An Intentional Canuck?

So, yesterday, in a windowless room on St. Clair Avenue, along with 78 other "newcomers," at approximately 2:30 p.m., after enduring the tiresome windbaggery of a citizenship judge, I repeated a handful of meaningless words with my hand in the air and mysteriously, magically, finally became Canadian.

And, exhale.

Weird sensations accompanied this event. I was undoubtedly excited and happy for it to happen, but in the days leading up to it, whenever someone looked to me for a reaction, I found myself forcing the exuberance I felt they were expecting. I tried to explain it to T when he did the same: it's too complex, too faceted to reduce to a single response. Perhaps it should be as simple as "Goal Achieved: Celebrate!" But it just isn't.

I suppose I first became aware of issues of geographical access when I was about 15, and along with this awareness was the slightly desperate realization that I was not among the privileged. Ever since then, 25 years of life, this single issue has driven my choices, governed my fears, and imposed a sense of helplessness and victimhood, perhaps more than any other factor, including money or sexuality. In many ways, I am a product of it; it created facets of me that I cannot even begin to enumerate. I have hated it; but it has also been a constant, a seam of the exotic to distinguish my life and character from everyone else's. It has formed my political views, my religious views; for the past 20 years, it has forced me into a consistently adversarial position with my social and political environment. It has also been a convenient excuse for underachievement. And like anyone under the sway of an oppressive force for long enough, a part of me loves it. The difference, the soapbox, the cross borne. It's a bit insane to say it, but a part of me mourned it in the days leading up to yesterday.

But I'm sort of over it all now. The ceremony itself was a lot of fun: a bunch of friends and coworkers came out, and I felt playful and powerful. On the not-serious suggestion of the pretty Taiwanese girl next to me, I put my maple-leaf pin in my ear as an earring and strode proudly up to accept my certificate. It was being there and doing that, feeling the waves of success and support, that I came around to T's feeling. For him, this is an absolutely extraordinary achievement that we pulled off against towering odds. This is the culmination of years of fear and fatigue and desperation and loneliness, the culmination we couldn't always properly envision, but for which we stuck it out all the same. This is the turning point. I have no time to grieve the ousted oppressor.

Country is nonsense. In this view I have not changed. Expressions of allegiance to objects, abstracts, notions, hereditary figureheads—drivel. Maudlin, misty-eyed anthems that momentarily create the illusion of unity and meaning and history, but which are little more than socio-political expedients to consolidate obedience around a set of geographical accidents. I do not ever foresee myself self-referring as "Canadian" with any degree of pride or ownership—but not with shame, either. The patriots will balk (and some already have), but this is about, in the end, nothing but access. The access that is allowed to some (the minority), often through an accident of birth, and arbitrarily withheld from others. That's what I've wanted all this time: simply access to occupy this world as fully and with as much permission as we all deserve.

God in the details

It turns out yesterday's horrendous acts of terrorism in Oslo were not the work of Islamic extremists (despite the fact that one or two such groups tried to claim responsibility, sending the media on a speculative feeding-frenzy), but instead a lone Christian extremist (or duo thereof—it's still not clear at time of writing) opposed to multiculturalism, among other things.

Should we, I wonder, hold our breaths for society's outrage against Christians? Its painting of all Christians with the same extremist brush? Acts of violence against Christians? Calls for their expulsion? I sincerely doubt it, and am grateful for it, but it makes one wonder how this story might have played out differently if the bomber–gunman's religion had been Muslim rather than Christian. I do not expect, for instance, in-depth analyses from the media about the rise of Christian extremism—despite my suspicion that the internal shift to extremism within Christianity over the past two decades would probably compare favourably with Islam's global conversion rate, a statistic frequently bandied about to induce our panicked horror.

This isn't about being pro-Islam or anti-Christian—it's about the media's hypocrisy, and the historical/economic roots of religious/racial demonization. Of course, the solution is not for society to do to Christians what has been/is being/will be done to Muslims. The solution is to have a rational, mainstream discourse about the manifold and unrelenting dangers of religion. Period.

Webcoms

I love me a good comic web-series (webcom?). Yes, there is a lot of crap out there, but it's such pleasure to come across one that holds up despite the limitations of the medium and the resources. Take the VGL Gay Boys, Jeffery Self and Cole Escola's short-lived web-based sketch-comedy show (webskom?), before they found a wider audience and a more mediocre comic-style on one of the gay networks. These early videos were rough and sloppy, but completely, bust-a-gut hilarious. They live randomly on YouTube; search "VGL Gay Boys" and watch away. My faves are Meeting Meryl Streep, VGL Gay Boys with Bernadette Peters, and The Recession Video. VGL Gay Boys on Gay Marriage is a hoot too.

