On my arrival at the check-in desk in Toronto, the nice lady asked me where I was staying in Boston, to which I replied, “hmmm... I have no idea, I’m flying out with my partner, who is a first officer, and I don’t know the name of the hotel that’s been booked”.

And that’s were the trouble started.

“Is he a pilot with this airline?” The nice lady asked; “yes, she is”. (My gently corrective response.)

We debated back and forth whether — given that this was a company employee — the customer service rep might have access to the hotel info (my partner, probably engaged in her pre-flight briefing with the crew, was not responding to my texts).

Eventually the CSR summoned her colleague at the next kiosk and made the inquiry: “This lady is flying to Boston and her partner is a pilot on the flight; do we know which hotel the crew is staying at?”

The colleague wanted to ascertain everyone’s status: “He’s the captain on the flight, or the first officer?”

“She’s the FO” I calmly explained, and added a meek, “Sorry, she’s not responding to my texts right now.”

Long story short, we found a temporary solution until my female first officer partner finally texted me the details. But I was left with an annoyed sense of mistaken identity.

I couldn’t figure out whether it was gender stereotyping at play [Even people who know I’m gay do a double take when they find out Tats is a pilot — the first assumption when I say “my partner flies for (insert airline here)” is that she’s a flight attendant. Cause, you know, only men can be pilots apparently.] or heteronormativity (I’ve noticed that since I let my hair grow ever so slightly beyond my usual short fade/undercut, there is less of an assumption about my LGBTQ+ status... especially when I’m not decked out in plaid and/or Doc Martins!!)


It suddenly dawned on me that it actually didn’t matter whether gender bias or heteronormativity was the culprit — the use of the pronoun “they” would have solved either problem... AND would have signalled more generally a culture of inclusion on the part of the airline.

Here’s to the use of the pronoun “they”, and to the evolution of grammar in support of a more inclusive language!

So I finally experienced my first fall on PEI. A neighbour recently bought property across the road from us and has begun developing it, so we decided to go out for Thanksgiving weekend and tack on an extra few days, in part to check in on how the main building was progressing.

Most of the time I‘ve spent on my beloved isle has been in summer (though I have braved a few winter excursions as well), and I must say, it was caught off guard by how lovely this place is in autumn!

I‘ve read the Tourism PEI enticements to visit the island in the fall, but I‘d always sort of assumed that was mostly just a sale pitch. I was prepared to enjoy a nice thanksgiving meal and just play my drums and catch up on sleep for a few days close to home.

But it turns out the hype is legit: The island is largely rural, and as such, has lots of foliage to show off in fall. The caucophony of colours was spectacular wherever we went!

Although we did visit a new-to-us beach while there (Thunder Cove, to see the „teapot“), we actually spent less time by the ocean than on any other visit I have made to the island. Instead, we explored a few of the island‘s many trails.

Upon seeing several enticing forest paths on various PEI instagram accts I follow, I inquired where one goes for a walk in the forest; a friend and neighbour recommended Forest Hill Trail, south of St Peters, near Strathcona. So, off we went, dog in tow.

It had been rather a damp few weeks, and so mushrooms of all manner were blossoming majestically along the leafy forest path. We took several photos of the remarkably diverse species of fungi while the dog romped around the soggy leaves and went tearing happily back and forth along the trails.

We did some off-trail geocaching, and also lost (and thankfully found!) my phone before heading back to the car with soggy-pawed dog for the half hour drive to the Charlottetown airport.

If you‘ve never been to the island in fall, I highly recommend it. Especially if you are a lover of nature, it‘s a beautiful time to visit, and as an added bonus, the place is not overrun by tourists and mosquitoes, as is frequently the case during the summer months.

October PEI, I‘ll be back!

With all the commentary on toxic masculinity and patriarchal resentment in the media these days, I thought I’d weigh in it with my own perspective on the topic, from an aviation standpoint.

I recently read a comment on an Instagram photo posted by a male pilot, which applauded his misogynistic stance, and ridiculed the hashtag “girlpilots” that women in aviation sometimes use when posting aviation related photos to Instagram or other social media. What surprised me about the support of comment was that it had been written by another female pilot!

