The Gender & Sexuality Issue by The Link Newspaper

04 March 2021 Volume 41, Issue 04 thelinknewspaper.ca

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Graphic Florent Aniorte

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Table of Contents 4 — Threats and Destruction Follow Gay Coverage, 1982 5 — Editorial 8 — Queer Concordia 9 — Queer Culture at ConU, 2003 / Let’s Talk About Sex(ual) Diversity, 2006 10 — Finding Sanctuary at 2110, 2006 11 — Silence Buys Comfort in Small Town, 1990 12 — Non-Binary en Francais 14 — A Poem by Genderless Alien 15 — Personality Crisis, 2006 16 — Online Censorship and Sex Work 20 — Festival Celebrates Sex Workers, 2003 21 — Pay for Porn 22 — Demystifying Pornography, 1992 23 — A Poem by Morgan Moakler Jessiman 24 — Sex and Growing Up Arab 26 — Living as a Sicilian Dyke, 1991 27 — The Cultural Queer, 2005 28 — Oops, I’m Queer 32 — Come Out, Come Out & Wherever You Are, 1987 34 — Healing From Trauma 37 — Poetry, 1986 & 1991 38 — Transitioning: A Personal Narrative 41 — Out of Gender Experience, 1987

“If you run out of storage, you won’t be able to upload new files,” since 1980 M A RCH 2021

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NOV E MB E R 23, 1982

editorial

EDITORIAL

A Time Capsule of Gender and Sexuality Coverge In 1982, The Link published its first special issue focused on sexual orientation: The Gay Issue. The publication sparked backlash and threats, with thousands of copies ripped from stands by those who opposed it. Ever since, The Link has published a similar issue each year. Slowly, it evolved to become more inclusive. Today, the annual edition is known as The Gender and Sexuality Issue. This year, we chose to include content from The Link’s archives. In reviewing past content, we encountered emotional accounts of coming out to one’s parents, firsthand narratives of dealing with loss in the transgender community, and light-hearted listicles about safe-sex practices. We have included some of our admirable—as well as questionable—moments in covering the experiences of LGBTQ2S+ communities. These pieces are paired with new articles that delve into current events and issues. In curating this edition, we sought to draw threads between the new and the old. We have not aimed to draw one-to-one comparisons or to present a comprehensive history. Our editors have taken into consideration the discrepancies that exist between currently accepted language and ideologies in regard to LGBTQ2S+ topics and those from previous eras.

Decisions to exclude articles based on what we found to be oppressive language or ideas is not an attempt to misrepresent The Link’s publishing history. We tried to balance the inclusion of material that reveals wider social attitudes and a mixed legacy with an effort to exclude pieces we anticipated could be harmful to republish in this format. An examination of our history has been a reminder of the ways intention and impact are not always perfectly aligned. We acknowledge the importance of subjecting oneself to critical reflection and searching for ways to do better. In our context, this is not limited to creating opportunities to provide a platform or finding ways to produce journalism that supports marginalized communities. It also demands the cultivation of more inclusive spaces. We cannot simply console ourselves with the conceit of a social justice mandate. We must continually renew our identity as an advocacy publication by re-evaluating what this means and how to achieve it. We aspire to live up to the best aspects of The Link’s history and legacy—times when the publication has stood up to violence and oppression and supported and platformed LGBTQ2S+ people and voices. Indeed, that is the most reliable strategy to fight bigotry in our society: queer and trans folks and their allies working (and fighting) in solidarity.

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Graphic Hannah Louisy

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The Link acknowledges that some archival content contains language or ideas that no longer reflect our goal to produce anti-oppressive journalism. In some cases, we have determined that including such content is an important step in understanding a complex history.

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STUDENT LIFE

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Fill an Empty Virtual Seat With Queer Concordia Resource centre offers online safe space for LGBTQ2S+ communities Abegail Ranaudo

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“Feel free to drop by,” said Anastasia Caron, Queer Concordia’s event coordinator. Their new Queer Support Group is a virtual space where people can be open about how they’re currently feeling. Queer Concordia is an anchor for queer students every Monday afternoon. One of the feelings many people may be experiencing now is alienation. The Queer Support Group aims to help with isolation and other mental health issues disproportionately affecting LGBTQ2S+ communities. It is a safe space allowing queer people to connect, chat, and support each other through turbulent times. “I know the pandemic is kicking everyone’s butts— myself included—but reaching out to our queer family is something that can really help with dealing with everything,” Caron said. They describe Queer Concordia as a semi-club and resource centre, where queer people can seek help but also make friends. “We have fun activities but we’re also a place to come with questions and concerns,” they said. Caron recalls attending a bisexuality workshop during their first year of university that was organized by Queer Concordia, stating it was both fun and informative for everyone. The Queer Support Group is an online environment where people can connect and talk about anything. Most of the resources offered at Queer Concordia were on campus at their office on 2100 Mackay St. People would gather, get free condoms, or have access to a small library—with a selection of fiction and other theoretical works to flip through. Since their office is closed, people can reach out to the health and resources coordinator by email for any sort of enquiries. Queer Concordia will conduct immediate research and answer any questions people may have. There’s also a plan in the works for an online database, which will list a variety of resources in demand—from LGBTQ2S+ friendly doctors and therapists to retailers that provide chest binders. There will also be office hours available every day of the week via Zoom, so people can speak with a Queer Concordia coordinator. “We can feel like we’re alone,” Caron said. Queer people often feel alone in the university setting, but Queer Concordia stands as a reminder that there are safe spaces and resources readily available. Queer people can use these to connect and support each other. Regardless of age, sexual orientation, and gender identity, anyone can join the Queer Support Group. Caron pointed out the support group usually has a few older people in attendance. “That’s the main goal of Queer Concordia: fostering community,” they said.

FEBRUA RY 11 , 2003 & OC T OB E R 3, 2006

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OC T OB E R 3, 2006

FEBRUARY 14, 1990

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The Difficulty of Speaking French While Non-Binary Tackling inclusion in gendered languages Talia Kliot

vouloir je tu il / elle nous vous ils / elles

veux veux veut voulons voulez veulent

Graphic Nanor Froundjian

rench is an inherently gendered language, creating some complications for non-binary French speakers. Though French stems from Latin, where there’s a neutral form, this neutral form became assimilated by the masculine one—which is why masculine words are still used as neutral today. So, to communicate in French, not only are there binarily gendered pronouns, but each noun has a gender, and the rest of the sentence must agree with that gender. “It’s something that I think about every day,” said Ambroise Va-

