Whispering “Help!” from the windmills (or silos) of my mind


Those of you who have followed me, be it through my writing, my tweets, or home from the convenience store will have picked up on the fact that I have a fair amount on my plate.

I’m a very slow eater.

I recently joined a support group for long-term survivors of HIV/AIDS – in my case it’s been no less than 23 years. Even more recently I quit the group when I convinced myself that there was something to the quizzical looks I was getting from existing supportive friends, surprised that I might have anything I couldn’t discuss with them.

Particularly those who were also HIV-positive; also long-term survivors.

It felt good to formally end my relationship, short though it was, with the “support group” and to tell them why.

I don’t want to compartmentalize my life any more than I’m ever convinced I have to – if at all.

I want to safely, sanely integrate the many facets of my life – which too often feel like they’re in individual silos – into something that I can present to anyone I choose.

To recap what loyal readers already know:

I am a survivor of childhood trauma at the hands of an elementary school head teacher/principal.

I was bullied – by him and by peers both in early grades and in high school. I survived.

In my adolescence I was sexually abused by strangers, i.e. more than once, in a part of my home-town that I would only, as an adult, recognize as a “cruising area” for men seeking casual sex with other men (or, since I was there, with boys).

I buried that sexual trauma until I described the first incident in the third person at a HIV/AIDS-related workshop in 1990, some eighteen years after it started.

Then I buried it again, for the most part, but it kept reappearing particularly in the context of dealing with alcohol and other addiction.

I sought support for the addiction but only occasionally mentioned the trauma(s), believing that help was not available as one-stop shopping. (It was also too much to deal with in the context of my HIV progression to AIDS-related illness, the support and care of friends who have long since succumbed, and my inability to stay sober for more than five to seven years at a time maximum.)

When my brother Craig died tragically in 2007, and I was drinking at the time even if not in the presence – not even the same town – of my grieving family I came to a critical point of despair. Thoughts of suicide both tormented and comforted me.

Earlier that spring I had considered running for political office. Me! On long-term disability insurance! I had also wasted the bulk of an insurance settlement from a 2003 accident as if I wasn’t going to live long enough to enjoy it.

I was assessed and diagnosed with/as (I’m not sure which) bipolar II, one step on the spectrum from the more notorious bipolar disorder or manic-depressive illness, as it used to be called.

Believe it or not it was a relief to get a better understanding of what had begun, to me, simply as an absence of depression – for which I had been treated since around the time I tested HIV-positive – and to make sense of what had clearly become episodes of hypomania and depression.

The cautionary experiences of my peers, plus the general stigma still associated with mental illness, have made it difficult to articulate all that I have been discovering about myself as I review the years but one thing is for sure: I can no longer just be a gay, HIV-positive and (to some a recovering addict) friend or relative to some while hiding the largely successful, but ongoing, treatment of my psychiatric illness. The silos drive me crazy – and anyone with a passing acquaintance of farming will know that silos can spontaneously combust!

I do not know to whom any, or all, of this is news. Please let me know. Maybe this is just a rant I occasionally need to let rip. My emotions are not helped by a temporary physical malady today but, then again, I know that’s what it takes to move me sometimes!

The bottom line is that I want to be able to describe the whole picture, even if I mix oil with pastels, chalk with water. The silos aren’t all filled at the same time, usually, but that’s just the point. I don’t want silos any more. Could you at least help me with a better analogy?  I would be so grateful.

There are at least a few, if not many, important people with whom I need to have my own conversation about…


…this!

It’s certainly not too early to think about Mental Illness Awareness Week

When I read the Ottawa Citizen article (linked above) I immediately thought, “Mom will have read that yesterday,” and what an opening it would give me to discuss my own mental health history with her.

Not long after sobering up five+ years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar II and, although it might seem strange, the news came as a relief to me. It helped to explain behaviour, over and above (and below) drunkenness and depression, which had dogged me most of my adult life. The eventual absence – thanks to treatment – of depression, which became hypomania, went undiagnosed for so long because I quite enjoyed said absence of depression, despite the danger, stupidity and recklessness which accompanied it.

Of course, as my 1,002 posts here can illustrate – at least in part – there’s been more going on in my life than depression so, absent or otherwise, there have been many other factors contributing to my state of being and my sense of self.

I cannot deny, and quite enjoy reporting, that seeking help – even if it took sinking to “rock bottom” to do so – has me feeling mentally stronger than I have in a long time, the occasional extraneous screw-ups notwithstanding.

