Tag: life

Jingle Tales: Darren’s Story

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Like many, I was in my late teens before I realised I liked men. But those weren’t the first signs, no. For those, we go all the way back to the 80’s! Most of the strongest memories of my childhood come from Christmas as a kid, and that’s where my first obsession with a man started! His name is Santa Claus. 

When I was a kid, my parents had a Christmas Eve tradition of bringing me and my siblings to visit relatives to exchange gifts. First up would be my grandaunt Maggie. She was a sweet woman that we loved dearly, but she was stern and her husband was cranky, so we tended to be on our best behaviour in her house. She usually had some new fancy chocolates for us to eat, and we always knew that she would give us a box of those before we left, so it was worth behaving for that hour.

But then we would visit my grandparents. Their house was small and cosy, walking in to their kitchen just smelled of Christmas. The wood fired range would usually have been burning all day, so there was a feint smell of smoke. This was enhanced by the smell of the ham that would be slowly cooking for dinner the next day, and the Christmas pudding and cake that was waiting for us eat! Not to mention the boxes of biscuits, tins of chocolates, and almost no limit to how much of anything we could have! As we ate, my grandparents would tell us stories about how different Christmas was for my Mam and her family back in the day. I could never fully comprehend how they handled Christmas for 13 people in that tiny four roomed cottage… not four bedrooms, four rooms, total! Of course my parents would enjoy a tipple or two… it was the 80’s… and it really was so happy and joyous, my favourite day of the year so far! That was until we got into the car to go back home and my Christmas fear would kick in. Why you ask? Well, by the time we were leaving my grandparents house, it would be dark and close to our bedtime. My little head would fill with fearful questions. “What if Santa Claus came and we weren’t there? Would he go and not leave us any presents? What if he put us on the naughty list for being out so late?” This wasn’t helped on several occasions by my parents pointing to flashing lights in the sky and saying “look, it’s Santa”! My terrified little body would crouch down into the rear footwells of the car the rest of the way home, totally shaking in fear and praying he wouldn’t see me! As soon as we arrived home, I would make a mad dash for the house, and you have probably never seen a kid get ready for bed as quickly as I did those evenings! For my parents, it was the perfect play.

I never really had anything to worry about, as the next morning after my parents made us lineup down the stairs in order of age (the youngest going first), we would burst into the sitting room. “Look, Santa came”, my Mam would cry every year. It was a moment of pure joy for us, but also legitimate shock that Santa Claus had been in our house! It was scary, happy and exciting all at the same time! Every year it would blow my tiny little mind that this magical person, who held so much power, had been in our house while we were asleep. But that was just the beginning of the excitement, then we had… the presents.

I truly got some great gifts as a kid. Some of my most memorable ones are the year I got my first proper bike. It was a blue and yellow BMX, I still have a photo of five year old me on it! There was the year I got a toy kitchen, and the year I got my first keyboard! It’s pretty embarrassing to reflect on, but the memory of that keyboard is also accompanied by the memory of me refusing to go to bed on Christmas night until after I’d performed for my parents friends that were visiting… and by performing I mean pressing the auto-song button and pretending to play. At the time you could not tell me they were not impressed, the next Elton John… but I’m fairly confident now that they were entertaining me more than I was entertaining them. 

While I was very excited by what I got every year, I always had a close eye on what my sister Alison got! She was the girly girl sister so dolls were always part of her haul. And as great as my gifts were, I was sometimes quite sad that I didn’t just get to play with her dolls… or more specifically, their hair. I alway felt like I could only play with them when no one else was around, and Christmas Day was great for this because she had lots of dolls so it would be easy to sneak an old one away while she was entertained with the new ones! This never really lasted long, she’d usually find out later and get mad at me… especially if I thought that Cindy needed a haircut. That didn’t go as down well as I’d hoped, but I don’t ever remember being reprimanded for playing with dolls and I don’t ever recall my parents not wanting to get me the gifts I asked for… I just was never brave enough to ask for my own doll.

As I grew up, the joy of Christmas changed, it wasn’t gone… it was just different. Throughout my teens, I was more “normal”. I received gifts that were broadly in line with what my friends were getting. Gone were the kitchens and keyboards and in were the PlayStations and CD players. Although I did get Janet Jackson’s Design of a Decade for Christmas in 1995 which I’m sure was a sign of things to come, however I was 22 before I asked for something which was truly meaningful again.

This isn’t meant to be a story about me coming out, but just before I told my parents I was gay, I remember thinking to myself “They’ve got to know right? What about all the gifts they got me as a kid? They weren’t typical boys toys. All the times I played with my sisters toys or “borrowed” her boyband cd’s. Surely they have an idea, right?”. They didn’t, and me being gay came as quite a shock to them… which came as quite a shock to me. 

