Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Spaces I Love: Robinson Village

After 31 trips around the sun, I have a whole apartment to myself. In April, I signed for the last 4 months of a tiny bachelor apartment at the foot of Sandy Hill in Ottawa. The building will be demolished in the Fall as part of forthcoming redevelopment of Robinson Village. Beyond the joy of my first apartment, I have a deep appreciation for pre-gentrified Robinson Village. This essay is about both.


My first solo apartment is an anomaly in many ways. I took over a lease from a graduating business administration student for the four Summer months. A fateful Kijiji alert found me the best value apartment I've ever heard of in Ottawa. While less than 300 square feet isn't much, I'm paying $650 a month including utilities. For a bachelor in Ottawa? Unheard of! That's not a price break for the takeover, either. The previous tenant was paying the same.

Height zoning for Robinson Village development.

Logistical-financial reality dissuades me from investing in a space where I could host a few people socially. The space is set up such that two people could barely survive, but I'm quite happy there alone. I have a space that, when in proper order, I can sleep, cook, watch TV, do art, work, and work out in. It juuuust hits minimum requirements of what I need and not a shred more.

I have a small omni-room, a decently sized closet, and a desk-nook. The unit opens to the bathroom on the right and a hallway that ends in the omni-room. The designer in me knows I could work with the space. A Murphy or loft bed would be a game changer, but my tenancy is short, so I resolved not to spend money or muscle on items to move at the end of August.

In any configuration, the unit is so small that there could only be two functional areas other than the kitchen, and one of them has to be my double mattress. If a twin bed was an option, there'd be a possibility for a meaningful partition. A double mattress fits in one corner with two perpendicular options. One opens up space immediately in front of the large south-facing front window, and the other the nook on the other side of the closet that a single bed would easily slide into.



Three of my five pieces of furniture are in the desk-nook. The 1.5 x 2 meter rectangle is home to a red folding director's chair & TV tray from Giant Tiger, and an almost-but-not-quite, matching folding stool from Dollarama. A an over-toilet white wire shelf fits over the heater and gives the nook storage.

The previous tenant opted for the other orientation, placing a loveseat against the main window, where I just have an end table with plants on it. That layout would make hosting a guest more comfortable, but sacrificed a workspace. Not gonna lie, though. I do think if I magically had a cute bistro set up three flights of stairs, it might change my mind.

There's an obvious slant to the floors. The East wall is the lower side of the unit. My bed accordingly subtly dipped down at the head before I used a few boards to level it out. The window is the perfect dimensions to host my rarely flown New Brunswick flag as a curtain. It's trimmed with a set of lights, and propped open with an inverted mason jar.



My bathroom is one of the quirkiest I've ever been in. The shower is a tiled triangular afterthought, but it's actually quite large. Two people fit into it with no struggles. (Wink!) The toilet is between the shower and the wall on the other side of the hallway. Above the toilet, there's a plain white shelf with a 2x3 foot mirror that I leaned against the wall. That's it.


There's no sink in the bathroom - the first of two glaring impracticalities of the apartment. The other drawback is somewhat unforgiveable to me; there's no onsite laundry, and lest the appreciative tone of this essay be tarnished, I shan't dwell on how laundry trips irk me.

The unit's only sink is on the kitchen wall of the omni-room. Plain white cabinets flank another basic shelf holding up a mirror. I'm satisfied with the counter and storage space, despite losing much to a two-burner cooktop and toaster oven.


I've made good use of the counter overhang, which was clearly left for the possibility of a dishwasher. It's now home to storage boxes and my TV. Between good antenna reception and Google Chromecast, the TV provides a soundtrack and background noise to my home time.

The last and best detail about my apartment is my beautiful cannabis mural. I went on a two-week trip a week after I moved in, so I offered my place to an artist-friend who is underhoused. I told him he could go nuts if he wanted to, but there was absolutely no expectation. I couldn't be happier with the result.


The neighbourhood is diverse in terms of race and language with roughly equal populations from working and middle classes. We're adjacent to the Rideau River and Robinson Park. My backyard is a soccer field and a riverfront park.

There are five Muskoka chairs on the Rideau River banks at Robinson Park. They just showed up in June, and not all at once. I've twice seen them used and thrice used them myself. I actually texted my friend James about them: "maybe we can have nice things?"