For that I am truly thankful.

College sports governing body slams Penn State post-Sandusky, Paterno


The NCAA has handed down its sentence on Penn State University’s football program, as outlined in this news release:

By perpetuating a “football first” culture that ultimately enabled serial child sexual abuse to occur, The Pennsylvania State University leadership failed to value and uphold institutional integrity, resulting in a breach of the NCAA Constitution and rules. The NCAA Division I Board of Directors and NCAA Executive Committee directed Association president Mark Emmert to examine the circumstances and determine appropriate action in consultation with these presidential bodies.

“As we evaluated the situation, the victims affected by Jerry Sandusky and the efforts by many to conceal his crimes informed our actions,” said Emmert. “At our core, we are educators. Penn State leadership lost sight of that.”

According to the NCAA conclusions and sanctions, the Freeh Report “presents an unprecedented failure of institutional integrity leading to a culture in which a football program was held in higher esteem than the values of the institution, the values of the NCAA, the values of higher education, and most disturbingly the values of human decency.”

As a result, the NCAA imposed a $60 million sanction on the university, which is equivalent to the average gross annual revenue of the football program. These funds must be paid into an endowment for external programs preventing child sexual abuse or assisting victims and may not be used to fund such programs at the university. (emphasis mine)

The sanctions also include a four-year football postseason ban and a vacation of all wins from 1998 through 2011. The career record of former head football coach Joe Paterno will reflect these vacated records. Penn State must also reduce 10 initial and 20 total scholarships each year for a four-year period. In addition, the NCAA reserves the right to impose additional sanctions on involved individuals at the conclusion of any criminal proceedings.

The NCAA recognizes that student-athletes are not responsible for these events and worked to minimize the impact of its sanctions on current and incoming football student-athletes. Any entering or returning student-athlete will be allowed to immediately transfer and compete at another school. Further, any football student-athletes who remain at the university may retain their scholarships, regardless of whether they compete on the team.

To further integrate the athletics department into the university, Penn State will be required to enter into an “Athletics Integrity Agreement” with the NCAA. It also must adopt all Freeh Report recommendations and appoint an independent, NCAA-selected Athletics Integrity Monitor, who will oversee compliance with the agreement.

Effective immediately, the university faces five years of probation. Specifically, the university is subject to more severe penalties if it does not adhere to these requirements or violates NCAA rules in any sport during this time period.

“There has been much speculation on whether or not the NCAA has the authority to impose any type of penalty related to Penn State,” said Ed Ray, Executive Committee chair and Oregon State president. “This egregious behavior not only goes against our rules and Constitution, but also against our values.”

Because Penn State accepted the Freeh Report factual findings, which the university itself commissioned, the NCAA determined traditional investigative proceedings would be redundant and unnecessary.

“We cannot look to NCAA history to determine how to handle circumstances so disturbing, shocking and disappointing,” said Emmert. “As the individuals charged with governing college sports, we have a responsibility to act. These events should serve as a call to every single school and athletics department to take an honest look at its campus environment and eradicate the ‘sports are king’ mindset that can so dramatically cloud the judgment of educators.” (emphasis mine)

Penn State fully cooperated with the NCAA on this examination of the issues and took decisive action in removing individuals in leadership who were culpable.

“The actions already taken by the new Penn State Board of Trustees chair Karen Peetz and Penn State president Rodney Erickson have demonstrated a strong desire and determination to take the steps necessary for Penn State to right these severe wrongs,” said Emmert.

Jerry Sandusky guilty, now what?


In the hours following the conviction of their once-revered Jerry Sandusky, Penn State is most anxious to move on.

After my exclamation on Facebook of “Yes! Yes! Yes!”, attached to a media account of the guilty verdicts on Friday, I wondered how the victim-survivors were feeling. Having invested my emotions, and my own survival story, by proxy into the trial I can say I was elated.

One of the most galling things about Sandusky, as evidenced in his Bob Costas interview, was his supposed naiveté about the gravity of things he was being accused of. Whether a defense or a pathology, why is it that so many pedophiles believe they can justify their crimes? (Don’t try to Google for answers. You’ll be disgusted.)

It has been a long journey for me just beginning to talk about the anonymous sexual abuse I encountered as an adolescent following long-term bullying by an elementary school principal. Anything to do with sports reminds me of that teacher, the coach of half of the sports teams in school, who harangued those of us who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, participate more than we had to. So Jerry Sandusky, for me, embodies the characteristics of both my abusers.