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nasse, a non-binary Concordia French major. French being their first language, they always have to be conscious of their adjective agreements and the way they speak. In French, they use the pronoun eux, which translates to “them” in English, though it does not share the singular form of its English equivalent. While eux is still a gendered pronoun (its feminine counterpart being elles), to Vanasse, it just feels right. When referring to themself, they don’t use adjectives, but rather find a way that they don’t have to make a gendered agreement. For example, instead of saying “je suis content(e),” they say “je me sens content,” avoiding the agreement. Vanasse said it’s stressful to always be thinking about, but that’s the way it is. “I like the fact that French is really complicated. But I would like if a new form would be invented, like a neutral form.” For Concordia student Angel Langlois, being non-binary and speaking French are almost mutually exclusive. Though they did all their schooling in French until university, they feel like a lesser version of themselves in French circles. “I feel like I have a lot more ability to explain in English because there’s more language surrounding [being non-binary]. But I felt super alienated; I’ve almost entirely stopped engaging in French,” they said. Langlois finds the neo-pronouns iel and ille “clunky” and avoids using adjectives. They ask people to use their name rather than pronouns, but if they must use pronouns, to use the

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masculine form because they’re feminine presenting. “It’s not entirely comfortable for me, but it’s more comfortable than the feminine pronouns.” “Having pronouns respected really does have a benefit to people’s mental health,” said Laura Shearer, a Concordia graduate student. Though they’re American and speak English as their first language, they have a long history with French. They studied it in high school, majored in it as an undergraduate, and spent about two and half years studying and working in France. “Both of the areas I lived in in France, Dijon and Nevers, were more conservative. So I made the conscious decision to stay in the closet. But one of the things that was on my mind was how would I be able to work with this language given that it’s so gendered?” Shearer currently lives in the U.S. but is planning to move to Montreal after the pandemic. They aren’t sure how they’ll handle the gendered language but they’re considering just constantly switching the genders when referring to themself. They worry, however, that their anglophone accent might cause people to view it as “a sign of ignorance of the language or a sign of disrespect to the language’s rules, instead of actually knowing the form well enough to improvise off it.” Gabriel·le Villeneuve is doing their masters at Concordia. They also do freelance work, primarily for the LGBTQA+ community therefore, the gen-

dered nature of French is something they constantly have to think about. Villeneuve uses the iel pronoun, but they understand others’ hesitance to use it: “I think there’s always that fear of being too complicated to understand, but my gender is very fluid and complicated, so it’s kind of representative of that too.”

“I think there’s always that fear of being too complicated to understand, but my gender is very fluid and complicated, so it’s kind of representative of that too.” — Gabriel·le Villeneuve They also use interpoints when writing their name to make it more neutral. At first, Villeneuve was concerned that it would reinforce the binary, but a friend of theirs gave them a different perspective. “They told me that the interpoints were beautiful in the way that they have a circle in the middle, and that a circle can really represent infinite possibilities,” reflecting Villeneuve’s view on the infinite possibilities of gender. In terms of making changes, they explain that there’s still a lot of

work to be done. “I feel like change has to start from the speakers and not really from the authorities.” Villeneuve themself is involved in this process through education work on the subject. Dr. Danièle Marcoux, director of the diploma in translation and assistant professor in Concordia’s French department, explained the push for a more inclusive French began with the feminists in Quebec in the 1970s. They fought for feminized job titles and so they wouldn’t be grouped in with the “neutral” masculine form. The Canadian Translation Bureau now has a guide to writing and speaking in more inclusive French. It suggests using neologisms—which are newly coined words or expressions, such as the pronouns iel or ille—or modifying certain endings of words to be more neutral, among other solutions. “The problem is that until recently, neutral just meant including women and men,” said Julia De Marco, a Concordia masters student in translation. She explained that slowly, some language authorities, such as the Federation québécoise de la langue française and the Canadian Translation Bureau, are making progress, but it isn’t widespread or accepted by all of them. “I think it’ll probably take a lot more discussion, a lot more debate, and a lot more people standing up for themselves, unfortunately. But I think just by making these guides or writing these papers that are more open to the public, that’s already such a good start,” she said.

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Marcoux worries, however, that though she wants to include everyone in the language, all these changes will make it impossible to understand one another and will be challenging to write. De Marco doesn’t share this concern, saying that languages are meant to evolve and it’s necessary to make these adaptations. “Language changes every day,” she said, explaining that every word started off as a neologism. “If anything, I think language has to adapt to the times. We’re not speaking now the same way that we were 100 years ago, and that’s completely normal.”

‘But you can’t just be nothing.’ by Genderless Alien

I never claimed to be nothing, I said I have no gender.

“The problem is that until recently, neutral just meant including women and men.” — Julia De Marco

Having a gender isn’t a personality trait, So why do you make it your entire identity? I may be agender, But I think I’m still human? Sure, I’m alien to conformity, But conforming to pre-existing boxes, Forcing my identity to yield to the crumbling mould of society,

Furthermore, Villeneuve explains the goal of imagining language isn’t to make things more complicated but to put into words notions that have always existed. “If anything, it makes room in the language for more nuances. And that’s important because there are nuances in life and in human beings. I feel a lot more understood and seen when people use my pronouns. It’s not the other way around.” Until inclusive language is normalized on a larger scale, Vanasse’s advice is to always ask people how they’d like to be referred to—not just in French, but also in other languages. For gendered languages particularly, it’s also crucial to consider adjectives and agreements. “Don’t assume, ask, and don’t be afraid to ask a lot of questions.”

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Only caused me to feel more alien, More disembodied from my vessel. Thus, I made my mission on Earth to create two boxes for every label society misattributed to me, A Genderless Alien, of sorts.

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Censorship & Sex Work: The Realities of the Modern-Day Sex Worker

Online censorship has forced some sex workers in Montreal to navigate alternative means to attract clientele. Reina Ephrahim @ @blessthereins

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ontreal is a vibrant metropolis for a variety of reasons. An inclusive student-friendly hub, it is a city dripping with opportunity and possibility; rich with talent and pizzazz. But underneath the surface, not everything is as progressive and free as it seems. One community, in particular, continues to face backlash for seeking validation as a paying profession. In the midst of an ongoing pandemic, sex workers in Montreal are struggling to make a dime from the safety of their homes due to online censorship policies, which prevent them from selling their services. Under the 2014 Bill C-36: Protection of Communities and Exploited Persons Act, sex work was officially made illegal in Canada. Receiving sexual services in exchange for money is a criminal offence according to the bill, and those convicted may be sentenced anywhere between 18 months and five years in prison. Basically, Bill C-36 only protects those who advertise their own services, but advertising others’ sexual services is deemed illegal. Advertising sexual services in “print media, on websites or in locations that offer sexual services for sale, such as erotic massage parlours or strip clubs” remains illegal as well. Online publishers and administrators who run platforms and websites containing content that advertises the exchange of sexual services for money can also be charged for advertising sexual services. This is enforceable if the publishers and online administrators are aware of the content up for sale on their digital platforms. Elizabeth Weisz has worked in the sex industry for nearly five years in both Montreal and Ottawa. As someone who relies heavily on platforms like Twitter and Instagram for branding purposes and advertising, her business has suffered immensely due to online censorship.