Five chairs by the river. 

The riverfront is so quiet at night that I forget I'm in the middle of the city. 

 Robinson Field. 

It takes 30 minutes to walk to the Rideau Centre through Sandy Hill,  I can shave off 5 minutes walking down King Edward Ave. If I go in the complete opposite direction, St. Laurent is also ~30 minutes walk away. For groceries, it's 15 Minutes to the Walmart at Trainyards,

Trainyards is my closest Starbucks - a welcome and unexpected homo hub. Kettleman's Bagels has a location all the way at the end Trainyards retail park, but I live on carbs, it's got wifi and coffee, and it's open 24 hours.

To get to Carleton I take a picturesque 15 minute walk along and across the Rideau River to Hurdman Station and catch a 104.





Bussing from Lees/Chapel is closer than Hurdman, but it's complicated; Robinson Village, like the Lees towers, got stiffed by transit construction. Only one direction of the temporary transitway replacement routes way serves the stop. Traveling East is great. Coming back or going West, I walk or transfer to Templeton/KEA.

417, Lees Station, and Lees apartment towers.

There are are three distinct introductions to Robinson Village. Via the Rideau River Pathway, Robinson Village feels like just another chunk of Sandy Hill. By bus, you're treated to a notably steep and poorly maintained path connecting Robinson Village to Lees Ave at Chapel. And if you drive to Robinson Village, it becomes obvious that RV is on the other side of the 417's sound walls. From Lees, you take Robinson beside and against highway 417 traffic.

The Rideau River Pathway entrance sandwiched between two blocks of townhouses. 

Pathway connection to Robinson Village. 

Townhouses.

How you drive to Robinson Village: the sexy Lees overpass. 

Entrance to pathway to Lees/Chapel.

Poorly maintained path to Lees/Chapel bus stop. 

Bitter cold Ottawa Winter would have been a struggle in Robinson Village, particularly without a car during LRT construction. The Rideau River Pathway wouldn't be cleared, and the steep path to Lees/Chapel would be treacherous when icy. My perspective on the neighbourhood is admittedly rosier only spending a Summer.

Low rise apartments:





Small houses:

 

Unoccupied buildings:
 


There are no stores in Robinson Village. There's an industrial kitchen equipment dealer and a City of Ottawa garage. The closest convenience stores are the Quickie on Mann or a few options in the ground levels of the Lees towers. As the neighbourhood develops, a grocery store in one of new buildings would be a welcome addition.

The kitchen equipment dealer.

 
City yard pics.

TBH, writing this essay was a bit of a coming-of-age reflection. I was an undergraduate student during the narrative shift that rebranded Hintonburg from a place of visible struggle to Ottawa's premiere creative and culinary neighbourhood. I heard the grumblings, but the neighbourhood's changes didn't affect me, and gentrification as a process was just gaining prevalence in public dialogue.

Much of the appreciation I have for this Robinson Village is knowing it's only temporary, so I should enjoy it for what it is. The experience I'm having here won't be offered to another Ottawan. Robinson Village's last Summer as underdog will be remembered fondly as a time and space I love(d).

Monday, December 31, 2018

Backhanded Love Letter: A Biopolitical Diary Entry

2018 deserves this backhanded love letter; it will be remembered, but not missed. It was a year of unique growing pain, the pain of growing roots and wings at the same time. It was work and worry and war, but holy fuck is 2019 full of possibility because of it.


This year, I tore up my Toronto life and re-potted in Ottawa for a stint at Algonquin College in Regulatory Affairs. I've reconnected with some great people, and I'm in love with the city's natural features.

Coming back to Ottawa was a weird experience. I'm not the same person I was the last time I lived here. My former self was concertedly extroverted. Duped into believing volunteering had inherent value, I was a much more patient team player than I am now. Committee and club meetings dotted my calendars, and the idea of community organizing didn't make me seeth.

I like a city with something to prove. At its worst, Ottawa is a deaf preacher. Class expectations shape Ottawa life more normatively than they do in Toronto. Ottawa is fitter, whiter, and dressed more standardly. The problems they tend to solve here are problems a lot of us aren't privileged to have. The Ottawa way is unprincipled compromise and soft hypocrisy.

