I had a day to myself today. Kids at their dads, and Tats on a 3-day pairing out of town.

This doesn’t happen often, and when it does, it’s dangerous. Invariably, I abandon my long list of projects and “to-do” items that have been piling up over the previous weeks (and in this case MONTHS), and waste a whole bunch of time on some sort of frivolous drivel. Almost without fail, my big plan to build a website or manage a project and practise my music and read a book and have a nap and go for a jog with the dog and do some yoga turns into 5 hours of scrolling through instagram in my jammies, or, more dangerously, getting dressed and going shopping.

I am proud to report that today’s adventures were fairly tame, through I did end up dropping about $14 on iTunes.

It was critical, I felt, to build up the “reliving my youth” playlist on my iPhone. The luxury of being able to instantly download and own forever a whole song that I would in former times have had to listen to hours of radio before successfully capturing with my uncle’s external mic onto a cassette tape was just too much of a temptation to pass up.

Listening to the whole intro right from the beginning without the tail end of some radio announcer’s voice is a delight that sends thrills down my spine.

My own LP collection as an elementary school student consisted of about five albums: The Mini Pops (No judging — it was a birthday gift people!!), Cory Hart, the Muppets rendition of the Frog Prince, Englebert Humperdinck’s Hansel and Gretel, and 101 Dalmatians.

The rest of my early musical tastes were acquired via the ghetto blaster my mother had installed on the sideboard in our modest dining room. Mostly it was CBC classical music and a little jazz. She also played CDs that she bought in Cuba (“Dancing with the Enemy”) and at the CNE (“Borgey’s Banjo Favourites”). If I wanted “pop”, I had to go to a friend’s, or lock myself in my room and turn my uncle’s radio on very low and try to record from there to an external tape deck using a detachable mic., I kid you not!

This past summer I took a road trip to NFLD with my kids. The “mom’s classics” playlist was short, since it consisted of mainly music I already had on my device. Between that and some Stan Rogers I wanted to expose my kids to, we soon exhausted the tunes (it’s a long drive, folks!! I underestimated!) and I was forced to listen repeatedly to Africa by Toto, which had made a comeback, and which my kids had decided they needed to listen to about 17 times a day!!!

So, inspired by my recent viewing of BoRap with said kids, I decided to spend a few of my precious hours today downloading more music for the “classics” list. $14 is not bad, I’d say. And I only lost an hour to that. Well, and the subsequent 2 hours I spent reading up on Boy George after I downloaded some Culture Club (did you know he DJ’d for a while? And how did my 12-year-old self not get that he was queer? Man we 80s kids were in some heavy denial around LGBTQ+issues!!!)

Nevertheless, I also managed to knock off a bunch of the tasks on my “to do” list for a youth aviation event I am planning. All while Walkin’ on Sunshine and listening to “Like a Virgin” (OOoooh!) and “Careless Whisper”. I Never Surrendered to any other distractions. Every little thing I did was magic. I even practised my trombone!

It was a New Sensation, having all this time to myself. What a wonderful Sunday afternoon.

It’s been several years since my partner and I have vacationed without the kids. Desperate for a break from the ice and snow and endless cold of a Toronto winter, we decided to escape someplace warm for a week: Mexico.

We’d heard that both the diving and snorkeling were outstanding off the coast of Cozumel, and — too burnt out to do much pre-planning — we elected to book a stay at an all-inclusive resort.

We were not disappointed in our choice of location!

Having arrived at the resort quite late on the Sat night, we must have seemed a little disoriented when we stumbled out of our villa to breakfast the next morning; despite our pre-vacation research discovery about the perils of the vulture-like timeshare folks on site, we nevertheless lost a good two hours of our Sunday morning to them!

We got a discount coupon at the on-site Spa for our troubles, having elected to forgo a free, all-expenses paid vacation, 25 years worth of priceless memories and a host of other time - limited bonuses.

Sunday afternoon found me getting a much - needed pedicure and practising my admittedly limited Spanish at the resort spa while Tats retreated to the private jacuzzi and sauna. Then we went to grab a bite to eat from the plentiful (and happily still open) lunch buffet before taking a walk in the beach, where we got stuck in the downpour of a massive storm!

