"There is a harmony in autumn, and a lustre in it's sky..."

Autumn has always been my favourite season. For those of you who have never been to Saskatchewan, you might be unable to appreciate the welcome relief that fall brings from the scorching days of summer, when the sun’s power can turn your skin a blistering red in just a few hours and there are hordes of insects plaguing you with itchy bites.

In fall the air is crisp, clean, and fresh, and the sun warms rather than burning. The mosquitoes finally go back into hibernation or die – hooray! (Yes, I’m an insect murderer. Contact the humane society about me – I dare you!), and a landscape that often fades quickly from spring’s lush jewel tones to more muted colours from the overheated, dry, and dusty air once more bursts into colourful life as the leaves take over from the sun to provide splashes of orange, gold, and amber to every street.

Not only is autumn the season in possession of possibly the most beautiful landscapes, it also marks the start of a new school year, the beginning of theatre season, and has the most interesting clothing as plush knits, luxurious leather, and cozy cashmere take over our wardrobes. The balmy days and cool nights with their first hints of frost make us mindful of enjoying the remaining good weather before winter locks us inside, preventing us from picnicking and wandering along the riverbank.

In terms of both aesthetics and weather, Autumn is as close to perfect as one can get in the Northern Hemisphere, and with the exceptions of people from the prairies and Scandinavians – and citizens of Winterfell, of course – it is not fully appreciated for its significance in the cycle of our lives. Autumn is the calm before the storm. It marks the end of the summer: a season when life blossoms, love and happiness abound, dogs frolic, and pasty people flash their legs. It reminds us that winter is coming, and it will likely be harsh and long.

And here, lucky readers, is where my heavy-handed seasonal metaphor reaches its pinnacle! As I previously mentioned, one of many reasons fall excites me is due to marking the commencement of theatre season, and this past weekend I saw two excellent productions: Hedda Gabler at Persephone Theatre and Reasons to be Pretty at The Refinery.

Each of these plays examines the shattered illusions that come alongside the realisation that intimate relationships are rarely as rose-tinted as we could hope. While the characters in Hedda Gabler tend to be evasive and passive-aggressive in their interactions, the key players in Reasons engage in out-and-out screaming matches as they face betrayal, heartbreak, and the shattering of trust which leads to disastrous breakups and crushed friendships.

This second play hit home especially hard due to an extremely talented cast delivering unflinchingly honest portrayals of people who are their own worst enemies as they engage in problematic friendships and relationships they ultimately aren’t all that fussed about. They waste each other’s time, are bored and restless, and hurt one another for sport, or maybe just because they are selfishly wrapped up in their own confusion over their seemingly incomprehensible differences.

For anyone who has been in a serious relationship, many scenes in this play are particularly discomforting, including a) an equally hilarious and horrifying moment when Steph, the justifiably irate ex-girlfriend of pathetically complacent protagonist Craig, attempts to prove a point by presenting a grocery list of her ex’s flaws to a food court full of strangers and b) a heart-breaking scene in which the pregnant wife of Craig’s super-douche best friend approaches him for confirmation that her scummy husband is cheating. However, for someone who has been through a break up or two – and who just happened to be attending the play with a friend who recently experienced the ending of a relationship with a guy a lot like Craig – the final scene was the hardest to watch.

In this scene Steph offers Craig one final chance to win her back and he instead confesses that ‘whether it had gone on for another four years or just a week’ (paraphrased) it would have made absolutely no difference. He would have continued to take her for granted. He never would have fought for her.

Needless to say, I awoke with a bit of an emotional hangover this morning. Though the past nine months or so have been some of the most relaxed and enjoyable for me from a romantic standpoint, you can only observe a certain amount of displaced rage and suicide (thanks a bunch, Hedda!) and indifference and emotional manipulation (damn you, Craig!) before all sorts of painful emotions and memories come flooding back.

Though I like to think I’ve managed to put my life back together rather successfully – as a matter of fact, an exciting new career announcement will be coming soon! – knowing that opening up to joy can also mean inviting in pain can be challenging. Much like knowing that winter unavoidably follows at autumn’s glorious heels, there is a sorrowful knowledge that comes with knowing that when you meet someone who makes you feel fantastically, someone who cuts down your defenses just by being kind, affectionate, and open and helps you feel that it’s ok to be vulnerable again, you have to say goodbye – often a lot sooner than you'd like.