On a good day, it feels like it city hugs you back. Duty and decency are custom. A few minutes walk separates waterfront solace from cosmopolitan bustle. It's a city of thinkers and doers, but the stability of federal government employment imbues as much complacency as optimism. Typical Ottawans are oblivious people of principle marching in a slow parade headed in the right direction.

I liked "being involved" until it became too much. In reality, putting myself "out there" doesn't come naturally. I've become frugal with my time and dedicated to my health. At no point has my commitment to activism waned. If anything, it has sharpened. Art, high-impact policy interventions, and radical authenticity make the world tangibly a better place.

Donald Trump was elected since I last lived in Ottawa, and the Liberal Party culturally re-ascended to the city's ruling class. How politics are spoken of has radically changed.

I didn't personally understand what Steve Bannon tapped into to get Trump elected until I came back. There's a segment of small-l-liberal-groupthink-douchebags who are really annoying. They're the people whose participation in politics is charitable or careerist. They aren't driven by principle or survival, and some of them suck at their government jobs and still make six figures a year.

Inadequate consideration to socio-eoncomic constraints to participation plagues community organizing in Ottawa. The universities and unions have made mainstream progressives comfortable to the point of critical disengagement. Having a few bucks dinged off your paycheck for the United Way doesn't make you a good person.

I blame this uncritical comfort for the strange partisan pattern I've noticed. At Carleton, I had friends who were passionate about diverse Canadian political perspectives, and our differences were worked out over shots on a dance floor, but there's no physical space holding us together anymore. It's just been easier to keep my Green, Liberal, and unaligned friends within my recurring conversations.

The NDP feels hollow to me. They spat on the LEAP manifesto, emphatically rejected Niki Ashton's leadership bid, and have lost any core constituency they once represented. The only thing holding the party together is tradition. I'm truly bothered when deep progressive candidates who I want to support are convinced that what they believe in will be what the NDP asks them to bring to the door in 2019.

So I rekindled my choppy relationship with the Green Party. My political baptism was Green; 18 year-old me voted David Chernushenko for MP in January of 2006 and Green Party leader in August of the same year. The Summer after my first year at Carleton University ended with me volunteering at the 2006 Green Party Convention. I was in the crowd when Elizabeth May was elected leader; I was in the room that birthed the Young Greens.

It's nice to be among like-minded people, which brings me to my studies. Forever student, I've accepted it.

I had a harsh realization that the program I'm studying at Algonquin betrays my concept of education. Regulatory Affairs is compliance and licensing. I'm strategically still happy with my decision to enroll, but I can't personally recommend it. I'm not becoming a more skilled worker by taking this program, but I will have greatly improved career prospects. Coming from feminist academia, this context is totally foreign. My MA was entirely about becoming the best version of myself and trying to make the world a better place. Spending so much time on an unfulfilling education is grating, but I will suck it up for four more months.

The conversations I'm having at college are underwhelming. I got to avoid the "it's so hard to meet new people" phenomenon as an MA candidate. I was always around smart people who wanted to talk about serious things; it's what I miss most about academia.

The single greatest detractor to my happiness in Toronto was not having a peer group. I foolishly expected I'd find that at Algonquin. I did not. Thankfully, I'm friends with some great people in Ottawa, and the Ottawa-Centre Greens have been more than welcoming.

Returning to Ottawa as a more refined artist was also a trip. Being a club kid in Ottawa is lonely, tbh. When I go out in club-kid drag here, it's more for spectacle and barely about respect for artistry. That's its own reward, but again lonely.

There's no alterna-drag scene in Ottawa. I don't see people who woke up this morning and decided to tear the throat out of hetero-patriarchy with a hot glue gun at the bars, but I want to. I want to be so visually struck that I cross a dance floor just to compliment some one's look and talk about what went into it. I'd probably even thank them for coming. So if loneliness is what I have to pay for authentic visibility in this city, so be it.

The difference between "survival is hard" and "it takes a lot to be me" is attitude. This attitude is what I have Toronto to thank for.

It's the eve of 2019, and what I'm most thankful for is hope.

In reality, my days left in Ottawa will not be many. I expect job prospects to take me out of the city before the Summer. I'm typing it out here as a first step of making it happen: my dream is to get a good job, move to Kelowna, and reunite with my bestie who's been in Switzerland for 2 years. We're meant to be mountain people. I can feel it.

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.