the end of the day, the program wouldn’t have given me the proficiencies I would need for working in technical aspects of film and TV. Like, sure, I could edit something, but my 8 month program and collaboration on a short film isn’t going to get me a job at Netflix. And that’s what I wanted.

The logic behind my withdrawal actually came after the emotion of it all. Bodies tell us things the mind can’t accept yet. The “this is wrong” feeling for me is the feeling like my time is being held hostage, and I’d rather be anywhere else. I had two long installments of those moments in the both directing and editing classes. I needed to use my time otherwise. The return was not worth the struggle it would have been study on top of working enough hours to pay bills.

I’m still interested in creative work, but I would not be comfortable pursuing a technical film career without a more serious education. I am not stepping away from the medium, and I plan to acquire editing skills through other channels.

I’d also been torturing myself with thoughts of doing a PhD in September 2018, and the voices finally won. I ran out of reasons not to. I miss having peers. I miss the hope of working with students in critical social sciences, and I’d like a better dating pool.

The least alone I’ve ever been is in school. I don’t know if that’s sad or empowering. I want to do a doctorate because that’s how I want to spend the next 5 years.

It will be important for me to maintain creative outlets throughout the process. I will write every assignment for public consumption and real-world application. If I'm going to be writing anyhow, how can each paper I write make the world better?

I'd also like to vlog through my PhD. I want to share the human side of doctoral studies and use new media to ensure any valuable work I do doesn't get stuck inside the ivory towers. Creative productivity will be a core plank in my approach to avoiding isolation throughout future studies.

My applications will not be like the last time. I accepted my offer from the University of Ottawa’s Department Political Science, but I did so for the wrong reasons. I wanted the class privilege that academic life can provide. I wanted to out-compete my peers for prestigious grants and teaching positions. I wanted what I thought was on the other end of the PhD. I wanted to indulge in the propriety and peity of academia. I was chasing “The good life”.

I would have been miserable. I chose right. I needed to leave Ottawa, and I needed to come to terms with my mortality. That sounds dramatic, but it isn’t. I knew when I moved back to New Brunswick in January 2015, I was not well. Fast-forward a couple years and that generic “not-well” is now diagnosed IBS, GAD, and a bunch of back and shoulder problems.

More than getting my health in check, I needed to evolve before I could advance in my career. I needed to stop spending energy lying about my (lack of) wellness and caring about how my private life may compromise my professional life.

The internet is a lovely place for catharsis. I distilled the things I was trying to say over my MA into a manageable length paper and slapped it on academia.edu. The paper I wrote was more creative than analytic. I now understand that I was too close to the project, and it was too abstract for the structure of a PhD. I needed to get the idea of universal design as a public duty out of my head and into words.

That paper is basically one of my horcruxes. No one asked me to do it. No one gave me a gratifying grade. I did it to put my most valuable thought out there for the world on my own terms.

Then I went one step further.

As a project of radical authenticity, I aired all of my dirty laundry here. It was one of my favorite things I’ve ever done. Sometimes I look back at my radical disclosures, and I feel bulletproof. What could anyone say about me that I haven’t said about myself (probably more articulately)?

When I walked away from PhD round 1, I thought I’d be better off writing books and scripts than papers. That's probably still true. I was right that I didn’t need the academy to keep me writing, but I do need some kind of sustenance. The mental drag of meaningless work was not a factor I could have planned for in my considerations walking away from U of O.

Here began my upswing. Several I told you so's are coming my way. I'm ok with that.

I am applying to doctoral programs to use their opportunities to create my best life. I am not saying nothing could lure me away. For example, the budding cannabis industry has a lot to offer. This is my adventure, not my destiny, and I'm excited about my life again.

The best thing about a PhD is city shopping. I might finally get to move to Montreal, something I’ve lusted after for years. Otherwise, I have reconciled I’d rather move back to Ottawa than stay in Toronto if McGill rejects me. Both Carleton and the University of Ottawa have appropriate expertise in the area of my proposed research.

The other side of the PhD doesn’t matter to me, which is super liberating. I don’t need to be a professor or researcher. I may be, but I’m not giving up on creative and media careers.

In reflection, I know that the confluence of three things got me out of the slump: finally feeling a sense of belonging at work, forming an escape plan from Toronto, and looking fucking awesome at Nuit Blanche.

I didn't try to look like Storm, but I'm not mad.

It’s been a while since I rocked a high-effort costume, and I’ve disappointed myself this year for being so creatively unproductive. That was the final boost I needed to get into stride and rise the onslaught of challenges I’m about to face.

Yes, I was lit.

When I wake up tomorrow, I get my home back. I have a job I can live with and co-workers I like, and I have a plan to spend the next 5 years in Montreal doing meaningful work. Fuck yeah.