So why do we as rational beings continue to put ourselves in these situations, allowing ourselves to be vulnerable when we know there is a strong possibility of being hurt? We do it because the seasons continue to change. We do it because the earth’s cycle of loss and rejuvenation reminds us that while death and pain are inevitable, so is the beauty of autumn.

Life goes on, and we can always begin again. Sometimes this requires the destruction of everything comfortable in order to start anew, but sometimes all you need is to do is stop being fearful of the cold and bundle up in a thick sweater.

CURRENTLY READING: American Gods by Neil Gaiman. 

You Are NOT a Black Sheep

Sometimes I worry that my family doesn’t like me.

I know this is an irrational feeling because I have a very good relationship with them all. Yes, my parents occasionally become exasperated by having to fund my (formerly) interning, (still) broke self, but they are nothing but supportive and loving. I might have some difficulty explaining the comfort and connection I feel to a place completely foreign to my extremely hometown-connected older sister, but she remains interested in my life and makes every effort to listen and respect our differences.

Sure, I sometimes embarrass my little sister (like you’ve never done it!) by drunkenly proclaiming that she needs to marry a super tall dude in order to bring some height to the bloodline before telling off every man around because I know for a fact he will never be good enough for her. We still have a great relationship though. We’re dressing up as Beastly and Shrieky for Halloween together! 

It’s officially happening, Megan. I’ve announced it to the world so there’s no turning back!
A-cha-cha-cha!

I could probably be nicer to my brother by not ridiculing his terrible taste in music, films, TV shows, sunglasses, etc. (not his choice of girls though – good work, bruh!), but he knows I love him. After all, I did let him watch R-rated movies when he was like ten years old. I mean twelve. I mean never! (Sorry, Mom…)

The point is, my family really like each other.Like sitcom family like each other.

Like as much as Will loves Uncle Phil.

We spend a lot of time together, and for the most part, we enjoy every minute of card playing and chit-chatting and teasing Megan and fishing and watching action movies and ooh-ing and ah-ing over my nephew and ganging up on Megan some more (this might just be shared a hobby of my bro and I, but there’s no way of knowing without performing a sociological study which, frankly, sounds terribly boring).

Though there are moments when I feel my black sheep status acutely, my family have rarely given me a reason to feel insecure in their appreciation of who I am or their love for me. Yet no matter how hard I try to reciprocate there is still a lingering doubt that I am not good enough for a group of such kind, accepting, open-hearted people who, let’s face it, I sometimes don’t have that much in common with.

Yes, it’s irrational and ninety percent of the time these thoughts don’t enter my mind, but sometimes they do, and it’s a very difficult thing to negotiate. I sometimes wonder how much more difficult things would be if my family weren’t so accepting of my quirks and tendencies which they don’t relate to or understand. I imagine if they were to judge me harshly, look at me in a different light, and refuse to love me the same as if I prescribed perfectly to their way of viewing things, and it breaks my heart.

Then I remember that this is the type of treatment many gay people face when they come out to their family and friends. Despite remaining who they are – in fact, becoming more who they are, at least, in a public sense – they are judged extremely harshly not for having controversial beliefs or negative personality traits but based solely on an element of humanity which has long been understood to be something people experience rather than consciously choose.* 

Openly gay people deal with ostracism, judgement, unfair treatment, and being labelled with stereotypes. They experience these reactions not only from people they don’t know very well but also from those who were meant to love and respect them through anything: their families.

This past week a close personal friend of mine officially came out, and I was thrilled, though I worry that my reaction – ‘That’s great! You must feel so relieved!’ while thinking ‘Um… I pretty much knew that’ – was not the most enthusiastic. My guilt grew further when I learned that several members of his family were less than supportive (ie. downright judgmental dickheads who tried to make him feel like there is something wrong with him), a reaction which I feel is completely unacceptable in this day and age.

Homosexuality is no longer the taboo it once was and for good reason. Studies have shown that gay people are not a threat to heterosexuality (You mean gay people aren’t attempting to take over the world and convert us all to their lascivious ways!? They’re actually just regular people who have a sexual preference that differs from the majority? Who’d have thought?!), as well as the fact that homosexual couples may actually be better parents and provide a more positive family environment for children due to more equal distribution of household responsibilities.

Don't kid yourself, you know you want Julianne Moore & Annette Bening to be your Moms.

