Safe Passage

fearsocean: Peer Support goes to Galaxy Land III #mindbender I...

Thu, 07 Feb 2013 17:43:02 -0500

fearsocean:

Peer Support goes to Galaxy Land III #mindbender

I have the best face here.

Photo

Wed, 17 Oct 2012 02:29:07 -0400

Straight Against Hate Speech

Wed, 21 Mar 2012 21:56:17 -0400

I have never been one for public speaking. I don’t have much to say that I feel is worth hearing, but today I have a message for you to hear that’s very dear to me. I’m a first year student here at Grant MacEwan University and if you had met me in September you would have met someone who was very shy and unhappy with his life.

I moved here from a small town that was not LGBTQ friendly. To be openly involved in an alternative lifestyle there was in many ways to become a social outcast. Of course, not everyone took such a negative viewpoint, but far too many did. Those people who were allies were usually not very outspoken, as it was just as damning in the minds of those who judged.

My family is very conservative. They believe liberals are to be blamed for everything, that global warming is a conspiracy and that gay marriage is an abomination. My father’s word is law in that house, and woe to any who would disagree with him on anything. But I have never agreed with him on a lot of things, especially when it came to gay marriage. But growing up I wanted a peaceful life, without conflict, raised voices and the constant tension that comes standard with every political issue in that house. So I kept quiet. I didn’t agree, but they didn’t have to know that.

In my high school, there was no GSA. Nobody one was out because everyone was afraid, and I don’t think anyone could blame them. Teenagers can be evil, and we were especially cruel when it came to making fun of anyone we thought might be gay, and it didn’t take much to make us think that. I say we, because I too am guilty of saying some terrible things to help ease my own passage through the emotional prison that was Willow Creek Composite High. I told myself that it was easier to torture than to be tortured. But at the end of the day, I was leaving bruises as black and as deep on my own heart and soul as well as those of my victims’.

By the time I made it through high school, and ignored my own family’s beliefs for another three years I simply hated myself. My policy of not standing up for what I believed in was killing me from the inside out. Then I came to MacEwan. I stumbled onto the inQUEERies booth during club week, attended my first meeting that same night, and that’s when my life began to change.

The people in that club are some of the greatest people that I have ever had the pleasure to meet. I mentioned that when I moved here I was shy and unhappy. Well it was thanks to the friends I made at InQUEERies that I was able to change that. Not only did they accept my offbeat, often flamboyant personality but they taught me an incredible amount about the community and gave me a safe place to question and explore my own sexuality.

InQUEERies introduced me to a world far beyond what I knew in my home town. They showed me that the kind of hate I had been engulfed by didn’t have to be a part of my life here in Edmonton. They provided me with ways to be a better, more understanding person and opened my eyes in such a way that I will never be able to close them again.

There is a lot that InQUEERies has given to me, and now I have a chance to do something in return. For longer than I care to admit I sat by as people very much like those I grew up with unjustly harassed, insulted and even denied the LGBTQ community their rights! But I will no longer allow that to happen. I strongly encourage everyone here to do the same, to step up and support the amazing community that we have here at Grant MacEwan and within Edmonton. Let every person, regardless of their gender or sexuality feel safe and welcome here.

My name is Carson Green, and I may be straight, but I am no longer narrow.

The Messenger

Wed, 30 Nov 2011 16:19:51 -0500

The boy adjusted the strap, felt the weight of the package as it settled low in the bag he now carried on his shoulder. Dark brown leather, and new too, so you could still catch a whiff of the tanners shop on it. The stitching was exquisite, almost invisible and only the closet look would betray it to the eye. Contrast to this was the shining brass buckle and insignia emblazoned directly over it. The bag was cut in the messenger style favoured by couriers across the city. It had been a gift from his new employer, replacing the lad’s old canvas bag and marking him as a courier for a lord of the city.

He ran his hand over the embossed symbol on the side of the bag, a hand clutching at a closed eye, ringed by thorns. Excruciatingly detailed, but unfamiliar to the boy who’d spent his every day of his twelve years of life in the city learning everything he could about it. He had thought he knew all of the lords. He knew each street, every alleyway, which sewers you could use safely and which you couldn’t. There were a number of shortcuts and hiding places that only he knew, and many more that he shared with other children like him, but he didn’t know this crest.

Still, this insignia was foreign, and that had left him unsettled when the man handed it to him. But the prospect of being in service to a lord had quickly derailed that thought. Perhaps he was from another city on business, or a foreign dignitary. All that mattered now was the delivery, if he was on time, it would guarantee his employment and take him out of the poverty stricken life he knew now.