A more recent discovery, and with higher production values, is Jack in a Box (http://www.jackinaboxsite.com/), a delightful series about a nelly NY bear-cub(ish) actor/resentful box-office employee who loves cupcakes. His mother and aunt are hilariously over-the-top, and his best girlfriends appropriately irreverent/clueless. Some seriously quality cameos, too. Yes, I watched the entire series (22 episodes) in one sitting a few months ago. What? They're only about 8 minutes each.

And finally — but ironically least brilliant — is Lisa Kudrow and Don Roos' Web Therapy (http://www.lstudio.com/web-therapy/). I heard about it because Showtime is picking it up, or repackaging it, or something. I love both the creators and practically squealed when I saw La Streep in three episodes — yet, I didn't fall over myself laughing. Much of it is improvised, and I fear it shows. Thing about improv, it needs to be structured. Chris Guest gets this. Improv the shit out of something in rehearsals, then structure it for performance. Filming improv is never as funny for an audience as it is for the performers. Still, worth watching, if only for the Streep outtakes reel. Never get tired of watching that woman laugh.

Bitten

We had a lovely day on Monday — rode our bikes (T's newly purchased from an overly ambitious Craigslist seller for one third of its price) to the islands, both took long runs (in shifts, while the other watched our stuff), and lounged on the nudie beach (admiring some, evading others) — but clearly something entomological did not want me there. Since then, I have developed steadily more irritated clusters of bites, mostly on my thighs and stomach, that redden by the day and even possibly increase in number, though this last observation may be a symptom of my rampant hypochondria. Google offers little help, much panic: Carrions disease, the Pappataci fever virus, Leishmaniasis — all carried by the delightful (and needless to say extraneous to our continued well-being) sand flea. Of course, minor annoyance for several days is also a possible consequence, indeed the most common, but why settle for the mundane? An abiding fear is that they were not incurred at the beach at all, but are the result of a sudden, unexplained, and entirely coincidental infestation of bedbugs. I continue to monitor this possibility with utmost seriousness. I'm considering mapping the existing bites, or marking them with a Sharpie before I go to bed tonight, in order to be certain that there are no new ones tomorrow. I shall keep you updated — both on the developing invasion of alien insects and my dwindling sanity.

While you were out

So, the elephant in this cyber-room is my 3 1/2 years of blogging silence. Why did I stop? Not sure, and reading the last few posts before I stopped offers no clues. Why did I start again and now? Connection. I am not on Facebook anymore; I don't tweet; I'm not a regular caller or e-mailer. I haven't even kept up reading the blogs of DemonDoll or Lulu or LolaDiana, despite the fact that they have gone on faithfully blogging all this time. Without it being my intention, my actions have threatened whatever connection I was maintaining with people I love. I want this back. And yet, I haven't told any of them I am blogging again. A part of me fears awaking the monster of obligation to claw at my shoulder; a part of me fears I will remember why I stopped and stop again, and push these loved ones even further away.

Still, here I am. For now. And before we move on, I feel like some kind of brief reckoning of the intervening years is in order to bring us up to speed. So, while I was out (not exhaustive and in no particular order),

• we moved apartments and now live mostly contentedly downtown, far from the Jerzys and paczkies of Roncesvalles, but far also from its quiet, leafy side-streets and cheap vegetable markets;


• I applied for Canadian citizenship, and expect that in six months or so, the lifelong taint of being a geo-political undesirable might finally rinse off, and I might finally get to travel again;


• I had my first surgery, a hernia repair that lasted about 40 minutes, during the weeklong recovery from which I read the egregiously awful Girl With the Dragon Tattoo;


• T had a terrifying stress-collapse that still makes my heart pound and that knocked him on his back for several months, but from which he recovered spectacularly, publishing his first novel, doing book tours, and spending two months in Europe researching his next novel on a Canadian arts grant;


• I enrolled last year, at the age of 38, in the University of Toronto, as a first-year undergraduate no less, to study History and Art History, with the goal of going all the way to a PhD and a career teaching Art History at the university level;


• I bought a pair of Vibram Five-Finger shoes, the horror of friends notwithstanding;


• I made one or two of the aforementioned friends;


• I became a vegetarian, because I could no longer conscionably balance the cheapness of a piece of meat with its ethical and environmental costs;


• my sister Vida died, but after a long and hopeless illness, so on some level I felt relief for her;


• I joined then quit Facebook, staging my exit as a three-day suicide countdown, which provoked more than one "friend" to quit me first;


• I got a cell-phone, only to hear the incredulous question, "You don't own a cell-phone?!" change to, "You don't own a smartphone?!";


• I designed this card for the 2010 "I Heart My LGBTQ Family" campaign — the last completed drawing I've done — while the prospect of me and T becoming parents has become increasingly less likely, by mutual assent;


• I have started learning German and, though hearing the language still makes me giggle a bit, I have developed a fascination for German culture, art and history that I never had before;


• my current (and soon-to-be-former, due to his placement ending) therapist informed me matter-of-factly that everything I have been experiencing of late is common "mid-life" stuff, leading to a series of tiny (figurative) explosions in my brain;
  


• I fell in love with Kristen Wiig; and
  


• I grew a beard, which I wear now in all seasons, with more than a little relish for its racializing and politicizing effects.