During one of our conversations in the days after, they asked if I had a boyfriend. I did, so I told them about him and how great he was, but they were angry and my Mum said that he would never be allowed into the house. At the time this was very upsetting, and it was actually a big part of why I moved out of home shortly after. I wanted to live with my boyfriend and be with him all the time. He was perfect, and better than any gift.

Over the next couple of weeks with some distance between us, my parents began to accept me for me and the healing began. So when Christmas came close and my Mam asked me what I wanted as a gift that year, I knew there was only one thing that was on my list. I wanted them to meet Alan for the first time over Christmas. It was the only thing I asked for that year. At first my parents were tentative, but we were in better place so they eventually agreed. A few weeks later, on Boxing Day in 2005, two extremely nervous boys walked into that house together as a couple for the first time. And it was great, perfect even. My Dad was, and always will be a tough nut to crack but he knew Alan was important to me, so he shook his hand and made awkward small talk for about five minutes before retiring to the sitting room (this was good) and once my Mam discovered that Alan loved to drink wine, he was like a second son to her.

Over twenty years later, we still celebrate Christmas as an expanded family every year. It looks a lot different now, but we still make an effort to exchange gifts and keep alive some of the traditions that have meant a lot to me and my family since a very young age. I often think about the dolls I used to sneak away and play with, how I would sit there brushing their hair until I was found… I never did get a doll of my own with plastic hair to brush, unless you count my husband’s one attempt at drag as Lady Anal – that came pretty close.

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.

Jingle Tales: Randy’s Story

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I have often said that no one loves the Xmas season as much as I do. That may or may not be true, but I definitely give other competitors a run for their money.

I am a confirmed atheist, so it’s never been about the religious aspects of the holiday, but the things that colour the season – the lights, decorated trees, the ever-present holiday music, the parties and gatherings, the customs and traditions: Charlie Brown, multiple iterations of the Grinch, Frosty, Rudolph, Ebenezer Scrooge, George Bailey & his wonderful life, Ralphie and his beebee gun, Will Ferrell as the most sincere elf in existence, and the Clark Griswold family Xmas disaster. Did you notice that I never said gifts and shopping?  I participate in that and do take pleasure in finding someone a great gift, but I truly would enjoy the entire season just as much if I never received a gift or had to buy one. Anytime I hear someone complain about how commercial the season is, I suggest they spend less time shopping in stores and on-line. There are at least 150 ways that someone can enjoy the season if they are compelled to, and most of these do not involve standing in line in a store.

In our house, we love Halloween. But honestly, once the decorations are put away and the jack-o-lanterns are composting, my lovely husband understands that there exists a chance that I might be playing occasional holiday music. It evokes so much happiness for me, that I have always found the expectation that Xmas music only be played within a week or two of December 25 to be really limiting. What I find amusing is that, because so much of the holiday music we listen to is rooted in childhood traditions, the musical artists involved can be so very random. This can truly be the only time that Glen Campbell, Charlie Brown, Don Ho, The Muppets, New Kids On The Block, Sia, Ella Fitzgerald, Run DMC, and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir can be heard side-by-side, and no one really finds it odd.

Xmas traditions come and go, but one that is key for me is giving back. I’m a big fan of outreach and charity work. When my son was just 4 years old, Drew and I felt strongly that he should have a sense of perspective about how much we have, our place in the world, and how we should never take any of that for granted. About 17 years ago, I joined a grassroots outreach group called Potatoheads that serves fully-dressed baked potatoes and other food at Pigeon Park in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, one day per month. I would bring Jack with me each time, and he stuck with it until the pre-teen years kicked in, around the time that I took over the group’s coordinator role.  To this day, Potatoheads go down to Pigeon Park in the heart of the DTES every month to serve food and give out second-hand clothing and other essentials. At Xmas, we fundraise to buy items for gift bags that include food, socks, hats, and toiletry items, and are usually able to make and give out well over a hundred of these bags.

When I first started going to the DTES on a regular basis, I had some concerns. Obviously, my son’s safety was the primary one. But I came to realize over a brief period of time that, while it’s a very surreal atmosphere, and I am always keeping my eyes open, the residents are generally kind, appreciative, and open to chatting and jokes. Many seemed particularly impressed that my son was there, and they told him so. One day, someone gave him a Loonie for his efforts, and I told the gentleman that while it was a much-appreciated gesture, he likely needed the money much more than Jack did. He told me in no uncertain terms that he was giving it to my son, and not me. I understood at that moment that he probably felt great to show my son his appreciation this way, so of course, I left it at that. Over the years that Jack came with me, he ended up with further funds, a few Hot Wheels cars, and advice like, “listen to your parents!” and “stay in school!”

