Tag: gay

Breaking Out: Claus’ Story

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In 1990, my teacher warned my best friend’s mom not to let her daughter, Daniella, hang out with me, because I was rarito – a Spanish word that directly translates to “queer.” Like its English counterpart, rarito means “a little strange,” or “a little peculiar.” In Mexico, it specifically refers to men who appear to be gay.

It probably wasn’t hard to see that I was gay: I never enjoyed playing rough games or sports with the other boys, opting instead to play house with the girls at my school. My teacher knew I was gay before I realized it myself. And, rather than choosing to provide support or guidance, she tried to isolate me—an already painfully shy and very socially awkward little boy— by separating me from the one person that I connected with fully at the time. As if a rarito, a queer, didn’t deserve acceptance.

I was seven-years-old.

As the years progressed, so did the insults. If I thought rarito was bad… I had it coming. When I moved to another state at the age of 10, I spent one year in an all-boys school. The insults there became more pointed – maricon, marica, joto, puto (all words for fag — we seem to have a lot of them in Mexico). I then moved to Canada at the age of 14, and was introduced to the English variants of these insults.

When I look at photos of my childhood, I see a naive little queer boy who smiled widely, unaware of the way others perceived me — when teachers called me queer behind my back, but not to my face. But in photos from my teenage years, I see sadness. Not the typical teenage angst, but something deeper. The sorrow of someone who sometimes wondered if life would ever get better.

At 42, I can look back at these snippets of my life with clearer eyes. To my teenage self, I can truthfully say (as cliché as it sounds): it does get better. But it also gets difficult in new ways, because self-acceptance, and pride, and queerdom, isn’t always linear:

In 1992, I had my first crush. His name was Mathias, a German classmate with golden hair… which is odd, because I’m not typically attracted to blonde men.

In 1996, I had a platonic bromance with my friend Jorge. I moved away the next year, and he came out as gay in our 20s. We kept in contact, but never saw each other again, and he died of Covid. I sometimes wonder if I hadn’t moved away, if he might have been my first kiss. 

In 2000, I had a crush on a girl from high school. But at the same time, I was deeply attracted to so many of my male classmates. It was a very confusing time. I was repressing my sexuality so much, that when one of the guys I was crushing on slapped my ass during PE class — not sure if he was flirting or bullying me — I responded by slamming a hockey stick to his stomach. Hard.
A week later, he returned the favour, slamming a hockey stick against my shins, which fucked up my legs for years to come.

In 2002, at the ripe age of 19, I went on my first date… with a girl from university. Sarah was also my first kiss, which I didn’t enjoy at all. That same year, I went on my first date with a guy. His name was Danny. My name was “Nick…” yes, I used a fake name, because I was still terrified that someone I knew would find out I was gay! Danny was my second “first kiss,” which was more like it. He went on to become my first of many, (many… many) boyfriends

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When I came out to my friends at 19, their response was mostly positive, but I did lose some friendships over it. When I told my friend Nelda, she responded by asking me: “So what, you like it from behind?,” as if that is the only thing that makes a man gay. I was a virgin at the time… but to answer your question, Nelda – Yes, I do like it from behind.

A year later, in 2003, I came out to my brothers and then my parents. My middle brother had softened the blow by coming out the year before, which simultaneously made things better and worse. I didn’t know at the time that having multiple queer children in one household is actually very common.

In 2009, while holding hands with my boyfriend at the time, someone inside a passing car yelled “faggots,” and threw a jawbreaker at the back of my head. This was on Davie Street. During Pride weekend.

In 2014, I met Eamonn, and we got engaged five years later. When I got engaged, a woman who had worked in the same office as me for four years asked, after seeing my engagement ring, “Where did you propose to her?” I thought it was funny at the time. Then I realized how much of my life I still kept private from non-queer people I saw every day. It seems I’m allegedly “straight-passing” in some circles and find the constant “coming out” exhausting. 

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My relationship with Pride has also had its ups and downs. 

In 2004, I went to my first Vancouver Pride, and over the following two decades, I’ve been to many prides and queer-centric events throughout the world. London, Cape Town, Reykjavik, Buenos Aires, Guadalajara… even exotic Winnipeg — searching for queer joy in every time zone.

In 2022, I marched in a Pride parade for the first time, with the Vancouver Queer Irish group, and then again the following year. Yet, since last year, I’ve fallen out of love with Pride parades. With sponsor pullbacks, corporate and government support of an ongoing genocide, and the rights of trans and non-binary folks under attack, I’m feeling disconnected. I know we need visibility… but I keep wondering if we need to change the method. “The first Pride was a Riot,” they say… maybe it’s time we go back to marching on the streets, rather than parading on them.

In 2063, when I’m 80 years old, I’ll hopefully look back at today, and realize how good we had it. But I also hope that things will get much better for queer people over that time, because this, still isn’t it.

❖ ❖ ❖

In 1990, when I was 7-years old, my teacher called me Queer as an insult for the first time… behind my back, of course… Cabrona.

In 1998, someone wrote ‘faggot’ on the back of my sweatshirt in high school… and I wore it that way all day, because I didn’t notice until I got home.

In 2002, I came out as gay to my friends. A year later, I came out to my family.

In 2016, I began using the word Queer as an umbrella term to refer to myself, my friends, and other 2SLGBTQ+ people, in a positive light.

In 2022, I married Eamonn in two wonderful celebrations of the most immense queer joy, surrounded by so many of our friends and family.

Today, in 2026, I stand here, in a room full of queer people, telling our stories. And I finally realize: being a little strange, a little peculiar… a little rarito, if you will, is actually something to be proud of.

Breaking Out: Beto’ Story

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COVID Made Me GAY

It was late one evening, at dinner time, when my mother broke down in tears. A first for my then 29-year-old-ass.

We don’t cry in my family unless we are watching a sad movie. Even then, it’s a game of who can blink their tears back in the quickest. We don’t hug or kiss unless outside airport terminals and we only text “Love you!” right before takeoff, just in case the plane goes down.

Seeing my immunocompromised mother cry right in front of us, chicken still half-chewed in my mouth, I knew this was serious.

It was April, 2020. We had been hearing about this killer disease and every night we saw the case numbers creep closer to our own social circles.

After consoling her by saying that this would fizzle out in a few weeks (we were a bit short), I escaped to my bedroom.

Is this it? I thought. Is this how we go?

And more importantly: Am I going to die before getting to be gay?

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The first whiff of queerness arrived when I was 13, in a random dream where I saw my cousin laying in bed wearing bright blue briefs. I hovered towards him, Nosferatu-style, until my hand was but a millimeter shy away from his bulge, only to suddenly wake up.

That night sealed two fates: I was going to have a fluid sexuality and I’d never see the 3rd act of any sex dream.

For the next 15 years, bogged down by toxic prejudgments and not exactly feeling “100% top, masc to masc, no smooths, no twinks,” I was like: Why even bother? I’ll just carry on as a straightie, occasionally lusting for Zac Efron’s biceps like any normal, liberal dude.

But then COVID and the threat of imminent death appeared.

❖ ❖ ❖

In January 2022, I moved to Vancouver with three goals: be social, be gayer, and marry quickly to stay in the country. (I’m still missing the third, please inquire after the show.) By nightfall, I had downloaded Grindr.

“How goes it?” a faceless profile asked.

What does that mean? How goes what? I thought. “Hi. How are you?” I replied.

Though surely thinking I was a little slow, this faceless man kept texting and before I knew it he shot: “Send pics.”

“Ok. What do you want to see?”

“Dick and ass,” he replied.

What an assertive man, I thought. I hadn’t planned in advance, so I quickly scrammed to take some pics lest I lose the attention of this prized individual. I was more pressured than aroused, so my photos didn’t represent my full potential. Even so, I must’ve charmed him because he then shared his location.

I was staying at an Airbnb near 41st and Knight. The map showed him across Duffin Donuts, south of a Shell station.

“On my way,” I sent, and my body started shaking uncontrollably. Oh – wow. Being gay is super fun, I thought.

I went outside. The wind had picked up and that Pacific Northwest mist felt a bit like horizontal rain. The weather and my nerves were wreaking havoc on my Mexican skin.

As soon as I turned the corner where this dude lived, I froze. It was a dark, damp, and scary-looking backstreet. I’ll get murdered, I thought. I’ll star as a victim on one of those Netflix exploitative documentaries about homosexual cannibals, confirming my parents’ belief that gays are ‘More passionate than straight people’!

