Tag: lesbian Canada

Beauty: Lou’s Story

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It’s been an exhausting day of travel and emotional upheaval to make it to the musky back seat of a stranger’s used minivan in the parking lot of the massive hub that is the Cleveland Airport. It’s 2013, I’m 19 years old, going into my third year of college, and I just completed my first solo flight. Well, technically, first two solo flights, if you include the short little jaunt to my neighbouring Province and then the connecting international flight to the States. I’ve been preparing for months and months for this day.

Every early morning shift at the pool, every denied invite to go out, every bring-your-own-lunch-to-school dollar has been saved to get me here. Here, now rolling along Ohio’s highways, letting the bare landscape whizz on by. The sky is bright and expansive, the emotional forecast… not so much. In the time that it took for me to sprint from my first flight to my connecting flight, the terrifying turbulence that had even my phased-by-nothing seat mate gasping, and now this backseat’s “eau de B.O.” sitting with 4 other strangers who have come from God knows where, has me convinced me I do not want to be here. I want to be the opposite of here. I want to be home. I want home. I am so far from home.

The barren rolling hills start to turn green as we drive through forests that look nothing like the dense and mighty cedars of the Northwest Coast. Sunlight streams through the branches with ease and everything within looks aglow. Somehow this is both mesmerizing and multiplying my aching homesickness. The roads wind as the minutes tick on by. Small talk has arisen amongst us strangers as we share where we are coming from and how we first heard about this retreat. People seem nice. Polite.
Typical church personalities. I know this type well. I am this type. My Christian resume is thorough. Take a look at my contributions to its contents from the last week: I have five scribbled prayers in my notebook from the two boarding lines I have waited in today. I have checked off my communication responsibilities to schedule someone back home to cover my spot on the church Praise Team for the Sunday services. I am fully backed by the leadership of my Presbyterian roots after seeking the blessing of my pastor, his wife, a Christian mentor, and a member of session… just to cover my basis. And I have whole-heartedly believed that this, this one-week International Prayer Retreat, this is the path that God himself has made for me. And if it wasn’t for this divine calling, this clear conviction, that tenacious little flame of faith I have been fanning for the last 6 years, I would have already been on my third flight of the day, my flight home.
These strangers are my people, and I know how to “people” well. I know how to present myself and hide myself at the same time. I am so good at it, that I genuinely can enjoy the connection despite the storm I keep at bay inside. But today, these whiffs of a middle-aged man’s unwashed workout gear resting in the confines of a tightly packed automobile, these foreign roads with their foreign colours of green in their foreign sunlit forests, and the choppiest of internal waters, the crashing waves start to pool at the corners of my. smiling eyes and I am not sure how long that smile of mine will convince these strangers that I belong here.
In actuality, this minivan commute is just under an hour, a fraction of time amongst my travel day, but within those 57minutes I have entertained the fear that drives almost all that I do; I DO NOT belong here. But if I don’t belong here, if I don’t hear from God, if I don’t get answers and nothing changes, if I don’t change, if I leave just as broken as I have arrived… I won’t belong back home either. Not in my church, not in my family, not in my circles, not in myself. And if I don’t belong at home, I do not have a place of belonging. The truth will become loud and clear… I DO NOT belong.

I’ve only let a few silent tears leak down my cheeks. Subtle enough to wipe them away like the sweat I see the elderly man named Everett in the first row of seats attempts to wipe from his brow. I have observed his leaning posture and shaky hands. His voice deep but raspy as if it held strength before his muscles atrophied. My guess is Parkinson’s, muscular dystrophy, old age? His wife, sitting beside him, fanning her also flushed face, sees his fable attempt, pulls a tissue from her bag and wipes his brow for him. God, that is all I crave and yearn for. To sit in the discomfort of it all, in any state, in all circumstances and turn to look into the eyes of my love. My person. And see my belonging. Please God, let this bravery of coming here lead me one step closer. Not one more step closer to the man I grew up thinking I was going to marry, I have prayed in the depths of this closet far too long for me to believe in this Pray the Gay Away scheme anymore. No, I desire something far more reasonable. This is my last-ditch effort to get close enough to God for him to give me the grace to not desire what I am not supposed to desire. Celibacy, a current coffin of a closet, I need desperately transformed into something I do not mourn. Please God, please won’t you do this for me. Or maybe, just maybe, could there even be a fragment of a hint of a hope that this retreat could get me one step closer to finding her?