Tulum and Cenotes

Despite staying on Cozumel, which is an island, we did want to explore at least some of the better known ruins on the mainland. So on Monday morning we took a taxi to the ferry docks, where the two main ferry companies vyed for our business to carry us across the water to Playa del Carmen. (They offered essentially the same service at more or less identical prices, but the seats on the blue and yellow Ultramar looked marginally more comfortable, so we went with them.)

The one thing we had prearranged prior to leaving Toronto was a customized Airbnb "experience" with a licensed local tour guide. Alejandra picked us up from the infamous Senor Frog's at the Playa side of the ferry terminal, and thus began one of our most adventure - filled days of the whole vacation!

We visited four different cenotes and swam in two of them, including one dark cavern that she illuminated for us with a headlamp so that we could see that we were surrounded by stalactites! We ate fresh mangoes and tried mamey (sapote) for the first time; it's a fruit that belongs to the avocado family.

All good things must come to an end eventually, and soon it was time to head back to the Playa del Carmen ferry terminal for the 40 minute crossing back to the island of Cozumel.

Beach Day and Books

Since we'd not yet really explored the grounds of the resort where we were staying, we spent most of Tuesday doing just that.

The Occidental Cozumel comprises a collection of 3-story villas, each with a dozen or so suites. The paths that cover the property and lead up to each building are surrounded by mangroves, and as such, it is not unusual to find oneself face to face with a small coati or a large iguana; both roam freely around the property, the first in search of leftover human food and the latter in search of the perfect spot for a sunbath (the adults only pool seems to be a favourite).

Tuesday was also for diving into some of the books we had brought along. In spite of her protests when I picked it out for her at the airport, Tats couldn't seem to put down a nonfiction book about a guy running a cross-desert marathon and some stray dog. I, meanwhile, tucked into a book I'd been meaning to start forever: The Very Marrow of Our Bones, by a Canadian (local - Mimico!!) author.

With full time jobs, teenage twins and too many projects demanding our attention at home, rare indeed is our uninterrupted reading time. So we really enjoyed parking ourselves at the beach for a few hours and getting lost in British Columbia and the Gobi Desert respectively.

Working Wednesday... And Scuba!

I'm fortunate to have a job that sometimes allows me to leverage technology to telecommute, and since Wednesdays are usually a "work from home" day for me, and since I had a number of meetings to attend and emails to write that couldn’t wait, and since I am always on the lookout for ways to stretch my meagre allotment of vacation days, I decided that this Wednesday would be like every other. Well, except that the temperature was a wee bit warmer than that where I usually work!!

For $12USD, an allegedly reliable Internet connection could be had in ones hotel room. So, while Tats headed off for a day of Scuba diving on Wednesday, I settled in for a full 8 hours of meetings and work-related tasks online.

I spent a good part of the morning working from our tiny balcony overlooking the mangrove. A little bird joined me. Perched on the balcony railing, she seemed to say, "don't worry, I'll keep you company until your workday is done!" It helped considerably.

Fortunately the sun was still out when my workday was done, and I enjoyed a short swim and a half hour of reading at the beach before supper!

The ability to work off site sometimes is a flexibility I cherish, but truth be told, I’m not sure I’d do that again in this sort of context. Live and learn.

Bar Hopping in Cozumel

I’m not much of a drinker, and in general, the bar scene doesn't really appeal to me. But I'd read about a "must-visit", ocean-side, off-the-grid bar about a half hour (by car) from our hotel, so on Thursday we rented a jeep and decided to do some exploring on the other side of the island.

We stopped at a beautiful beach along the way, and went for a swim before heading over to Coconuts, our intended destination. Coconuts bar and grill sits atop a bit of a cliff, which provided a lovely vantage point out over the ocean.


After lunch, we ambled along the various paths and exploring around the bar. We even found a geocache!

While sipping on our fresh squeezed lemonade and munching on some homemade guacamole and nachos, we had chatted with the other couple at our table, who were part of a bar hopping tour from a cruise ship docked in Cozumel for the day. This was their second time on the island, and they highly recommend that we continue our “pub crawl” further down the street to make a stop at Punta Morena, from wence they and their group had just come.