It reminded me of a story I heard not too long ago, from the leader of a women’s support group at a regional airline, about how some female pilots were quite resistant to joining said support group. It seemed as though they didn’t want to be treated any differently from their male peers, she noted, and they resented the spotlight being shone on them as women in a non-traditional Aviation role. They had fought so hard to get where they had gotten, they were afraid, almost, to discuss this reality with their female peers, and just wanted to be seen as “one of the boys”.

But we #GirlPilots are NOT like the boys we often have to fly with!

It’s not uncommon, even in 2018, for female pilots to be harassed either directly (think derogatory comments or inappropriate touching by male captains to female first officers) and indirectly (where “the boys“ make sexually inappropriate, jocular comments about the women they share the cockpit with, not knowing that those comments may be overheard by their female colleagues or males not comfortable with this sort of toxic masculinity.)

As I heard first-hand at a dinner celebrating the accomplishments of women in aviation the other night, this sort of nonsense still happens frequently. But rarely if ever the other way around. (Seriously, aviation friends, when was the last time you heard a female captain discussing with her peers the size of her first officer’s cock, and how that must’ve played a role in his getting hired?! Actually, let’s just leave it at the first part, when was the last time you heard a female captain? Case in point!)

The aviation and aerospace industry is still stacked strongly against women. 50% of the human population is represented in only 6% of most airline cockpits, and this imbalanced percentage is often reflected in other non-traditional aviation roles as well: aviation engineers, mechanics, flight instructors, rampies, etc.... Not surprisingly, it’s even lower for women of colour or other intersecting identities.

Having being a student pilot in a flight school overrun by disrespectful ground school peers and male instructors who were clueless at best and in some cases downright misogynistic, I know I’m not the only one who chose not to plow through that minefield and continue on to a career in the field of aviation once I finally earned my coveted PPL. There are only so many sexist “jokes” and comments you can take with a smile and and apparently nonchalant come back before wanting to poke your eyeballs out with hot skewers rather than go back voluntarily for more, just so that you can fly an airplane!

No, I stuck with my nice, safe, gender-appropriate profession (I’m a public educator with more than 20 years of teaching experience, surrounded largely by women)!

I can’t believe that all men are naturally misogynistic pigs, though. In fact, among the many examples of jerks I had to put up with while earning my PPL, were some shining examples of decent human beings. Young men who were doing their best to just teach flying and earn some hours so that they could go fly bigger planes. And I’ve seen enough very young boys to know that – – no matter how early the dangerous socialization begins – – humanity grows up with the potential to be nurturing, caring, fair and equitable, regardless of their sex.

Gender socialization, and the promotion of “strong men“/boys who don’t cry, and who discard femininity as worthless, is taught. It’s taught by the adults – – men and women – – that surround a young child. And its effects are so powerful, that many women themselves believe, albeit sometime subconsciously, that they are the inferior sex.

Personally, when I post an aviation related photo of myself, I often use #GirlPilot, not to show off, but rather to find my sisterhood. As a student pilot, I endured plenty of horse shit from the boys I had to deal with along the way, and although I did not make flying a career, I can imagine that with the industry average standing at just 6%, most fellow #GirlPilots who also happen to be #CommercialPilots are not likely to find that sisterhood among their immediate collegial circle!! So when I click the hashtag after I post, I’m immediately virtually surrounded by other girls who – – like me – – swam through the sea of toxic masculinity and patriarchal resentment, and earned their stripes!

It’s exciting and encouraging.

I saw another post on Instagram recently, too. It was a photograph of a young boy holding a sign. The second “boys“ in “boys will be boys“ had been crossed out and replaced with “good humans”.

Imagine a world where the approximately 50% of the population that identifies as male is not feared, despised and/or disrespected by the other 50%, but rather revered and respected, because they are decent humans who in turn revere and respect as valuable and necessary their female fellow humans, rather than seeing the as worthless pawns provided by some great deity for their personal sexual enjoyment, whether in aviation, or in any field. Imagine if a man‘s power came from his choice to be decent, kind and respectful, rather than to oppress.