The minivan rolls to a stop at the far end of a pull-through driveway. Through the tinted windows, amongst the towering maple trees, lay a small lodge with a trail of cabins off to the right-hand side. The main building, larger than the rest, is framed by dozens of windows, which allow me to see through to the other side, where the wrap-around deck borders the rushing river beyond it. It is stunning… and yet, its beauty does nothing to calm me. How many tears can I pass as sweat? The sliding door of the van is rolled open and we pile on out, gathering at the top of the gravel pathway that leads down to the lodge. My mind is busy. I bet that the lodge has the phone I will need to call my parents. I bet that the lodge will have the computer that I will use to search for flights home. I bet that the visa in my orange Velcro wallet will be able to cover the expenses of making my way back to my precarious belonging. Once I am home, then I can figure out some way to pay off the bill of this mistake and figure out a new way to earn God’s favour.
As we unload the trunk of all our luggage, I’ve run through my exit plan 18 times; it’s foolproof. We are instructed to meet in the lodge to meet our mentors and other fellow retreat goers, so down the path I go. I am certain I will not be meeting anyone who doesn’t have practicality in my purposed plan to skip introductions and make my leave. Before making it down the tiered steps directly in front of the lodge, my mental preparations are interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. I look up to see a mammoth of a man walking up the steps. Blue denim overalls and a buttercup yellow golf shirt that encompasses his big, round belly and wide shoulders. When I look up to see his face, I see sweet blue eyes hiding behind half-rimmed glasses and a trimmed white beard circling his beaming smile. Undenounced to me, Santa apparently lives in Ohio during the summer months.
In the smallest of moments between my observations and festive judgements, this jolly man meets my gaze, raises both arms above his head, joy radiating from his face and exclaims…

“LISA!!! YOU MADE IT!!! I AM SO HAPPY YOU ARE HERE!!!”

If ever there was a single moment that has defined who I want to be in this world, it would be the welcome I received from who I now know as my beloved friend John, endearingly known to many as Papa John. In all the wonder and awe I have found in this world, who knew a big old white guy with a certified twang from the South would become my definition of beauty. I did not call home that day. I did not book an emergency flight home. Instead, I spent a week in the bright green forests of Ohio redefining the God I thought I knew. Those seven days of prayer planted the seed of my belonging. Not to religion, not to church, not to celibacy, not within or outside the guise of rights and wrongs, my understanding of sin or the work of earning and deserving love. I began the work of believing in my own inherent belovedness, learning and leaning into the wisdom held within my body, the power of my imagination, my creativity, my goodness. I started to find belonging in myself.

Beauty came to me. Beauty showed up when bravery said, “There is a different way.” Beauty befriended me, not because my eyes were open or my heart was less hard, but because of the softness of the heart who was willing to see me. Papa John saw me. Freeing himself from expectation and norm, he chose to love with arms high above his head.
I’m 32 now. I graduated college. Moved out. Became a teacher.
Branched out with my bravery. Found queer community. Found more of me. Loved more of me. I spend my days living in the beauty of belonging to myself. I fell in love with the woman of dreams I never allowed myself to have. And our love, this love that found me, is an arms-high-above-the-head kind of love.
Beauty came to me, became part of me.

And I belong to me. To her. To a love I now endearingly know as beauty.

Beauty: Kailey’s Story

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I’m floating – what feels like 100 feet above the river – suspended and looking out at its brownish winding path, lined with grassy knolls, dotted with picnicking couples, dogs sniffing the air, and work-out groups walking.

I fall – back down, the trampoline below meeting my feet for only seconds before I’m joyously flung back up to catch another glimpse of the afternoon scene in Vienna, Austria.

Years of competitive dance training never leave the toes; Mine, pointed, and experimenting with various split jumps, star jumps, and toe touches – making fun shapes in the air with each bounce – tears flowing from my eyes, but drying almost immediately as the wind pushes up and down against my cheeks with each bounce.

The ukulele mashup of Somewhere Over the Rainbow and What a Wonderful World by Israel Kamakawiwoʻole guided me here – ‘oooo mmm ooo mm-mm-mm-mmm, oo oo oo’ – playing on loud speakers at the base of this floating water trampoline on this rather plain river.

I spent all morning taking in classically beautiful art and music – a Mozart concert, and several art galleries and museums over at the aptly named ‘Museumsplatz’ area of Vienna. It was all stunning, but somehow this day had even more beauty in store for me.

With no real itinerary, I asked a stranger what I should do with my afternoon and they said to ride the train out to this river – so I did.