But there was a problem, it was noon and the markets were bustling with activity, making it impossible to move anywhere with the kind of speed he would need to make the delivery on time. He froze for a moment, terrified that he would lose his opportunity to the midday chaos. The crashing of the clock tower got him moving again, reminding him that standing still wasn’t getting him any closer to his goal. He ducked into the alley beside the blacksmith’s shop, the rhythmic pounding of steel piercing his ears and driving him on. It was a sound he hated, one he would never become accustomed to, and each strike rang like a nail being hammered into his coffin.

He hurried past the blacksmith as quick as he could but stopped not far from the shop. The alley was deserted but he had to be sure no one was watching. This was his secret and he didn’t want to share. The boy peered down each end of the alley, straining his eyes to see farther, and when he was sure no one was coming he ducked behind a stack of pallets long forgotten and given in to rot.

The rot was what made this secret great though. No one would move the pallets to throw them away, and they’d fall apart if anyone tried to use them so they just sat there, blocking the view of the open sewer grate that the boy now found himself slipping through and splashing down into the putrid water below.

The water wasn’t deep and didn’t rise anywhere near the bag and it’s precious package. There was no telling what was inside it; he had never asked when it was given to him. It was his job to deliver, not to know. He trudged through the water and thick sludge that settled on the bottom of the sewer; each step sending a wave of nausea inducing stench upwards to his helpless nose. He was heading West towards the French Quarter, where he would meet his nameless employer and prove his worth.

The sewer was a labyrinthine system which, compounded by the lack of lighting -the only source being the few grates like the one the boy crawled through to enter- and you were left with something that was almost impossible to navigate and avoided by nearly everyone, including the city’s many rats. There wasn’t much choice though, he could either force his way through the smell and the muck, hoping against all odds he wouldn’t become lost, or he could be late and lose his only chance.

It was a dreadful journey but the lad made it in good time and without becoming lost. He was right on time but had to wait a good while before he could crawl from the sewer into the alley without being noticed. This was the section for working girls, and the alleys were rarely unoccupied for long. Though with good timing and quick reflexes it wasn’t hard for the boy to pull himself out and make like he’d simply walked in like anybody else. The only hint they might have of his previous location would be the lingering smell of sewage and the dampened ankle cuffs.

He heard the distant ringing of the clock tower, confirming that he was right on time, but he hurried anyways. He didn’t know if the receiver was impatient or not, but he didn’t want to find out the hard way. Being early would just give him a moment to find the man matching the description he’d been given anyways.

Tall and thin with a black top hat and overcoat of the fashion favoured by gentlemen of the city, it could be any number of the men now milling about the square the young boy had entered; but the boy wasn’t looking for a man in the square, but in the street on the far side. It was a street that saw little traffic even at the busiest of times. A number of years ago there had been a string of murders on it and the city had tried its best to forget that it existed since.

A chill ran down his spine as he entered the street, but he ignored it. He didn’t have a choice if he wanted to be anything more than just another urchin for the rest of his miserable life. His steps slowed with trepidation as he got farther along the street. He still hadn’t seen anyone, and was beginning to worry.

Perhaps the man he was looking for had arrived early, become tired of waiting and left before the boy got there. He would never be able to convince the lord who had hired him that it wasn’t his fault. He would lose the opportunity if he was lucky, and his life if he was not. But then he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and spun to see a tall thin man in a black overcoat and matching top hat before him, a grim look on his face.

The boy backed away, startled by the contact and nearly fell over. Before he could topple though a gloved hand shot out and caught the front of his ragged shirt, setting him right on his feet. The man in black held out his hand without a word, obviously asking for the package, and the lad in his apprehensive haste handed the whole bag to the man after awkwardly pulling the single strap over his head.

A gloved hand went into the bag, felt around for a moment before pausing and asking in a condescending voice, “Did you look in the bag, boy?”

He could barely stammer a response, and what he did manage to get out came as a whisper, “N-no sir. It’s not my j-job t-to look. Just to de-deliver!”

“Smart lad.” The man snapped his fingers and turned to walk away down the street. The boy started to call out, to ask if there was another delivery; but before he could get very far there was the shuffle of feet behind him and then everything went black. Then there was nothing but the faint clanging of metal on metal. The sound of a blacksmith’s hammer shaping nails for a child size coffin.

Take These Shattered Pieces

Fri, 25 Nov 2011 16:03:29 -0500

Take these shattered pieces, these fragments of my heart,
Melt them down to molten glass, a bleeding work of art.
Stretch it thin and fragile, spin it into thread,
Poorly woven memories, stitched together with the red.