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“It’s become harder to book tours, advertise my availability, and sell porn I’ve begun to create during the pandemic,” said Weisz. “For example, when I first started on Twitter, I could post nudity. Now, if I post nude-coloured lingerie, I can be shadowbanned for up to a week, making me invisible to my followers.” Weisz gave a recent example, where her Twitter account got locked after she uploaded an image of her lying in bed while wearing a thong. “[In the last few weeks], many sex workers decided to completely delete their Twitter feeds because Twitter had begun deleting sex workers’ accounts at random for old posts that are no longer allowed,” Weisz added. According to her, four of her colleagues lost their Twitter accounts—two of whom cannot reopen new ones. One was even forced to change their name and rebrand entirely. “Although there is an exemption that states that sex workers cannot be prosecuted for advertising their own sexual services, it’s almost impossible for a sex worker to advertise their own sexual services without engaging a third party to help, which automatically criminalizes the work,” said Jenn Clamen, the mobilization and communications coordinator at Stella, l’amie de Maimie, an advocacy and support organization for sex workers’ rights in Montreal. She also serves as part-time faculty in Concordia University’s Simone de Beauvoir Institute and women’s studies department. Examples of third-party websites include hosting sites, like Zoom, Skype, and OnlyFans—which have become increasingly popular. Translating websites and advertising sites, like Craigslist and Reddit, also make the cut. Weisz claims that these restrictions took force following the creation of U.S. laws such as the Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act and the Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act, or FOSTA-SESTA. In April 2018, President Donald Trump signed FOSTA-SESTA into effect. This law made it illegal for online ser-

vices to knowingly assist, facilitate or support sex trafficking on social media and various other online platforms. This law gained attention following allegations that Backpage, a classified advertising site, was facilitating sex trafficking online. However, in an attempt to curb sex trafficking, lawmakers have since put sex workers in harm’s way. Its ramifications affect sex workers outside of the U.S., like Weisz and countless others. “Censorship impacts sex working businesses, but also sends a message to the public that there is something shameful about sex work that should not be visible and that societies need to hide,” said Clamen. “This kind of messaging impacts not only on the individual health, safety, and dignity of individual sex workers, but the capacity of societies overall to create non-discriminatory, healthy, and inclusive services, policies, and practices.” “Some sex workers have moved online, but many cannot and will not because of safety and confidentiality issues, and because the technology is not available to everyone,” Clamen added. “Many sex workers have been changing their services to adapt to the current context by offering services they had not before—sexting, online Zoom dating, selling photos. Sex workers are very innovative people!” Needless to say, the irony of it all is that even if sex workers are selling their own services legally, the purchase of their services remains illegal. Hence, widespread online censorship is largely in part because of these legal consequences. Instagram’s parent company, Facebook, updated its community guidelines in February. Under Section 15 of the platform’s objectionable content clause—on the Sexual Exploitation of Adults—Facebook does not allow content that “facilitates, encourages or coordinates sexual encounters or commercial sexual services between adults such as prostitution or escort services.” Nudity is not permitted either unless M A RCH 2021

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it is considered art, or for specific circumstances. The recent updates to the terms of use of most social media platforms are no mere coincidence. These changes have been in effect since the birth of FOSTA-SESTA. For example, many forms of content related to pole dancing can get censored on Instagram if it comes from the accounts of sex workers. The problem lies within the technicalities stated by the social media hub. If creators or celebrities post videos of pole dancing for the sake of “pole fitness,” or for music videos, the content often remains visible to viewers. If sex workers do the same, however, their content is subject to getting shadowbanned. Similarly, Tumblr, a popular online blogging and networking service, banned all forms of adult content in 2018 following allegations of advertised child pornography. As a result, options to garner a steady clientele have become scarce for sex workers today. In Montreal especially, the ramifications of the exemption from advertising could be harmful. “In order to avoid detection of law enforcement—for fear of being outed, losing custody of one’s children, losing one’s home, and the many other consequences of criminalization—sex workers are not able to openly advertise in a clear and meaningful way,” said Clamen. “This has huge impacts for the way sex workers can work and the safety mechanisms sex workers can employ.” Stella, l’amie de Maimie was founded in 1995. It aims to improve sex workers’ quality of life, working conditions, and their capacity to live and work safely and with dignity. “Our mission is based on an empowerment model where building sex worker leadership is fundamental to the social change we want to see,” said Clamen. According to her, sex workers are constantly being affected by online censorship, but not only because of the social and legal consequences they risk encountering. The stigma typically associated with sex workers affects their ability to be open about their work, thus, making it harder to earn money. “[Censorship] sends a message to the public that there is something shameful about sex work,” Clamen added. “This kind of messaging impacts not only the individual health, safety, and dignity of individual sex workers, but [also] the capacity of societies overall to create non-discriminatory, healthy, and inclusive services, policies, and practices.” Professor Francine Tremblay is a part-time professor at Concordia University. She has done extensive research on sex work in her dissertation and her book, Organizing for Sex Workers’ Rights in Montréal: Resistance and Advocacy. She worries that the current pandemic will leave many sex workers in a state of despair. “With the pandemic, the most vulnerable sex workers in Canada depend on their clients. Many sex workers do not declare revenue; why would they? They do not exist or are [seen as] criminals.” Tremblay was herself a sex worker back in the late 1960s to the late 1980s. According to her, transitioning away from her old profession into a new field was not simple in the least. T HEL INK NE W SPA P ER .C A

Graphic Stefania Bodea

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“It took me over twenty years to make a decent salary, and this is after spending over 80,000 dollars on my education. The world outside of the industry is far from being safe. Many of us need to hide, and once out of the industry, many of us lose independence.” If this was the scenario some 30 years ago, when digital advertising wasn’t available, one can only imagine how much more limiting sex work has become with censorship and criminalization of sex work in general—especially during a pandemic. Legislations like FOSTA-SESTA in the U.S., the Canadian PCEPA and the Financial Transactions and Reports Analysis Centre of Canada guidelines have made it increasingly difficult for sex workers in Canada to get paid. “Some platforms, such as PayPal, have made it their mission to find sex workers and seize money,” Clamen added. “Visa and Mastercard, as well as other credit card providers have also often removed access for sex workers by cutting off support for the website and platforms sex workers use.” This has forced many to rely on cryptocurrencies and various other obscure forms of payment. For most, these methods are not necessarily accessible. According to Clamen, this has forced some sex workers to reveal their legal names and addresses online in order to be able to receive direct deposits and mail-in cheques from clients. In doing so, their lives are being put at risk of exposure. “It has been very scary navigating sex work during a pandemic,” said Weisz. According to her, many sex workers hoped that the pandemic would be over by the end of last summer. By then, many had to cut bookings and had to come up with new ways to screen clients. “Unfortunately, many of us have been cut off from our regular client base.” Clamen adds that the crackdown on human trafficking has created a form of hysteria around the notion of sex work, which has negatively impacted the presence sex workers hope to achieve online.