I did not begin even the most minimum of therapy about this until I was about thirty, shortly after testing positive for HIV in 1989. At first it was difficult enough to connect the dots, as I still like to say, let alone getting in touch with the feelings of trauma – so it was an issue I set aside fairly often when I didn’t feel I could cope.

Yet the void never goes away and, untreated, nothing fills it.

Another occasion which pointed me towards more healing was after I was hit by a cab in 2003, fracturing my femur and wrist. In the course of post-traumatic stress counselling I was encouraged to peel back the veil of any previous traumas so, naturally, my childhood came up again. One of the tools my psychiatrist tried, himself the son of Holocaust survivors, was to recommend Primo Levi’s Survival in Auschwitz. Like anything that might hurt before it feels better I put off reading the book for quite a long time. But read it I did and it unleashed a hunger in me for similar books of real-life terror and, in some cases, survival – think Elie Wiesel, Viktor Frankl and many others.

When the Penn State scandal first erupted I was triggered quite sharply and found myself engrossed in news coverage as if in a trance. I mentioned this to a fellow survivor and mentor when we met for a coffee last fall. Our chosen coffee shop was quite crowded and so, it being a colouful fall evening, we opted to take a walk with our beverages. He literally walked with me in my distress. Something he told me, and it is echoed by valuable resources such as MaleSurvivor.org, is that we are well advised to avoid anything more than cursory coverage of such news stories or, at least, be self-aware to know when enough is enough.

There’s not much more I want to hear about the main perpetrator of Penn State. His future doesn’t seem to included anyone he can harm. I wait to see how other officials at the university fare in this.

Above all, I hope the completely vindicated survivors can continue their healing journeys with whatever help or compensation is deemed fitting.

No sentence could undo the harms caused by Graham James


I join the outcry today over the sentencing of convicted serial pedophile Graham James to two years in prison for the sexual abuse of Theo Fleury and Todd Holt. Counter-intuitively (because I knew it would just get me stirred up) I watched the news coverage of the lawyers’ statements and victims’ reactions.

Graham arrived at court wearing his best perp ensemble:

Following sentencing, which The Globe I think rightly criticized for its lack of nuance, Todd Holt spoke on behalf of cousin and fellow victim Theo Fleury.

“I stand here today, on behalf of not only myself and my cousin Theoren Fleury, but as a voice for every man.

For all the young boys, the old men and the ones that got stuck somewhere in between because of the most devastating type of abuse; sexual abuse inflicted on us by someone in a position of trust and authority. Theo and I were two of those who got stuck in that middle place between boy and man; we made some terrible choices and watched the life we were meant to lead spiral down the drain.

No longer.”

It was, for me, a powerful and meaningful beginning to an expression of feelings – I even heard myself in his words - which later criticized the justice system.

This was where I switched to thinking, “Hmmm…”, and I’m sure it will take me some time to sort out why.

As my headline reads, and as legions of all types of crime victims can attest, the length of Graham James’ sentence, while still shocking (considering that two years probably won’t last two years), is secondary to the horrors, and their after-effects, that James inflicted on Theo Fleury, Todd Holt, Sheldon Kennedy and who-knows-how-many-other young hockey players I would otherwise not know, let alone relate to.

They are still recovering, having taken the familiar route of spiralling downward before they were fortunate enough to make it back without ending their lives.  Theirs, as mine, is a life-long journey.  Every time I/we think we have reached another air-pocket of resolution, something takes it away – or at least I let it be taken away.

There’s a tough-on-this-kind-of-crime demon whispering inside me thinking Graham James and his ilk should be chemically castrated, if not as a barbaric punishment then at least as a preventive measure.  Or is that just the wolf of murder by lethal injection in sheep’s clothing? And would that alone take away his predatory impulses?

My self-image, a work in progress, was moulded in part by a monster or two in my childhood.  I continue to try to make sense of so much, even the crap in my own past that makes no sense at all.  But I persist, with your help.

Hope as verb, noun and/or feeling


Everything I am feeling in this moment is in the context of having watched, via television and Twitter, the roller-coaster of events in Egypt these past 18 days, of having just listened to the Feb. 6 (2011) edition of Tapestry from CBC Radio with Mary Hines, and of having made the seemingly Herculean effort to order refills of my HIV, diabetes and “head” meds.