Intrigued by the promise of seaside hammocks, we decided we had to go check it out for ourselves!

Punta Morena turned out everything they promised and more! We ended up spending several hours lounging by the ocean there, and were pleased to find this spacious beach club and bar was not too overrun by tourists. The place offered fish pedicures (We did not partake), relaxed seating directly in the pool, a plentiful menu and as promised, a wide array of seaside hammocks. We enjoyed a quiet early evening reading our books, enjoying more drinks, and (for me) a dip in the ocean.

One More Seaside Bar

As we were not sure whether the lights on our old jalopy worked, we thought we had better head back to our hotel for sunset, so we eventually pride ourselves out of the hammocks and made our way back to the jeep and managed to reverse out of the parking lot and onto the main road without stalling.

As of happened, the lights did work, and so we heeded the call of one last oceanfront tiki bar, This one aptly named “The Liquor Box”!

Happily, driving stick shift is a little bit like riding a bike; once you’re back in the saddle, muscle memory takes over and everything sort of clicks into place. I quite enjoyed my truck back to the hotel, which was complemented by escapades of my drunken girlfriend, who insisted on riding standing up in the back of the Jeep, singing Russian marches at the top of her lungs, occasionally punctuating these with a fist pump in the air accompanied by a loud “TEQUILA!”

A Snorkeler’s Heaven

Friday it was back to the spa for both of us; a nice Jacuzzi was followed up for me with a massage while Tats studied (as a newer first officer with her current airline, she keeps a strict study regime to stay on top of everything she needs and wants to learn about flying and aircraft systems).

Following that, we embarked on a snorkel tour that picked us up from the pier at our resort and took us to three amazing nearby snorkeling destinations: El Cielo (to see starfish!), Columbia (where we saw sea turtles), and Palancar, where Tats had gone to dive earlier in the week. After that experience, I could see why so many people choose Cozumel as their dive/snorkel destination!

The local fauna was also out in full force; we sighted a small family of mini-coatis, and four iguanas were sunbathing simultaneously at their usual haunt on the rocks by the pool. It was as though they were putting on their best show for our final day at the hotel!

We enjoyed a final dinner at the buffet and lamented the fact that in a few short hours we would be back in a world where the temperatures had been for the past week as many degrees Celsius below zero as we had enjoyed above zero here on the Yucatan Peninsula, and where we’d have to fend for ourselves when it came to food.

Then it was time to pick up our luggage from the little room where it was waiting for us.

I had to pry Tats away from the hotel lobby and push her into the shuttle along with a few fellow Torontonians who were also heading back to the cold and snow with us that night. She was NOT ready to return home yet (and truth be told, neither was I!)

Soon enough we were boarding the Air Transat flight from Cozumel back to Toronto and in the blink of an eye, the journey was over and we were stumbling bleary eyed through the door of our apartment, the allure of a week’s worth of laundry enough to lull us to sleep at 4 a.m.

The Cozumel sunsets had already become a distant memory, with only a bottle of tequila and a pound of Mexican coffee which we had brought back as gifts for friends, as proof that we’d been spent a week in that warm, sunny climate!

For many, the advent of Christmas marks a season of anxiety and stress. Money is tight and fuses are short as extended families bicker about who goes where for Christmas, and what happens once they get there. Stores and online ad campaigns pull at your heart strings and play on your guilt to try to get you to loosen the purse strings and spill all your hard-earned cash into their coffers, so that you can have a faint glimmer of hope of living up to wildly unrealistic expectations. Even the most pious among us can get swept up in the superficiality and busy-ness of the season.

For me growing up, this intensity was seldom apparent. In fact, quite the contrary was true.


Stability and Peace

With virtually no extended family, my mom, Omi and I had few if any competing expectations. As far as gifts were concerned, modesty won out over both extremes of abundance and scarcity. And as Europeans, we would generally forego the traditional Canadian turkey dinner in favour of homemade German potato salad (kartoffelsalat) and wieners w crusty buns and Dijon style mustard, followed by Weinachtsstolle (German fruitcake) and Dominosteine, served on the evening of Dec 24, as soon as my mom got home from work. It was an exciting family gathering, but not a noisy one.