Toronto Shame

It's June again, so cue Toronto's latest Pride clusterfuck. After 2010's free speech brouhaha, this year's story is the refusal of the mayor to continue a 15-year tradition of marching in the parade, citing prior plans to spend the weekend at his family's cottage in the country. Some might say (and have) that this is his right, he is not explicitly obliged to attend, and a refusal should not be taken as proof of homophobia. I might concede if this person did not have a history of disparaging the queer community: as a city councillor, he was the only no-vote for accepting additional HIV funding from the province, dismissing the epidemic as a concern only for gay men and drug users; and as a mayoral candidate, he refused to distance himself from the endorsement of a virulently anti-gay preacher (yes, we have them here too), saying instead that when it came to the issue of marriage, they were of the same mind. Yet, this provincial Harkonnen became the mayor nevertheless, thanks to the amalgamation laws of Ontario's last Conservative premier (whose name is still a byword for catastrophe among social justice folks) that essentially handed the suburbs electoral sway over the city.

Queers and allies are understandably peeved. There was some shouting outside City Hall yesterday, and this delightful protest by a self-described "heterosexual housewife". This gives me hope that all is not lost, that Canadians won't suffer with characteristic demureness the recent wave of conservatism that is sweeping this country. But in the short term, it is worrying: as queer-bashings spike in this city, and stories of violence from other Pride celebrations on the continent trickle in, this mayor's position empowers a hateful minority and signals to them that their views are endorsed. Though I would like nothing better than to see him gorge on humble pie, I fear what ingredients may need to go into such a delicacy.

Broken-winged bird

I have done my finger a mischief. Middle finger, right hand. So frequently exercised once upon a time on the 101 South and sundry other arteries of the pumping Southland, as well as more recently, pedaling up Church Street. In fact, this finger was the recent cause of a severe upbraiding I received from a suited gentleman near my work. He, in his SUV, veered in front of my trundling bicyclette to make a left turn, and as I turned down the same street behind him, I gestured an assessment of his driving skills. He stopped his vehicle, exploded out and began screaming imprecations at my approaching self. Oddly, I stopped to listen, as if it weren't directed at me at all. It was early in the morning, mind, so neither of us was at his best. After hearing a good forty seconds of vein-popping invective (while his female companion shrank visibly in the passenger seat), I suggested, in as calm a tone as I could muster, that he treat himself to a soothing tea. This did little for his temper, but thankfully propelled him back into his vehicle, after a few parting gems. I continue to see this squire around the neighbourhood, always in the same grey suit, and we register recognition with our eyes, but nothing more.

But I digress. My finger, mischiefed. It's a bland story, almost embarrassing, yet due to the conspicuous splint I must wear for the next 5 weeks, one I am called upon to tell with frequency. So, I'll get it over with. Went to movies, felt an itch, got home, stripped clothes, Silkwood-showered, took clothes down to laundry room to dry at high temperature in case of bug-infestation, pressed the dry button with rather more force than was required, causing my finger to slip and the first joint to buckle rather painfully. Said joint would not return to its position, but lolled forward lazily instead, no matter how often I nudged it back into place. So, off to Emergency Room. Free health care makes one seek it out for the slightest thing, though it's by no means a breeze. Four hours and more than one heart-wrenching sideshow later, I emerged splinted and cowed. I will never underestimate a Maytag again.

The hand specialist I saw later in the week assured me it is an extremely common injury, and easy to do, though more often the result of basketball, construction work, martial arts — something rather more dynamic than laundering. He also says it will probably not fully straighten, so this finger will always be a tad crooked from now. (I just remembered my grandfather had rather crooked fingers; but this was due to several of them having been severed in a railway accident and then rather hastily sewn back on by a village doctor. I shit you not.) The worst thing about it is navigating the simplest of things, the things one takes entirely for granted, and realizing how integral that one digit is to such actions. A recent example: the bowl of spaghetti I made for my supper. You try twirling pasta onto a fork with a decommissioned bird-finger.