Though it was not the case just a few decades ago, we now see fully developed gay characters in popular media including on TV, in movies, and in literature, as well as being exposed to gay musicians, actors, athletes, and politicians on a daily basis. Being gay is accepted and acceptable, and I feel confident saying that those who oppose what they consider to be an ‘unnatural lifestyle’ will soon prove to be as backward as people who opposed interracial marriage in the mid-Twentieth Century.

It appalls and saddens me that so many gay individuals are still subjected to a painful ‘coming out’ when it should no longer be a controversial thing to express your sexuality. Sexual identity is a huge part of everyone’s individuality, not something of which to be ashamed.

Celebrate who you are! Celebrate, damn it!

Though the conservative history of Canada and the United States has dictated that all sexuality is shameful unless you’re a heterosexual male, things are changing. The fact that it’s still seen as shocking when someone comes out – especially if you’re an attractive man who ‘could have been such a good father/husband/male stereotype’ – is unforgiveable, and we as a society need to continue striving for change.

Newsflash: gay people can still be spouses/parents/anything they want to be! Your sexuality does not dictate your worth as a person! (Unless, of course, you are a sadist or a paedophile or practice some other sort of criminal behaviour in which case, yes, you ARE a terrible human being). Anyone who implies otherwise is the one with issues.

To my friend (and all my other gay, lesbian, bi, questioning, and queer friends who were forced by society to experience a difficult coming out), I am so sorry that you have not received more support. I am sorry that you were not blessed with a family like mine who would love you no matter what and would never make you feel like a part of your identity that they may not be able to understand makes you unworthy of their regard.

When you told me you were gay, I should have said, ‘Thank you for sharing this extremely important news with me. Thank you for trusting me enough to be a part of your journey. Thank you for being who you are because you are one of the most wonderful people I know. Your creative, intelligent, caring, fun, hilarious, strong, open-minded spirit has been a blessing to my life, and I love every quality that defines you with all my heart. Though this marks a huge change in your life, I want you to know that nothing has changed in our relationship except that I have even more respect for you than I did before, and nothing will ever change my opinion of you.’

Unless, of course, you kill someone, which might affect things a tiny bit...

Hopefully someday we will live in a world where your sexuality will no longer be a controversy and everyone can be free to be themselves from the very beginning. I know I feel better having embraced every aspect of my weird, wacky self, though at times it was a struggle. (And I was merely dealing with the disdain directed towards writers. Imagine if I was a lesbian writer!)

Though I know that my opinion probably won’t change the narrow minds of many people, I hope it at least reassures anyone on their own coming out journey that acknowledging who you are is the right thing to do. Be strong, be true to yourself, and take all the time you need. It’s your life, and since no one else is living it, no one else’s judgements or labels matter.

CURRENTLY READING: Lamb by Christopher Moore. 

*Remember the Kinsey Reports of 1948 and 1953 which effectively proved that human sexuality is a spectrum rather than a straight/gay binary and that sexuality is fluid and evolves over time? No? Maybe you should look it up.

We Need to Talk About Robin

On the off chance that you've been living under a rock, I hate to be the one to tell you that Robin Williams has passed away. 

Robin in the beautiful afterlife in What Dreams May Come.

I know, I know. It’s hard to believe, but Mr. Williams – or Genie, as he will forever be known in my perpetual-90s-child mind – has left a plump old Englishwoman-shaped hole in the lives of comedy and film lovers everywhere when he died Monday. The public outpouring of support for his family and friends has been inspiring, but that’s not what I want to talk about. 

I want to discuss the politicization which will inevitably take place surrounding his death – a phenomenon which good ol’ Rob himself discussed during press for his film World’s Greatest Dad - and the ignorant but mostly misguided comments I’ve been seeing on Facebook and Twitter regarding his suicide. 

For the most part, people are being respectful of this talented and diverse performer. However, to put a new spin on the old adage “Boys will be boys”, it seems that “Ignorant jerks will be ignorant jerks and continue to spout misinformed rubbish even though they have little understanding of mental health issues or empathy for people suffering from Depression”.

DANGER: Intense discussion of mental health ahead.

Phew, that was a mouthful. Unfortunately it is nothing compared to the earful (eyeful?) of ridiculous comments I’ve seen about suicide being “selfish” and “cowardly”, and that Robin should have set “a better example” for other people struggling with “personal demons”. Apparently “if only he knew how much people loved him” this “senseless” thing never would have happened.