And already I have forgotten why I could only describe myself as despondent when I opened up this page.

Towards the end of the week, say about twelve hours before the start of Friday Prayers in Cairo, I was in discussion with some peers about the now-tired links I make between the distinct hells of elementary school and my adolescence, then of my instant activism after the 1981 bath house raids in Toronto (just add water, or steam, and stir!)  Oh, and then I added that leap fart of logic that permeated me for so long “…if anyone deserves AIDS I do.”  Even though I quickly pointed out that I have dismissed this asinine proposition, intellectually, I allowed that it may still hide in the nodes of my psyche as traces of seemingly “undetectable” HIV viral load might hide from the best available tests – though I did not use that analogy.  Frankly HIV could probably hide better, regardless of whether it is or not.

It stands to reason then, if reason is all I can stand on, that I might feel despair given Dr. Kenn’s self-diagnoses (AIDS-because-I-deserve-it and mental-illness-because-well-life-just-piled-up).

Listening to myself, as the conversation with my peers played over and over during the walk home, I understood – was aware of, made sense of – almost immediately how the 51-year old Kenn brutally judges (ever-present tense) the Kenneth of childhood, the Ken of adolescence and the Kenn of a promising adulthood.  Then, with a deep sigh, I recognized (again) how tiring this is – to me, sure, and I can only begin to imagine how much so to any audience (at least anyone not paid to listen!)

John’s question emerged, from among the group, asking me how I would respond to someone presenting my self-evaluation.  Not a new question, of course, I said I’d tell them it (circumstance=deserving) was absurd and to cut myself some slack.

That’s what I left with Thursday evening, not picking it all up again until listening today to the aforementioned edition of Tapestry (which, in all candour, is this loner-wannabe’s “church”-of-choice more than any other these days).   While the Thursday evening mood personified wanted to dislike what I was hearing, I could not.

The stream of consciousness of the past couple of weeks (and blog posts) went like this: forgiveness (others and myself) does NOT mean condoning anything, the letting go frees me up for other things – happier, productive, more self-fulfilling things.

Now what?  (Interestingly, this is one of the questions being asked repeatedly about Egypt this weekend).

Should I pack up for Haiti?  No, I don’t think so – not today at least.

Do I believe that wishing to do anything is a foolhardy distraction from what I’ve been carrying, and working on, for years?  Would a change of course, however big or small, negate everything?  No!

Having lived for so long like I could not imagine surviving another year, never mind quarter-life (and more than occasionally not wishing to!), what small steps can I take to change my attitude?

“Fake it ’til you make it”?

“Act as if…”?

Well, internalizing those phrases would be a pleasant change from the self-defeating mantras, so – if nothing else – let this be a beginning.

I understand, and have experienced, how ‘getting out of self’ can lighten the load a great deal.  Therefore I could do a lot worse with my time than thinking about ways to do this.

I would rather be cut down in the middle of something, only at the moment of my death, than continuously sharpening my focus on seeing it come from an undetermined distance.

“Now what?”

Better to live unto/into hope than fear (which I must always recognize is inherent in any comfortable certainty of hopelessness).

“The Shack”: allegory, empathy and the question of forgiveness


“I brought a book I think you’ll find interesting,” my cousin said as we sat down for lunch recently, handing me a paperback copy of The Shack by Wm. Paul Young.

I believe, now having read it, that she might have been nudged to give me this book because she knows, perhaps as much as any confidant, “The Great Sadness” (as the novelist puts it) which has been stored, occasionally visited, and allowed to grow unchecked in my own run-down Shack.  I’m guessing she might believe some of the messages of the novel could be applicable to me.

It is not difficult for me to imagine how wrenching it would be, certainly a step out in faith, to face those men I have written about who wronged me in my childhood and youth.  At least one is dead and the others, well, I don’t even know their names let alone their current state-of-being.

That’s not the point.  Were they to appear in my dreams I would almost certainly be forced to confront them.  Would I, in such a dream, or do I now, in compartmentalized pain, feel willing – to say nothing of empowered – to symbolically release their throats from the anger of my tight grasp and hand them over to the power whose many names include God?

The message seems to be to trust that something beyond my judgment, my imagination – beyond belief often – is a better repository for my judgment (which I ultimately can’t inflict anyway) than am I.

