trans rights

Pride!: C.’s Story

18 August, 2025Leave a comment

When I was 30, I came out to my parents via Facebook Messenger. Not my finest moment, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. In my defense, my track record for coming out is pretty abysmal.

The first time I ever came out, I didn’t even realise I was doing it. I grew up in a very conservative town, went to youth group on Fridays and church on Sundays. The chaplain at my all-girls school regularly told us we were going to hell for some reason or other. Being queer simply wasn’t an option. But, there were signs. Like, developing instant, deep and intense “friendship” feelings for the first cool girl to pay you a lick of attention, and then lovebomb her with handwritten letters and super platonic mixtapes full of Death Cab for Cutie and Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Yeah. Subtle. I also spent a lot of time lamenting the fact that I couldn’t go to the boy’s school because “their music program was better,” and backing that up by taking any chance I could to steal my brother’s uniform. For drama class. Or a costume party. Or, you know, just because.

It took me a few more years to identify what was going on there; I grew almost naturally into my understanding of self, and my little neurodivergent brain thought everyone else felt this way too. Shout out to Tumblr for the confirmation bias, turns out that everyone DOES just want to kiss pretty girls and wear dapper suits and experience the deeply intense yearning that comes from being in love with your best friend! Bolstered by this echo chamber of acceptance, I slowly became more open about my identity: subtly dropping easter eggs into sober conversations, and then aggressively shoehorning my horny gay ramblings into unrelated conversations while drunk. As a millennial bisexual in a straight-passing relationship, I was deeply uncomfortable with being perceived as heterosexual. It was like walking around with a rock in my shoe.

It wasn’t until nearly a decade later, after putting a hemisphere of distance between myself and my hometown, that I actually had the space to sit down, take a breath, and take off my shoe. When I shook it out, I was left with a pile of gravel. I began to realise that I was deeply uncomfortable with being perceived as a woman. When I told my spouse that I wasn’t a girl, in what was essentially a very dramatic, queer rendition of “would you still love me if I was a worm”, he said “I love you for who you are” and wiped my snot off his shoulder. What a guy. When I told my best friends, they were mostly relieved I wasn’t calling to say I was pregnant. I put my pronouns in my work email and that was that. I’ve only ever existed as myself in Vancouver. And then my parents came to visit.

We’d been settled here for almost a year, and I was still sifting through the gravel, but I decided that I couldn’t let my parents go back to Australia thinking how nice it was to see their daughter. I wanted to be open and honest about my identity and allow them to know the real me for the first time in my life. Put the ball in their court, so to speak. And we dropped plenty of hints, or so I thought. I mean, there was significantly more body hair and gender neutral language in our house than they’d come to expect.

I spent many sleepless nights planning my grand coming-out speech. I told myself I was waiting for the right moment. I’d know it when it came. And a couple did come, but I couldn’t do it. While they were visiting family in Quebec, my spouse and I ran various plays during dinner, considering all the angles and possible outcomes. My parents came back, we spent more time together, more moments came and went. And then all of a sudden, they were leaving.

As we drove down Granville Street, I tried to will the panic away while my knees bounced and my heart pounded in the front seat. At the drop-off area, we hopped out to help with their suitcases. They said I love you. I said I hope you can see how happy I am here. Then we got back in the car, drove around the corner, and I had a very dignified little breakdown.

Which brings us to the Facebook message, meticulously crafted with the help of a stiff gin and sent an hour before they were due to board a 16-hour flight. So, a little less ball in their court, a little more lobbing a grenade into their heteronormative worldview, and then forcing them to sit with it in a metal tube with no wifi for half a day. On reflection, I probably should’ve waited. I wanted them to know, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it.

Mum replied a little while later. She said they were surprised and confused, that they loved me, and they needed time to understand. A few days later, mum emailed with some reasonable questions which I tied myself in knots trying to answer. How could I put into words for others what I’d spent the better part of a year trying to explain to myself? I typed out some stream of consciousness, accompanied by some resources and recommended reading, hoping that they’d magically understand everything, or be willing to do the work. But in the moment, my mum’s response of “well, I was a tomboy in high school too” felt less like connection and more like dismissal. So I didn’t reply. And we haven’t really addressed it since. That was two years ago.

In those two years, I’ve never heard them use my pronouns. My dad still hasn’t acknowledged my identity at all. Not once. And it’s not like we haven’t spoken in that time. I’ve been back to Australia, we’ve seen each other in person. I’m writing my Masters thesis on nonbinary children’s literature. It’s not a secret. But, we don’t talk about it. They still refer to me as their daughter. For two years, we’ve been dancing around this big genderless elephant in the room. And I’m tired of dancing.