But as Slate writer Molly Pohlig points out, “I bet Robin Williams knew he was loved. Unfortunately, love doesn’t cure mental illness.” I completely agree with Molly that anyone who thinks this was an issue of failing to count your blessings and look on the bright side of life needs a serious awakening. 

Dean Burnett tackled this discussion point admirably when he pointed out that: “Dismissing the concerns of a genuine depression sufferer on the grounds that you’ve been miserable and got over it is like dismissing the issues faced by someone who’s had to have their arm amputated because you once had a paper cut and it didn’t bother you.”  

Or in Williams' case, don't compare yourself to a burn victim just because you survived lighting your prosthetic breasts on fire. (From Mrs. Doubtfire.)

Depression is not simply something that goes away when you ask yourself “Am I happy?” and then “do something positive about it”, as one Twitter user suggested. Depression is a filthy, sneaking rat that hides beneath the floorboards when the sun is out but squeaks and taunts you all night until you question your sanity and lose touch with the reality of existence. Visitors can assure you there are no vermin in the house, but Depression is a persistent rodent that refuses to vacate its nest.

For someone suffering from Depression (notice my use of a capital D to refer to the mental health issue versus lower case depression which many people use interchangeably to refer to gloomy-sky/sad feelings), reassurance doesn’t go far when you’ve lost hope, control, and the will to continue existing when things have just become Way. Too. Fucking. Hard. 

As Russell Brand pointed out: “Robin Williams could have tapped anyone in the western world on the shoulder and told them he felt down and they would have told him not to worry, that he was great, that they loved him. He must have known that. He must have known his wife and kids loved him, that his mates all thought he was great, that millions of strangers the world over held him in their hearts, a hilarious stranger that we could rely on to anarchically interrupt, the all-encompassing sadness of the world.” Knowing you are loved and valued, however, cannot overcome the illogical nature of Depression (British comedian Stephen Fry knows this all too well), and too many people misunderstand the illness as being something that can be overcome with willpower and a little good cheer.

(From Patch Adams.)

For those of you who have been following this blog for some time, you’ll know that I lost one of my closest friends to suicide in February. When she passed away, I had countless discussions with mutual friends, family, and in my own head about why she chose to end her life, whether there was anything I could have done to help her, and if she knew how much we loved her. A common reaction was “How could she have thought that was the right decision?” and “What was she thinking?” Though the language processing area of my brain was overwhelmed by other thoughts at the time, I now think I have the answer.

She wasn’t thinking in the rational way that people who are not under emotional duress think. There was no pre-meditation that such a final act was selfish or selfless, that she was causing a lifetime of pain or sparing people the agony of her tortured presence. 

There was only that one second when the desire to go on dissipated and things seemed clear: all that had to be done to end the exhaustion of fighting for fleeting moments of peace and happiness – that torture of attempting to go on living after every ounce of your strength has been spent – was to stop living. 

As the voice of the genie, Robin describes Depression (from Aladdin).

Anyone who has dealt with Depression understands this vividly, yet it can be so damn difficult to explain to people who are horrified by the very mention of mental illness or – quick, toss some salt over your shoulder – suicide. It’s a horrifying thought until your life begins to slowly crumble at your feet. But, that’s Depression for you. 

It’s true that death and loss change everything. They alter your day-to-day life, force you to evaluate your relationships, and complicate circumstances beyond belief. But dealing with death by suicide changes you entirely. 

It won’t be easy for Robin Williams’ family, friends, coworkers, and many admirers to move on now that the doors to previously unexplored mental channels have been thrust open. But maybe the passing of such a well-loved figure will be the impetus we need to start talking about mental health in a productive way rather than continuing to fear what some of us do not understand. 

 

CURRENTLY READING: Anything Boys Can Do by Angie Abdou.

Girl Crush Pt. IV

It's been a while, but it's time for another episode of

GIRL CRUSH 

this edition featuring

Angelina Jolie

"The truth is, I love being alive, and I love feeling free. So if I can't have those things then I feel like a caged animal, and I'd rather not be in a cage. I'd rather be dead."

It's been some time since I paid homage to a famous lady who inspired my worldview and helped shaped my sense of self (since last July for anyone who's keeping track), but I felt that with all the recent discussion of everyday misogyny, rape culture, and feminism and the incredible #YesAllWomen movement, it was time to revive 'The Case for the Girl Crush'. Who better to discuss than today's birthday babe Angelina Jolie who has made a name for herself as an award winning actress, director, screenwriter, and humanitarian. 