I ran back to my Airbnb.

“Sorry. I’m actually kinda cold – lol,” I texted.

“No problem. I get it. You’re new at this. I could tell,” the would-be-cannibal replied.

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Even though I eventually wanted to find my legally Canadian partner, I wanted to have some fun before committing. Unfortunately, within the following weeks I discovered I sucked at hookups.

It would always go something like this:

1 – Get horny EXCLUSIVELY after 11pm on a weeknight and find a suitor after an extensive background check.

2 – Invite them over after making sure—just in case—that they knew my big, rugby-playing roommate was sleeping next room. (I live alone.)

3 – Shiver uncontrollably during foreplay. “Are you okay?” “Just cold,” I’d whisper next to my roaring heater.

4 – Say goodbye with a “Sorry. I think I’m just tired,” after failing to finish the deal. “But coffee sometime?”

5 – I’d get blocked.

My body refused to cooperate with my desire for casual sex. After a few lukewarm wins, I theorized hookups weren’t my jam. I was, apparently, a monogamous family man.

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A couple months after, I had moved into my current place—a garden suite located in one of those “scary backstreets” which, turns out, are quite lovely. My Grindr exploits had slowed down since I started dating this dude who, I was sure, was going to be my forever.

Being my first homosexual relationship, I unfortunately fell infatuated with the guy, which made the text he sent me one night hit like a brick:

“Hey, I think I see you more as a friend.”

“Oh—“

“And I’m also kinda married.”

“Ah.”

I was not looking to break up a marriage, but I was baffled. What happened? Am I boring? Ugly? Not gay enough? What does his husband have that I don’t? Pick me. Choose me. LOVE ME.

❖ ❖ ❖

“Can you fart all over my face? You’re so hot,” read a message on Grindr. I had gone back to the app after a couple of weeks of listening to Sam Smith, journaling, and burning letters.

“Oh – wow. How does that work?”

“Special chair. You sit; I put my face under it.”

Despite just having a protein-heavy dinner, I politely declined. I’m pretty open but wasn’t in the mood to take that kind of a dive.

“You know you can monetize this?” my brother said after I shared the screenshot.

“I don’t think my visa allows for this type of entrepreneurial venture,” I replied.

❖ ❖ ❖

Months turned into years of me being on every app and meeting random men. I got better and more confident in my hookups and dates, but something still hadn’t quite clicked. Much like snow in Vancouver, nothing stuck. I was still missing something. I kept having these brief connections that led only to me sending them off into the night.

In January 2025, my brother and best friend both moved away during the same weekend, leaving me at zero: no friends, no family, no partner. After allowing myself a two-day pity party, I got to work on a new, more critical mission: finding community.

I started attending every event or public meetup that came across my desk. Running groups, drag show events, art exhibits, board game nights—nothing was off the table. I started dancing with strangers at 1181, cheering queens at Junction, sharing beers with bears at Pumpjack. And slowly, something started to finally click.

In my limited view as a prejudiced baby-homo, I thought being gay meant being a regular dude who happens to have sex with men—which is true. But I’d missed that being anyone means being a universe of thoughts, history, connections, feelings, beliefs, perspectives; and being part of a community meant sharing these universes.

By hyperfocusing on trying to find sex and partners, I had been living vicariously through morsels of experiences men shared with me between climaxing and the door.

It is through actively participating that I’ve started to scratch the surface of actually being part of a community. Talking to people, sharing stories, and celebrating one another is what has made me feel closer to “being gay.” And what a joy it’s been!

❖ ❖ ❖

“If you ever need your pits licked, let me know,” someone texted me the other night.

“Sure,” I replied. “… but we gotta be quiet. My big, rugby-playing roommate is sleeping next door.”

I still live alone. 

Celebration!: Luis’ Story

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I’ve blown over 30 sets of candles in my life.
Most birthdays spent wishing I could sing.
I remember the last time I asked for this one thing,
Realizing I don’t have the necessary vocal strings.
But could put into metaphors, lyrics what I think.
I stopped wishing there and then, on my 10th,
For a voice that’d give me strength, just I wait.

30 doesn’t sound like a lot if counting my breath
Warm whispers that keep away rapid death.
30 reps pump my chest, 30 degrees is hot.
30 likes on a poem’s a lot, 30 on my selfie is not.
30 years young I decide will not bring me stress,
Bring on as many second adolescences as I have left.

For my birthday this year, I wish for a full fridge.
So that with it, I can build long, delicious bridges.
For my family, friends, lovers to be here with me,
I wish my homies are healthy, happy, at peace,
And for many more years, share stories and tea
That might spill, and show off our vulnerability.

I wish to fall in love constantly and against all the last decade’s wishes, stay single. As in centred, focused, whole, in what most of my self-help books have foretold. Life is worth living because of the people we keep around as we get old. I hear the birthday song, the beautiful melody, the voices in unison and join the chant with my mediocre tune. My lifelong worth of wishes came true. 

I sing myself a happy birthday because I get to celebrate it here with all of you. 

Today is my birthday.

As the years pass, I feel like I’m evolving into a body and mind that better fits the old soul I was born with. Although inevitable, it is a privilege to age, especially in the LGBTQ+ community, but what I would like to celebrate today is the opportunity to grow. Grow up, grow fond, grow apart.

An early memory that I can pinpoint rapid growth to was when I, age 6, wrote a confession to my parents about who had clogged the toilet with toilet paper. They had cancelled my sister’s and I’s nightly storytime and that would not stand. I had to act, swallow my shame, and leave them a letter at their bedroom entrance that must have said something like: “It was I, I clogged the bathroom and, worst of all, said nothing when storytime was cancelled.”

Decades later, I remember writing what I’d say to my school’s Head of Program after a couple of bullies, who caught wind I was gay, started to throw homophobic threats around. Eventually, this conflict led to me coming out to my parents. Without a script, I rendered my emotions in real time during that Zoom call home, kicking off another era of massive growth in my life when I “formally” joined queer spaces and started to befriend my fellow gays.

Dating and being alone at bars sucked. I wish someone had warned me, I think there were lessons that didn’t need to be learned through experience. I’m extremely grateful today for spaces like The Birdhouse for the buddy system and their practices adjacent to the Good Night Out Campaign. In this last year, I’ve noticed a younger vibe in the crowd at some of the bars I frequent. Some are incapable of saying “I’m not interested”, “not right now”, “please don’t touch me” when unwanted attention comes their way, others, stunned when that unwanted attention doesn’t take a hint to back off. I see myself in them.

I wrote this spoken word poem from a night we came together to celebrate another year of our lives passing by:

Well hello there Daddy.
I caught you looking and thought to say hello.
I’ve seen this on a porno, how these things go.
“What are you into? What are you looking for?”
I guess, a short convo or to get down on all four.
To submit into obedience in a kink experience.
We can both play our roles, say it’s coincidence,
To find guidance in another generation’s resolutions.

Instead, you offer your hand and ask to dance.
So close to midnight, I see it’s time and give him a chance.

Knowing we’ll recreate dynamics from before.
From when we were boys and didn’t know more.
Tell me Daddy, did you have a Daddy to call you son?
Or buddy? Or bro? Or baby? Or boy?
Did you have someone to say you’re valuable?
Without queer role models to show us the hopes,
On sex or intimacy, how to untie bondage ropes.
Tangling my neck on all these cables and cords,
I’m choking, I can’t breathe, I let the pressure go.
Out of one patriarchy and into another. I say no.

I look for things that’ll ground my concussions.
Your crow’s feet, furrowed brow and bruises
Remind me of my muses, past, present, future.
Age befits your years of experience and culture,
Your fingers in my hair untie curls with nurture
Soothingly against the grain of a calm brain.

This is my kink, agency to see if we’re in sync and
What’s meant to be addressed by a shrink.
Have we met before, Daddy? I was but a twink,
Fresh meat at a gay bar, my glasses tinted pink.
Looking for greener grass, getting ass grabbed.
The sexual revolution says to get your needs met
But even people leaving the sex party say meh.
As if that’s the point of it all, to get your dick wet.
Not the safe spaces for the rest of the alphabet.
Not the right to exist, you have it, so you forget.
Not the shame taught everywhere as a preset.
The default morals I recall and bring me regret,
Versus the gay values reducing me to an asset.
Hard earned, liberating, blissful gay sodomy.
Personally, would that make my best self happy?
To have 30 random stranger loads inside of me?
Would it cure me? To assimilate foreign culture?