In such a world, perhaps some of us would no longer feel the need to hashtag our aviation posts with #GirlPilot because we could just be #Pilots.

Before we embarked on our recent road trip to Newfoundland, I had heard many wondrous things about the beauty of this land. I wondered, before we left, if I would fall in love with it the way I had with PEI years earlier.

As we disembarked from the ferry in Port-aux-Basques and made our way carefully through the early morning fog that rolled across the landscape (a remnant of an overnight thunderstorm), we caught periodic glimpses of the majestic hills that define this part of the island. The view was so visually overwhelming that I wept. And for once, my kids -- also in awe of the magnificent beauty surrounding us -- didn't ask me why I was crying!
​
As we continued to work our way north along the Viking Trail (the highway that traces the island's west coast), through Gros Morne National Park, past many brooks and streams, towards St Anthony, we enjoyed a visual feast each day. There were few appetizers and little dessert. The landscape offered up mostly main courses: One strong and powerful rock formation gave way to another, always another. Water gushed and trickled and danced its way down the mountains, across the rugged landscape and out to the sea. And the sea was big and omnipresent, always to one side of us, creeping in and out to form little inlets for fishing villages, but always eventually stretching out, out, out towards eternity. 

A soundtrack of Stan Rogers and other Canadian east coast artists served as an auditory complement for many hours of most days, as we took in without boredom the feast laid out before us.

In the people we met along the way -- whether through a local theatre performance, a band accompanying our supper one night, or the tour guides on the whale boat and at L'Anse aux Meadows -- we sensed a deep appreciation for, and love of, this landscape. They were connected with the water in ways that I would say most other Canadians, even those from other east coast provinces, aren't. Every brook is marked (and many accompanied by hiking trails), and the ocean plays a key role in the history of almost every family on the island for generations back. Their pride in this land is evident in the way they speak, the way they carry themselves. 

The Newfies we met were confident and funny, without being arrogant; they were just very sure of who they were, geographically and culturally speaking.  Where many Canadians waver in terms of what one might call a national identity, Newfoundlanders stand tall and certain. It was clear: We were in Newfoundland, but Newfoundland was not in us the way it was in them!

I enjoyed our time on the road tremendously.  As a Canadian, getting to know this part of my country a little felt like an important pilgrimage.  And I was very impressed with the landscape. 
But I did not fall in love.
​
As we wound our way back to the Confederation Bridge, and Nova Scotia gave way to New Brunswick, and we eventually were able to glimpse the red soil on the other side of the strait, my breath caught a little.  This beautiful place I get to call home sometimes is not nearly as impressive in its majesty as its larger sibling to the east, but it is a pretty little island, and strong in its own right.

Abegweit, the cradle in the waves, with its red soil, blue skies, endless potato farms and arguably the best beaches in Canada, is my one true love, and -- much as I was pleased with our time in Newfoundland -- when we finally crossed the bridge and found ourselves on familiar ground, I was happy to be home. And, when I flew back to Toronto about a week and a half later, I was still hungry for a few final glimpses of the red isle... as we took off into the sunset, I couldn't stop snapping picture after picture of my one true love!

Where words and photos sometimes fail, music steps into the gap! This post is a tribute to my teachers who introduced me, over a K-12 education, to some of the music that brings the the majestic landscapes and rich cultures of this magnificent country to life. In particular, it is an appreciation for the music of Stan Rogers, and East Coast music generally.

I recently returned from a road trip to NFLD.  ​With two teenagers in tow, I set out in our rental car from St Peter's Harbour, PEI, to St Anthony, on the north-western tip of the other island, primarily in hopes of seeing the whales.

​The journey there and back entailed 6 days of driving (big country we live in!!), and endless hours of music and podcasts. (On the latter, the boys and I enjoyed several episodes of Hidden Brain; I highly recommend for some thought-provoking discussion when on the road with teenagers.)