It’s deeply satisfying to be able to give food and supplies directly to end users. Over time, I occasionally become skeptical and wonder what difference is truly being made. But it always comes down to two things:  1) people need and 2) I have. And during the holidays, when so many of us are swimming in abundance, the motivation to give feels like the right thing to do. So, we keep doing it.

This extends to our annual holiday party that we throw at the beginning of each December. At our front door, we will have two donation boxes – one for the Vancouver Food Bank and one for the BC SPCA. People are allowed in even if they don’t contribute, and we will treat them just as kindly as the people who do. We promise.

In summary, I love the holiday season for a bunch of reasons. It’s amazing how sensory it all is. The smell of a mandarin orange or a cut Xmas tree can connect me so easily with how blissed out I was every December when I was a kid. Or the first 20 seconds of my favourite Xmas TV special. Or an incredible light display. Or track one/side one of the cheesiest vinyl holiday album that has ever existed, which still manages to make me almost as blissed out as I was when I was little.

I love socializing with family, friends, and neighbours on the 24th and 25th, and opening the doors of our house on Boxing Day to whoever wants to join us for leftovers and further hospitality. When I say that everyone here is invited, I’m quite serious. Talk to me after for our address.

Every December, I’m reminded of how lucky I am, not just in what I have, but in what I’m able to share with others. What makes the holidays meaningful for me are: the joy, the socializing, the nostalgia, and simple acts of giving. All that wrapped together with the soundtrack of Charlie Brown Xmas playing in the background can somehow make the world feel a little kinder.

Season of the Witch: Jacey’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 Jacey, 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.

Summer Loving: Ben’s Story

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Back in July 2019, pre-pandemic, pre-twink death, I met you, Lloyd. (Lloyd is a pseudonym, for you dear, my favourite Welshman.) Edinburgh – Edd-in-berg, if you want to be ridiculed. I was crashing on my sister’s couch in Marchmont. Bored, cramped, a little horny; friends going to a party I wasn’t interested in that night, I open an app.

Sniffies didn’t exist back then, so we did our business on Grindr like gentlemen. 

I don’t know what it is about Edinburgh, but I do extremely well there. So, I casually shoot my shot. And, you reply. Truthfully, I was surprised. You are too pretty. Your singular dangling earring (because those were in style then), the white button-up shirt so open to your chest. Too pretty. You, Lloyd with brown eyes. 

I steal away some weed brownies that my sister made. Keep in mind, this is Scotland, the UK (at least for now). Weed is rare goods. We are both excited to indulge. Even though European weed is shite, I tell you, including the stuff in Amsterdam compared to BC bud. We walk the Meadows, QU’EST-CE QUE C’EST in modern terms, ‘yapping.’ You tell me about cartography, and the archives you work in, poetry, and the jewelry you wear. I tell you about linguistics, the archives I work in, the dread of renting in Vancouver, the jewelry I wear. 

You live just up the road from my sister’s, so we go to yours. We don’t jump to sex – no – I want to show you the Canadian Cat Show Circuit documentary I saw earlier, while the brownies take full effect. You are enamoured by the cats. Eventually, we do find ourselves in bed.

This is the first time I ever had you on top of me. It might have been the weed brownies, maybe the amber lighting, and the bedroom’s high ceiling, your cheeky smile, the smoothness of your stomach, your nose, deep in my neck. Kissing and laughing at each other.

I wake up late; we wake up late. I need to meet some friends for brunch, now. I dash out the door, forgetting my wallet, and keys, but not my phone. Thank god. You are waiting for me at your flat’s entrance as I scamper back. I see you; you see me. We look terrible. Hickies abound. Hair disheveled. What I hope is toothpaste. We chuckle boyishly and kiss. It is not our last meeting that week.

I learn Lloyd likes old, pretty things and fresh clotted cream. He is sentimental and hates low-rise socks. He pulls his knee highs all the way up. 

He graduates from university later with a master’s degree; I return to Vancouver long before then. We keep in touch on Instagram as oomfs. (I have a real life oomf!) 

July 2022. We are in the pandemic, but some restrictions begin to ease. My sister is having their wedding Ceilidh in Edinburgh. It is a Gaelic social event, with dancing, fiddles, and alcohol, of course.

Perhaps, you can make the trip up from London. Perhaps, we can find a place to stay away from my family for the week. Perhaps, you want to come, and see me, that guy with the weed brownies, and cat documentary, (and ass eating). Wow. You are coming. I am a bit scared now. What if, we’re just friends and not friends this time. Not that we have to be friends like that: no expectations. I’m cool. You are cool. But, we are sharing a bed for the week. 