Under pressure? Fuck no. Freely, I don’t know.
The lack of conclusions glitch with my delusions.
Daddy, I recognize you as my reality fractures.
Plot twist, reparenting myself in a meta rupture.
In your eyes, Father Time shows me my future.
I’m in a modern orgy of what feels right for us 3.
That I’m present Me, I’m Daddy, and I’m Baby.
New Year’s a step closer to that state of mind
Where I don’t perpetuate outdated philosophy,
Whilst adapting ideas that preserve my sanity,
Integrity’s reconstructed protecting my inner child with
A confident introspection I practice and embody.
Midnight. Alone on the dance floor when a man comes up to me.
He asks for my name. You can call me “Daddy”.

Being able to verbally request and provide consent is oftentimes not prioritized by men. Historically, bathhouses, circuit parties and cruising communities thrive on physical expressions of interest. It’s imperative and fun to learn to recognize and apply these cues in those spaces, but outside of them, they seem more like outdated survival strategies for generations and legal frameworks that should be more aware of power dynamics.

Suddenly, I’m being addressed as “daddy”, “zaddy”, “stud”, even “sir”. I find myself on the other side of my experiences: I share with friends the weight of responsibility I feel on my shoulders. I don’t want to treat these men like I was treated and I’d rather carry this awkward awareness forward than continue to inadvertently perpetuate harm between us. Some say its a heavy burden to carry, most have simply grown used or fond of it. Others deny and gaslight the idea that sexual assault happens around us, best to grow apart from those people. I’m relieved there’s more public conversations facing the challenges of entering gay spaces for the first time, providing advice and validation that for me came later in life when I felt heard and seen in friends’ stories.

Dating and being alone at bars still kinda sucks. Recently, I went out on my own again, like I did years ago when I came out, knowing now the impact of meeting at least one friendly face. I went out knowing my worth and the difference that makes in who and how men interact with me. I went out confident in the work I’ve put in so far and how strange it will feel to change. I went out on stage to compete for the biggest ass competition, and lost. 

There’s plenty to celebrate today: the community spaces that allow for vulnerability to exist, the privilege to age, my 31st birthday, the confidence to speak my mind, and most importantly, the growth of a social circle, aka my friends. It is mainly through them that I’m de-aging my old soul, like a gay Benjamin Button, and relearning what it’s like to be included, safe and silly. I’ve grown into what my therapist would call my Protector persona, partially because of the years, but mainly due to the kind and understanding connections around me. I have no doubt that my Protector is a kaleidoscope of me and all the past, present, good, bad, long, short friendships I’ve had the opportunity to interact and learn from. Thank you for helping me become a person capable of saying, kindly and unapologetically, “no”. 

I love you all, as friends.

Celebration!: JJ’ Story

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“Please report the video. I hate that your faces are on there with no consent. Getting everyone to report it.”

It’s 2023 and I’m at a bar on a first date. He’s in the bathroom when I get the text from my work wife; it’s accompanied by a Twitter link, posted by an account I’ve never heard of, Libs of TikTok, with the caption: “Elementary school in Vancouver held a pride parade today. Homeschool your kids!”

Even before playing the video, I recognize myself in the thumbnail. 

The video starts with me walking by shouting “Happy Pride!” followed by my students and several parents, waving, cheering. A few more clips of students walking by, smiling, waving rainbow flags, before it ends.

My date sits back down, and I show him the video, and proceed to chuckle about some of the comments. 

“Give me an S, Give me an I, Give me an N, SIN!”

“Those boys look “sissified” to me”

“It’s a free for all, next is orgy day”

And my personal favourite, the one that, to this day, I still lowkey want to get tattooed on my body: “Homeschool > homoschool”

Already the video has hundreds of thousands of views. I want to keep reading the comments, but don’t want to be that guy, so I put my phone away, and break the tension with a quip.

“How does it feel, knowing you’re on a date with a queer icon?”

The next day our staffroom is buzzin’. Coworkers tell me they’ve reported the video, my principal checks in to see if I’m okay. The video quickly balloons to 1.4 million views. In the comments, someone posted a screenshot of me from the video, wearing a rainbow cape and shiny cowboy hat, with the caption “Found the groomer!”

Another person comments on my picture, “He’s just a flat-out molester. He doesn’t even bother with grooming.”

My friend at the union reaches out, says there’s a lawyer on staff if I’m interested in trying to have the video taken down. We all report it, but all that does is hide the video on our accounts.

Repeatedly, I say I’m okay. That we’re celebrating Pride for the kids who don’t know they’re queer, or don’t feel comfortable being open about it yet, and if it makes things easier for even one of them, then it’s worth it. 

But writing this story and revisiting that video in 2026—thankfully stalled at paltry 1.7 million views—my whole body still burns.

I scour the video’s comments section for the funniest pull quotes, trying to discern what’s awful in the entertaining-let-me-read-this-out-loud-to-strangers way and what’s awful in the oh-boy-I’ll-probably-have-to-talk-about-this-in-therapy way. The margin between them is narrower than you think.

I was bullied and called gay before I even knew what that word meant, but I knew that I was supposed to vehemently deny being it.

In sixth grade, I received a friend request online from the email account “jjisgay99@hotmail.com,” one of those memories that’s hilarious now, but at the time, felt like someone had ripped the uvula from the back of my throat.

I’d stay in the closet for almost two decades longer, dating women, participating in casual misogyny. Talking about which actresses I thought were “hot,” but really, I probably just thought they had a nice smile. 

It wasn’t until 2020, when, after having my first session of therapy, I knew I was ready to start living authentically. The next day, my 30th birthday, I came out to the majority of my close friends at a socially-distanced pie-themed hang in the park, scrawling “I’M GAY” on the inside of a pie box—the pie was peach-cardamom, obviously.

The atmosphere was one of compounding disasters: sitting on blankets six-feet apart, unknowingly about to embark on the second wave of the pandemic. The sky was muggy and thick with forest fire smoke and a recent looper moth infestation surrounded us with thousands of fluttering bugs.

It was one of the best days of my life. 

After coming out during lockdown, I struggled with how to relate to the queer community I suddenly found myself identifying with: my main connections being gay meme accounts on Instagram and a parade of COVID-safe dates that always ended back at my apartment. Dr. Bonnie Henry would certainly agree our activities involved a curve, though none flattened.

One first date, after a guy spent most of the night talking about how much he wanted a boyfriend, we ended back at my apartment, carnally making out on the couch, before he climbed on top of me, squeezed my cheeks together, and hawk-tuahed a single oblong strand of saliva slowly into my mouth. “Sir, we are in a pandemic here, you can’t just spit in people’s mouths, especially without asking first.” We still had sex, of course.

Fucking this rogues’ gallery of strangers felt necessary at the time. Fleeting connections to the gay community, sharing coming-out-stories with cum still leaking out. Hearing about Internet chatrooms and early cruising. I was a cultural anthropologist, absorbing every detail and mentally cataloguing to better understand where I fit.

Later that school year, I was recruited to help organize my school’s first-ever Pride celebration. Starved from no parties in almost 15 months, I brought a finely-curated selection from my personal tickletrunk for my kindergartens. Flamingo sunglasses, a taco hat, sequined fans, an inflatable telephone.

Suddenly, at 30-years-old, I was marching in my first Pride parade.

For the past six years I’ve helped organize and grow school Pride celebrations, each with their own lil’ moments. After our neighbourhood parade in 2024, we headed to the school’s backfield and performed a flashmob to families, all to the song “Born This Way.”

When I’d talked to my kindergartens about what other Pride celebrations involved, my students globbed onto the idea that people sometimes dress up, and asked if they could wear costumes—which is why, in videos of that flashmob, you can see Disney princesses and superheroes dancing to Lady Gaga.

I want these to be the stories I share about school Pride, but it’s important to know it’s not all rainbows and five-year-old Captain America dancing to Gaga. 

Like when kindergartens from my class are noticeably absent the day of the parade, because their family “doesn’t celebrate Pride.”

A parent’s venomous email to a colleague, calling everyone at the school pedofiles; the same parent who, later that month, smiled and cooed to me about how she hoped her son would be in my class next year.

The idea that schools are somehow brainwashing youths by showing support and normalizing words like “bisexual” and “trans.” 