When I was little, my uncle formed part of the small group around the table for dinner. After he died, it was just the three of us for a few years. Later, as a teenager, I remember my mother’s friend, Horst, joining us for Christmas Eve.

Ironically, this annual holiday ritual represented one of the most stable seasons in my otherwise chaotic and unstable upbringing! Despite the schizophrenia, suicidal depression and clinical anxiety that wreaked general havoc my single parent, immigrant family life, Christmas Eve and the events leading up to it seemed like the glue of reliability that held us together year after year, and kept me — as the only child in the midst of this mayhem — sane.

The Reliable “Weinachtsbaum”

Come hell or high water, there was some form of real Christmas tree every year, with the same damned decorations, including the „Strohsterne“ that had been carefully preserved by my great-aunt in Germany and then my grandmother and my mother after her. There were the red balls packed neatly away in yellowing cardboard egg cartons, and there was the always-too-short string of yellow lights to emulate the real candles my grandmother‘s family‘s tree would have sported when the Tannenbaum was unveiled on Heilig Abend in their modest living room each year. (Oh how I longed for the multi-coloured lights and too much tacky tinsel that festooned the plastic trees of my Canadian school chums!)

Symbols of Stability

Unbeknownst to me at the time, that meagre tree, the gifts that surrounded it, and the simple supper of Wuersten with Senf, Kartfoffelsalat and Dominosteine that preceded the opening of said gifts each year provided a beacon of hope in my emotionally tumultuous childhood and adolescence. Where so much uncertainty prevailed, our family’s Christmas rituals represented the security so lacking in other areas of my life.

My family‘s Christmas Eve tradition is one I‘ve insisted on emulating each year into my adulthood, in spite (or perhaps because?) of the fact that my mother died 2 days before Christmas when I was 21, and my grandmother and mom‘s friend Horst are also no longer with us.

My 14-year-old twins lead even more scrambled lives than I did at their age (along with a competitive helping of insanity and chaos in the emotional states of the adults around them!), and my hope is that the predictability and structure of our Christmas Eve traditions — and in particular, the tree — provides them much-needed stability each year, as it did for me growing up.

What’s on My Tree

Our tree features a combination of old- and new-world tradition. The lights that serve as the base each year are not multi-coloured as I‘d pined for as a child, but the string of soft white mini lights that adorn the tree is sufficiently long so as not to leave giant gaps even those years when we splurge on a larger tree! And in lieu of tinsel, we usually include some form of sheer, golden ribbon poking out here and there. (Reusable, of course!) Next come the red balls in assorted hues and sizes. They are not the same ones my mother used (those have long since broken), but they reflect the overall feel of my childhood Christmas trees.

After the red balls, the homemade wooden stars, painted yellow, that my roommate and I bought on Roncesvalles in my mid-20s after eyeing them in a shop window for some time one year (the same year we stayed up until 4 a.m. baking gingerbread for a house that looked considerably more pathetic in the end than the photo accompanying the recipe on the cover of some Sally Homemaker style holiday magazine that had inspired this foolishness in us!)

And so our Christmas tree finds its way into our annual routine, predicable in both its appearance and content, offering up its cherished heirlooms to whomever in our little circle might appreciate or benefit from these varied traditions.

I hope it will do so for many years to come!

While we've worked hard in our personal life to surround ourselves with influences that positively portray the fluidity of our people, the mainstream world around us apparently continues to wallow in a quagmire of clearly defined roles, rules and gender stereotypes.

The literature, activities and announcements on board harp on these stereotypes, and while no one was outright homophobic, it was generally assumed that everyone aboard was "normal", ie straight and aligned with the gender binary.

In the middle of our cruise, there was a game show, based on an actual TV game show, called "Love and Marriage", held in the theatre. It was here that Tats and I elected to challenge the somewhat stifling straight culture that surrounded us.

On a whim, Tats and I auditioned (if an impromptu queer interpretation of the required ultra-hetero Tarzan scene could be called an audition).... And the next thing we knew, we had won the audience over and found ourselves on stage as one of the three couples selected for the show!