"If I think about death more than some people, it is probably because I love life more than they do."

Angelina first came onto my radar in the early 2000s when I saw her powerhouse performances in the films The Bone Collector, Gone in 60 Seconds, and Girl, Interrupted, the latter of which won her an Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress. Her magnetic screen presence fascinated me as she demonstrated the ability to be confident, tough, and vulnerable often in the same scene, and her cool off-screen persona was both mysterious and self-deprecating as she baited tabloids with outspoken quotes about her unapologetic sexuality and attraction to violence. Though the media attempted to brand her as a nothing more than a pair of pillowy lips and rail-thin arms, her eccentric film choices - which ranged from high-octane action movies to thoughtful dramas to fantasy epics - revealed there was so much more to the enigmatic beauty.

"If you ask people what they've always wanted to do, most people haven't done it. That breaks my heart."

Aside from being a woman who combines elements of my other girl crushes - the glamour of Marilyn Monroe, a bad-ass edge (and more tattoos than Brody Dalle), remarkable talent, outspoken feminism - Angie is also a woman of conviction who takes action towards righting global injustice and informing others about causes close to her heart. She became a UN Goodwill Ambassador in 2001, going on field missions in over thirty countries, and she has worked as an advocate for women's and children's rights and preventing sexual violence in conflict zones, all on top of her day job as one of Hollywood's most successful actresses and her personal life as a mother of six. To top it off she has also served as a voice for the LGBT community by openly discussing her bisexuality, and she is one of few celebrities to take an active stance on genetic testing for terminal illness as she underwent a double mastectomy after learning she had an almost 90% chance of developing breast cancer. 

"If I make a fool of myself, who cares? I'm not frightened by anyone's perception of me."

Though over the years she has been lambasted in the media as mentally unstable, physically unhealthy, a homewrecker, a child trafficker, and other unpleasant titles, Angelina maintains her elegance and poise with seeming effortlessness, never backing down from a challenge or compromising her beliefs. While her incredible beauty hasn't hurt in the development of my crush, mostly it is due to her intelligence, talent, compassion, drive, confidence, and outspoken nature that Angelina Jolie has been an inspiring figure in my life.

"I've been wreckless, but I'm not a rebel without a cause."

It seems we could all do with being a bit more like Angelina.

CURRENTLY READING: The Complete Stories by Flannery O'Connor, another inspiring woman. 

Joggers Are People Too

There’s a stereotype that Canadians are the nicest people in the world. While it is true that we tend to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ for everything and apologise so much that the word ‘sorry’ is now basically void of meaning, since having taken up jogging a couple weeks ago I am no longer confident that the stereotype still applies. Either Canadians have become less kind-hearted or they just really really hate joggers.

Toronto is well-known for having many parks and jogging/cycling trails throughout the city, and on my many jogs in the past few weeks I have seen dozens of people utilising these paths as well as running through residential areas. For the most part – in my experience at least – outdoor joggers are a peaceful sort, looking only to improve their health and vitality and enjoy the blooming spring that has finally arrived. We aren’t looking for a fight, and we will always yield the right of way to you and your stroller or puppy as the unwritten rules of the road dictate.

However, while running I have been treated to more than one disdainful glance, several full-on glares, and even one pair of angrily crossed arms combined with an angry scowl. While most people are content to arrange their features into cloudy looks of dismay as a runner approaches – which I can only assume is due to the fear of being literally run over – some people will aggressively lunge into your way in an attempt to trip you up, and people walking in pairs or trios will actively refuse to share the pavement. (For any sidewalk trolls out there, I’m just going to point out that I have never seen anyone trampled by a herd of runners, but I imagine these last two behaviours are a good way to make that happen.)

If people knew how to share, this never would have happened...

 Now as an asthmatic who wheezes like I just swam the English Channel when I climb a set of stairs, I know for a fact that anyone I approach while running will hear me coming. I house no illusions about being an attractive runner. When I jog my breathing sounds like Tony Soprano when he’s all worked up just before he whacks someone, so I know that you know I am behind you. Yet for some reason you refuse to share the sidewalk – the extra-wide North American style sidewalk, I might add – and I am left to fend for myself in the cycling lane or oncoming traffic.