“I’ve been teaching for decades, and I can barely teach these kids math. And I’m a math specialist!” a colleague shared with me, exasperated. “They think I can somehow influence these kids enough to change their whole ideology or gender?!”

Knowing teachers who’ve been doxxed, received death threats—putting themselves at risk while trying to make things safer for queer youth.

There’s decadent irony that, in tandem with writing this story, I’m helping organize this year’s Pride at my school. 

We’re going bigger, bolder, louder. A coworker designed a Pride 2026 logo with our school’s mascot, and managed to get custom stickers donated. We’re inviting neighbouring schools. We have a whole spirit week planned, a dance party, a photobooth. We’re getting T-shirts made as a fundraiser. I get giddy thinking about how amazing this year will be. Usually that excitement drowns out all the what-ifs. 

I’ve been working on a handout, highlighting statistics about queer youth, for families to help understand the importance of Pride. Pulling from Statistics Canada empirical gut-punches like how queer youth are twice as likely to describe their mental health as being poor; they’re more likely to be targeted for bullying, experience homelessness, and twice as likely to consider suicide; how trans and non-binary youth are twice as likely to experience cyberbullying.

I triple-check my sources with a diligence I wouldn’t have dreamed of during my English undergrad, knowing these stats will be scrutinized with the vigor that only a bored, privileged suburban parent can muster. 

I hate having to take the more thoughtful high road. Having our “We want every kid to feel safe being who they are” met with “You’re all pedofiles,” coming from zealots whose churches, businesses, and governments knowingly protect actual predators. But I digress.  

Progress can sometimes feel small.

The odd joy of when reading a book to my class, a student refers to someone as “gay,” and my body seizes up like they’re using a slur, when in fact, the book has a family with two dads. Gay as a descriptor, not an allegation.

It took until my mid-30s before I saw being gay as a gift. A hard-won title after a lifetime of being teased for liking things I didn’t even know I liked yet; the finally-satiated hunger of someone who spent years eating what they weren’t craving. Let’s hope the next generation gets to feel this lucky some day.

And if you need to contact me or have any questions about this story, you can always reach me at jjisgay99@hotmail.com.

Celebration!: M.’s Story

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I’m turning 30 this year.
When I found out the theme for tonight was “Celebrate,” I started thinking about that word. Celebrate. And I realized, I don’t think I really know how to celebrate myself. Which is weird, because I’m gay, Lebanese, kind of a drama queen, and emotionally attached to both Arabic and English pop music. On paper, I should be excellent at it.
And I genuinely love celebrating other people. I love showing up. I love planning. I love hosting. I love making people feel loved. I’m good at it too. Maybe too good. I will plan the timing, the food, the vibe, every small detail and pretend that it’s no big deal, but emotionally, there is a very serious project plan.
But when it’s about me? I become aggressively casual.

A couple of months ago, I “celebrated” two years in Canada by going to a St. Paddy’s gay party at the Junction. Very convenient: one of the biggest celebrations of the year was already happening on my anniversary. The universe forcing me to celebrate my milestones.
Fair play, universe.

But birthdays are worse. Because birthdays are the one day of the year where you’re allowed to be a little self-centered, and I still don’t know what to do with it.
Last year, on my actual birthday, I scored tickets to Lady Gaga’s Mayhem Ball.
Picture this: A gay Lebanese boy, now an adult, watching Lady Gaga sing “Born This Way” live. And then the words: “You’re Lebanese.”
I’m not even that patriotic. But so many of my early queer moments happened with that song playing secretly through wired headphones, pretending I was just listening to music, when really, I was trying to feel seen.
And if Lady Gaga, mother of monsters, said “Lebanese,” not Middle Eastern, not Arab, Lebanese, then she was clearly speaking directly to me. That song was celebrating a part of me before I knew how to celebrate it myself.
It’s going to be hard to top a Lady Gaga concert as a birthday celebration. But this year, I’m turning 30. And there is a version of me who wants the balloons. The cake. The friends. The photos. The whole shebang.
I know he exists, because once, he fought very hard for a birthday party.

I’m the youngest of four boys, which means by the time my parents got to me, the parental sparkle was running on low battery.
But the photos were there. Printed albums. My brothers with their friends. Finger food. Cups of Jell-O. A big cake made by my mom. Awkward parents in the background. Kids playing arcade games and mini golf at this place called Putt Putt.
Putt Putt was everything: Arcade games. Skeeball. Ball pit. Chaos. If you had a birthday there, you were basically local royalty.
Every brother got Putt Putt. Except for me.
To make things worse, my birthday is in August, which is terrible timing if you want a big party as a kid. School is out. Everyone disappears. Half the class is at their village, the other half is at the beach, and suddenly, your birthday is a logistical crisis.
So I made my parents feel bad about it. And it happened that my dad did business with the owners of PuttPutt, so it didn’t take much convincing.
I may have also pulled the “you don’t love me as much as my brothers” card. Bold strategy. But hey, it worked.
And somehow, I convinced my parents to let me do it two months early: June 9, 2006. The day after the last day of school. Also, the first day of the FIFA World Cup, so almost exactly twenty years ago (Very convenient time to tell this story… And very organized of my trauma).
And because it was the World Cup, the theme chose itself. Football.
Now, did I play football? No. Did I care about football? Also no. In fact, I kinda hated it. Playing football as a closeted gay kid with straight boys going through puberty? Not fun.
But it was football season, and you have to understand, people in Lebanon take that very seriously. And I wanted to look cool, so football it was.

I had the party. I had the place. I had the theme. I had the friends. Basically my entire class. This was my moment. I was wearing a Ronaldinho Brazil football costume, because obviously, I LOVE football.
Everyone came, (Well, everyone I invited. I had just gone through a huge fight with my best friend at the time, and I decided not to invite him. I don’t remember what the fight was about, but I was very firm about it. I remember my dad looking at me and asking, “Are you sure you don’t want to invite this boy?” And I said, “Yes. We’re not friends anymore.” I was so sure I didn’t want him there. But for someone I apparently didn’t want there, I kept noticing that he wasn’t).
The party itself was going really well. I remember parents walking in with their kids. I remember the mountain of gifts. I remember my mom’s cake, a forêt noire, with a chocolate football-shaped ganache on top. Keeping it on theme. We’re committed.
Because again: I LOVE football.

Everything was happening exactly how I wanted… then came the piñata. Yup, I had a candy pinata at my birthday party. What shape was the piñata, you ask? A football, of course.
You have to understand, back then, a piñata was a big fucking deal. At that point, I had only seen piñatas on TV in cartoons. So having my own piñata, one I got to choose the candy for? Hell yes.
They hung it up. The kids gathered around. Everyone got a few hits. People were screaming. The energy was rising. And then the birthday boy got the stick.
I started hitting it. I’m going at it. I’m ripping it apart. Everyone is screaming. And then eventually, it breaks.
And the second it broke, it was no longer a birthday party. It was capitalism.
Kids dropped to the floor like wild cats. Hands everywhere. Candy flying. Elbows out. No morals. No friendships. No birthday etiquette. It was my Hunger Games. And I had lost.
Because there I was. The birthday boy. Standing with nothing. I remember looking at my hands and realizing they were empty. And I tried to hold it in. I really did.
But then people started noticing. Kids looked at me. Then they looked at their bags of candy. Then back at me. Suddenly everyone realized, OMG… the birthday boy didn’t get any candy. And because it was my birthday, everyone started offering me some of theirs.

Aww. That’s so sweet.
It was HORRIBLE, because somehow that made it even worse. Now I wasn’t just the birthday boy with no candy. I was the birthday boy everyone felt bad for. And I couldn’t hold it anymore. I started crying. Hard. Not cute crying. Full meltdown. Birthday drama queen.
And if you’re thinking, “Oh God, poor kid, that must have been so embarrassing,” well, there’s more. Even through the tears, I had a plan. What? I’m just gonna stand there and let people feel sorry for me on my fucking birthday? No way José.
I looked at everyone, face fully wet, probably snot involved, and said: “Everyone… throw the candy back on the floor. We’re going again.” Which, looking back, is insane.
Imagine being a kid at a birthday party, and the birthday boy is sobbing, demanding a second round of candy distribution, after going through WrestleMania with at least 20 other kids. Very socialist of me, honestly.
But hey, I was ten. It was my birthday.

