This “memoir” has been a long time coming–ever since I became “sexually active” (whatever that means) my life has never been short on entertainment or drama. My sister and I always joke that we (and our family) need a reality show, that there should have been cameras and crews following us around during my most formative years, cataloguing and preserving every horribly embarrassing phase and misstep. Who wouldn’t want to watch a mixture of The L Word and Keeping Up With the Kardashians? Because that’s my life–only way less fabulous and way more of a train wreck.
I should probably rewind to the beginning, back to the Pilot episode of this whole shit show, if you will.
*Theme music and opening credits play*
I would say that this fantastically queer adventure started out way earlier than anyone even realized. There were warning signs, sure. I lived in backwards caps and constantly had a skateboard under my feet. My sister and I were the only girls on an all boys street roller-hockey team. All of my Barbies met horrific, untimely ends. Someone should have caught on to this because looking back it’s all so clear.
Even though my mother acts like all of her dreams were crushed when I came bursting out of the closet with my twin sister in tow, she can’t have been completely blind-sided. Back in middle school, whenever we had a game day for the basketball team we were expected to dress up. The boys teams wore dress pants and button ups and the girls wore dresses. I abhorred these days, my anxiety ridden body filled with dread from the moment that the coaches announced these policies. This dread was combatted with rebellion against stereotypical gender norms and gendered fashion–leading to my sister and I wearing ties on game days. There I was, 12 years old, awkward as hell and styled like a mini less-Canadian Avril Lavigne and I knew that I had stumbled into something magical. This was the first step on a very long journey to becoming who I am today.
*Tune in next time for me kissing a girl and liking it (kind of)*