After being forced to listen to "Africa" by Toto for the 17th time in one day, I decided it was time expand our repertoire a little, and introduced the boys to Stan Rogers. They'd heard Barrett's Privateers before, but it was their first time with some of his other well-known numbers, and Northwest Passage soon became a favourite musical score to the rugged landscape that served as a backdrop while we whizzed along the Viking Trail in our rental vehicle.

I remember my Grade 13 music teacher insisting that we listen to Stan Rogers; he informed us that as Canadians, this was an artist whose work we should know.

My 18-year-old self had never been east of Quebec, and I was not particularly impressed, especially since my musical tastes at the time centred more around 80s rock genre and bands like Rush and Van Halen. My 45-year-old self, however, driving along the west coast of Newfoundland with the ocean on one side and mountainous terrain on the other, was considerably more appreciative.

After several hours of Stan Rogers on repeat, I downloaded some additional east coast favourites, and the boys soon replaced Africa and Northwest Passage with The Islander, which we had to listen to at full volume and sing along to at the top of our lungs ("Come on, Mom, sing!") multiple times a day.

While in NFLD, we went for supper one night at a restaurant with a live band and mummers. "I'se the Bye" was played and danced to, and I was taken back to my elementary school days, where Mr. Mec did his best to instill some Canadiana into us lowlifes through his commitment to a robust music program each year.  We sang this drinking song and others, too, and I quickly downloaded it for the next leg of our journey.

On that same album was What Shall we do with a Drunken Sailor, which I recalled from my junior Kindergarten days, where Ms. Burnell (sp?) played it for us on her autoharp, and we sang along with vigour, a bunch of 3- and 4-year-olds, blissfully ignorant that this east coast favourite was perhaps not super appropriate in its vocabulary or concepts for such young, impressionable minds.  The rhythm was catchy, Ms. B's enthusiasm was infectious, and our singing was loud and passionate (and probably a little off-key)!

Thus was crafted the foundation for my later appreciation of east coast drinking songs like The Night Pat Murphy Died and the afore-mentioned Islander, among others.

​As we neared the end of our 6-day odyssey around a mere smidgeon of the east coast, and were on route back to PEI so that one of my kids could catch his plane from Charlottetown back to Toronto, we played a few of the original playlist favourites again... but not without periodic interspersals -- at my boys' insistence -- of their new favourites, too! 

I'll be forever grateful for the memories we made together on this trip, the three of us, and for the magnificent eastern Canadian landscapes that photos cannot really do justice, and which brought tears to my eyes on many occasions as we drove.  But most especially, I'm grateful for the music teachers I had, from Kindergarten to high school, who -- by their exposure of us to this music -- made this adventure so much more pleasurable for all three of us.
​
Thank you, Ms. Burnell, Mr. Mec and Mr. Van Zuylen!

If you’ve ever wondered about how lesbians do things, you’re in for a real treat: Today's post is about the lesbian lifestyle.

I've written about "the gay lifestyle" in the past, but this particular post is about a very specific aspect of lesbianism, namely, the struggles that two more masculine women face when managing stereotypically "female" situations.

In the past, when I reveal that my spouse is also a woman, I have more than once been asked "who's the man?"

I kid you not, this is not a one time question, and as I do not always know the questioners well enough to presume an "intimate" nature to their line of questioning, I can only assume they are asking more superficially, i.e. who takes on the classically "male" chores around the house.

When faced with important domestic tasks, it seems the answer is, "we're BOTH the man"!

This was clearly illustrated to me this past weekend, when I had to help my partner with an emergency hemming situation.

Now before you ask what could possibly constitute such an emergency, allow me to explain.

You see, my partner recently got hired as a first officer with a regional airline. As such, she was issued a standard uniform, and given a budget to customize said uniform to specs.

For example, pant leg length.

This next part is not so much about the lesbian lifestyle, but it is germane to the story, so bear with me while I set the context.

On Thursday, my partner took all three issued pairs of pants to be altered last week. On account of the long weekend, they were to be ready for pick up on Tuesday. Not a problem, since she was still awaiting her actual flight schedule, and assumed she was not working for the foreseeable future.