Now, I’m not saying this one piñata is the reason I don’t know how to celebrate myself. That would be too easy.
The thing is, when the celebration is for someone else, that works. I get to focus on them. But when it’s for me, suddenly I can’t just enjoy it. I have to manage it.
Is the food enough? Is the music right? Are people bored? Is the lighting homophobic?
And I think that’s the part I still negotiate with. The embarrassment of wanting the day to feel good…. And by good I mean, perfect. Obviously.
Because even now, when someone asks, “What are you doing for your birthday?” I feel this little panic. Like I need to have an answer that sounds casual enough. Not too sad. Not too planned. Not too desperate. Something like, “Oh, nothing big.” Which usually means, “I would love for it to be big, but I’m not ready to be responsible for wanting that out loud.”
But one day, I would love to have a big party that is actually for me. Maybe for another age when I become more chill, because honestly, just saying “my 30th” spikes my anxiety.

But I want to try anyway. And I don’t think I need to top Gaga. I think I’m just trying to find whatever version of that feeling I can make for myself. It could be a big party, with a giant dick-shaped piñata, just for me.
Or maybe it’s quieter than that. A little stoned. Surrounded by people who love me for who I am. Without having to pretend that I like football.
Looking around and realizing I’ve built a life that younger me would not believe.
And honestly, for now, that feels worth celebrating.

Beauty: Luis’ Story

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Watch this video of Luis telling his story!

When I was young, I went through a collage phase. I probably looked all around my house for whatever magazine I could get my grubby hands on. I specially recall the damage to a beautiful special edition magazine of Princess Diana.

I know this because my mum told me after asking her about this botched magazine she, to this day, still keeps around. I can only imagine how my mum felt after I destroyed it. Our relationship has had its ups and downs, but in my mind, my mother is deeply associated with the image of Princess Diana and their admirable capacity to be graceful to those who need it most.

I grew up as a pretty happy child up until late middle school when I became depressed, as many other gay men have at some point in their lives. Again, my history with mental health has its ups and downs. I’ve banked my share of hours with therapists but recently I’d plateaued in my progress. Last year, I made a breakthrough. I honor my story by highlighting the importance of taking yourself to therapy. 

The DIANA Magazine in Question
The DIANA Magazine in Question

One symptom I keep a look out when gauging my state of mind is my capacity to find beauty in life. I believe a sense of beauty is a psychological skill we can train or lose. To see it, notice it, name it, replicate it. At my worst, I stop watching TV shows, I stop eating sweets, and I isolate myself. Inversely, I write more poetry when I am processing negative emotions, this skill has allowed me to tap into my sense of beauty and pull myself out of a downward spiral. I’d like to share a spoken word poem about what I think psychological beauty is:

I’m on my knees. The congregation says Grace.
I look up towards high ceilings, the tainted glass,
Dramatic imagery in art, stone, oil, wood, brass.
Engulfed in what they say is beauty, yet I don’t see your face.

My favourite part of going to mass is leaving.
Outside, street vendors sell all types of food.
Outside, what is actually a religious experience
Tastes like fried, steamed home cooked goods.
Outside, I eat sugar just to help boost my mood.
My sister and I resist the Sunday public shaming,
My parents show us grace, your beautiful face.
I’m not asked to go with them again, embraced,
and still picked up for a meal, my soul’s soothed.
Coming out decades later, I still seek sanctuary.
The figures I look up to had a wardrobe change:
tiny underwear, leather jockstraps, tails, fangs.
I’ll say it again, out of one patriarchy and into another.
Penis penance. Men moan confessions to each other,
Some carry a cross, others prefer to be tied to it,
Time’s still spent on my knees doing other things
Giving or receiving Gay Communion. I don’t sing,
But what comes out my choir has a similar ring,
The sound of falling icons and featherless wings,
The premium and peace speech therapy brings.

Confess.
Humbling, paying alms to sort unclaimed shit out
Going to counseling cause someone else did not,
What’s that about? Tinted glass bias, guilty eyes
Projecting self esteem into simple average guys.
Confess…
People can be “nice” but very unkind in thoughts
Because that’s how people pleasing comes across.
Truth is I’m scared of a drag queen’s entourage,
Cunty vibes encouraged, community sabotage.
Confess!
I don’t trust men to be a secure emotional space
I’m afraid that’s a reflection of what I do, am too,
If I use authenticity to camouflage my true face,
Interpersonally challenged with a deep lack of self awareness.
At least that’s my impression.
Doctor it’s been two weeks since my last session
Our last convo has become my confession, I pray:

Grace. For lack of a better word, I ask you for air.
Begrudgingly, as a child you brought me despair,
Betrayed at how empty your brand made me feel
If your love depended on God, others to be real.
I prayed the gay away for years. I couldn’t dare,
Be associated with such a strong feminine name.
And still you’ve forgiven me, as is in your nature,
To mold me as a kid, teen, adult, with true nurture:
Not idealized under judgment but understanding
Of my delicate features, my edges, how I feel injured.

Dented by your many falls from grace. Disgrace
Means facing that which lives in the dark, fowl,
Scowl, I crawl and brawl and embrace them all.
My beasts take a breath as I feed them a meal,
My demons are cordial if I listen and let them be
My hells are manageable, if I show myself ways
To renounce a saint’s life, see myself face to face.

The point was never to climb back up to Grace,
But to hold you as we go down and into the ground.
I found, we can find sanctuary in this hellscape,
Through a loving, poised, graceful, headspace.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and depression has a way of placing a gray filter in front of those who battle it, which makes asking for help a bleak task. As a gay man in therapy, I’d say most of my work depended on unlearning behaviours, overcoming trauma and learning to embrace love, uncertainty and the freedom to be my best queer self. It’s messy, trying to figure ourselves out; I know I struggled with not knowing who I could be. I documented my journey of self discovery using social media, each post made me value the beauty of being able to find beauty in a life lived. Each post’s a puzzle piece with rough edges and contradictions, each attempt gave me clarity about who I was not, diversifying my self image whilst unifying my confidence. I welcomed the New Year with the following poem:

One choice makes me larger
Another makes me small. Decide: do or do not. 
Two parties playing tug of war on a dance floor.
What would secure men do in this circumstance?

Get down, boogie, focus on the tempos for once, 
Be the baddie that gets low, create my own flow.
Try to understand men’s body language: a glance.
Eye contact. Hello. After that you’re on your own.

Quick turn to see if you’re still looking. You know, 
I wrote a spoken word poem about this moment,
But there was dialogue, actions, scripted truths.
The countdown starts, fumble, miss my queue.

I’m putting pressure on myself to not perpetuate
That which was done to me. I hesitate and wait,
For impulse to shake the electrodes off my head.
Regress to make progress, act before I overthink.

If it’s still within me. I’m sure. I’ve gotten this far, 
276 [281] posts later yapping of the glory and gore
Of being gay in 2026. Now for a new resolution:
To give myself the grace I’ve always needed, evermore.

Despite synonyms, I was conflicted with resonating to the word “grace”, I knew of her but talking to her, through therapy and poetry, made me feel like I was being reacquainted with an old, healing, friend who knew I could be my worst qualities, and still saw me as a person worthy of love. If I try, if I succumb to my fear and bail, if I get depressed again, grace can be a colorful filter to feel aesthetic, confident, even regal. And that feels sourced from within, feels like me. Like an inverted vision board, my life regained value because I prioritized this feeling whilst posting about travelling, cooking, existential, surviving or in the words of another incredible graceful figure, Catherine O’Hara:

“[Taking] a thousand naked pictures of [myself] now. You may currently think, “Oh, I’m too spooky.”, or, “Nobody wants to see these tiny boobies.” But believe me, one day you will look at those photos, with much kinder eyes and say, “Dear God, I was a beautiful thing!” Oh, and make sure you submit those photos to the Internet. Otherwise, your own children will go looking for them one day and tragically, they won’t be there.”

What groundbreaking conclusion psychological help has bestowed upon me is realizing that I find the capacity to look past “the cringe” with the love and kindness my mum, Princess Diana or even Catherine O’Hara would have given a loved one quite beautiful. Counseling, speaking, writing, sharing my thoughts, gives me a space where I can see beauty, notice it, name it, and replicate it by being more graceful to myself and hoping it’ll make me more graceful to others. Changing my point of view so that the world might seem changed, too.

Season of the Witch: JJ’s Story

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If half of the snake oil remedies my mom believed in were real, the average life expectancy would skyrocket to a thousand years. Minimum.