Your train is early. I am rushing to Waverley. I wanted to have something for you. I am pleading in a flower shop along the way to see what measly trimmings I can get for seven quid. [Huff] I am late. I am late, and I have shitty signal here. Fuck you, Fido! What if he isn’t getting my messages… But there you are. I am holding back smiling to look nonchalant, but my face is fuzzy, warm, and my chest is tight, racing. I can’t stop myself. My smile does not look like yours, and I don’t look like you: pretty. Have you always been taller than me? Oh, it is your shoes. He has cool shoes. “Hi Lloyd! I got you these.” 

That is the first ‘gorgeous’ of the week. He calls things he likes ‘gorgeous’. Sicilian pizza, tart wine, eclectic thrifted goods, my flowing green pants, a flat white whilst hungover, train station posies. 

At the Ceilidh, we give each other bruises from the swing dancing, swirling each other on the rental hall’s floor, switching partners, fumbling, tearing away, and to each other. My new brother-in-law’s third stepfather’s girlfriend, named Squirrel, from north of Aberdeen, asks us if we are together. We give each other that look. “Oh, so you are fuck buddies,” she quips in a brough. We laugh and shrug. 

The rest of the week is gorgeous. Most afternoons, I nap while you read; Lloyd is not a napper. He smiles when I enter the room half awake. I don’t know why. All week, he gets to revisit haunts from his uni days. For him, his past is here in Scotland. For me, just a present together, which itself is a fantasy. And, I should know better. Playing house on Leith Walk? You are the cruelest to yourself for this.

The morning finally comes. Because the UK is (and continues to be) an absolute shitshow and the climate is boiling us alive, the train schedule has ‘been better’. The rail cables are melting now. Your train is maybe here, so we rush to the station at high noon. These moments are all –  frantic, frenetic, while my insides are slow and sinking deep within me. You are leaving in an instance.

We hug, one last hug. And then, you step back, keeping me in your arms, and kiss me. I am caught off guard. You have to go. I have no choice but to linger there while your railcar leaves. 

Instead of dinner, I go to bed with stomach aches. I can’t wait to get home. I want my dog, my routine, to be as far away as possible from this place. I know for a fact we can’t be together if I am an ocean and a continent away. That is what makes it impossible, not the impossibility of you reciprocating this longing. You are there; I am here.

Somewhere in 2023, you delete Instagram. I respect that. But, I lose you. Wait! I signed up for that infrequent poetry email newsletter you do. Sigh. Quarterly, sometimes, tri-annually, I still get a glimpse of your thoughts and whimsy. I reply once to the email address, but don’t hear back. You added your cellphone number to it recently. I am still too scared to send a message. It is too direct. It is too late. Too – too! 

You have your Instagram again, but are never on it. Do I slide into your DMs? No. Also, a terrible idea.

I hate it: Having these thoughts and aches since you surely do not feel the same way about me. Hate acting foolish and teasing myself. Hate being reminded of you by the viola, wool pants, and Coronation chicken salad. Hate how these memories are mine, ours, but just mine really, fallible and reliably rose-tinted to a degree.
But I don’t hate you. No, I love you, Lloyd.
For how you make me breathless. For how you grin and say, ‘look at you’, when I walk in a room. 

Maybe one day, I will be one of those old, pretty things you enjoy again.

Not now, and not soon. No, but one day, when my love is no longer this loathsome and restless thing but somehow braver and tempered, for you.

Summer Loving: M.’s Story

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I’ve always been a hopeless romantic.
And I don’t mean that metaphorically, I literally used to choose Hopeless Romantic as my personality trait on The Sims. Back when I still thought that picking it would somehow make my characters have sex faster. Not in real life.
At the time, I didn’t fully get what it meant.
Hopeless? Romantic? Isn’t that a contradiction?
But over the years and one too many impulsive heart flings, I think I’ve finally started to understand.

Let me take you back to the summer of 2014.
I had just graduated from school and freshly 18. Queer. Closeted and Horny. 
And freshly added to a friend group headed to Ayia Napa, a beach town in Cyprus best known for two things: foam parties and straight British tourists throwing up in alleys. I unfortunately witnessed both.
It was my first time traveling without my parents.
Which basically meant: I could finally go fool around without anyone up my ass… except the man who was gonna be up my ass.

The night before the trip, I opened Growlr, it’s like Grindr, but for bears… and with a UI that looks like it was designed in 2003 and never updated (it probably was).
I changed my location to Ayia Napa, and within minutes, I found THE guy. Early 30s. Local. Cute smile. Med student.
We chatted. We vibed. We made plans to meet the day I landed. I didn’t know much, but I knew this trip was already a success.
I told my best friend, the only one in the group who knew I was gay. I expected a lecture. Maybe a “Don’t get murdered.” But instead, she saw his photo, read the texts, and said: “OMG, go get it, girl.”
It was the first time I’d ever told someone, in real time that I was about to meet a guy. And just having someone know made me feel more confident. More excited. More me.