The Stella coordinator worries that this increased surveillance may push sex workers to work in unsafe conditions. “Regulations on websites and the internet in general risks putting a lot of sex workers out of work and into increased poverty. Most recently, the hysteria around Pornhub and the subsequent parliamentary discussions and bill proposals in the Senate risk curtailing the privacy rights of sex workers and clients.” When asked whether she thinks concern over human trafficking will continue to criminalize sex work both online and offline, Weisz’s response was less than enthusiastic. “I feel like as long as [human trafficking and sex work] are conflated as one, this will always be an issue,”she said. Weisz believes that if sex work were decriminalized, many sex workers would be more likely to go to police if they thought their colleagues were being trafficked. Sadly, legal restrictions have stopped many sex workers from seeking help. It could result in their arrest. “From every sex worker I’ve spoken with, none of them want someone to be doing this work if they don’t want to,” she added. “This is why we advocate for decriminalization, so that there can be services out there for those that want to exit even if they entered the industry voluntarily at some point.” Sex work advocacy groups in Canada, like Stella, Maggie’s Toronto Sex Workers Action Project, The Safe Harbour Outreach Project, and PEERS Victoria continue to light their beacons of support for sex workers’ rights to be acknowledged by the federal government. Decriminalizing sex work would likely open doors to safer practices for the sex working community, and would in fact lessen the criminality rate as a whole. But until Parliament addresses this notion, the fight for sex workers’ rights lives on.

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FEBRUA RY 11 , 2003

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Why Paying for Porn Is Kind of Really Important Anonymous

Graphic Joey Bruce @joeybruceart am a sex worker and a Concordia University stdent. I was a stripper for two years, and when COVID-19 hit, I became a “content creator” since the clubs closed. In other words, I make sexual content of myself and post it to online platforms that necessitate subscriptions to have access to them. You might be laughing in your seat right now because you’re a cishet man who believes you’re entitled to free pornography, but if you can let your internalized misogyny calm down for a few minutes, you’ll realize that you should actually pay for your porn. To start, can we just please acknowledge that sex work is actual work? Aside from being an e-whore, I’m also someone who has worked numerous jobs. I can guarantee that nothing was as exhausting as sex work and making content. Whether it was at the strip club or online, the amount of marketing, sales, communication, and emotional labour involved in this line of work is ridiculous. If you do not have any of those skills, you will not be able to do this job. It is draining—physically and emotionally—and it is not “fun” as some may be quick to assume. Yes, some people may think having sex for money is a dream job, but doing it to appeal to an audience is especially

not pleasant. You need to angle yourself in ways that are flattering and control your facial expressions. Because let’s face it, an actual orgasm face is not really pretty, and if you think it is…I hate to break it to you, but you’re probably being lied to. Sorry. Since the start of the pandemic, everyone has been pretty much isolated. Physical and emotional connections have been more difficult, especially for those who are actually following sanitary guidelines. As an online sex worker, I’ve been able to make many people feel less alone. When I was a stripper, I was essentially doing social work for widowers, recently-divorced men, and shy boys who didn’t know how to approach women outside of the club. The only difference was that I was half-naked while performing emotional labour. When I made the transition to online content creation, I turned my platform into a virtual strip club. I communicate with my subscribers every day, and I listen to their problems while also delivering sexy photos and videos. Throughout the pandemic, sex workers have been helping people feel less alone during a time where we are all confined to our homes, for the most part. Some may say that sex workers are preying on these lonely consumers, but it’s a service at the end of the day. We help you have an orgasm and potentially feel less lonely, and you help us pay our bills. Some other good reasons to pay for porn is to ensure that you’re not actually watching child pornography (this means anyone under the age of 18). When you watch porn from subscription-based platforms, you can be sure that the content creators have their ages verified before being allowed to post. You’re also ensuring that the creator has not been exploited or abused by predatory producers. When we work independently, we are in control of our own bodies and are not forced to perform sexual acts that we are not comfortable with on camera. Sex workers need to make a living. Contrary to popular belief, wealthy sex workers are quite rare. Don’t listen to anyone saying otherwise. A lot of us live paycheck to paycheck and have to deal with other forms of marginalization. We’re all sex workers for different reasons. I personally started because my father got ill, and I needed to find a way to make fast—but not easy—money while going to school full-time to make sure I can have something to fall back on. Others do it to feed themselves, and other people do it because they enjoy entertaining, pleasing and caring for others which is perfectly cool as well! At the end of the day, if you constantly consume sex work, you should respect and compensate sex workers for what they do. M A RCH 2021

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JA NUA RY 28, 1992

POE TRY

I’d Paint These Walls With Any Part of Me. by Morgan Moakler Jessiman

Holding you melts me thoroughly Dripping down the side of the bed Onto the original hardwood Creating stains that will never come out. I’d let you wash your hair in any mess I create Maybe even the dishes If our building turns off the damn water supply again. I don’t mind leaving inches of me on these beige, broken walls.

We were never going to get our damage deposit back anyways.

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Pleasure or Shame: Sex for the Arab Woman Why is it bad to want something that feels so good?

Youmna El Halabi @HalabiYoumna ensuality. Femininity. Boldness. Fierceness. Submissive yet wild. Serpentine movements to the sound of flutes emitting sensual, ominous Arabian sounds—incense enhancing the intoxicating atmosphere. And eyes, lined with dark black kohl, looking straight into your soul and secluding you as the chosen man for a make-shift adventure amongst the numerous dunes of the desert. Arabian nights, hotter than hot. I always found it to be the epitome of irony that the most sexually frustrated culture is known for one of the most sensual dances: belly-dancing. Growing up in Lebanon, I remember trying to understand why I was praised at the tender age of 12 for the fluid motion of my hips whenever I would dance, but shamed for their suggestive nature when I turned 18. Belly dancing was an escape for me because, even as a child, it made me feel like the most beautiful person in the room. The attention I would attract when my hips would undulate would boost my confidence, even if just for the duration of a song. Dancing and sensuality worked hand-in-hand to gift me freedom in a society where everything

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remotely sexual is frowned upon or attributed to a male’s gaze. To this day, however, I am shamed for being so open about a subject that many think should be personal and secretive, but really those were just fancy words to avoid dubbing it for what it actually was—taboo. Or as Mama would put it in Arabic, aayb. Because women don’t enjoy sex; especially not pre-marital sex. Not the ones worth marrying, anyway. A few years ago, I read a sentence in Mona Eltahawy’s book Headscarves and Hymen: Why the Middle East Needs a Sexual Revolution that remains etched in my mind for its infuriating truth. “The god of virginity is popular in the Arab world,” she writes. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a person of faith or an atheist, Muslim, or