Her bold statements were frequent  in the Gibb household, always followed by a “I guess we’ll seeeeee,” as if she knew more about oil of oregano than she was letting on; as if she’d been given a top-secret briefing on the all-powerful benefits of celery juicing, to which none of the world’s health authorities had been privy to.

We never know how unique our upbringings were until we’re comparing notes as adults. Like, what do you mean you didn’t come home from school to find large amethysts on the doorstep, charging in the sunlight? Where did your family charge their amethysts?

Okay, but before every meal, you all said grace, right? And then you followed that by three long hums, meant to charge the food with positive energy? You didn’t? So you just ate uncharged food like a bunch of schmucks?! 

How—to this day—she refused to have Wi-Fi in her home because of the negative ions or some wild shit like that. During every visit home, my limited data plan engaged in a Herculean effort to let me browse Instagram on my parents’ couch. Refusing to have Wi-Fi in your home while simultaneously being addicted to your cell phone is a rich combination, but if you pointed it out, all you got in return was the “I guess we’ll seeeeee.”

Well, here’s what I saw: 

The water pitcher on our kitchen table, filled with rose quartzes and other “healing” stones, so anytime you went to pour yourself a glass of water, you were treated to a clink-clanking of gems sliding against the pitcher.

How I confided in my mom that I was self-conscious about the amount that I sweat, and she took me to a naturopath, who told her that she was unloading too much negative energy onto me—though in retrospect, it was more likely a generalized anxiety disorder.

There were appointments with a Nucca doctor, who claimed that re-aligning your neck cures basically everything from fibromyalgia to—in my case—low foot arches. Water bottles filled with homeopaths, YouTube videos playing “healing vibrations,” crystals, mystic channelings in the basement, throwing out the microwave because of the toxicity, naturopath visits, daily supplements from a company named Juice+ (which in my adulthood, I learned is an MLM), enrolling us in weekend-long seminars about the power of attraction, psychic readings where they told her my wife’s name would start with a J.

How she regularly boasted about her three sons being “Indigo Children,” a supposed new evolution of the human race with greater emotional capacity and intelligence, but when you looked up the term Indigo Child as an adult, you learn this was a pseudoscientific term often used by parents to describe neurodivergent children, so they can avoid pursuing a proper diagnosis for their kid.

“Mom, do you think that you labeled us as Indigo Children so you could avoid the reality that all three of your sons had raging ADHD?”

“Oh, I guess we’ll seeeee.”

Yes, my mother, Particia Gibb was essentially the resident witch doctor of Sturgeon Country, Alberta. She grew up on a small farm outside of Barrhead, with my dad’s family on an adjacent farm. They were high school sweethearts, which I think used to be a romantic term. I find it kinda horrifying, the idea of marrying the first guy I kissed. She went to university for teaching, and spent almost two decades as a Home Economics teacher, though after having three Gibb boys–myself being the last, when she was 41—she gave up teaching to stay at home with us.

Her love for us burned as bright as her anger. The kind of mom who pulled an all-nighter working on a model of Uranus for my grade six science project and sewed us homemade Halloween costumes every year. She was also the mom who frequently “canceled” Christmas, or one time, when the dishes had piled up in the sinks over a week and everyone refused to wash them, she packed all of the dishes into storage bins and hid them from us. Having dishes was a privilege, not a right.

It’s impossible to pinpoint when my mom’s descent into alternative medicine began. It truly wasn’t until well into my 20s that I realized how deep her wellness rabbit hole went, or even that the rabbit hole existed in the first place.

My mom’s belief in the alternative hasn’t always been a harmless secret punchline for my friends. Recently, when one of my brothers struggled with an ongoing psychosis, mom started taking him to an energy healer, convinced it was trauma from a past-life causing these episodes., Ultimately, he needed proper medications. 

Or how my parents always seemed on the brink of financial ruin, yet my mom always had enough money to blanket the kitchen table in bottles of pills and supplements. My mom lets me use her Amazon Prime account, and I see the hundreds of dollars she spends every week on supplements. She’s apparently really into colloidal silver and kelp right now. But I’m a guest on her Prime account, so I honour our unspoken agreement. I don’t ask about the kelp capsules, and she doesn’t ask about my inflatable sumo suits. 

An unintended benefit to having a parent steeped in the alternative health community is I’ve had a front-row seat to the latest conspiracies. For years, my mom has told me she’s going to become a billionaire soon because of this thing called NESARA. Look it up online. It’s this conspiracy theory that’s been around for decades, some people call it a cult. All I know is she’s signed a bunch of NDAs and funneled an unknown amount of money into this. Which is why I don’t feel bad about what I did in the spring of 2021.

During lockdown, when rumblings of a COVID vaccine began emerging, I encouraged my parents—both in their 70s, and in relatively poor health—to get vaccinated as soon as possible

When front-line workers (including teachers) were announced to be some of the first vaccinated in BC, my mom had a grave tone to her. “You’re… you’re not going to get vaccinated, are you?”

“Of course I am, and you all should too.”

“But JJ, it’s so dangerous. It could kill you,” her voice quivered.

A week later, she texted me asking how much the upcoming semester of my graduate program cost, and offered to pay for it as long as I promised not to get vaccinated. 

“Absolutely not,” I said immediately, refusing to give her theories any credibility.

After our phone call, I talked to my friend who worked at the CDC and had been redeployed to the COVID task force. My friend had also been on the frontlines of hearing me complain about my family’s anti-vaxxer shenanigans, and she was naturally my first stop after my mom’s ridiculous offer.

“My mom just tried to bribe me into not getting vaccinated. She said she’d pay for my next semester of school if I didn’t.”

“So you’re just going to lie and take the money, right?”

Despite being in the closet for the first 30 years of my life, lying isn’t something that comes naturally to me. It never even occurred to me I could lie about this; I’d been dead-set on making a stand and leading by example, hoping to inspire the rest of my family.

“How will she ever know? It’s not like she would ever ask for a blood sample or anything, would she?”

So lie I did. I came back with a pseudo counter-offer that I would “delay” getting vaccinated until next year.

“Good,” she said, “by then they’ll know how dangerous that vaccine is.”

“What difference will a few months make on knowing the long-term effects of something like this?!”

“I guess we’ll see…”

She sent me an e-transfer for $1,800, and two weeks later, I got a COVID vaccine.

Writing this story, I set out to highlight all the zany shit my mom practiced and peddled over my life. A borderline cathartic practice of retracing the Gibb timeline, but instead of milestones, they’re snake oil treatments for real problems my family endured over the years.

And as medically disputed as all these practices were, and as frustrating as her parade of “I guess we’ll see”s throughout life have been, I realized something else: that they ultimately come from an earnest place of love. She believed the rose quartzes in our water pitcher helped us, just like she believed that paying a person to perform reiki on me from a province away helped me as well.

Like a new-age pseudoscience miracle drug, we don’t pretend to understand how a mother’s love works, but we believe in it all the same. And how will it all play out in the end?

I guess we’ll see.

Season of the Witch: M.’s Story

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Where I’m from, the first drag queen I ever heard about was a saint.

In Lebanon, our Halloween is St. Barbara: a young woman fleeing a controlling pagan father who, legend says, disguised herself as a man to escape and devote her life to Jesus Christ. Holy drag in the name of survival.
To remember her, kids dress up in Halloween costumes, knock on doors, sing a little song about her, and people hand out money or candy, or tell you to go away. 
It’s our Halloween, but the origin story is about a woman who beat patriarchy by cutting her hair, smearing mud on her face, and throwing on some farmer’s clothes.

I was around ten the year I decided I was going to be a witch. 
Not a wizard, a witch. Wizards feel like homework. Witches have more flair.

The plan was simple: repurpose my brother’s Zorro cape as a black dress.
I walked into the living room where my mom and aunt were talking and pitched it like I was on Project Runway: “so I’ll be wearing a dress, the belt in the middle, I can pin it here, with a pointy hat, done.”
My aunt didn’t giggle. Didn’t even try to soften it with a different idea. She went straight to mocking, sharp, voice raised. “A dress? For you? Absolutely not.”
I can still feel the heat in my face, that hot, swallowed-your-voice feeling when you didn’t think you were doing anything wrong. 
Five minutes later the cape was back in the closet, and so was I.
I told my friends I felt sick. I didn’t go out that night.

It took a long time to understand what that moment did. 
Not just “no costume this year,” but a message that landed somewhere deep: 
There are ways you’re allowed to exist, and ways you’re not. 
Not because you want to be someone else, 
but because people panic when you look like you might.