What they don’t know is that over the past two years, I’ve only become more certain of my identity. I’ve only become more proud, more loud, more outspoken. I spend each day trying to be who I needed to see back when I was 13 and didn’t have the words to explain myself, and I’ve seen the impact that my overt queerness has on others. I know who I am, and I love who I am. But, it’s also really hard. I’ve spent so long reshaping my own worldview that the thought of having to do that work all over again, for people who I know love a version of me, but I can’t guarantee love this version of me, it’s exhausting.

But I know that if I want to be seen, I have to let them see me. I’ve done enough therapy over the past two years to know that this is, unfortunately, the only way. So I think I’m gonna have to come out to my family again. Or maybe I’ll just send them this story. Maybe then they’ll see me, and maybe they could be as proud of me as I am.

Pride!: M.’s Story

31 July, 2025Leave a comment

The first time I came out, I lied.
I told a story that never happened.
But in that moment, it was the only way I could tell the truth.
I was 15. In a Catholic Sisters school. Closeted.
And carrying enough shame to light every candle at Sunday Mass.
So I made up a story.
A boy. A waterpark. Two accidental boners in the changing room.
I told my best friend at the time that I saw a naked senior guy at the waterpark, and we both got instant boners.
Was it believable? I mean… no.
Was it weirdly specific?… Maybe.
But it was the only version of gayness I thought she might accept —
if it came packaged like a confession instead of a fact.
I wanted her to be curious. Supportive.
To say something like, “Oh my god, really? Tell me more.”
Instead, she blinked. Changed the subject. And that was it.
The closet door slammed shut again.

Second try.
New story. New lie. New setting. New hope. Same best friend.
This time: a man in the library. We exchanged numbers. We texted. A whole made-up story, with some text messages to prove it.
(There was no library. It was a guy I met online.)
And she —bless her homophobia— told me to block him.
That it was the only way for “the thoughts” to go away.

Ma’am… they did not go away.
My coming out attempts were failing. But still, there was this urge.
An instinctive need to share what I was feeling.
Not because I needed to announce it —
but because I needed someone else to say, “It’s okay.”
Keeping it a secret made it feel wrong.
Made it feel shameful.

SHAME.

I gave up on telling her. We drifted.
Best friends turned into strangers.

*****

Then came camp.
No, not like that, I mean actual summer camp.
Religious, of course. Orthodox church this time, for range…

I met a girl. We hit it off instantly.
The camp ended. We exchanged numbers.
And a week later, I texted her. Told her the truth.
This time, no fake boys. No boners.
Why her? I think I just had a gut feeling.
I’d been attending church camps since I was a kid — and for the first time, I’d made a friend who wasn’t there for the Jesus of it all.
She was there for the fun. And somehow, that gave me reassurance.
That maybe —just maybe— she wouldn’t think I was going to burn in hell.

Part of me felt: If this goes badly, the stakes aren’t high. I haven’t known her long.
“Hey. I need to tell you something… I’m gay.” I said
She replied: “I hope you’re not joking. I don’t tolerate jokes like that — I have gay friends.”
I found out later… I was her first gay friend.
She just wanted to make it clear she was safe, before she even had the words to say it. She’s now my lifelong best friend.
And that’s when I learned: Some people just get it.
Even if they’re still figuring out how to say it.

*****

But from there, I wasn’t coming out as much as I was living out.

It became less about declarations and more about decisions.
Who deserves to know me? Who deserves access?
In the Middle East, coming out isn’t an event — it’s a strategy.
You don’t burst out of the closet. You leave little doors ajar.
You observe. You feel it out. You find your people.
I met so many who got it.
Supportive friends. Chosen family.
People who held space for me.
But I also had to let go of some people I thought I’d keep forever.
People who said they were okay with it — but their eyes changed.
They saw me differently.
As unserious. As broken. As someone struggling.
Even when I was not really struggling.
And honestly? That can be worse than rejection.
That quiet shift, from friend to case study.

SHAME!

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even angry. But it was necessary.
Their silence told me everything I needed to know.

At that point in life, I didn’t feel the need to come out anymore.
I had my people. My little queer bubble. My peace.
But there was always that question.
“Do your parents know?” “What about your brothers?”
“Have you come out to your family yet?”
There was no roadmap.
And I had distanced myself from my family. Partly because of geography…
and partly because of me.
Because of the life I was building, and the parts I wasn’t ready to explain.
I had seen how queerness was met in my family: reactions that made me afraid of what it could do to the dynamic we had; how it might change things, forever…

But there was my cousin. My closest cousin.
The one who told me everything: hookups, dating drama, men with questionable tattoos in questionable places.
She clearly trusted me, so it finally felt like the right time to trust her back.
When she asked about my love life, I told her. It didn’t make sense to lie anymore.
“Hey, you know I date men, right? I’m gay”
She blinked. Paused.