But on Friday, my partner got word that she was to report for duty first thing Monday morning for a two-day pairing with an overnight in Windsor! In other words, she needed an actual pair of uniform pants, with legs hemmed, before Tuesday.

And thus ensueth the "emergency hemming situation" referenced above.

My partner dashed over to the dry cleaner and demanded one pair of pants back immediately. ESL barriers (both hers and theirs) not withstanding, she soon returned with one slightly crumpled and of course still unhemmed pair of pants.

Now if we were in a nice, traditional (read "straight") relationship, the woman could simply hem the pants, and the man -- who does not know how to hem pants, but can fly airplanes -- could wear them to his pilot job, and all would be well with the world.

Alas, because we are lesbians, neither of us knows how to hem pants. So we would have been really screwed (and not in a good way), except that as everyone knows, all lesbians are good problem solvers and very creative.

My partner, determined not to report for her first official day of work in pinned up pants, began to google.

She soon came across that magical tool called "hem tape". Hem tape is a lovely little iron-on solution for those (like men and lesbians) who don't know how to sew. You simply cut the tape to the length you need, fold up the material you want to hem, and iron that sucker on high to bond the two parts together. Bingo, you got yourself a sweet little hem!

As soon as she mentioned it to me, I remembered I had used the stuff years ago (when I was married to a man but still did not know how to sew, because I was not a real woman even then, I was a lesbian, I just didn't know it yet) to "hem" a curtain.

Off we went to Walmart of all places (never again!!) and picked up a roll of the glorious substance.

And then it was off to "hem" the girl's pants.

Since the job still required the use of an iron (a borderline "female" task), it was going to be a two-lesbian job for sure.

And what a job it was! In my eagerness to help, I had forgotten the little detail about how a pants leg is actually a round loop, and a hell of a lot more complicated to hem (even with tape) than a straight edge curtain. Despite measuring with a ruler and trying our best not to iron out the pre-existing crease in the pants, we botched the job pretty good, and had to start over a few times.

Also we did it naked, but not because we are lesbians, but because it was super hot this weekend, and we don't have air conditioning in our apartment.

Despite a two-hour struggle to hem (with tape) one pair of pants, we managed to get the job done, and you can only tell if you look really close that one leg is slightly longer than the other.  Overall, though, she still looks pretty kick ass in her uniform, and went off to do two full days of flying and didn't crash the plane.

Despite being a lesbian!

I had rather a surreal experience last night.

I've been working on my night rating, you see, and between kids and work schedules and official nightfall (Note to self: Night rating in summer?  Bad idea!!), I've got to fly whenever I can. This weekend, I had two child-free evenings in a row when my partner -- who also happens to be my flight instructor -- was available, too, and so I jumped on them. 

​Coincidentally, it's also Canada Day weekend, which means that as soon as the sun goes down, the fireworks start!

Nevertheless, I am determined to get this darned night rating done.  More specifically, I have to build some solo time, and -- as the winds were calm and pretty much right down the runway -- off we went to the airport, so that Tats could send me solo ("and do more than two circuits this time!", she scolded).

Lucky for me, the ATC in the tower at CYTZ on Sunday night was an experienced controller; I recognized his voice, and wisely indicated that I was going up for solo circuits when I radioed to request taxi clearance to the active.

It's an odd relationship, the one between pilot and controller.  Other than a call sign (my aircraft's and his "ground" or "tower"), we don't know one another's names.

And yet, he is my everything!

As a student pilot especially, one often thinks the controller is God-like, omniscient, omnipresent and omnipotent when flying in controlled airspace.  (Being in the unique position of having a partner who spent a few years with Nav Canada, I have seen behind the proverbial curtain, so I know that's not entirely so in real life.  Nevertheless, it felt comforting to hear a confident, familiar voice in my headphones as I prepared to do my first full solo night flight without a dual beforehand.)

The nameless controller took good care of me last night.  Although I was primarily alone in the circuit, there was lots of traffic in the zone, as everyone within a 50 mile radius and access to an aircraft seemed to want to come to Toronto for a "city tour" and to watch the fireworks at precisely 9:45 - 10:30, which was when I was flying circuits!