In my family, masculinity came with a manual, enforced by catchphrases. 
My dad’s favorite, شد براغي تمك or in English “Tighten your mouth screws.” 
Don’t talk like that. Don’t sit like that. Don’t say those words.
Great way to teach a kid to make himself smaller.

Cut to middle school, catechism class, religious studies. A Catholic priest gave a Very Serious Talk about “the problem of effeminate boys,” (apparently, top five on the Vatican threat list). 
His solution, and I kid you not, was to send them to work with “real men” on construction sites for the summer, so they would come back “macho.”
Even as a kid I thought, Father, that is literally the plot of half of gay porn.
Part of me was like, “Maybe I should be more femme.”

A few years later came my first real Halloween party as a teenager. 
I was old enough to make my own choices, young enough to still want a mask to cover my face.
The kid who didn’t get to be a witch remembered. So I did it properly. 
First accessory: fake tits. Big ones. Two balloons and a silky robe. 
When I walked in that party, something in my body unclenched. People kept asking, “Who is she?” and honestly, I didn’t know.
But whoever she was, she was thriving.
It wasn’t a kink. It was a relief. 
Proof that wearing a dress and fake tits doesn’t threaten who I am.

As is grow older. I collect small rebellions. 
A few summers ago, on vacation in Rome, I walked into a piercing studio right by the Vatican walls and got my earlobes done, just the lobes. 
I almost fainted from the pain; I did not expect that, LOL… but stepping back out onto that street so close to where the pope is, felt deliciously on theme, and a little poetic. 
There was a small residual sting in my ears and it made me happy, like my body had a tiny built-in reminder: you did a thing just for you.
A small spark of self-expression I could feel with my fingertips.
Every time I touched them, I felt that small pulse of yes.

Then last year I tried a few more things. 
A couple of drag nights with friends, which was so much fun.
I experimented with some Dollarama makeup. Got my nails done at a salon a few times, even paid extra for Gelish! Sky blue looks amazing, by the way, and Gelish ruins your nails.
I also changed my Instagram profile photo, nothing wild, just me flaunting my nails. Not a post. Not a story. Just the tiny little circle.
And a few days later, my phone buzzes. A DM from my aunt, the same one.
“Hi Malek, how are you sweetie? I hope you’re good and work is going well. I miss you a lot. Habibi, this is not a good picture on your profile. I do hope you can change it. I know you will say that this is not my business, but I am still your only aunt who cares too much about you and loves you dearly, and I am, after all, your godmother. I doubted for a while, I don’t know what to say to you (dot, dot, dot).”
I wrote back, “Why? What’s wrong with the pic?”

We both knew what she meant. 
Same living room message as when I was ten, this time wrapped in “I care about you” and “I’m your godmother,” with “that’s not for boys” tucked inside.
And here’s the part that surprised me: I didn’t spiral. I didn’t write a defense essay. I didn’t change the photo. I just let the message sit there and went on with my day. Not because I’m brave, but because the scale finally tipped. The joy outweighed the fear.
And that’s the part I wish I could tell my ten-year-old self:  
You’re not broken for wanting what’s fun. 
You’re not dangerous for wanting to be different. 
You can try a thing, decide you like how it feels, and that can be the whole story.

And here’s the plot twist, the pushback doesn’t only come from family. 
I hooked up with a couple from L.A. who were visiting Vancouver eariler this year. After a short while, they saw a picture of me with nail polish and texted out of nowhere, “nail polish doesn’t suit you.”
Which, first, literally no one asked for your opinion.
Second, it’s wild how fast masc4masc energy turns into policing. Like, babe, I don’t even remember your first name. 
Even inside the gay community, a little color on a nail can make internalized homophobia jump out and wave.

But Somewhere along the way, masculinity stopped feeling like rules and started looking like options. A menu, not a manual. 
Some days I want plain jeans and a T-shirt. Some days I want a little swish. Neither day needs permission.
Do I still hear the old lines? Sure. 
They pop up in a joke at a family dinner or in a DM about a photo I chose because I liked myself in it, from a relative who confuses worry with love. 
But my perception shifted. Those reactions aren’t commandments; they are just data. They tell me who can walk with me comfortably, who needs time, and where my boundaries should live.

Every Halloween season, I still think about the year I didn’t go. How quickly excitement turned into shame. How one reaction canceled an entire night.
I don’t hate anyone in that memory. I just wish someone had looked at that cape and said, “Okay. If it wants to be a dress tonight, just let it.”

And that brings me back to St. Barbara, probably one of the very first drag kings. 
She cross-dressed to survive, and all I wanted was to cross-dress to have fun. 
If a saint can do drag to get free, surely a kid can do it to feel free for one night.
So that’s what I do now, in small ways that add up. 
I keep the earrings. I wear nail polish sometimes. I say yes to the version of me that feels most like me that day. 
And when someone tries to hand me a manual for how I should look or present, I hand it back and say:
“Keep the manual. I’m ordering the whole menu.”

Season of the Witch: Claus’ Story

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The shadows never waited for me to fall asleep. They watched me from the moment I got into bed and the light was turned off. There were always two of them: one slightly taller than the other, both standing by the door in my room, as if to make sure there was no way for me to escape. The shadows simply stood there, watching. They never moved… at least not while I was awake.

I was seven years old when my middle brother, whom I previously shared a room with, graduated to his own bedroom. I should’ve been happy then, as I got my own space too. But the truth is: I HATED the dark. 

We lived in a big house on the grounds of an old ranch that was developing too slowly, so all the plots around our house were empty fields, and our closest neighbours lived far down the street. Being so secluded, we had the most amazing views when I lay on the lawn with my brothers, looking out into the star-speckled night sky. However, that same solitude meant that my room was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness when I went to bed.

In that deep darkness, I shouldn’t have been able to see the shadows, but there they were. Always two. Always watching me.
I would lie on my stomach with my arms crossed under my body, and hold on to the opposite sides of my blanket, with the naive impression that my bedsheets could protect me from whatever these beings that stood in my doorway were. I held on so tightly that my hands would sweat, and my arms would go numb under the weight of my body, but I wouldn’t let go until I eventually fell asleep.

The house I lived in was beautiful. A spacious two-story with more rooms than we needed for a family of five, and a massive backyard. My parents had built it, so there was no history for the house to be haunted. But my overactive imagination was always on alert. Whether it was the weight I felt in the air when going up the stairs, the flickering figures I saw out of the corner of my eye, or the voices that escaped from the concrete walls at random intervals, there was always an energy I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
The stories our housekeeper told us probably didn’t help: tales about witches flying through the sky as fireballs, or appearing in mirrors with bloodied faces. El Coco, coming to take away misbehaving children, or La Llorona, who wandered the streets at night in search of her children, whom she had killed in a moment of madness, before taking her own life.

Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night and have to pee, but I would hold it until the next morning (which embarrassingly meant I peed my bed more than once). But mostly, I just lay in the dark, the silence in my room so quiet that it pressed into my ears like a scream. I held my blanket tightly, with my arms crossed under my body, imagining the witches and El Coco, and La Llorona. Knowing that the shadows were there, even when I didn’t look towards the door.

My family moved to the coast when I was 10 years old, to a beachside apartment, where I once again had to share a room with my middle brother. From there, we moved to Canada, and although I had my own room again, I didn’t fear the dark the same way. The shadows had been left behind in the old ranch, maybe to haunt the next family, or maybe to die as the area developed. 

But at some point in my late teenage years, I had my first episode of sleep paralysis.

I wake up suddenly, lying in bed. It is the middle of the night, so the room is swallowed in darkness when I open my eyes. I try to raise my head, or move my arms and legs… but I’m completely paralyzed. Panic begins to build inside me, and I try calling out for help, but I’m unable to make a sound.
And then, I see it: standing by my door, there it is. A single shadow now, but this time it doesn’t just watch me, but begins to move slowly in my direction. I try to scream, so my parents or one of my brothers will come to my aid, but I still can’t make a sound. I can’t move my hands to turn the bedside table on, or knock it to the ground to attract someone’s attention. I can only lie there, frozen with fear, looking at the shadow as it drifts to my side. It leans over me, stretching its hands towards my paralyzed body. The moment it touches me, my body shakes violently, and I wake up – for real this time.