Take these shattered pieces, these fragments of a clock,
Put them back together, gears that step in lock.
Soldiers on a battlefield, where Time’s the general,
Aging is the enemy, fighting for your soul.

Take these shattered pieces, these fragments of my mind,
Lock them up in isolation, leave me thinking blind.
Bandaged up with rational, post branding as insane,
Leave me to my private world, where as twisted king I reign.

Take these shattered pieces, each and every one,
Burn art, conflict, insanity, ash can never be undone.

Alone

Wed, 23 Nov 2011 21:20:27 -0500

I woke up this morning smiling. Sunlight streamed through the bedroom window and the fresh smell of last night’s summer rain wafted in through the open balcony door. I rolled over in bed, planning to give you a kiss but you were already up and about; you must have been for awhile, since your half of the bed was already made. I rolled out of bed and set my own side right with a quick tug on the sheets.

I figured that you must be making breakfast downstairs, and that soon the rich smells of your cooking would reach me in the shower. As I opened the closet I noticed something unusual. Normally, there would be a towel in the hamper from your own morning ritual, but it was as empty the bed I’d just left. Maybe you were just too hungry to wait, and planned on taking one after.

The water is hot, almost scalding; that’s the way I like it. You always said that washing the veil of a good sleep off was your favourite part of the morning, and now I can’t help but feel the same way. With the sound of the water raining down and drowning out my own thoughts, it seems odd that I can’t hear you in the kitchen. You were always a bit of a klutz, and usually the sound of pans rattling would wake me before the sun had the chance. Today I can’t seem to hear anything but the water on the shower tile.

I came down the stairs with my hair still damp, dressed in a ragged tee and faded old jeans. They were the ones you made me buy because you thought they made my butt look better than yours. Turning the corner into the kitchen smiling, I expect to pour a cup of coffee and tell you how much I love you. I expect to be greeted with a kiss and the touch of the woman I love, but instead I’m welcomed by nothing but the hum of the refrigerator and the smell of a kitchen that hasn’t been used in weeks.

The garden. You’re out in the garden, pulling weeds. That’s why you didn’t shower yet. No point in getting clean only to get dirty. You must be out in the garden. It’s no problem to check. Just open the blinds in the kitchen and I’ll be able to see the whole thing. You. The scarecrow we made two years ago. All of your favourite flowers. I’m worried. I pull the blinds off in my haste, the curtain rod falling just barely behind me with a resounding crash.

I don’t hear it. You’re not there and the garden is empty. Completely empty. No plants, except weeds, grace the ground where you once kept star gazer lilies, snap dragons and gardenias.

As the rain clouds from the night before move back in, blocking out the sun, it dawns on me with a sudden realization. Of course you’re not here. It’s been a year since you have been. My hands crash against the window, shaking the surrounding wall and knocking the calendar to the floor; the calendar that marks today as the anniversary of your death, and the day I lost my sanity.

Support for Our Soldiers

Tue, 22 Nov 2011 21:58:00 -0500

Today I heard someone call Canadian soldiers murderers.

Frankly, this is something I can’t agree with. I have friends and family in the armed forces and I can’t imagine any of them as ‘murderers’. Are they people who are willing to stand up and defend their home? Yes. Are they people who would take the life of another to do so? I don’t know, and I hope they never have to find out.

Many of our soldiers will never see combat, will never take a life. Many of those who are unfortunate enough to have to will feel guilt that may lead to depression, or PTSD. These are not people who relish what they are forced to do.

I may not support the causes that send these people to war, that force them to do the things they do, but I realize and accept that in reality, they have no choice in the matter. They do only what they’re asked to by their country and I for one, fully support the soldiers themselves.

Right now Canadian forces are engaged in over twenty operations domestically and internationally. Our domestic operations include assisting Parks Canada in stopping avalanches and keeping roads and railways clear, as well as supporting Fisheries and Oceans Canada in the prevention of illegal, unregulated and unreported fishing. Admittedly our international exploits may be considered a little more violent, such as assisting the United States Stabilization Mission in Haiti, or our support to the UN peace-support mission in the Democratic Republic of Congo. We’re also involved in the United Nations-African Union mission in Darfur, and with a NATO Training Mission in Afghanistan.

Many of us forget that soldiers are not just soldiers but citizens; that they live and breathe the same air that we do, and when they go to war it’s not to defend our country and our families, but to defend their own. They are human beings that are brave enough to do what most of us are not. They put their lives on the line and endure horrors that we cannot imagine, and they do it in defense of people they don’t even know. People that turn around and call them murderers.