Wedged in between two newlyweds and a husband and wife who had been together for over forty years, Tats and I representated "mid range" (over five years and under 20). We were also the only lesbian couple, and -- I suspect -- probably the only LGBTQ couple they've ever had on the ship's show. As a result largely of this latter fact, we found we gained considerable fame and notoriety; for the remainder of the cruise we kept getting "recognized" wherever we went. This consisted largely of people coming up to us with a big, friendly smile and telling us how much they had enjoyed our performance, and the occasional person yelling, “sing in Russian!“ across a room at Tats, because of a response I had given to one of the questions asked during the game show.

While it was a little disconcerting to be thrust into the public eye like that, it was in some ways a not altogether unfamiliar feeling. As a parent of monozygotic twins, I've become accustomed some level of notoriety (this was especially true when Alex and Simon were small and more easily recognizable as a “pair”).

I’ve only ever been on one cruise in my 45 years, and it was more than half a lifetime ago. So, I was looking forward to a week-long break from the cold rainy weather we’ve been having in Toronto and from the monotony of work. Here is the first part my travel blog for this adventure with Tats, Rick and the boys...

Day 1 - Arrival in Puerto Rico

We arrived in Puerto Rico on the afternoon of December 1, after a 4-hour flight from Toronto. Our travel agent had suggested booking the flight a day early, in case of delays, and extending our weeklong vacation by one day by spending an overnight in San Juan. Although it’s not my usual style to do that sort of thing (I’d be more inclined to pack it in tight, and step directly off the plane and into a cab to the cruise ship terminal, LOL!), I’m really glad we took her advice.

What a delightfully surprising place Puerto Rico is: Warm, breezy weather, beaches within walking distance of where we were staying, and awesome vegetarian options on pretty much every restaurant menu we stopped to read! With its Spanish colonial architecture, Old San Juan reminded us a little of Havana... Minus the 1950s cars, of course. But a very similar vibe. So bizarre that this place is technically part of the US.

The Airbnb where the five of us spent the night was in the Old Town, and we were lucky enough to be graced with a waiter at dinner here who was studying political science. He educated us a bit about PR.

The little island has a long history of colonization, first by the Spanish, then by the Americans. Schooling continues to happen in Spanish, but everyone here seems to speak fluent English, too.

Technically, PR is not a US state. The citizens here do not vote for the president or senators. But they do have some representation in government that is supposed to advocate on their behalf. This is generally met with limited success (as evidenced by the US government's horrifically negligent response after the recent hurricane here).

The result is an urban and rural landscape that is in many ways stereotypical of so many Latin American countries, but at the same time dotted with the undeniable influence of the US - Walmart, KFC, McDonalds and the like are as easily found here as in any American city. From our brief observations, though, the Latin culture is alive and well - sitting on the balcony of our Airbnb this first evening of our travels, the cadence of Spanish conversations waft up from the small groups of people gathered here and there in the street below, and the lyrics of the pop music emanating from the bars and restaurants are almost exclusively in Spanish.

With the kids and Rick tucked safely into their beds, Tats and I decided to explore a little bit, and walked around town to the portlands, where we enjoyed some live music and tried with limited success to practise our Salsa moves in a local square!

Sunday, Dec 2 - Day 1 of Cruise
After a tasty breakfast at a cafe down the street from our Airbnb, we walked to a nearby beach for one last swim in the ocean before heading back to our rooms to pack up our bags and make our way via Uber to the Pan American cruise terminal (as Tats and I had discovered The night before, our Royal Caribbean cruise ship was setting sail from there rather than the closer terminal within walking distance). We learned from our Uber driver that after the storm, Puerto Rico found itself with an unemployment rate of over 14%. As a result, the Government became more open to "disruptive technologies" such as Uber, in hopes of finding solutions to the high unemployment rate.

Now it was time to board the ship. The terminal was an example of organized chaos: People crowded into various clusters to drop their luggage off at designated areas, then moved on to the security line and then on to yet another line to get checked in.

After ironing out a few other logistical details and attending our respective musters for the obligatory safety demonstration, we reconvened for dinner in the main dining room. A tasty array of options were offered, and everyone found something to suit their taste.
Afterwards, the boys once again dashed off on their own, this time to attend some teen club activities, and the adults found their way to the pool deck to watch the ship set sail.