While I struggled to achieve and maintain appropriate altitude and heading for different legs of the circuit without being distracted by fireworks to the east and west of the field (and at one point in the centre of the field, when fireworks apparently formed part of "Electric Island", currently  underway at Hanlan's point!!), the controller managed the surrounding traffic with a remarkably calm grace.  As much as possible, he exuded an air of accommodating professionalism when able, and was firm but kind when the sky over the city became saturated with as many small aircraft as could be safely accommodated, and he had to turn other hopefuls away.  And on top of it all, he cleared me to touch and go before I called him on base for almost every circuit I flew!

As someone keenly interested in the human/social science part of aviation, I struggled to focus on the practicalities of my circuits while my mind wandered to marveling at this guy's ability to juggle it all, and my eyes wandered towards at the fireworks on either side of me.

I also tried to surreptitiously snap a photo of the beautiful light show using my iphone, which is actually a huge no-no when you are flying solo.  I didn't really focus on the photography, and so the few pics I got ended up just looking like a colourful blobby mess of lights!

After the usual overshoot on the first circuit (I always come in too high initially when flying a 172 solo; it does not drop out of the sky as easily as a 152!!), I managed to pull off a few "elegant" and some "safe but average" landings before I got tired and lazy and the plane began to increasingly veer off the centre line on the roll. 

After a particularly bumpy landing and some tongue-tied radio work, I decided to call it a night, and requested a full stop.

It wasn't a perfect flight from a piloting perspective, but thanks largely to the calm, confident voice on the other end of the radio, it was a reasonably good one, and it certainly built my confidence to fly alone amidst the chaos and beauty of all those lights!

One of my former students connected with me on LinkedIn recently.

And not just any former student, this was a kid from the very beginning of my teaching career! Back in the day when I had more enthusiasm than experience, more passion than pedagogical knowledge.

I remember this kid. I have often seen his face in my mind over the years, because he was one of those creative souls for whom school seemed just a little too basic. Teachers, I suspect, didn’t really appreciate the true value of this guy’s innovative mind. He wasn’t a troublemaker, in the teachery sense of the word, but I’m willing to bet my bottom dollar that he was rarely if ever intellectually challenged as much as he could or should have been in elementary school.

Naython (not his real name) darkened my door his grade 6 year at the K-8 school where I started my career. It was my second year in the classroom, and I really cared about the kids, but I was a new teacher, and still had lots and lots and lots to learn!

Likely bored to tears by by my basic, beginning teacher lessons, the kid would sit quietly while I droned on, and glue little bits of pencil and eraser to the legs of his desk. Quite creative, actually, if you overlook the fact that he was vandalizing board property.

Yep, The kid was quirky all right. I remember his deadpan query, when I was delivering the slightly over-the-top instructions for EQAO’s written component (it was the first year of the provincial testing, and there were extensive instructions about what students could and could not write for the fiction part of the assessment, and what our responsibilities were as educators, if we had concerns about the violent, bloody/glory, or otherwise troublesome nature of anything a student had written). Pokerfaced and in his usual monotone, Naython wondered aloud, “what should we write about, Ms. Teschow? Rainbows and puppy dogs?”

Indeed!

Speaking of rainbows, judging by the young man’s LinkedIn profile (he still looks very much like he did in Grade Six, btw!), I would venture a guess that he might be of my tribe, so to speak. Both his volunteer endeavors and his paid work over the past decade would suggest that he is either part of the LGBTQ family, or a very strong ally.

Assuming the former, I am struck with a nagging sense of guilt.

I did not come out of the closet – – to myself or my students – – until the final few years of my teaching career. And as such, I missed many opportunities to model for the students in my classes what a “normal“ queer adult could look and sound like. And if I’m right in my assessment of my new LinkedIn contact’s sexual identity, then he was one of the statistically 2 to 3 kids in my class that year who did not get to see and hear that it was OK to be gay (or bi, lesbian, trans, 2-spirit, etc.)

Lucky for Naython, he seems to be doing quite well for himself despite having had me as a teacher during his (and my?) formative years.