Somehow, in releasing my grip, I imagine forgiveness looks more like letting go – leaving judgment to forces beyond me. The haunting “monsters” of my past, after all, are dead as far as I know so my preoccupation with holding on, even if it’s not uppermost in my consciousness, is clearly only hurting me. I get that. To let go completely, though, seems more than I can do – at least on my own. Another message of the book, then perhaps, is that I don’t have to do it by myself.

To the best of my ability I release my hold on these men, that in letting go of them their power over me will be lessened. I will not, however, shy away from using the experience – all of it – as best I can whenever I believe it might be of assistance to someone else.

Clint McCance is a man who should be run out of Arkansas


This idiot’s 15 minutes (I don’t expect he’d know what that means) will, hopefully, soon be over but surely not before he loses his elected job on the Midland, Arkansas school board.

Anderson Cooper set the story up this way last evening and then had a couple of great guests, including the whistle-blower:

A screen-shot of McCance’s Facebook page (which has been taken down), quoted by Anderson Cooper,  is kicking around the internet:

It turns out McCance is a bit afraid for the safety of his family – really? While I do not doubt there will be some who have some threatening words for this idiot, there are far more children – the ones he was ridiculing, just recent, public examples – who have, or have considered, suicide and who are in danger.

Was wearing purple last Wednesday, to remember kids who had killed themselves and to draw attention to bullying (by other kids mostly, mind you) just too much for this heat-seeking missile of a crack-pot to stand for?  I’m a little over-heated myself, I grant you.

I don’t know if the women of “The View” will be able to discuss this without smashing the furniture but it’s over-heated reactions – and by a school board vice-president no less – to grassroots movements of commemoration and education such as we saw a week ago Wednesday that make them all the more necessary.

No blogger, not even Anderson Cooper, is going to change the mind of a monster like Clint McCance (and should he ever apologize my guess it would be along the lines of “If I have offended anyone…”) but this is an opportunity for the people of Midland, and everywhere else in need of some soul-searching, to talk to one another and make an effort to see that there is nothing to be feared in difference.  Your children’s lives may depend on it!

This is an occasion when a wide variety of people, not just queer activists, should make their views about this known to Mr. McCance, the school board, and each other.

Now I need to remind myself (thank you Jo-Anne), with six hours sleep ahead if I’m lucky, that I am 51 years old and no one in my circles today is a bully. C. G. (“Mr. G” to me) is long dead and gone.

That will not stop me from calling out others like him as I see them.

On this International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia


To Head Teacher/Principal wannabe C.G., who rarely missed an opportunity to taunt me, terrify me, pit me against his son and my other classmates;

To the kids who teased me for the friends I chose;

To those who often made the forty minute bus ride to and from high school each day so frightening;

To the older men who exploited my youthful sexual curiosity, leaving me with the impression that this was what “gay” is;

To the “Bible-believing” evangelical church which took me under its wing in college when I was bent on crushing my sexual orientation;

To the bottles which I sought to quell pain, only to find more;

To the internalized mindset which had convinced me that I deserved AIDS;

To anyone who has ever yelled “Faggot!”, whether at me directly or in a crowd;

To you, and many more who do not come to mind immediately, I say you cannot have me, you cannot defeat me, and there is nothing wrong with who I am!

May 17th was chosen to celebrate this International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia to commemorate the World Health Organisation’s decision on this date to remove homosexuality from the list of mental disorders.

This morning Toronto Maple Leafs General Manager Brian Burke, whose son Brendan had recently come out before being killed in a tragic car accident earlier this year, helped launch (cbc.ca, CP24, Sun, Globe and Mail) an EGALE Gay-Straight Alliance web site aimed at promoting positive peer pressure among students against homophobia and transphobia.

There can’t be too much understanding and support and Brian Burke, who will be an honoured participant in this year’s Toronto Pride parade, is a parent like many would love to have.

The infuriating sins of the ‘Fathers’


As I walked up to the subway this morning I passed a young Tamil-Canadian family crossing the street from St. James Town to attend Our Lady of Lourdes Roman Catholic Church – so a confession is in order. I have received Communion from Jesuits there which, as a Protestant, I am not permitted to do. A Basilian father or two has also served me the sacraments up at their now-closed retreat centre on beautiful Strawberry Island on Lake Simcoe. I seem to have genuflected convincingly.