I had been solo backpacking around Europe for a few weeks before this particular day. The year was 2010, I was 21, and I had refused to bring a cell phone with me on this trip. “I want to do an old school Euro trip, with pocket dictionaries, printed maps, and forced conversation with locals” I told my poor mortified mother. I was flying by the seat of my EuroRail pass, hostel hopping, and checking in with home via 10-minutes of computer time at the hostels. Smart phones hadn’t yet seized our attention as humans at the time – so I was all spongy, ready to take in what Europe had to offer. The feeling of complete freedom on this trip remains unmatched in my life since … No one really knew where I was, no one in these places knew who I was … I could be anyone to anybody, trying on a new version of me any time I wanted.

After my 2 euros ran out, my 8 minutes of glorious jumping time was done and I left the trampoline, stumbling slightly as I readjusted to the solid ground below.

“Servus!” I hear from behind the fenced-in exit area. I caught her eye. “Servus, Hallo!” she repeated. Mmmm… could she be talking to me? I checked around me before offering a wave and a meek “Me? Hello?” back. Apparently my Canadian was showing in that response as she promptly switched to English.

“Are you a cheerleader?” she asked, adding “you’re very good. I was watching you.” I assured her I was not, but that I danced a lot growing up, and appreciated the kind words. I figured that was the end of our interaction but she continued walking with me as I exited the gates. She said, “My cheerleading team is rehearsing for a competition and we’re down one girl for practice today… Can you fill in for her?”

After trying my best to convince her that I was not at all skilled in cheerleading moves, lifts, stunts or tricks, I agreed to help out for the day.

We walked along the riverside for a bit, speaking very little, before she veered off into a forested area to the side. Following her I suddenly felt a bit nervous… Was this young woman plotting to kill me? Or bring me to some cult leader? Or was she maybe hitting on me? Was this going to be the beginning of a sapphic screenplay I’d write someday?

We came to a clearing in the forest where two other girls waited. They weren’t your stereotypical Hollywood cheerleader types – they seemed a bit like a group of misfits – which made me feel immediately at ease. They taught me some lifts – I was to be a base support for the flyer. The trust they placed in me, a random stranger girl from Canada, was pretty unbelievable.

I did my best, but I honestly think I was a bit of a let down to the girl who scouted me. It was tough work! After about an hour of practice, we wrapped up. They asked about my availability for their competition in a few weeks … and I had to break it to them that I was due to be in Spain to teach drama and dance at an English summer camp. But I did for a moment consider leaving everything behind and joining this cheer team in Austria.

We snapped a crappy photo on my digital camera – one of the best shots of the day – capturing the true beauty in the real people, the real connections, in Vienna – rather than just the “beautiful” things set out for tourists’ eyes.

I never spoke to the cheer girls again… And I sometimes wonder if this magical day had happened today, how would social media and our obsessively connected world shape this memory… What are the ways in which it would become distorted? Or the ways it would be enriched? How many shots of my split jumps would I need to take before landing the perfect one for instagram? Maybe I’d still be in touch with the girls, planning visits to one another’s countries. Looking at a photo of how I was only really 5 feet in the air might crush this memory of flying. If this was just another story I posted, would it have remained interesting enough to be told here tonight?

Not being tethered to a device that summer, I’ve always stored the memory of the river trampoline and accidentally joining an Austrian cheerleading team purely, and vividly in my mind.

Jingle Tales: Sarah’s Story

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My story starts, as all good Christmas stories do, with a divorce.

Specifically, the divorce of my parents, who split up when I was six when my mom fell in love with another woman. In 1982 small-town Ontario this was a bit of a scandal, and when the homophobia proved to be too much, Mom moved to Toronto to be with her new girlfriend.

My brother and I would hop on the greyhound bus every other weekend to visit her, swapping our big house for her tiny co-op apartment in the city. I loved taking the subway, going to art exhibits, visiting the big library with books I’d never find at home. We were introduced to interesting new things like the lesbian softball league, Take Back the Night marches, and drag shows.

Mom was a vibrant, passionate woman who threw herself into this new life. I hated leaving her at the end of the weekend, and I hated that at home her gayness was still largely a secret.

Under her charismatic exterior mom was also insecure, and sometimes sad. Her new relationship was chaotic, with undercurrents and breakups I didn’t understand. As a kid, I watched helplessly as her moods rose and fell.

My story takes place during one of these break-ups, and it’s low. I was about eight, that my brother and I went to Toronto to spend the holidays with Mom. It was her first Christmas without a partner in years. In our family, Christmas had always been a bustling, cheerful affair, with turkey dinner, grandparents, cousins, the fancy silverware, tablecloths.