I could see her flipping through some imaginary “How to Talk to Your Gay Cousin” guide — one she hadn’t finished reading.
And even though it wasn’t long ago, the memory’s quite blurry now.
But I remember the awkwardness. She asked if something triggered it. If something happened to me when I was younger. As if there had to be a reason.
And she ended with: “I won’t bring it up again… unless you want to.”
That was the cherry on top of the shame sundae.

SHAME.

We haven’t spoken since. Life drifted us apart.
But if I’m being honest… I chose to let it.

*****

In my last visit to Lebanon, I met my Catholic school friend again.
The one I lied to — just to say something true.
We ran into each other years later and were catching up.
And somewhere in the conversation, she figured it out.
She put two and two together and looked at me and said:
“I’m really sorry for how I reacted when we were younger.
I didn’t know how to process what you were telling me.”
And, for the first time, I didn’t flinch.
I understood. I had made peace with it, with her, with the past, with myself.
And I realized… That was maybe what I needed all along.
Not an apology. Not validation. I just needed to be seen.
To have someone look at me — not as who I was when I first tried to tell the truth, but as who I’ve become since.

*****

Living in a society that doesn’t tolerate your queerness isn’t just hard —
it’s disorienting.
It rewires how you see yourself. How you remember yourself.
How you imagine others will see you.
The way we’re raised makes it almost impossible to believe that “love is love,”
when every message you’ve ever received screams:

SHAME. SHAME. SHAME!

But somehow, despite all of that, we find each other. We find ourselves.
And once we do, we begin to learn — that Pride isn’t just a destination we reach.
It’s a practice we return to.

A conversation we carry. A story we tell. A quiet, rebellious act, not just for ourselves, but for those still searching for their reflection.
So maybe my story doesn’t end with one perfect coming out… but with a dozen imperfect ones. Some with lies. Some with silence. Some with pain.
But also, some with laughter. Some with apology. And some with peace.

And even now —living in Canada, a place I chose because I could finally breathe; because I could finally say “I’m gay” out loud without looking over my shoulder— even here, with all the safety and freedom I’ve found…
I still think about those who don’t have this.
Those who wake up every day to a cup of shame served by their families, their governments, their gods, their “friends.”
Those who have never had the chance to live their truth and are still told that love is wrong.
We still live in a world where Pride is a privilege.
And I don’t take that lightly.

So if I have it now —if I get to walk through life with my shoulders a little higher, my voice a little louder— I want to honour every version of me that never thought this would be possible.
Because, the pride I feel now?
That is one of the greatest blessings of my life.

And I’ll never stop being grateful for it.

Pride!: Jodi’s Story

29 July, 202529 July, 2025Leave a comment

I began cross-dressing in my early 20’s. It was always in secret, and always followed by shame. When I was done, I would throw the clothes away and vow to never do it again; a vow that would last only weeks or months, before I gave in and bought another skirt or dress. I did this for two decades, as I continued to fight with myself over my true identity.

When I moved to Edmonton in 2013, I went to a safe consignment store I knew about from when I had lived in the city years earlier. I bought a cute leather skirt and a black, sleeveless knit top with a zipper in the front. All I needed was black stockings and some lacy black panties to have a complete outfit. See, I don’t have a fetish for lingerie, but it never felt right dressing with my stupid boy underwear on.

I drove to a lingerie and toy store nearby, in a strip mall in the West End. By the time I got there that Saturday evening, the parking lot was almost empty. I wasn’t sure how I would be received in the store, and I was really nervous, so I parked as far away as I could. This made no sense: I would probably look more suspicious parking that far in an empty parking lot. And besides, I couldn’t see if any other customers were in the store from that distance. Instead, I walked over to the Arby’s next door, got some food, and sat by the window so I could watch the lingerie store. After watching for 45 minutes with no one going in or out, I figured it was a pretty safe bet that the store was empty. I had also finished my food by then, and didn’t want to look any more suspicious than a middle-aged man staring at a lingerie store for almost an hour would look.