On the flight over, I couldn’t think about anything else. This wasn’t just a hookup, it was a movie: A summer escape. A foreign local who’d show me around, give me great dick, and maybe, just maybe, become my European boyfriend with whom I’d live a Mediterranean gay fantasy. Hopeless Romantic mode activated.
When I arrived, he picked me up in a retro car, looking hotter than expected. And as fate would have it, we ran into two people from my group crossing the street. 
They stared. I waved. Later, I told them he was a “family friend.” 
And they shockingly believed it. 
He drove me to this beach bar that looked like a queer fever dream. It had a giant stone mermaid mosaic with the words “Once In a Lifetime Experience.” Which… felt dramatic for a beer on the beach.
But okay, Mama Mermaid, let me dream.
We got drinks, sat at a table by the water, barefoot on the sand, and talked for hours. We laughed. He told me about med school in Romania, coming home every summer, how he loved the sea. I was enchanted.
We couldn’t really flirt openly, it wasn’t the safest place. But at one point, our bare feet were near each other, and he reached out… and gently tangled his big toe with mine. Yes. Toe holding. Hand-holding, but gayer.
Now listen… I don’t have a foot fetish. But my dick… begged to differ.
Later, we made out behind a dumpster. (Summer loving, baby).

I went back to the hotel with the biggest grin on my face. I couldn’t stop smiling. I couldn’t stop imagining us. How we met by chance. How perfect the date was.
He’s in med school? Great, my parents will love him… only after they kill me when they find out im gay.
Gay marriage is legal in Europe? Done. We’re getting married.
The gay delusion was DELUSIONING.
But then the next day… we argued. Over text.
I was being clingy. He was pulling back. It wasn’t dramatic, it was just deflating.
I’d gone from mermaid mosaics to “I guess I’ll die alone” in under 24 hours.
That night, my friends decided to get tattoos. I, fresh off heartbreak,  told my best friend I wanted to get his name tattooed on my thigh.
To which, she said: “Only if I get to tattoo my hand slap on your face.”
She’s an Icon.

Still… we met again. We talked. We laughed. We shared a joint, my first. (I had no idea how to smoke it, so it didn’t really do much.)
He invited me to his family’s beach house. We made out on the kitchen counter. We had sex on a squeaky metal bed that sounded like it was cheering us on. We took selfies.
Then, he dropped me off. And that was the last time I saw him.

My phone died shortly after the trip, all the pictures, his number, everything: gone. And for a while, I felt this weird sense of grief. Not because I’d lost him.
But because it was one of those rare moments that felt good, and I wasn’t ready to let it go just yet.
That was my first real taste of gay romance. Before that, most of my experiences were secretive. Sexual. Transactional.
This one was different. Even if it was short-lived. Even if it ended in toe-holding and a missed connection.
Because over time, I’ve realized: Being a hopeless romantic isn’t about getting your fairytale ending. It’s about choosing to feel deeply, even when it’s messy. It’s about believing, even if only for one night, that love is possible, and that you are worthy of it. And with every little story like this one… I evolve.
Not into someone less romantic,  but someone more grounded. I still believe in soulmates… I just don’t expect them to show up in beach towns with retro cars and squeaky beds.

So NO, this wasn’t a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’ve had a few more summers like this since. And if I’m lucky… I’ll have many more.
Because being a hopeless romantic doesn’t mean you’re doomed. It just means you keep showing up for the magic. Even if it only lasts a night, or a week, or a beer on the beach.
Maybe the real once-in-a-lifetime experience is simply being someone who still believes in those moments.
And I still do.

Summer Loving: Sergio’s Story

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Tuesday, May 13th, 2024. 5:45pm.
I was at the gym, pretending I was the fittest guy alive… Well, actually, I had already finished exercising and was just lying down, getting a massage. (Fake it till you make it, right?)
Then the thought hit me: text Virgo. Yeah, that’s what I call him. Why? Because he’s a Virgo… original, I know.
“Hey, I’m going to be at Sunset Beach tonight. It’d be nice if you came,” I texted.
I waited for his reply, checking every two minutes — No response.
So… maybe not. Maybe he doesn’t like me, or maybe he has a boyfriend, or he is not interested, or I’m not his type… Sh*t, why did I invite him?
(I was raised watching Mexican telenovelas… of course I gotta be dramatic).

But let’s rewind. Where did Virgo even come from?
LGBTQ+ soccer league, summer season in Vancouver. I’m a goalkeeper — which is basically a full-time job of trying not to get distracted by hot, sweaty guys. And then he appeared. He had missed the first two games, but when he finally showed up, I swear I thought: “All my life, I’ve been good, but now… wow.”
Virgo: cliché perfection. White, blonde, blue eyes, toned, 5’5, killer smile. He was like a rom-com character who accidentally got dropped into my real life.