But that year, mom surprised us by announcing we’d be going out to a restaurant for dinner on Christmas day, just the three of us. She wanted us to be excited, but I felt disappointed that we weren’t doing our regular things.

Maybe she was trying to make new traditions, or maybe she didn’t have the energy to cook a holiday meal. I don’t know, but whatever the reason, there we were on that brutally cold Christmas day, bundling up to walk to the restaurant she’d chosen. I remember zipping our coats up to our noses and pulling our toques down almost over our eyes for the walk over.

The streets were empty – I imagined everyone else gathered around big tables with big, happy families. As the snow crunched under our feet, I missed home, my dad, my dog, the feeling of being part of something bigger. This didn’t feel like Christmas.  

Once I saw the restaurant she’d chosen, I was even more disappointed. It was a stark, low budget kind of place with metal tables and fluorescent lights. A chalkboard outside said Turkey Dinner in a messy scrawl. Inside, several sad-looking people ate alone. The smell of grease hung thick in the air. Even the Christmas music playing through the tinny speakers didn’t make it feel festive.

I nudged my brother and pointed to one of the diners – a large man with a big round belly and a long white beard, though it was kind of yellowed and dirty. He wore a thick, moth-eaten blue sweater.  “It’s Santa,” I whispered jokingly. My brother rolled his eyes. The waitress brought the guy another beer and a plate of fries. His weathered hands shook as he ate.

No question, this place was depressing. 

Still, I knew that my mom was trying to make Christmas special, and I wanted her to be happy. She said we could order whatever we wanted, which was unheard of – mom was always on a budget.

The waitress came by – an older woman with a greying ponytail. “What a special night!” she said.

We were trying.

I ordered a milkshake, then wondered if I shouldn’t have because of the cost. I built towers out of the little jam and peanut butter packets that were still on the table from breakfast.

Mom put on a smile, but behind it, she looked tired. I kept talking, telling her everything I could think of about school and my friends. My brother was quiet as usual, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Mom lit a cigarette and smoked while we waited for the food to come. She kept opening the menu – I could see her scanning the prices, doing the math in her head.  

We drank our milkshakes, then ate our dry turkey with lumpy mashed potatoes.

Mom asked if we wanted dessert, but we both said no, not wanting to stress her out any more.

The bell over the door jingled, and I looked up to see Santa leaving, pulling his ratty plaid jacket on as he went out into the cold.

Not even Santa wants to have Christmas here, I thought.

Finally, after what felt like the longest meal of my life, mom pulled out her wallet and motioned for the check.

The waitress came over to our table and smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s been taken care of.”

Mom blinked “What?”  

The server pointed to where Santa had just been sitting. “That gentleman asked if he could buy you dinner.”

Mom blinked again, tears in her eyes, still unsure of what was happening.

The server patted her hand, said “Merry Christmas hon. There’s pie on the way.”

The smile that slowly filled mom’s face brightened to a thousand watts. And with that we had her back, laughing as we devoured our pie with whipped cream.

We left the diner giddy, talking over each other about how we’d seen the real Santa that night. It was still cold, but now I noticed the holiday lights twinkling from people’s apartment balconies.

We may not have had tablecloths, or extended family, or fancy silverware, but Santa bought us dinner!

I’ve returned to the memory of that night so many times over the years. It’s like I’m looking in through the diner’s fogged-up window to see two sad blonde kids with messy hair and a mom in a thrifted red sweatshirt trying her best to make Christmas merry. And a guy with a white beard – and probably not a lot of money himself – who sees them.  

This story is a love letter to that man and his unexpected kindness.  

But it’s also a love letter to parents going through hard times.

See I feel a kinship with my mom, with who she was back then, now that I’ve spent quite a few Christmases on my own, trying to conjure magic for my kids, sometimes when I was barely holding on myself. I’ve watched my kids negotiate lost traditions and adjust to new normals. And honestly it’s been hard at times.

I wish I could tell that young version of my mom, she’s doing a great job. That it’s okay to be sad at Christmas. I wish I could tell her thank you for taking us to a restaurant, even if it’s not what I wanted at the time. Thank you for trying something new. And thank you for being brave enough to follow your heart, for falling in love and coming out, even though it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.  

You gave me the courage to do the same.

 I want to tell her it all works out in the end – her queer daughter will grow up knowing the beauty of chosen family and evolving traditions.

That her daughter will be grateful for that night, and how it reminded her to believe in miracles.