Being treated with such ignorance time after time leads me to ask: when did we forget how to share? As Canadians we are constantly beaming with pride about being a peaceful, accommodating nation, so shouldn’t we be trying to live up to this reputation in our daily lives? Though I imagine this conundrum has something to do with the fact that we are primarily a vehicular traveling society – and I’m sure our reputation as ‘nice’ people would be completely turned on its head if the world knew about our road rage – it upsets me that because of this we seem to have forgotten common courtesy as pedestrians.

No one ever wants to be the cause of another person getting injured, especially a jogger who is minding her or his own business and attempting to enjoy some private fitness time. The sidewalk is big enough for everyone, and if people don’t start being more considerate I will not hesitate to immediately stop my run and lecture them Care Bears-style on the fact that ‘sharing is caring’.

When I go for a run, I’m not out to ruin your night. I’m happy to share the pavement, and if you could extend the same courtesy so I can enjoy myself rather than being constantly concerned for my safety, everyone would be better off. Joggers are people too, and I hope everyone will start to remember that as summer gets under way and the paths become more congested. Let’s start taking our reputation as ‘nice’ people a bit more seriously by letting our actions reflect that we actually mean those stock phrases we’re always.

CURRENTLY READING: Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe.

Happiness is Just 100 Days Away

Lately I have been seeing the hashtag #100happydays everywhere on social media with people tagging photos, status updates, and videos proclaiming how happy they are. As someone who makes a concerted effort to be a positive person (I am a big fan of Gala Darling’s Radical Self Love concept, and I try to actively put together a ‘Things I Love Thursday’ list of the many blessings in my life), I became curious about this happiness challenge and wanted to learn more.

Thus I sought out the 100 Happy Days website which states that 71% of people who began the challenge – which essentially involves choosing your favourite social media platform and making a post about what is providing you happiness each day – failed due to lack of time. Yet a study produced by Business Insider Intelligence in 2013 revealed that Americans spend an average of 37 minutes per day on social media revealing that we obviously do have the time, and we are using it to browse or post on social media websites.

Yupp, I'm guilty of being Facebook addicted.

Obviously I am not against social media as I actively use Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, IdeasTap, etc. as platforms for personal and professional connections, but as someone who has studied communication and language, I am consciously aware of how these platforms are often used by people solely for the purpose of generating a false sense of self-esteem through carefully curating a positive online image which may not be reflective of someone’s actual life. (See this article on social media narcissism and low self-esteem from Scientific American for a slightly more compelling argument than ‘So I’ve noticed…’).

We’ve all experienced this in real life – the friend who talks a big game about how fantastic his/her life is, how things are going so so brilliantly, but then breaks down during a booze-soaked night out to confess through a faceful of tears that everything is falling apart (and by friend, I clearly mean my own emotionally delicate self). It only makes sense that this phenomenon has carried over into the virtual world where everything we say and do can be moderated to fit a standard of how we wish our lives could be. We spend hours carefully moulding our online presence to fit the idealisation of how we want others to view us, which is why my skepticism about the #100happydays fad has been so pronounced.

Of the many things bringing me happiness right now: rainbows and having seen Niagara Falls for the first time this weekend! (Also my lovely souvenirs from the weekend including a bottle of gin - made from grapes!, some Cabernet wine jelly, and a tin of organic pear and cranberry chutney. Yumm!)

Through having experienced the positive benefits of mindfulness in my own life, I can obviously understand the rewards of participating in such an exercise – a list on the website includes symptoms such as being in a better mood, feeling more optimistic, realising how lucky you truly are, and falling in love (aawww!) – yet I can’t help but remain wary of the fact that some people are not using the activity as a means of achieving inner peace but rather as a way to show their peers just how goddamn happy they are!

I would hope that most people are participating for the right reasons, as seeing photos of friends and loved ones having a good time on a night out, eating delicious food, playing with their pets, and just feeling great really does provide a boost of positivity on a dreary day. When all is said and done though, anyone secure in their emotions – happy or sad – should be able to process them without social media.

Other current happiness inducers: having discovered my dream house (this will be transplanted to England obviously), working like a madwoman on a novella, humid summer weather, and moody torch songs (currently humming: Thieves by She & Him and Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? by Amy Winehouse).

The moral of the story: let’s continue to bring on the positive, spread love and happiness and all those great things. But let’s do it for the right reasons: because we want the world to be a better place, and not because we want others to feel inferior.