I gathered my courage and went in, quickly heading to the far corner where no one could see me. So much for courage.
I started looking at the display racks, too afraid to even touch anything. I guess I was hoping to find that magical rack that had just what I wanted, in my size, right in front where I didn’t have to look for it. Needless to say, this didn’t happen. On my second pass through the racks, a clerk came over. She was short, very muscular, covered in tattoos, with bright red hair. She looked tough and mean, and intimidated me right away. She was between me and the front door so I couldn’t run for it… and I was kind of frozen in place, anyway.
When she asked if she could help me find something, I said I was looking for a present — for my girlfriend. There, that takes care of that… I bet she gets this all the time. “Ok, what size is she?,” she said. Damn, she flanked me. What could I say?: “She is about the same size as me.” Ha, I certainly am a quick thinker! She looked at me and said, “it’s for you, isn’t it?” That’s the one thing I hadn’t planned for. I had no answer. Who is the quick thinker now? In defeat, I looked down and said: “yes.”
I braced myself; will she punch me? Will she laugh and call over the other clerk? Maybe she’ll release the CCTV recording to the news. I won’t be able to show my face anywhere in Edmonton anymore. Oh no, I hope CBC doesn’t pick up the story, I might have to move out of Canada! How could I have let this happen? I’ve ruined the rest of my life for a pair of panties. Maybe I can get plastic surgery — yeah that’s it, no one will recognize me then. Hopefully they won’t fingerprint me.
It’s amazing how much can go through your mind in a few seconds.

The one thing I didn’t count on happened, though: another customer walked into the store. Great, now there is a live witness to my humiliation. But to my surprise, this angel of a biker bitch redhead took my hand and led me to a dressing room to hide. She told me she would bring me some things to try on. I ended up staying in the store for hours, having a great time. When I left, she gave me her number. She said if anyone laughed at me to call her. She and her friends would take care of anybody. I believed her, too.
Her name was Ali and it didn’t take long for us to become friends. She said she liked how brave I was for walking into the store. I thought, “yeah brave, that’s it.”
Ali and her girlfriends immediately welcomed me into their group. They would go dress-shopping every Sunday, usually to a cool pinup shop on Whyte Ave. Afterwards they’d go to lunch. I would try on dresses with them, giving and getting fashion advice. They were all tough-ass biker bitches so no one messed with us. It must have been quite the sight for the other customers.
My favourite dress was a sparkly silver, form-fitting dress. I spent time in the back of the lingerie store, learning to walk in Pleasers. I got a pair of black Mary Jane Pleasers that looked great with the dress. The only place I wore this outfit was at home, but I loved it.

And when it was time for the Pride Parade in Edmonton, Ali asked me if we were going. Ok, that wasn’t really her style; she asked what I was going to wear when we went. I didn’t know, I had never been to any Pride Parade, so she told me I would wear my silver dress and Mary Janes. I was so nervous, I had never worn a dress in public.
Ali’s fiancé said he would wear a dress in solidarity (and he did!) That felt safe. I would have this tough biker, Ali, with me, and a dress-wearing welder who was 6’3” and had arms as big as my thigh!

The day came, and we hopped in Ali’s SUV. Ok, she hopped in, and I awkwardly crawled in with Pleasers and a dress, managing to flash everyone as I did.
On the way, Ali stopped at the coffee shop where her son worked. I said “just bring my coffee out to me,” and she said “absolutely not. We are going there so he can see you in your dress.” A small coffee shop in an Alberta suburb was the first place I ever went in public in a dress. Suddenly, my nerves going into that lingerie shop for the first time seemed like nothing. They almost had to hold me up to get me into the coffee shop. I blamed it on the heels. Once inside, her son laughed, but in a good way, and the other baristas gave us compliments. It actually felt pretty good and boosted my confidence.

When we got to Edmonton and the parade, it was so crowded. I didn’t feel like I stood out anymore. How could I stand out among the drag queens, people wearing next to nothing, and all the colours?! We pushed right up to the front of the crowd so I could enjoy my first pride parade. Ali’s fiancé and I had our picture taken with a drag queen. The only downside of the whole day was learning that pleasers really aren’t meant to be worn for walking and standing all day. I ended up walking barefoot on the hot pavement, it hurt less than the heels.
But still, I basked in that feeling for weeks. For the first time ever, I felt no shame for being who I was. I realized I am not alone, and that the entire world is not against me.
I never threw my clothes out again. My clothes, and especially my shoes, have become more comfortable since then, but that Pride Parade was the start of my acceptance of my true self.

Shortly after that Pride, I got a tattoo of a female eye, looking out of my heart. Just a peek out, but for me, an acknowledgement that she was in there all along, and the process of letting her out had finally begun. She had always been watching, waiting for the day I would let her be seen.