But back to the story: still no reply from him. 
I tell myself, “Relax, he’s busy. Don’t be dramatic…” (too late).
Finally, after an hour and a half, when I had already given up all hope, a text from him: “Hey, sorry, I just saw this. It would have been nice, I guess it’s too late now. But I see you’ve got a beer and chips.”
With revived hope, I tried again: “I’ll be here until sunset if you want to come.”
And he says: “Ok then. See you in a bit.” (*Cue me pulling out a bridal veil*).

Ten minutes later, there he was — short shorts, tote bag, hat, the full “West End summer chic” look. He hugged me, we talked, and then… he took off his shirt, and asked me to rub sunscreen on his back. Sunscreen. On. His. Back.
(That’s when my brain said nothing, because my heart was screaming too loud.)
We talked for hours. About life. About love. About what makes us happy. And then watched the sun say goodbye to us, lighting up the ocean, painting the sky orange, red, and pink. 
I looked at Virgo and saw the sun lighting his face. He was smiling, and I was just happy… I was very happy.
It was my first sunset of summer 2024… but in my mind, it was our first sunset.

Photoshoots and Minions:
We both love acting, and I had just started doing background work, so I offered to take some shots for his profile. On our second date, we wandered the West End, doing a photoshoot: changing outfits, laughing, joking… He told me about his family, where he is from in Canada. I told him about my hometown and its traditions, my friends, my family. 
Have you ever felt that connection when someone looks at you and smiles? You know that look, right? The one that says more than words ever could? Yeah, that one. He was looking at me like that the whole time.

On our third date, we watched Despicable Me. Not exactly the most romantic choice, but trust me, the way we laughed together and looked at each other was romantic. 
After the theatre, we walked the seawall, talking about our lives, and I realized that we were very similar in how we viewed things: commitment, friendships, relationships, work, the future. I discovered Virgo has a beautiful heart and cares about others. That he cares about his own mental health and is working towards his future. I was slowly falling in love with him. He was the guy I had been waiting for, for a long time.

The Ocean and the River :
Days later, we found ourselves back at Sunset Beach.
No kisses. No hug. But music, songs, secrets, glances… We told each other some personal stories that have changed our lives, that have made us cry, grow, smile, laugh. And me, lying there thinking: This is something I haven’t felt in years. 
He was playing Avril Lavigne songs: “That’s whyyy I smile, it’s been a while… Suddenly, you’re the reason I-I-I-I smile. I smile.”

But here’s the catch: When we were together, it was magical. When we weren’t? Silence. No texts. Being left on read. It made me feel confused, frustrated, and sad. I didn’t want what had happened before in my life to happen again. Not with him. I was hoping this would be different.

So I kept planning the next move, the next excuse to see him. Still clinging to the idea that this was real.
“Let’s go for a swim on Friday,” I texted.
He responded: “Yeah! Let’s bike Stanley Park, and end at Third Beach.”
I told myself: this time, HE has to text first. Friday comes. Noon. Nothing. So I give up, shower, and decide to go solo… when my phone lights up:
“Hey, a friend from Australia is in town, we’re going to Lynn Canyon for a swim. Wanna come?”
Of course I went. And again — with him, everything felt amazing. His friends were late, and Virgo and I had a great time. There were many people around us, but it was only Virgo and me that mattered, sitting on a rock, under the sun, having a beer. When my Converse fell in the water and got soaked, we joked about it, and laughed. We laughed a lot together.
We swam to the falls in freezing river, and he lent me his goggles so I could see what was under the water. Lots of fishes, lots of nature.
But just the two of us… No one else.

Truth:
The following Wednesday, a soccer game. I got injured — bad. I tore my ACL, and limped off the field, helped by teammates. Other soccer guys came up to me to ask how I was, what happened, if I was ok. But Virgo: he kept watching the game, and never came to check on me.
And right there, I knew. Maybe it was never real for him. Maybe it was only real in my head. So I stopped. No more texts. No more plans. I decided to move on, and start healing. It was the very first time I cried for him. It was my breakup.

We reconnected in December, because life literally put him on my way — twice. First, he started going to the same gym as me. Then, we both started working on the same film… We were together the whole day. So I thought life telling me: ”try again.”
I asked him out again. We went to the movies, and we went to see the Christmas lights at Stanley Park. How romantic. But then, the same story… No texts. Being left on read. One sided.

Four months later, I received a text from him. Not “hi.” Not “how are you.”
A favour. He wanted me to be his reference for a job. And you know what? I said yes. He got the job, and to thank me, he invited me to dinner. But this time, I was done lying to myself.
“Thanks for the invite,” I wrote back, “but I’m gonna be honest. I have feelings for you. Every time we hung out, I felt like there was something more… and I don’t want to confuse myself again.”
To be honest, I felt such a relief to say what I was feeling. To finally put myself first. End of story. Fin del cuento.