At Lourdes the occasions for my being there were monthly healing masses for anyone affected by HIV/AIDS. I don’t know if they’re still going on but in their early days I attended semi-regularly with many others willing to at least pay lip service to just about anything offering hope. (I’ll try to refrain from further use of the term lip service in a Roman Catholic context.) Filipino-Canadian drag queens would attend, their resemblance to their mothers always quite striking. It did not surprise me that one of the priests at the mass was someone I would occasionally see in dimly lit establishments known for sexual activity – and he was not there to hear confessions.

My blood has been at a rolling boil this week as more and more revelations of sexual abuse, and the Vatican’s handling of these tragic cases, have been reported almost daily.

Item: Vatican knew of abuse in Ontario: Victim

I came out of the closet in the early 1980s during heated public debates over the basic civil rights of gays and lesbians in the Ontario Human Rights Code. One of the canards thrown at us by opponents was the equating of homosexuality with pedophilia. It was always a shocking, and infuriating, charge. I, therefore, have a great deal of empathy for Roman Catholic priests who do not happen to be molesters of their juvenile parishioners. They must feel betrayed by their brothers who are guilty of such crimes. I hope they have the strength to call them out on these matters.

The official Roman Catholic Church, from Pope Benedict (formerly known as Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger and “God’s Rottweiler”) down through the defensive male hierarchy of the Church, has unsuccessfully tried to do the impossible – saving its face and its ass at the same time. The influence it once held in western society long lost, the Church still carries on as if we all believe everything that comes out of the Holy See, down to the bishops and the pawns.

Item: Pope won’t be intimidated by ‘petty gossip’

I know a few Roman Catholics who cling to their faith as the way they know to experience the Mystery and, more importantly, to act out their faith through such entities as The Catholic Worker Movement. I know them to be good, loving people who believe in gay rights, for example, and other things which would not get an endorsement from the balcony at St. Peter’s Square. My heart aches for them as they see their Church being yanked from one priests’ scandal to another.

This jars memories of ‘Hawaiian Tropic’ Secret, a story I put into words and read for the first time in 1990 during an “AIDS Mastery” workshop. In writing, without judgment or self-censorship, I saw the plain fact that what I had carried as guilt for my behaviour was, in fact, the abuse of a minor (me) by a much older man. (I have no reason to believe the abuser was a priest but I do empathize with the Church – whose condemnations regarding morality over the years are coming back to bite it to the point where its outward-pointing fingers of yesterday are increasingly pointing inward today.)

Unfortunately The Church seems to be better at demeaning the sexual life force of lowly parishioners than dealing with the inexcusable sexual violence visited upon young people by priests who claim to hold such incredible moral authority over their charges.

The flock needs to revolt against the shepherds.

What makes a good teacher?


Another victim of my elementary school teacher-as-nemesis, C.G., has been in contact with me and I can’t describe the sense of validation I feel. It’s like having a friend in my corner, even if we were years apart. (I am also hoping he can jog a few memories about some of the other sorts of sadistic methods of child development that C.G. employed. One came to mind as I was expressing that – he would hit me, and others I’m sure, on the head with the backs of chalkboard erasers.)

I spent a bit of time on this in therapy today, trying to break through to some of the emotions this monster both evoked and stifled in me. It seems to me that so much of my life which followed was influenced by a fear he instilled.

Having said that I was blessed to have other good teachers, both in Mr. G’s school (Mrs. McClintock, Mrs. Duckworth) and when I went on to Chateauguay Valley Regional High School.

Mrs. Erskine taught English in my first year of secondary school and really nurtured my joy of writing. (I even won a two dollar bill for a story I wrote!) She also called me Ken, not Kenneth, so a shorter version/variation has been my preference ever since.

A memorable French teacher, despite his English name, was Mr. Dawson – memorable because he was much more interested in us learning conversational French than being tied to text-books from Paris (or even Montreal). What little ease I have with the language now I still credit to him.

The late Bob Walker, who directed me and a cast of 12-16 year olds in a production of “Oliver!”, gave me an appreciation for some of the classics and was instrumental in a school trip to London which I was part of but, due to his accidental death the previous Christmas, he was unable to see it to its conclusion.

Lindsay Cullen taught me that there’s more to music than a piano (Mom’s niche) and ably coached me as I learned trombone, tuba and baritone sax in successive years (and recruited me for the town band each summer).