Afterwards, Tats and I went dancing, took a stroll through the shopping area, played a game show, attended a performance and even saw a shooting star from the helipad before heading back to the room before midnight, where we found the boysies, teeth brushed, in their bed awaiting their mommies! (The deal was that everyone had to be in bed with teeth brushed by midnight.)

Dec 3 - Cruising to Curacao (Day at Sea)

After a somewhat restless night, Alex and I got up early-ish (8 am) and headed off to the library. While Alex wrote in his journal, I tried to capture the first few days in notes and photos on my phone, determined to post a blog at the earliest opportunity for free wifi!

While we waited for the others to wake up so that we could ask go to breakfast, I reflected on the advantages and disadvantages of life (as an amployee) on a cruise ship. Already we’d met folks from Ukraine, China, St. Vincent, the Philippines and the UK. This appealed to me. What an interesting work environment and a place for the incubation of diverse perspectives! But I know there are other considerations… for example I know from a family friend who spent a few seasons as a performer on a boat, as well as from my schema as an airline pilot's wife, that there are different “classes” of employment. Not everyone enjoys the same salary, living quarters or other benefits. Nevertheless, for the young, unattached worker, cruise ship life must offer a tremendous opportunity to do a bit of traveling, and meet people from all over the world, and even learn a few snippets of different languages over time. Nevertheless it must be an odd sort of life, too, with people constantly coming and going, as contracts and and new ones begin for different crew members. I remember from our friend, that constantly saying goodbye can be one of the greatest challenges of cruise ship life, and I heard that again from a personal trainer I met later on the cruise.

Our day at sea was relaxed but not boring. While having breakfast at the main buffet, we ran into Simon and Rick. Once we'd finished eating, I took everyone outside and showed them the helipad. We then deposited Rick on a lounge chair on the same deck, and the boys went off to enjoy some teen club activities while I return to our room to discern whether or not to Tats were still alive. She was, and had just woken up from a long slumber.

The rest of the day included some individual activities independent of one another, and a common lunch followed by shuffleboard on the promenade deck – – just like the 1950s!

Given our early arrival the next morning in Curacao, we decided on a relatively early bedtime, with lights out by about 10:30 PM.

Tuesday, Dec 4 - Curacao

Another restless night for me, though thankfully everyone else seemed to fare OK. By about 6:30 AM, I couldn’t bear the too soft/uncomfortable mattress any longer, and decided to abandon my tossing and turning iin favor of getting out of bed to enjoy a peaceful morning on the promenade deck.

By 7 AM, the helipad already had a few spectators gathered; it seems I was not the only one with the idea to use this vantage point to observe our arrival in Curaçao. Collectively, we observed a rainbow, and land ahead, and in the ocean around us, the first ships we had seen in a long time. We were no longer alone in this big body of water!

I found a deck chair on a more abandoned side of the promenade deck and enjoyed a moment of peace and quiet while capturing the previous afternoon’s events in writing.

Soon, I felt a distinct change in the movement of our big ship. The gentle rocking of the open water had ceased, and leaning out over the rail, I could see another enormous cruise ship ahead of us. We had landed in Curaçao!

After snapping a few more photos of our arrival and the set-up by the crew down below, I went back to the room to wake up the kids and head over to breakfast in the main dining room.

Tats had arranged for herself and the boys to do their open water dives as part of their scuba certification here, and so we walked through the city and on to “the Dive Bus“, about 3.5 km from the ports.

While the walk was not particularly long, the heat and humidity made it quite arduous, and we stopped about halfway for a lemonade, and decided at that point that those of us who are not up for the walk would continue on in a taxi. #BestFifteenDollarsEverSpent

Soon we arrived at the dive bus, and Alex, Simon and Tatsy got sorted out for their dive, while Rick and I rented some snorkel gear to use at the little beach across the street.

I was amazed at the variety of fish in such a small reef! Gorgeous colors, and fish in all shapes and sizes.

Afterwards, we walked down the road a little and settled in for a few hours a nicer beach, in a rented cabana, where we enjoyed pizza and the ocean breeze. Unfortunately, like so many places, this establishment insisted on blasting and noisy pop music, so our beach sojourn was not as relaxing as it could have been. However, it was nice to lie down and have a little rest on such a hot day!