Summer gave me sunsets, laughter, and a boy named Virgo. But it also taught me: sometimes, what feels like a love story, is just a beautiful illusion.
After all, I’m happy because after years of being afraid, of running away from guys, I finally decided to give myself another chance to love. To put my heart out there and try. 
Maybe it didn’t end as I wished, but I’m glad it happened, because I will always have that first sunset as one of the most beautiful memories of Vancouver. 

Pride!: Evan’s Story

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When I came out almost 10 years ago, I could never have anticipated the journey that would lead me to my life partner. Let alone expect to be someone’s husband, for the past 30 days. As I stand here today, I am grateful for every minute of it, even the hard parts. I’m thrilled to say that the most wonderful man, to quote Beyonce, put a ring on it. Technically, we both did… Happy endings aren’t just for bathhouses. I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you about our recent wedding and elopement.
Our relationship, while, of course not perfect, has been relatively smooth when it comes to planning things: since I like doing all general planning things and Parm is extremely detail-orientated. I ride the hot-mess ADHD express and lose my dopamine rush when it comes to the more precise points. It’s truly a great match to have planning a vacation, moving apartments, redecorating, but when planning a wedding it can be a blessing and a curse.

Parm and I got engaged December 2023 and since we’re both planners we wanted to have a long engagement to make sure we had adequate time to plan things out. A quick backstory on how we got engaged. I decided to surprise him on our anniversary, since Parm hates surprises. It was the one way I could ensure he wouldn’t be suspicious I was planning something. I had tried, and failed, to surprise Parm a few times. I thought It would be a good idea to take him to high tea, after he was at the gym in street clothes, and was underfed from a leg day.  For the proposal, I tried to keep the destination a secret. But who would have thought he would’ve figured out I was taking him to Circle Wellness on Granville Island of all places. On the walk to where I had arranged his friends to meet us, Parm launched into a diatribe about why I shouldn’t try and surprise him anymore. Mainly since he wanted to know the plan to be mentally prepared and be properly dressed for the occasion. All I could think of in the back of my mind was, oh boy, you’re in for one major surprise in 5 minutes…

Going back to wedding planning, one of the greatest strengths I’ve learned since coming out is that there isn’t a “right” or “normal” way to be queer. So many social norms and expectations are shed when we come out and start living as our queer, authentic selves; especially when you enter a relationship. In gay relationships, nothing is assumed. You must clearly and openly communicate your roles, your responsibilities, and expectations. When Parm and I moved in together, we had to discuss how laundry, cooking, cleaning worked.
When we were planning our formal wedding, we had to figure out how walking down the aisle would work. If we wanted to include gendered cultural wedding traditions, how that would work. Being able to define all these things on our terms was (and is) a powerful thing, and I hope the same intentionality and partnership starts to show up more in hetero relationships. Be open and communicate what works for you as an individual and as a couple, and don’t just assume your role based on gender. We initially had a the “big white wedding” planned. Well, maybe not big, since we had capped it at 80 people. And maybe not all that white, since Parm has a big Indian family.

We were excited for our formal wedding here in Vancouver and placed the deposit for our dream venue, but as the time started coming closer to actually need to put pen to paper, we just weren’t excited at the idea. It just seemed like work and didn’t really feel like us. We toyed with the idea of eloping, at first here in BC, by doing a helicopter wedding to ensure none of our family could sneak in. But we had already planned on doing a honeymoon… before our wedding I may add, in the Faroe Islands and Mallorca. Why were we going to the Faroe Islands? Parm had seen it and wanted to explore it for it’s beauty. I wanted to go because there was a sweater shop I wanted to go to. Parm had an excellent idea to have our elopement in the Faroe Islands since the nature is beautiful and dramatic.

We cancelled our Vancouver wedding and instead carried out our plan to do our wedding there. And it was the best decision that we could’ve made. But first we had to make it legal and literally got married in slippers and bathrobes here in the West End. We forgot to give our officiant a heads-up, so she was a little surprised. It was unapologetically us. We love to travel, we love going to random places, we love hiking and nature, and we love doing things differently. We spent the whole day exploring the country with a local photographer, who proclaimed that five tourists at a site was “busy”.  We think he would have an aneurysm seeing the steam clock crowds in summer…
We did everything that we loved. We explored a small picturesque town with colourful houses. Went to a waterfall and scaled the rocks in dress shoes. Did our vows in the rain. Got, possibly a top-10 burger, at a gas station. And ended the day doing a hike in our tuxes to see one of the most beautiful parts of the Faroe Islands, Traepania, Where there is a lake above the ocean, backdropped by sheer cliffs. We were tired, muddy, and had our wedding night back at the hotel, lying in bed with pizza. In short, we wouldn’t have done things any different, and it was a perfect wedding day.