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Christian—everybody worships the god of virginity. Everything possible is done to keep the hymen—that most fragile foundation upon which the god of virginity sits—intact. At the altar of the god of virginity, we sacrifice not only our girls’ bodily integrity and right to pleasure but also their right to justice in the face of sexual violation.” Arab women, in contrast to the freedom awarded to Arab men, are denied the pleasure of sex. By obsessively drilling the importance of virginity in our minds, Arab women are oppressed into thinking pre-marital sex is a sin, while Arab men are encouraged to get as much experience as possible. By emphasizing the important correlation between love and sex, Arab women deny themselves the pleasures of casual sex before even deciding whether they would enjoy it or not. By depriving Arabs, in general, of proper sexual education, women find themselves ignorant of many things, and quite often, in dangerous situations. In the Arab world, there are two things you should never dishonour: religion and family. And, ultimately, sex is the most dishonourable thing one can do. I personally have never had a problem with the former, given that I was never religious in the first place. But the latter is something I, and many others, fear to disappoint in. “Honestly, I think my fear comes from a sense of responsibility over my parents,” said Fatima, an Arab woman in her twenties living in Spain. “I think I can kind of blame them for that. I am the oldest sibling, and they have, as usual, always instilled the ‘it’s your responsib-

ility’ thing. But I don’t know how it latched on to [sex] as well, and their roles and immense responsibility to never let them down. Sex has been a topic that is so taboo and so not talked about that it’s right up there with the things that would disappoint.” She goes on to say that she always has this feeling that she is doing something wrong—not due to her, her boyfriend, nor to her surroundings, but her parents. In the Arab world, both Islamic and Catholic schools have a tendency to instill a deeply rooted fear of sex by suggesting that it is as a one-way ticket to hell.

“The Arab world benefits from having misogynistic religions that control politics and culture [...] So religion is always to blame.” — Christy Al-Hashem A former Catholic school graduate, who shall remain anonymous per her own request, confessed her struggles with reconciling her faith with her love for sex. “The night after I had sex for the first time, I had to go to camp with our school’s missionaries,” she said. “We were in church, and the priest’s sermon was about sex, and how bad it is and sinful and how one should never do it outside of marriage. And I remember thinking of how much of a hypocrite I was, to now have to repeat this to the people at camp, when I’m still sore from having sex. And also because I liked it.” “The Arab world benefits from having misogynistic religions that con

trol politics and culture,” said Christy Al-Hashem, a Lebanese woman living in Paris. “So religion is always to blame. But I think the taboos around sex have become cultural. Even non-religious people continue to spread those taboos because it became a part of their cultural identity. They proudly manage to disguise them as values and manners.” Al-Hashem’s queerness helped relieve some of that guilt. “As a gay woman, I realized that none of the taboos meant anything to me because the narrative always had a man in it,” she shared. “So I guess being gay and growing up in a heteronormative environment freed me from sex guilt.” As for me personally, the tinge of guilt marring my sex life can only be described as a fear of myself. The older I get, the more sexual I become, as I discover new parts of myself. It shakes me to my very core to wonder how I can reconcile parts of my culture that I love with something they shun—but that’s also a part of me. I often find that my feelings of anxiety, guilt and shame resurface once the extreme high that comes with sexual experiences dissipates—irrational thoughts of dishonouring the family or fear of judgment from a society that has no business in how I choose to pleasure myself. And oftentimes I wonder: will they ever go away?

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Oops, I’m Queer: A Personal Essay On (in)visibly becoming

BeNjamyn Upshaw-Ruffner

Graphic Carleen Loney @shloneys

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Sexuality & an invisible orientation

Labels can be very important and empowering for people whose experiences diverge from “norms.” Words generate meanings, allowing us to make nebulous thoughts clear, making our dubious emotions more distinct. The concept and label of asexuality did this for me once I discovered there was a word for how I was oriented. Asexuality is defined as a lack of sexual attraction to others or experiencing no sexual attraction. Some of us use the abbreviation “ace” when talking about our identities. Importantly, asexuality isn’t rigid; it’s a spectrum. Some ace people feel absolutely no sexual attraction. Others are demisexual: they may feel sexual attraction only after a close, deep emotional bond has been formed. Grey-asexual (or “greyace”) individuals identify as somewhere along the ace spectrum, between asexual and sexual. We may refer to asexuality as an “invisible orientation” because the ace spectrum runs alongside many orientations. Ace individuals may be lesbian, gay, straight, or any orientation depending on whom they are attracted to. Likewise, ace individuals may have a diversity of gender identities and can be polyamorous or monogamous. In this way, the ace spectrum is intersectional, and like identities, there isn’t one holistic experience of it. I identify along the ace spectrum as either grey-ace or demi because I feel that those terms describe the ambiguities I feel regarding sexual attraction. Because I can feel non-sexual attraction to people regardless of gender identity, I have used “panromantic asexual” to describe my orientation. For me, there is a distinction between sexual touches and romantic or sensual touches. I don’t feel sexual attraction, but I can and have felt a romantic and emotional attraction to others before. Sometimes I don’t feel like initiating physical contact but in other cases, I might desire physical affection such as cuddling, handholding, hugging, kissing, etc. As such, this is something I take into consideration when navigating relationships through trust and open communication. For anyone reading this, if you find yourself desiring forms of intimacy that are not sexual in nature and think you might identify along the ace spectrum, you are valid. I’ve had conversations with many people about my orientation, and sometimes there can be misconceptions about asexuality.

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Misconceptions I’ve encountered about asexuality

Sometimes, people I talk to have trouble imagining a life without sexual attraction. People can be rude or dismissive when they hear about the ace spectrum, but wanting to ask questions is not inherently bad. People have also asked about my identity from a place of respect and understanding. Here are some questions I have encountered, or wondered myself, as I explored my identity: “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet?” This might be the most common thing I hear. The question seems harmless at first glance, but if we dig a little deeper, we can see how the question assumes everyone experiences sexual attraction and it’s only a matter of the “right person” showing up and unlocking sexual attraction that was there all along. This question misses how there are many different types of attraction, and not everyone experiences them all. You can be intimate with someone, be physically affectionate, and/or think they are beautiful in their own special way, and still not want to have sex with them. Another identity that brings distinct types of attraction to the fore is aromantic: those who do not feel romantic attraction to others. I’m not aromantic, but others may be both asexual and aromantic, feeling neither sexual nor romantic attraction. People can also be aromantic and experience sexual attraction, wanting sexual relationships but not feeling attracted to partners romantically. Not everybody experiences sexual attraction simultaneously, or at all, with other forms of attraction. For me, there are different kinds of touches; I am open to affectionate touching with those I’m deeply familiar with, but I don’t really like sexual touching. This distinction between sex and intimacy may be different for different people, and it merits talking about. “Maybe you just have a low sex drive?” Well, what if I do? To be candid, I’m quite ambivalent towards sex, sometimes I feel like I’m averse to it. I suspect my sex drive is very low for these reasons. But this is not the same as being asexual! Ace individuals are not sexually attracted to anyone, but sex drive can vary for everyone no matter what orientation they have. So, ace individuals might still masturbate or have sexual encounters with partners, and there might be plenty of reasons for this; maybe sex is a way to show affection to