CURRENTLY READING: Sweet Nothing by Carmela Circelli, an excellent book about taking back the pleasure of Being in a world where our existence has come to be defined by rushing through life and getting lost in the rat race of consumerism, technology, and materialism. 

Asking For It?

This past Sunday I became a statistic. I became one of the 87% of Canadian women who, every year, experience sexual harassment.*

What exactly happened?  I was walking down the street (Bay Street, to be exact, just off of Bloor in a rather upscale and safe neighbourhood), carrying a bag from the bookstore I had just visited, and reaching into my purse for my cellphone. It was at this point that a random man passing me on the street reached out and stuck his hand between my legs. I whirled around, shocked and upset, and shouted, ‘Jesus Christ! What the fuck is wrong with you?’, but my attacker hurried on without acknowledging that any type of interaction had occurred.

I didn’t get a good look at his face.  I barely even noticed him approaching as I wandered down the street, minding my own business and smiling to myself with anticipation about getting home to delve into my new collection of Flannery O’Connor stories. When he continued on without so much as a backward glance, I wanted to burst into tears and rush to the nearest police station to report a crime. However, with no witnesses and no way of identifying the man, I also had no leg to stand on in the eyes of the law.

At this point some people would rush to point out the fact that I was out alone in a big city, and that maybe I should have been dressed more demurely or gone home earlier. However, I would argue that this so-called logic is actually insanity, as it excuses the douchebag behaviour of the deadbeat who thought it was ok to just grab a squeeze on the fly and instead shifts the blame to the victim by insinuating that her behaviour is what needed to be moderated. To this absurd reasoning I respond that:

a) I was walking through a busy pedestrian neighbourhood at five in the afternoon.

b) I was wearing a long sleeved button-down shirt, a massive wool cardigan, leggings, jean shorts, men’s-style oxford shoes, and a wool scarf – not a string bikini and a sign saying, ‘Hey Dickbag, please grab my vagina!’

Yet despite knowing that I did nothing wrong, I still felt dirty and guilty for hours (ok, in all honesty, days) after. This is what society has taught us about rape culture: that if you were attacked, you must have deserved it, if only in some oblique way. You were drawing attention to yourself and, thus, were punished for your behaviour. You were asking for it.

The fact is, I was doing no such thing. I was keeping to myself and enjoying a sunny Sunday afternoon, and if something like this can happen to me – an educated, intelligent, world-experienced and thus cautious person – it can happen to anyone, and as a society we need to start taking the epidemic of sexual aggression more seriously. It is not a joke or something that only happens in ‘dirty’ developing countries or when ‘boys are being boys’. This is a serious issue that has become a dangerous and destructive element of our daily lives, made obvious by an incident which didn’t happen down a dingy alley in [insert negatively stereotyped country here]; it happened on a brightly lit street in the middle of Canada’s largest city, which many locals would try to have you believe is the greatest, cleanest, politest place on earth.

An image from SlutWalk Toronto.

So next time you read an article about those kids with the bright future whose lives were ruined by that ‘middle school slut’ or hear a story about that ‘skank asking for it’, take a second to think about what really happened. Maybe that girl was dressed provocatively or she did drink a bit too much, but no matter the case, unless she (or he – let’s not forget that men are also victims of sexual assault) specifically gave her attacker permission to touch her, she did NOTHING wrong.

Yes, this incident was horrifying and humiliating, but I will not alter my behaviour out of fear. I refuse to walk around with my hands balled into fists, with pepper spray on my key-ring, or with a knife in my pocket simply because I am a woman. I will continue to dress how I like, wear bright lipstick, dye my hair, and walk alone.

A photo from SlutWalk Melbourne.

 However, I also refuse to pretend this didn’t happen. In doing so it would send the message to my assaulter and the world at large that his behaviour was acceptable. What he did was disgusting, violating, disrespectful, and a dozen other distasteful adjectives. It should not have happened to me, and my heart breaks for the dozens of other people who will experience similar things today, tomorrow, this week, and further into the future. In sharing this demeaning story, I am not seeking sympathy. Instead I am putting another voice into the world in the hope that people might start to re-evaluate their perception of sexual assault and maybe even change their attitudes or behaviour in the future.

*stat courtesy of Statistics Canada: Violence Against Women Survey, Nov 1993. (I can’t imagine things have changed much since then…)