I’m just so happy that Parm is the person I got to marry. The full story of how we came together is a story for a different day, but I initially tried to push him away.  I had come out of quite a toxic relationship and wasn’t ready to date. He actually went on a few dates with my ex and pieced it together by the missing furniture in our respective apartments. Needless to say, he learned that I wasn’t the crazy ex.
In spite of all of the emotional push and pull (and the occasional self sabotage, of course) Parm stuck by my side. He gave me endless patience, a safe space to be irrational if I was spiralling while trying to process my trauma, and showed me that not everyone is out to get me. That I could feel safe enough to trust someone again.
I’m looking forward to building a life together and this next chapter is just the beginning. I’m just excited to be writing this one together as husband and husband.

Around the World: Ryan’s Story

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I used to think identity was something I had to wear like a badge.
Queer.
Person of Colour.
Canadian.
A neatly folded résumé of who I was supposed to be before anyone even knew my favourite food or how I take my coffee.

In Vancouver, I could feel the labels arriving before I did.
Like I walked into the room after my own footnotes.

But then I left.
Packed two suitcases and a nervous heart, and landed in Berlin —
a city colder than I expected, stranger than I imagined,
and somehow, freer than I’d ever known.

No one knew me there.
Not the barista who handed me my first Latte Macchiato with a crooked smile, not the cashier at Rewe who tossed my groceries with zero small talk, not the friend-of-a-friend at a Kreuzberg Altbau party who didn’t ask “where are you really from?” Or “what do you do for work?”
just asked, “what’s your sign?”

I said Cancer.
They said, “figures.”

And just like that, I wasn’t explaining myself.
I was just existing.

Berlin didn’t care what box I fit in.
It didn’t ask me to choose between my softness and my strength.
It didn’t ask me to be a role model or a symbol or a teachable moment.
It just asked me to be.
To show up.
To dance to pop EDM remixes in Schwuz or twerk at a Latin party in Lido.
To get lost on the winding Straßes.
To survive on Simit, Franzbrötchen and Club Mate.
To fall in and out of routines, and sometimes out of love.

And so I travelled.
Not just through Europe —
though yes, I did float through Stockholm,
sweated under the Barcelona sun,
and blinked at the beauty of Prague’s cobblestones at midnight —
but I also travelled through versions of myself.

The me who stood silently in museums.
The me who laughed too loudly in the S-Bahn.
The me who forgot to be afraid.
The me who wasn’t performing — wasn’t on display —
just living.

See, travel doesn’t just teach you about the world.
It teaches you about who you are when no one’s watching.
When there’s no audience.
No expectations.
No need to explain your history to justify your presence.

In Berlin, I was “the Canadian,” sure.
But that wasn’t code for “outsider.”
It just meant, “you’re not from here, but neither are we.”
I was allowed to take up space.
To make mistakes.
To speak German badly.
To start again.

And maybe that’s what travel gave me most —
the gift of not being anyone’s definition but my own.

In Vancouver, being queer and a person of colour was often the first thing.
Before my name.
Before my jokes.
Before my energy even had a chance to walk in the room.

But in Berlin, in those trains and cafés and moonlit strolls along the Spree —
I got to be just Ryan.

Not reduced.
Not erased.
Not tolerated
But revealed and accepted.

Because I am queer.
I am a person of colour.
And I’m also tender, and smart, and sometimes a little too dramatic.
I wear sheer shirts and glitter nail polish.
I write poems, I’ll never show anyone.
I miss my dog when I’m gone too long.
And I love citrus scents like they’re a personality trait.

And that — all of that — is who I am.
Not a headline.
Not a box.
But a body in motion.
A soul in translation.
A person in process.

Now I’m back.
Different city, same name.
Still me — but expanded.
And when I walk into rooms now, I don’t shrink.
I don’t lead with the résumé of what I am.
I just say, “Hi, I’m Ryan.”
And let the rest unfold.

Because travel didn’t change who I was.
It just reminded me I didn’t need to prove it.

So if you ever feel like you have to explain yourself before you’re allowed to be yourself,
if you ever feel like the world only sees you in fragments — go.
Even if it’s not far.
Even if it’s just to the next town over, or the next friend’s couch.
Find the place where your name is enough.
Where you don’t have to be a statement.
Where you’re not reduced to your resistance.

Find your Berlin.
And then bring it back with you.
Wear it like a soft hoodie.
Speak it in the way you order your coffee.
Live it in the way you look people in the eyes when you say:

“Hi. I’m not here to explain. I’m here to exist.”
Just me.
Just Ryan.