Thursday, August 3, 2017

Making Peace with the Penalty Box

There’s a deafening silence at the intersection of slut-shaming, toxic masculinity, and stigmatizing mental struggle, a hole where a conversation ought to be.

Bacterial STIs happen. From experience, I tell you they suck, but they pass. And we never talk about it.

Silent survival is expected during the 7-14 days following treatment when sex is medically discouraged. The mental health implications of BSTI treatment are significant but smothered. In order to break this silence, we need to name and unshame the penalty box that comes after BSTI treatment as a valid experience.


Three discourses ensure the penalty box stays quiet. Slut-shaming, poor health as weakness, and mental illness as weakness. For masculine folks, the penalty box picks up another layer insulation though gendered expectations of stoicism and unwavering strength.

It’s ok not to be ok.

Anxiety in the penalty box is particularly arduous. Having a BSTI is the ultimate forum to question your self-worth, life decisions, reasons for living, etc... People may cope with substance use, and/or disregard prescribed abstinence.

We can make it easier.

“I’m in the penalty box” needs to mean something; it needs to kill the dead air around sexual health by completely normalizing two things: 1) I’m not having sex right now because I have/had a BSTI and 2) treatment may have mental health implications.

The penalty box can manage sexual expectation without disclosing any details. If someone says they're in the penalty box on Tinder, you can actually take a second to be thankful that this human is choosing sexual responsibility and consider that they might be going through some heavy stuff.


My trip to the penalty box.

My recent week in the penalty box got off to an insane start. A hot week in July, I had did some drugs and guys. It happens. So in the week, I had safe intercourse with 4 guys. All of the guys I fucked were on PrEP and preferred bareback. One of them straight up condom-shamed me to no avail, and the other three were chill about condoms.

Gonorrhea strikes, go figure, but why did it have to happen like this?

Allow me to set the scene. I logged on Seeking Arrangement for the first time in 8 months and saw this guy in Toronto, who was gainfully employed in the cultural sector and looking for what I’d call a courtshipwith a younger suitor. My Seeking Arrangement profile was a “why the fuck not?” project that somehow spat me out on a date with this wealthy bachelor.

He was neither ugly nor handsome. He was bullish and clearly liked things his way. He was demanding just under the point of being rude. He put our server on eggshells for no reason other than his concept of good service. He kept her busy; one of the ways he liked to have things was half-in-the bag.

I had, prior to our meeting, expressed my disinterest in drinking over our dinner, but I didn’t mind if he did, and I didn’t. I did mind his repeated insistence I join him in drinking. I don’t casually drink, I never have. If I’m going to drink it’s for a reason; otherwise, I don’t really like the taste of alcohol, and I try to only drink coffee and water for health reasons.

During our two hours together, I estimate he consumed a bottle of wine and 3 spirits on the rocks. With each drink order, he’d blatantly insist I have one with him.

He’s the kind of person you casually disagree with but try to find some mid-ground with because you’re trapped in the same space with clearly nothing similar about your lives.

Disagreeing can only proceed casually so long. His racist uncle style anti-indigenous rant was my breaking point. I’m not one to hold back, so I nailed him to the wall for homogenizing indigenous people as a singular problematic race.

Then my heart sank. He felt it too and excused himself for a cigarette. The ideal arrangement, where we both liked each other was out of reach, but he still wanted to bang me.

He did get around to suggesting returning to his condo for sex, and that's when I had to bring up the penalty box. I disclosed that I had just been treated for an STI, and I medically couldn’t have sex. He was rather unconcerned by this information, but I had just told the best kind of lie: a 90% truth.

I hadn’t sought treatment yet. Symptoms presented an hour and a half before our meeting. It was cancel and make it to a clinic or meet him and go first thing in the morning. I chose the latter.

Let this information sink in…. I’m ever-so-slowly leaking mucus during dinner with this awful human trying to see if a viable arrangement can be salvaged.

The answer was no. It came down to the fact that I didn’t care how wealthy he was; I would be embarrassed to introduce him to my friends because of the entitlement and ignorance he wore like armour.

The next night, I ended things with this text and no regrets:

“Another meeting is not in our future. I was extremely disappointed with how hard you pushed booze. Also, not a fan of loud ignorance about aboriginals.”

I couldn’t say he was a good person based on what I know, but I’m actually kind of sad for him. It suffices to say I’m happy my life isn’t that lonely or liver-damaged.

Behind all that dinner drama bullshit, there’s the mental side of the penalty box I mentioned earlier. I spent the night feeling like I didn't fully own my body. It was like a stranger that I let in had some lingering insidious control over me. Further, I chose a date with a sub-par suitor over my own health, and I proceeded to beat myself up over it during my whole week in the penalty box.

I refused to suffer in silence through treatment and the penalty box. I talked it out with a couple of close friends, and then I digitally purged my shame in a set of TMI confessional tweets.

Knowing and asserting that the personal is political is how I made peace with the penalty box, and you can too.