their partner, maybe it just feels good to do sometimes. Just because someone identifies as asexual, doesn’t mean they can’t have or enjoy sex. Personally, I much prefer other non-sexual forms of intimate playfulness, and I like physical expressions of trust and emotional vulnerability with a close romantic partner. But as with all identities, not everyone is the same, and ace individuals who are sexually active are still valid. Members of a relationship who are on the ace spectrum and don’t wish to have sex should never be pressured into “compromising” by their partners; this kind of dynamic can be very uncomfortable or coercive. The idea that relationships without sex are less significant, or “failing,” is simply not true; there are plenty of people in happy relationships without sex. “Aren’t you just abstaining from sex?” This is another misconception people on the ace spectrum encounter. The easiest way to illustrate the distinction here is to acknowledge choice. People can choose to practice abstinence or celibacy for religious or spiritual reasons, but this is not equivalent to asexuality. Someone’s sexual orientation is not a “choice” because people don’t “choose” to be gay or bi or straight. It’s the same for ace individuals; we don’t “choose” to be asexual. I think we all can and should be respectful to one another regarding the diversity of attraction unique to each of us. When someone describes how they feel about sexuality to you, have an open mind and don’t try to invalidate them.

Stream of consciousness on gender-identity

My ace identity alone does not subject me to disproportionate harassment or discrimination. Indeed, the other reason why I referred to it as an “invisible” orientation is because, depending on my partner, I can pass as heterosexual; I can “blend in” to what might be—problematically—considered “normal”. But this “blending in” is only true if I am to be gendered as a man. Having been socialized as male since birth, I have been afforded certain privileges given the patriarchal structure of our society. But crucially—and I’ve never shared this publicly—I’m not a “man,” no matter what we socially construct that to mean. I have come to realize more and more my discomfort at the phrase “you are a man,” and the gender binary M A RCH 2021

more generally. But I’ve lived all my life as boy/man, despite never feeling like I fit in; those categories were never my own. It wasn’t until very recently that I began taking the question seriously: Why can’t I be both genders? Or neither? Why do I feel so repressed? Maybe it’s because everyone I know has known me as “boy,” so there are expectations tied to my gender (or the gender that is projected onto me by others out of habit). It took me some time to explore my identity and find the language that describes my feelings. Finding words like “panromantic” and “asexual” helped me attach names to the ways I was experiencing attraction. The fact that I can develop romantic feelings for people no matter their gender identity was, and is, very important to me. But I came out of the closet only to fall into a bigger one, it seems. Now I want to learn how I can create spaces to express the ambiguous gender I have, but it’s scary, new, and daunting; it makes me anxious in a way nothing quite has before. “Why couldn’t I have remained frustrated with the binary gender that was given to me?” I think in jest. Seriously though, I struggle whenever I bring this up to people. What if they see me as a boy and think I’m lying? What if I’m wrong and offensive? How do I do it “right”? There is a cavalcade of concerns I feel and it can be hard to suss out which are legitimate and which are just internalized gaslighting. Worst of all is trying to “come out” to my family and friends who know me, through years of experience, as a boy. What will they think? How will they react? Will they still love me in the same way? Maybe it’s silly to wonder about this, but I just have so much self-doubt and so many intrusive thoughts. Even if I don’t agree with what I’m imagining about my family and friends, it’s difficult for me to get out of that mode of thinking.

There are solutions though; I can give this article to people. I’ve created a gender-queer creative persona for creative projects; their name is Robyn. I also express my gender-queerness vicariously through Animal Crossing for Nintendo Switch; this game does away with strict binary genders for avatar characters and instead allows players to choose “styles” that can be modified at any time. Another way I plan on slowly starting to expand my presentation in real life is through cosplay. There are many characters who either do not conform strictly to gender binaries or otherwise wouldn’t if I dress up as them. My thought process here is to arrive closer to my felt gender identity by substituting some of my clothing or physical features that invite projections of masculinity with ones that invite projections of femininity. The result would be a simultaneous expression of some masculinity and some femininity in a way that is very fluid. For whatever reason, I don’t exactly feel comfortable exploring this at home, much less going out to stores to purchase new “feminine” articles of clothing or make-up I may or may not end up liking. What if people don’t take me seriously? So far, I’ve only been able to inch towards this because close friends have created spaces for me where I can feel comfortable; I need to somehow learn to create these spaces of comfort. How might I do this? There’s no one universal answer—I’m sure everyone is different. The subject of hair is another that overwhelms me. From a very young age, I wanted long, flowing hair like many of the characters in video games I grew up playing. My hair is too thin to do anything with, much less grow it out. This is why I’ve been looking into wigs, but I just don’t know where to start. There are some cheap ones I can use for cosplay of

“But I came out of the closet only to fall into a bigger one, it seems.”

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course, but what about a nice one I might just wear? I get frustrated thinking about it. My damned facial hair is equally frustrating. Even before I began exploring the prospect of gender identity, I found shaving insufferable. I used to have a cream that got rid of facial hair when it first began to emerge, but my parents told me it will no longer work for my face. I’ve begun shaving my legs as well. Doing so makes me comfortable, but the electric razor I have doesn’t go all the way down to the skin, so I’m only half satisfied with it. The battle for keeping my legs from turning into strawberries is fought long and hard in my washroom. I learned the hard way the value of lotion and exfoliating, but despite my best efforts, the top half of my legs continue to get irritated—miraculously, the bottom half of my legs turn out fabulously. One thing I must consider is how we can sometimes get hyper-critical of our bodies, and that striving towards unrealistic standards for what is “pretty” or “looks good” can be problematic. Running serrated steel across my face and body is bound to cause some irritation. In the end, I can’t afford to laser away my facial hair, but I did get a eucalyptus after-shave cream for Christmas. If the smoothness of my face is going to fluctuate, at least I can have pleasant smells. Fortunately, the internet is a wealth of resources for people experiencing similar questions about their gender identity. Hopefully, my developing story can add to these resources and inspire others to feel more confident in exploring themselves. If you have questions about your orientation or gender identity, finding articles and videos online where other queer individuals share their experiences can be immensely helpful, especially since mainstream media tends to lack diverse representation. Staying in touch with friends online has also been an asset during this pandemic. A friend of mine invited me into a queer D&D campaign they’re organizing, which I’m very excited about. This might not work for everyone, but as a writer, I think creating characters is another great way of exploring identity. Exploring your identity needn’t be a linear process. Sometimes I get frustrated and feel like I need to figure everything out all at once, but it’s okay to not have all the answers right away. Life happens wherever you are. It’s okay to move forward on your own terms and at your own pace; nobody can tell you how to be yourself, except you.