I had lugged my novel along intending to start it now, but decided to take a little nap instead.

Afterwards, we walked back to the Dive Bus to meet Tats and the boys, who were just returning from their dive!

P.S. So blogging takes longer than spotty wifi permits--so this was finally posted while waiting on the ground at UYZ for our gate!

I’ve been a lesbian for so long I hardly even think about coming out anymore. Until tonight.

Let me clarify: I‘ve always been queer, of course, but I didn‘t actually come out of the closet (to myself or anyone else) until well into my thirties, by which time I had — inconveniently — already married a man and borne his children. Coming out was a tricky business, but one which was navigated long enough ago now that it no longer gives me heart palpitations to think about it. And, being fortunate enough to live in a reasonably socially just society like Canada, I don’t constantly have to question whether and to what extent I can reveal my identity: I have photos of my partner on my desk at work alongside the kids, and she‘s as welcome at any straight person‘s social gathering as any hetero spouse would be. There are laws that prohibit discrimination against me at work an in my personal life, and when Tats and I finally end our engagement with a wedding, it will be a marriage that is legally recognized.

So life is good. Now.

But... life has a funny way of reminding us at the most importune times of where we‘ve been while it unveils a little piece of where we might be going. And tonight was one of those funny/inopportune times!

I sing in a choir, of late, through one of my sons’ school community, and tonight we held our first concert of the year. The event took place in the sanctuary of my old church, that is, the church I attended for nearly two decades. The church where I was baptised, and that served as my spiritual home until I came out at 38.

Initially excited that the concert was so close to home (My partner, our kids and I still live in the neighbourhood, and their dad and his partner also reside nearby), I was surprised by how affected I was when I actually found myself in that space once again. I had performed musically there many times in the past, and had spent many Sundays in the pews with my children and what at the time was my church family, listening to our pastor share biblical passages and his reflections on them. I had broken bread with my fellow worshippers for many church anniversaries and old fashioned family Christmas dinners. It was a bit odd to be in that space now, in a completely secular context.

It wasn‘t until I dropped my coat off in the little room behind the choir loft, though, that the significance of being away for so long really hit me.

As I glanced around, I remembered that it was here in this small room, seated in the worn-out, old chairs, that my ex-husband and I met with our pastor and a church elder to advise them of our „predicament“, while my partner was at home, minding the kids. And it was here that — when I was most in need of some stability and graceful guidance as I navigated the complexity before me in my personal life — that I was instead abandoned by those from whom I had hoped to find said stability and guidance.

I don’t blame the pastor entirely. I mean, it was a small little blue collar baptist church. Even in the early 2000s in Toronto, it was a big deal. The kind of thing that could really tear a small congregation apart. The divorce was as „problematic“ in itself as the homosexuality. (Nevermind the connection between the two!) But the fact that I was an orphan with no family of my own to help me figure out „now what“ made it especially painful that my church family would not step up and have courageous conversations with me, and with each other to challenge their biases and assumptions. Whether or not they were - individually or collectively - cerebral enough to critically examine the scriptures that had so often been used to oppress people like me through the ages, it would have been nice if they had at least showed compassion. No one shunned me outright or anything like that... but no one reached out to check in on me and my little family (the twins were 6 at the time — they needed to know that their mother was accepted and loved; as it turned out, they got more acceptance of me through their dad‘s parents than their church family!) And, when we drifted away and finally stopped going to that church altogether, no one followed up. (In fact, when I came back to visit sometime later, people were surprised to learn that I had begun attending another church — funny how they all assumed I‘d come out of the closet and jumped straight into bed with the devil!)

I hadn‘t realized just how much this all still affected some part of me until tonight, when I stood in that little room behind the choir loft, looked around, and realized, „Oh, wow - the last time I was in here was when...“

I don‘t know where that church stands now on full inclusion for LGBTQ+ folks. I know I cannot have been the only queer person at that church, and my heart hurts for others who came before and after me who did not find dignity and fellowship in that place.


The irony of the the words we sang at the end of our final set this evening was not lost on me. Oscar Peterson‘s Hymn to Freedom, arranged for two-part choir by Seppo Hovi: „Any hour, any day, the time soon will come when all will live in dignity, that's when we'll be free.“ All. Period. Not just all heterosexual people.


