The other day I heard that a woman I know slightly had tried to kill her girlfriend. Seriously.
It’s actually not the first time I’ve heard a story like that. I used to work as a peer counsellor for battered women, and some of the women I worked with had been emotionally, physically or sexually abused by women.
It’s amazing, but true — gay men are all born with this incredible sense of style. Not only that, but they are constantly on the lookout for a straight woman in need. They’ll use that excellent, bitchy sense of humour to point out where she’s going wrong: “You want to keep those capris? That is so 10 minutes ago! Into the garbage!”
In 2000, Margaret Wente wrote of Kimberly Nixon, “We can castrate her and shave her Adam’s apple. We can give her electrolysis and hormone injections and breast implants. But one thing we cannot do is change her Y chromosome into an X — no matter what the Human Rights Commission says.”
Welcome to 2006. So far it’s been declared the Year Of The Assistance Dog and the Year Of The Museum. But, at the risk of sounding retro in a non-hip way, I hereby declare 2006 the Year Of The Butch.
Read the whole column here.
When and why did the overwhelming majority of my dyke friends join the ranks of those who think it’s a great idea to bring more children into this world? Why are we celebrating inseminations, pregnancies and births like they’re automatically wonderful events?
Read the whole column on the Xtra website.
Spin Sugar is about one of the ways in which my parents ruined my childhood. Click on the image to read the full comic in pdf.
Why Bother Writing At All is the angst-filled chronicle of my development as a writer, from the early poems (age eight) to my present state of trying to focus on telling stories as opposed to stressing about getting published.
When you walk into the Waponahki Museum and Resource Center in Perry, Maine, the first thing you see is a life-sized plaster mannequin of a man dressed in traditional Waponahki clothing—fringed pants, fringed bands around his upper arms, bare torso, long black hair. Someone has stuck a yellow Post-it note on his waist that says, “My name is Fred Moore.”
While still a child, my cousin Wendy was mistaken for a girl by the women in our family, who kidnapped her from the next door neighbour’s shed where the kids were dissecting a dead cat.
Read the whole piece on the Geist website.