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Moving Forward After Experiencing Sexual Violence Healing from sexual trauma may not be linear, but it is possible

Olivia Piché @OMpiche

Graphic Stella Mazurek

Sexual abuse and sexual violence affects everyone in extremely different ways. Survivors carry experiences, feelings, and stories that differ from one another and there is no one singular road to healing. But that’s not to say moving forward from sexual trauma is out of the question. For 24-year-old nutrition student Sophie*, her story shifted from something she felt the need to hide, to one she now accepts and is open about. When she talks about her experience, she is reminded that it is nothing to feel ashamed about. Sophie said she was 17 when she felt a bit of her innocence taken from her after an incident involving her guitar teacher. The teacher was close to T HEL INK NE W SPA P ER .C A

her parents in age and had been teaching her guitar for years. “It was the end of the lesson and I had packed up to go [...] then he kind of got this glazed look in his eyes. It was really scary,” she said. “Then he kind of stepped forward and put his hands around my waist and under my jacket and shirt. He put his hands up my back and pressed himself up against me and I could feel his dick, he was hard, against my crotch area.” Sophie said she immediately left; she went home and quit guitar that night. “I’ve played a few times but I still miss it,” she said, explaining how this incident took away something she loved. “I would pick up a guitar and I would start sobbing because I would get flashbacks.”

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“I haven’t been diagnosed with PTSD about it, but I was so nervous around boys. I wouldn’t let anyone touch me for a few years. I would get flashbacks all the time,” she said. The incident severely heightened her anxiety and left her more susceptible to panic attacks. “Anything could set me off. It was insane,” she said. At first, Sophie said she dealt with negative emotions of violation, mistrust, and betrayal. However, she has since come to accept what happened to her, and it has allowed her mindset to shift to a more positive and empowering one. “I think I got sick of hiding it and I felt uncomfortable. I felt weird feeling like I needed to explain it to people,” she said. The turning point for Sophie was when she shared her story with a friend. This came after suffering from a panic attack because she had been catcalled and her friend thought it was cool. She told him, “No, it’s objectifying, don’t you dare say that to me again. “Then I told him my story, and it was kind of empowering for people to recognize that it’s not okay. Even the little things like catcalling. It might hurt someone. You don’t know everyone’s story,” she said. Since this experience, Sophie has felt a roller coaster of emotions and a year ago she recognized that she wasn’t fully healed and needed to talk about it more. She has since sought professional counselling and said it has helped the healing journey. Now in a healthy relationship of two and a half years, she has been able to communicate with her partner about her experience and past struggles with intimacy. “Before my partner and I engaged in anything physical, I made

sure he knew my story, and we always make sure when we have these deep conversations that we’re comfortable,” she said. “He was very receptive and understanding. He didn’t really understand what I felt but he was very open with it.” For Emma*, a 25-year-old McGill grad student, finding helpful resources and proper sexual violence education did not come easy. Now a strong and devoted advocate for sexual violence prevention, she has found power and autonomy in her story through this advocacy. At only 14, she experienced sexual violence, which at the time she didn’t know it to be. “It got to a point where I just stopped resisting and I went along with things. I was in a situation where if I had screamed, shouted ‘no’ loud enough, someone probably would have heard and that violence wouldn’t have been carried out all the way,” she said. “So I carried a lot of guilt and blame from that situation for years because of that.” It took until Emma was sixteen and attending a presentation about sexual violence for her to recognize she didn’t have to say no, and that not saying yes was enough. At seventeen she shared her story with some friends for the first time. When their reactions weren’t entirely what she needed, she found talking about it wasn’t necessarily the best thing for her. When it comes to supporting a friend confiding in you, she said allowing the conversation to be non-directional and fully guided by the friend is a good way to react. Emma said she has found her long-term partner to be a good source of support. “I started to confide in him and he started to be that person I could

“Just saying to myself, ‘You didn’t consent and it wasn’t your fault that this happened,’ would have been life-changing.” — Emma turn to when I was having a panic attack or when things became too much,” she said. “I think even if it’s not a romantic relationship, survivors can get that through friendships too. It’s just finding those people who are going to be supportive of you and that are going to be there when you do need to call someone in the middle of the night.” Eventually, Emma found deeper healing in her work in sexual violence prevention organizations. Now the co-president of a non-profit organization aimed at creating a safe campus at McGill where survivors feel supported, the grad student is passionate about educating others about what she wished she had known when she was younger. “Just saying to myself, ‘You didn’t consent and it wasn’t your fault that this happened,’ would have been life-changing,” she said. Jennifer Drummond, manager of the Sexual Assault Resource Centre at Concordia, recommends those who are struggling with an experience of sexual assault to get in contact with available resources. “It’s really important to take care of yourself even if you’re not ready to talk about the incident,” said Drummond. “The basics are very important too. Eating properly, sleeping. Having M A RCH 2021

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social or family support. Even reaching out to a 24/7 support line with someone who is anonymous.” Drummond also suggested there are online resources you can look at if you don’t feel quite ready to talk. In terms of supporting someone who opens up about their experience, she said being there to listen in a non-judgmental way, not blaming the person, and reassuring the person you believe them and that it wasn’t their fault, are key elements. “It sounds really simple but it makes a really big difference because it’s something a lot of people are afraid of and it can be difficult to disclose to friends or family or anybody,” she said. “Really asking a person directly I think is a good way to go because everyone is so different and needs different things in terms of support and has different comfort levels,” Drummond said referring to how to better support a loved one. She suggested sentences like these to create clear, comfortable and direct communication:

. . . . .

Do you want me to check in with you? Do you not want me to bring it up? What makes you feel supported? How will I be able to tell you’re having a hard time? When I see those things what can I do to help you? What will make you feel better?

Mostly Drummond wants survivors to know everything they’re feeling is normal and it’s up to them to decide what they want to do next and when. “There are people who believe you and support you and are out there to help you, and to help you at your own pace,” she said. “You’re not alone and there’s help.” Sexual Assault Resource Centre: Phone: 514-848-2424, ext. 3353 Email: sarc@concordia.ca 24/7 support - Montreal Sexual Assault Crisis Hotline: Phone: 514-933-9007 *The Link has agreed not to reveal the identities of sources who are victims of sexual assault and has instead assigned pseudonyms. T HEL INK NE W SPA P ER .C A

F E B R U A R Y 1 2 , 1 9 91 & A PRIL 4, 1986

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Hormones Alone: HRT During the Pandemic My experience with medical transition in lockdown

Parker Sherry

pironolactone tastes like chalk. That was what I learned when I started Hormone Replacement Therapy, or HRT, in March 2020. The most common testosterone suppressant, championed by so many trans women, came in a big yellow tablet that felt like a lump of chalk sliding down my throat. But I loved those lumps of chalk. I gratefully swallowed two of them every morning with breakfast, along with a little green tablet of estradiol. These two types of medication, spironolactone and estradiol, were the bedrock of my medical transition. There are other options for trans people who want to go the medical route—skin patches and injections come to mind— but pills are inexpensive and easy to take, so they were the option I chose. For me, HRT was the result of months of self-reflection after dealing with years of low self-esteem. I suffered from anorexia in high school, but couldn’t pin down what I didn’t like about my body. I had crushes, but they made me feel disgusting and predatory. All that time, I never once thought I was trans. I didn’t know anything about what being trans meant. It was only once I started CEGEP at Dawson, and got a chance to meet other trans people, that I realized I was feeling

