About Being Brave

Happy Thursday ya'll.

I hope your week has been mostly smooth and Friday comes and goes quickly like ripping off a band-aid. All my nine to fivers- you know what I'm talking about. Sometimes that last day at the office feels longer than the whole week put together.

As for me, I'm free starting tonight! I'm headed to Ottawa (or as I like to call it, "the cottage") tomorrow to perform at a fun*raiser for CanAid Africa at UofO. Grateful to be getting on a bus and getting out of this town for a day. I just love being in motion way too much and my feet get so very itchy. And on that note...

I want to take a quick minute to acknowledge and show support for all the students on strike in opposition to tuition hikes in Quebec. Its a brave thing to not only stand up for what you believe is right, but to unite and organize in a peaceful way. I`ve seen pictures of what downtown looked like, and oh how I wish I could have been there. My question is; what will it take for this or any government to listen to its people? What action is most effective? I don't know, but the photos from today's march brought tears to my eyes.

Which leads me to thinking about how easily I can sacrifice my truth depending on the situation I'm in. I'm going to take a chance and be very honest here, knowing a couple of my coworkers may read this. If they do, I'm hoping that they will understand my fear in keeping myself fairly anonymous in this regard at work and respect at least that.

Its no secret to anyone who knows me that I'm queer. I am attracted to people, not gender. That being said, I am attracted more often than not to female gendered folk. I'm very open about this. In fact, I'm damn proud. And yet I've been working at this new office for over a month, and I've conviently omitted this in socializing and speaking with my colleagues. I've spoken only about the relationships I've had with men. The office is overwhelming hetero-normative, and in my workspace I am the only woman surrounded by men with very large ego's and somewhat misogonystic views as far as I've gathered.

My justification is that I don't feel "safe" to come out, or feel like I may be further ostracized. It may not be true, but it always feels so real. There are other factors as well, like the fact that I'm covered in tattoos and don't drink or do drugs. When everyone goes to smoke their joints on break, I hang out in front of the building feeling like I'm missing out. Juvenile, yes. But no matter how old I get, I still seem to be willing to exclude, change, or shadow my truth just beneath the surface in order to be a part of in situations where I'm uncomfortable. This is a part of me that makes me feel like a coward, and it's not something I'm proud of, but its something I think everyone can relate to even if we cant admit it sometimes.

So... heres a short poem. It's about internalized homophobia, and it's about struggling to be brave enough to share ourselves fully with the world around us and the ones we love.

Love and light.

M

The Courage To Hold Your Hand

One day I will ask you to find me moon dust in a wheat field on the long prairie drive to your mother’s farmhouse and you’ll reply that we’d have better luck in a lake made of jello on the outskirts of never-neverland, but you wont say no.

Two months later I will leave for an eight week tour. At the airport, you’ll give me a sparkly pendant on a silver chain and tell me that I am the only moon dust you will ever need. I will kiss you knowing two things; that public affection terrifies you, and that I am not coming home.

72 days and one missed flight later I will mail you a letter stamped with a Seattle Space Needle postmark. You won’t open it. You wont need to. The next day you will walk by my apartment and see two men moving my belongings into a truck. You will recognize the painting of two women skinny dipping that you gave me on our first anniversary, the clock that always kept you awake at night and the couch we never sat on.

48 hours later, you will see two women holding hands on St.Laurent and try to remember the last time we’d touched in public before the day I left but you wont be able to. You will mail me a letter that says only;

“Please forgive me, I hated myself more than I could love you.”

Only then will I fully understand how much you loved me.