Luckily, the time for dignity came long ago for me, and I am most certainly free to be who I am most of the time in most daily contexts now. It felt strange, therefore, to find myself temporarily back in a place where that had once not been the case.

What is it, exactly, that makes great teaching?

I’ve been thinking about this question a lot, as I think back to my time as a classroom teacher, and reflect on how my practice changed over the nearly 20 years I spent with students before moving to a permanent position as a public servant with the Ministry of Education. In particular, as a parent who is too often underwhelmed with the practice I observe through the experiences of my own children in the school system, I am compelled to consider what, specifically, is the difference between a good teacher and a great teacher. (And perhaps more poignantly, was I ever the latter?!)

The more I learn about the roots of public education (how many of you knew that it was originally intended in many places as a tool of eugenics, not much different in purpose from the residential school system here in Canada?!), the more I am convinced of the truth of Michael Fullan’s suggestion from his book, Stratesphere, that we are nearing the end of our current system’s useful life. (Some might argue, we’ve long exceeeded its usefulness... and yet, in many places right here in this very province, the factory model and all its accouterments continue to shine as an exemplary model of mediocrity!)

So, then, one must ask, what IS the purpose of public education, if not to inculcate the youth of a society with the cultural mores of that society? What is it that we want/need kids to learn?

One problem I’ve observed as a parent, a classroom educator and a system leader in various roles is our lack of courage to ask these very questions: What is our purpose here as a larger system? Why are we doing what we are doing? What are we hoping to achieve?

Though blissfully ignorant at the time (as a young, white, able-bodied settler) of the broader colonial implications, I personally always subscribed to what I interpreted to be a well-intended, equity-minded approach suggested by Susanna Moodie, an early settler to Canada, and a strong advocate for public education, namely, that “the want of an education” is the only thing that separates the different “classes” of people.

Though I know enough now to understand that things are a little more complex than I understood them to be as a new teacher some 20 years ago, I still believe in the potentional for public education to act as an opportunity for universal access. In my ideal world, any student, anywhere could get what they need from a public education system, and use it to lift themselves out of their current situation, whatever it may be, and into a situation that allows them to fulfil their potential. It also allows them to realize the moral imperative of lifting one another up and supporting one another in achieving their potential, but removing barriers they have the power to remove for one another.

But as I am coming to realize, this requires incredible insight and humility on the part of classroom educators and school and system leaders, and a willingness to make themselves (ourselves) vulnerable as we examine the probably enormous unearned privilege, in most cases, that brought each of us to a job in public education.

When I think back to my early years of teaching, I now finally realize just how NOT “woke” I was. Despite thinking I was, and wanting to be. I was a good teacher, but I wasn’t great. I know this because I can think of specific students whom I did not serve well.

There are numerous examples (more in the earlier years and fewer in later years, I think) of students to whom I spoke more harshly than I should have, with whom I was more impatient than I should have been, and for whom I just really lacked a deep understanding of the barriers they faced within the system that had (mostly) advantaged me, and which I — in the very act of being a school teacher — was contributing to upholding.

And there is a more general shortcoming, too. An eager learner and quick study, early in my teaching career, I was already doing many of the things the “good” (well, decent at best, in some cases, I would argue — but I know I’m judgy!!) teachers my own children have do now: I photocopied packages of handouts like crazy, communicated detailed unit plans with parents, and shared specific, graphic, classroom management and behaviour plans with my students and their families. And they loved it, because they didn’t know any better.

It wasn’t until my latter years as a classroom teacher that I began to let go of some of my obsessiveness about my classroom, and began to focus on the students rather than the program. I developed outlines, but left the details to be fleshed out with my learners. I moved away from assigned seating and more into daily circle time (yes, even for intermediate level students!) followed by self-selected seating in one of many work areas around the classroom. I allowed math to flow into language to flow into social studies and back into math again... and while I read with some students, others worked on an art project, or researched something they were interested in from an earlier conversation in social studies, or helped a peer figure out how to upload an assignment into the new online classroom we were all figure it out how to use, or went to the contained class and read with kids who had ASD.

Imagine the chaos! It was beautiful... and the vast majority of the students in the class were engaged.

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.