And now that my days in a classroom are over, and I play a more subtle role in helping to shape education policy at the provincial level rather than more directly influencing students, I must resort to guiding and mentoring other educators to be good allies, or, if they themselves identify on the LGBTQ+ spectrum, to be confident in who they are and embrace this part of their identity for and with their students.

The Naythons of the world might well depend on it!

Come enjoy "a night at the Aqueerium!", suggested a large digital sign festooned with rainbow fish and the branding of a local aquarium.  I was accosted by this colourful bit of corporate Pride at the subway, on my way to work this morning.

While I must confess both the visual feast of the advertisement and its playful pun caught my attention, something seemed a bit... well, queer.

I had been to said aquarium (in months other than June), and the business did not strike me as particularly LGBTQ-friendly.  I don't remember being impressed with a representative presence of gay, lesbian or trans folks who work at or patronize the place.  And did they have gender-inclusive washrooms?  I don't recall, actually (which probably means they didn't).

So it struck me as a bit odd (or queer, if you will) that this same establishment was now promoting itself as a fun place for the gays to hang out. In fact, it made me think of any number of allegedly LGBTQ-friendly businesses that seem to crawl out of the woodwork around Pride month. 

It's June, y'all, and suddenly everyone is all supportive of the homos!

Don't get me wrong... in a world that for so long overwhelmingly slung derogatory comments in the general direction of anyone who did not dance to the beat of the heteronormative drummer, and that certainly never celebrated anything queer, there is something quite comforting about seeing the colours of my tribe's flag represented in the mainstream.

But the truth is, it just all feels a little, well, insincere.

A gay colleague was complaining to me recently about how it frustrated him that so many of the younger fags just think Pride month is a party.  They forget, he lamented, the sacrifices that bought them the freedom to  frolic freely down the street amongst friends and allies all weekend long. 

They forget that the first pride marches were riots, political protests designed to raise awareness amongst a mainstream that could no longer afford to ignore a critical mass, and to demand from that mainstream the same basic human rights that they enjoyed.

Stonewall, the AIDS crisis, Operation Soap, Harvey Milk,  The Continental, Brent Hawkes... many straight people and even LGBTQ youth today have never heard of these historical events, places and figures. 

And those who have have only a superficial understanding of their significance in our tribe's history.

So what I want to know is, where was TD  Bank or Telus, who proclaim #lovewins and claim to be #foreverproud, when Rev Brent Hawkes was on Day 17 of his 25-day hunger strike in 1981, protesting police brutality and demanding an inquest into the bathhouse raids? (Or where were they, for that matter, 25 years later, when this same Canadian hero wore a bullet-proof vest to perform the first same sex wedding ceremonies in the world?!)

While it's true, as this CBC Archives clip from the late 1970s suggests, that LGBTQ rights have come a long way, let us not forget that it was within this decade that a mayor for our city refused to acknowledge the globally lauded efforts of the city and LGBTQ allies in particular for organizing World Pride, an event that drew millions to Toronto and resulted in undisputed economic gain for this city.  (And moreoever, this after he was already accused of making several previous homophobic remarks, and caught on film making misogynistic comments.)   

Nationally, we're faring no better:  It was only this past year that our Prime Minister finally acknowledged and apologized for decades of discrimination against LGBTQ Canadians; meanwhile, conservative leaders in our country continue to proudly promote homophobic policies.

Gay men find themselves at greater risk for violent crime, simply because they are gay, and it's no secret that LGBTQ youth are five times as likely to be homeless as those who identify as cis-gender and/or straight. 

Women, POCs and members of the Indigenous community who also happen to identify as LGBTQ are hit with a double whammy.

Where, pray tell, are all the proud businesses when it comes time to take action and create practical solutions to these very real problems that face our community?  Where are they when it's time to take a stand and speak up for what's right, even when it's not popular or sexy?

As someone who's been around long enough to know better, I'll enjoy the rainbow of my Pride celebrations this year, but I won't forget the cost at which they've come. 

​Nor will I climb unassumingly into bed with any business who slaps a rainbow onto their June advertising without the faintest idea of what their previous decades-long silence has meant to us.