History, another passion of mine (hence my interest in politics), was brought to life by a teacher named Harley Bye (and Mrs. Blake before him). They were great for telling us stories of our local history, of which there were plenty, from the abundance of settlers from the southern colonies (now the U.S.A.) loyal to the Crown, to nearby battles in the War of 1812. They also managed to corral our adolescent (read hyper) bodies into a bus more than once for a trip to our nation’s capital, Ottawa.

It was another English teacher in my senior year, Vernon Pope, who encouraged me to pursue journalism. He was former Editor of The International Herald-Tribune and this quiet-spoken (nearly inaudible) man groomed some of my writing abilities.

So, gratefully, my entire education experience was not a loss and I had teachers in elementary school who eclipsed C.G., but I think he made it very difficult for me to want to learn. All I can do about it now is, figuratively speaking, piss on his grave – but piss I do and, if my therapist can help me unlock my emotions better, I may do other things to just be authentic with my feelings and stop censoring them through this sieve of fear that I use. Actually that’s being generous because I am not always aware of my filtering; often not even connecting my thoughts with my feelings.

Enough with the “honour killings”


Stop Honorcide!

As a gay man with HIV/AIDS I know of my condemned standing within the hard-line Islamist, Jewish and Christianist faiths. (I’m taking my chances, and feeling fine thanks, with liberal spirituality.)

What no one, however, whether in Canada or anywhere else in the world should tolerate is paternalistic violence and murder – almost always exclusively against women and children cloaked in “tradition” or law (Sharia and otherwise) or “Allah” or “God” or “G-d”. (I say almost exclusively because queers – across the gender spectrum – seem to remain fair game, with varying degrees of violence proscribed, condoned or tolerated, depending on the faith derivative, the location, and so on.)

Concerning the news of this day (insert “innocent until proven guilty” here) it is of only minor consolation that Montreal’s Afghan community is shocked.

While many of us wonder what we might do with our outrage, for starters, here are Linda Ahmed’s sites Muslims Against Sharia and Stop Honorcide!

I saw Raheel Raza on the news briefly tonight, an A-1 resource person I have had conversations with in the past/

I also saw Tarek Fatah in the same report.

Regardless of the shade of our pigment white ribbons each December do not stop male violence against women in Canada. Women and children are killed in custody battles or for countless other excuses far too often. I’m not meaning to pin more insanity on one religious, cultural or sexual homicide than another.

It hasn’t been that long since Ontario decided against adopting limited Sharia law, so we can’t be smug about this.

It’s 2009 across the world. Centuries of history and difference do not separate us. I just need to hear more outrage from every corner of the religious world against such brutality.

Please forward other web resources via the comments. I will post them here:

World Health Organization: Gender-based violence

U.S. Still in Denial on Gender Violence: Peter Daou

Afghan Women’s Organization (Toronto) – Healthy Equal Relationships

The quiet horror of residential schools


As good a starting point as any, as the full gravity of the truth begins to come out, points assigned according to abuses suffered:

“Repeated persistent anal or vaginal intercourse — 45-60 points. Penetration with an object — 36-44. Repeated, persistent fondling –11-25. Simulated intercourse — 11-25. Nude photographs taken — 5-10.”

“One or more physical assaults causing injury that led or should have led to hospitalization — 11-25.

“Permanent or demonstrated long-term physical injury, impairment or disfigurement, broken bones. Examples include severe beating, whipping and second-degree burning –11-25 points.

“Being singled out for physical abuse by an adult employee which was grossly excessive in duration or frequency and which caused psychological harms … — 5-25 points.”


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A Mr. G. day


I’m experiencing a Mr. G. headache today or at least one whose characteristics – terrible pain in my shoulder, neck and head – remind me of my childhood nemesis.

It could be the weather (cloudy, windy and cool) or poor posture (it’s hard to sit comfortably with no butt to sit on) but the locations of these body aches rarely fail to remind me of C.G. and his bullying teaching techniques.  Even if I do not dwell on what happened, with him and in ensuing years, the physical pain awaits release.


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Under the weather – literally


Much-needed rain has come to Toronto and southern Ontario but, unfortunately, the low pressure system it rode in on has me writhing in pain from a head and shoulder ache – coincidentally, or not, in the spot where Mr. G., first name Carl, used to dig his fingers into my shoulders as he strode up and down the classroom aisles.

If I believed in a literal hell after life, and this is not very Christian of me I know, I’d be wishing there to be an extra log on the fire for him right now.

Day 18 has not been a bed of roses :)

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