Apparently, 1 in every 3 people will experience at least one episode of sleep paralysis at some point in their life, although it’s not always accompanied by the wonderful addition of hallucinations of the so-called “sleep demon.” Lucky me, for I got the paralysis AND the demon: my wonderful shadow-friend from childhood coming back to haunt me in my dreams. And I got to see it more than once, too!
Over the next decade and a half, my sleep paralysis became so regular that I learned to anticipate it, for see, it was always preceded by a nightmare related to darkness. I walked into a room at night, locked the door, and flicked the light switch, but the light wouldn’t turn on. I tried again and again with no result, and the more I tried, the more fearful I became. It was always a different variation of the same dream; always a losing battle against the dark. I would then wake up in bed, only to realize I was paralyzed, with the shadow slowly moving towards me. And when it reached out to grab me, my body convulsed, and I woke up again.

As an adult, I have a complicated relationship with the dark, and the terrors (real and imaginary) that hide within it.
To this day, I don’t like confined dark spaces… but I once went exploring a flooded cave in Guatemala, with only a candle for light (and this was after watching The Descent movie, by the way).
I sometimes feel anxious when I walk down a dark, empty street alone… But I also have been cruising at night – and I’m not talking about the relative safety of a dark room or a sauna. I’m talking about wandering around the trails of Stanley Park (just how La Llorona wandered the streets of Mexico in search of her dead children, but sexier). I guess there is a certain thrill now, when the shadow walking towards you has an equal chance of being your next trick, a nightmarish ghoul, or someone who’s going to stab you to death.

Today, if I need to pee in the middle of the night, I can make my way to the bathroom without turning on the lights… that is, of course, when my husband is at home. When I’m alone, I still turn my bedside table lamp on (but we’ll keep that between us, because it is kind of embarrassing). I also still never look at mirrors in the dark.

It has now been at least five or six years since I experienced sleep paralysis. But sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, I raise my arm or move my leg, just to make sure I can. And then I look towards the door, half expecting to see a shadow or two there. 

But I am 42 years old, so I know these shadows aren’t real.
Or, are they?

Season of the Witch: Matthew’s Story

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The first Halloween costume I can ever remember wanting to wear, but which I thankfully never got the opportunity to wear, was Mr. Mistoffelees: the magical cat from the 1988 Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, Cats. Something tells me that for a wee gay boy only starting to figure out how different he was from all the people around him, and who was trying desperately to hide that fact, a one-piece black leotard and top hat probably wouldn’t have been the best choice. Not to mention the magic wand.

The next Halloween costume I remember is a nerd, a “couple’s” costume with my best friend Brayden, that I can only imagine was both the last costume in the world I probably wanted to wear, and also, being that my 10-year-old self was madly in love with Brayden, was simultaneously the best costume in the world. If I had to guess, I was probably having dreams about dressing up as Michelle Pfeifer’s Catwoman and waking up in tears that I couldn’t make that happen. I assume my decision to dress up as Brandon Lee from The Crow the following year, complete with black hockey tape wrapped around my torso and black makeup around my eyes, was my way of trying to render that. I really just needed the ears and a whip, and it would have been Catwoman all the way. I remember something feeling so off about dressing as an ass-kicking dude from an action flick. I was already failing desperately at that role in my real life; the last thing I needed was to highlight that fact on my favourite night of the year.

It’s slightly ironic that Halloween is my favourite holiday, since I don’t think I have ever really felt comfortable in any costume I’ve worn. In my younger years, I almost always wanted to be something I couldn’t. Whether it was Catwoman, or Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice, or Winona Ryder in Heathers, or Bette Midler, things never really went the way I wanted. Luckily, costumes aren’t my favourite part of Halloween. It was never even the candy, although who doesn’t love a giant pillowcase filled with candy?
My love of Halloween has always been my lifelong passion for the macabre. I love Ouija boards, and seances, and witches, and horror movies. I read somewhere that the reason so many gay men love horror movies so much is because we somehow primally identify with the villains.
Freddy Krueger, Michael Myers, Jason Vorhees, all outcasts who take revenge on the ones who wronged them. I’m not too sure that theory tracks, or maybe I’m just scared to think too deeply about it. However, I will admit that in elementary school I invented a game called ‘Murder’, where all my friends (all girls, of course) and I would pretend to be guests on a luxury cruise ship, a role perfectly played by our school playground. All the girls would check-in to different rooms, then venture out to enjoy their fabulous vacations. And then I would slowly stalk around the ship and kill each one of them. Make of that what you will.

Anyway, back to costumes. As we all know, there comes a time when Halloween suddenly shifts from being about dressing up fun and scary, and becomes entirely about dressing up hot and slutty. Especially, and some might say necessarily, if you plan on ending up at the clerb.
Which is probably why I started throwing annual Halloween parties so that I didn’t ever have to end up at the club, since a strong mix of shame and body dysmorphia mixed with just a twist of toxic culturist kept me from ever wanting to try to be sexy on Halloween. Unfortunately, in my 20s, I still wasn’t comfortable dressing as Winona or Bette, and usually found myself scrambling to figure something out.
The one year I was convinced to go to the gay bar with my new boyfriend, I decided I’d be what I imagined would be some version of a Disney Prince, thinking it could still be funny while, maybe, hopefully, being slightly hot. What we ended up with was yellow tights, shiny pink bloomers, a puffy pirate shirt, and a terrible wig. And a tiara. Don’t ask me how it happened, but also maybe don’t decide to accessorize after you’ve already started drinking. All I know is I found myself wasted on a dance floor surrounded by hot cops and cowboys, wondering how long my lovely new relationship was going to last.
Another year, my bestie Amber and I decided to be Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett. These costumes were actually great. But my one stipulation for wearing them was that we did not end up anywhere close to the club, especially not the gay club. Cut to us wasted at midnight waiting in a freezing cold line (this was Calgary, by the way), surrounded by half-naked twinks in angel wings. There are numerous pictures of the two of us from that night in the club, but something about wildly teased wigs and white makeup dripping down our drunken, sweaty faces in the flash of a camera didn’t really do anything for us. Especially while swimming in a sea of abs. Trust me. There are pictures that somehow simultaneously catch the glow of perfectly sculpted abdominal muscles next to the gaunt, ghostly face of sweaty 2am Sweeney Todd. At least the miserable look on my face perfectly matched the character. I went home alone that night.

I’ve always and will always love Halloween. But dressing up in costumes almost always kills me. Like a few years ago, when I had finally, for the first time, dedicated enough solid hours at the gym that I was starting to feel ok about my body for maybe the first time in my life. This was going to be my year. And I had the perfect costume idea that would show just a bit of skin and, maybe, finally get me in on slutty Halloween: Jesus Christ Superstar. So hot, right? (I’m not going to lie, the largely Broadway theme to many of my costumes didn’t really occur to me until I was writing this essay.) It was great. I had a gold glittered crown of thorns. I had glitter all over my beautiful, flowing Jesus wig. And I had a tiny slutty sheet draped around my body. I was feeling good. So good that it seemed like a great idea to smoke a big fat joint outside the big gay party before going in.
I apologize again to my boyfriend and friends who were there with me, since it was barely half an hour before I had a slight panic attack on the dancefloor after ruthlessly comparing myself to the countless ripped torsos around me. Sometimes the ghosts we thought we’d finally exorcised come back to haunt us at the worst times. Half an hour later, I was home on the couch eating poutine as glitter tears rolled down my face.
I guess if I look hard enough, I could find some sort of deeper truth to all of this. The way so much of my life has felt like wearing a costume that I don’t quite fully belong in. How much of my life I spent trying to hide myself behind masks that never really did their job the way I needed them to.
I spent years trying to be anything other than who I really was. Wanting to be fitter than I was. Butcher than I was. Constantly warring with my body and the way it didn’t conform to the standards of my culture, and the way that made me feel like an alien even amongst all the other aliens. And while it might seem like wearing a costume could be a great way of escaping all of this, spending one fabulous night a year getting the chance to be somebody else, ironically, somehow, it has always felt like wearing costumes only ever exposed the parts of myself I was trying to hide.

Luckily one of the gifts of getting older is that the feeling of needing to be something other than me has started to ease up, the edges of my self-criticism slowly wilting away. Finally, it feels like all the roles I’ve played and costumes I’ve tried on in my life have started mattering much less than the fabulous little gay boy buried underneath it all.
So, maybe this year I’ll do something different for Halloween. Maybe this year I’ll be courageous and finally be the one thing I’ve always been the most scared to be… Mr. Mistoffelees.