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gender dysphoria. Dawson’s gender advocacy centre, The Hive, was super helpful. The Hive’s coordinator helped me connect with Project 10, an organization that supports queer youth in Montreal. When I visited them, they gave me a list of clinics in the city that could provide me with hormones. Wait times were different at each clinic. Usually, getting an appointment could take anywhere from several months to several years. One receptionist I spoke to told me the doctors she worked with weren’t accepting new patients. I have kept checking the list Project 10 gave me since that conversation and have found waitlist freezes to be somewhat normal with HRT doctors. Some clinics also need you to meet with a psychologist before they agree to prescribe HRT. The psych assessments are at your own expense and, from what I’ve heard, involve a series of very personal questions. Luckily, I was able to get in touch with a doctor that only needed my informed consent—i.e., a short conversation explaining why I wanted hormones, a waiver explaining the risks and long-term effects of HRT, and a couple of signatures. I was praying I wouldn’t have to wait too long. As it turned out, I only needed to wait a month. My first appointment at the clinic was on March 2, with a follow-up scheduled for two weeks later. The doctor I spoke to was considerate and professional. After taking some blood samples, she showed me

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the waiver, wrote up my prescription, and sent me on my way. Of course, it would be a long time till I saw my doctor again. Dawson closed after March 13, everything else following suit soon after. What we thought would be a two-week stay at home stretched out with no end in sight. Needless to say, my follow-up appointment was put on hold. Worse off were the people whose HRT appointments were cancelled for who knows how long. Trans people faced a lot of additional problems at the start of the pandemic—not all of them medical. Quarantine led to a host of uncomfortable family situations for trans people living at home, and those who had moved out faced disproportionate financial strain. For my part, I learned that, although HRT can be a blessing, you don’t get a second puberty without growing pains. Sometime in mid-May, I decided to get myself a glass of water after sitting in my living room for too long. I stood, felt dizzier than I had ever been in my life, and collapsed back down again. That ended up happening every single time I would get up from a chair because, though I didn’t know it, one side effect of taking spironolactone is lower blood pressure. Any other time, that wouldn’t have been a problem. I’d heard all about the risks of HRT—blood clots, cardiovascular disease, type 2 diabetes. Most of the trans people I’ve met either think “Those things could never happen to me!” or “I’m going to get all of them at once.” Because the world of hospitals and doctor’s offices had slowed to a crawl, it became very hard to believe the former and much easier to slip into the paranoia of the latter. Believe me when I say the first few months of my transition were characterized by lots of WebMD searches. This marked the beginning of my neurotic self-care regimen. After waking up at 7 a.m., I would go jogging, eat breakfast, shower, apply an ever-increasing litany of skincare products, exercise again, and use whatever spare time I had to read. Some days, other meals were optional. I really thought that this was all for my health at the time. It was only later, when I realized that I was weighing myself every time I showered, that I was be-

coming self-conscious. I didn’t look like a woman. The hardest part of starting HRT during the pandemic wasn’t physical at all. It was mental. I would get impatient, wanting everything about me to change all at once, and getting frustrated when it didn’t. I started questioning myself: did I really want this? Transitioning was proving to be incredibly stressful. Besides, if it was all about looks, maybe I wasn’t really trans at all… I felt those doubts a lot last year. My experience didn’t fit with what I’d heard about intense, constant dysphoria and “being born in the wrong body.” No matter how happy I felt about being on hormones, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t deserve them. Of course, I was isolated from other trans people at this time. There was no one to share how I was feeling with. There was no one to reassure me.

Graphic Hannah Louisy

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I didn’t know what it was like to transition before the pandemic. My entire trans experience consisted of wanting to start HRT for a long time, finally getting the courage to, and then being stuck inside for months. It’s incredible how social of a phenomenon gender is— what’s the point of gender when your entire day consists of watching cooking shows alone in your room? How much was my lack of dysphoria caused by being completely cut off from everyone I knew? Whatever the case, my doubts about my gender identity continued. After a while it got to be too much, and I stopped HRT in September. The school year began shortly after. Being bombarded with readings and assignments, I didn’t have time to think about anything gender-related. I thought my transition was over. Then, sometime in January, a couple of things happened all at once. A YouTuber I watched frequently came out as trans, the same day a trans musician, whose music meant a lot to me during my transition, passed away. I remember that week being very emotional for me; looking back, it’s hard to pin down exactly what I was feeling. I think a part of me realized that I was going to die someday, and if I didn’t start transitioning now, I would regret it every day until the end. So I started taking the pills again. I can’t deny it was hard at first, going back to the drawing board. Even now, I know that if I had had people around during those first few months to remind me that what I was going through was normal, I’d have stuck with it and learned to accept myself T HEL INK NE W SPA P ER .C A

more quickly than I did. Isolation taught me a valuable lesson. HRT might help you feel more comfortable with your body, but your transition shouldn’t be rooted in how you look. The point of taking hormones is to merge your interior life with your exterior one, to face every day looking how you feel, to live as the gender you know you are. In quarantine, there is no exterior life. All lives are lived privately, and social roles melt into air. I remember the second time I visited the pharmacy. The man behind the counter had light brown hair and was younger than any pharmacist I’d seen. Half his face was covered by his mask, but his voice was young, high and expressive. When I went to pay, he told me that my file didn’t say what the pills were for, but that he could guess. He offered to change my name in the store’s system, if it would make me more comfortable. I was using my dad’s pharmaceutical file, and I wasn’t out to him at the time, so I politely refused, but that one interaction made me feel more like a woman than every single day I’d spent cooped up at home combined. HRT is great, but it’s only one part of being trans, and an optional part at that. As the pandemic stretches indeterminately on, I want to see trans people reaching out to each other for support. I want to see more virtual spaces open to trans people, like P10’s weekly hangouts. I want to see local trans creators creating, and trans audiences forming around content they love. More than anything, I want trans people to be able to come together and feel understood, through whatever form that takes.

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This profile, published Feb. 17, 1987, sought to share the perspective of a trans woman and represents one of the earliest examples of trans issues in the pages of The Link. We have decided to omit its text out of concern that some of its content, reflective of the era in which it was written, could be harmful and outweigh the value of its inclusion.

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Masthead

Marcus Bankuti Nanor Froundjian OPEN Alexandre Denis Sheena Macmillan Elias Grigoriadis Ray Resvick Olivier Neven Michelle Malnasi Mzwandile Poncana Esteban Cuevas Nicholas Dundorf Joey Bruce Rachel Boucher Jaime MacLean

editor-in-chief creative director coordinating editor features editor co-news editor co-news editor fringe arts editor sports editor opinions editor copy editor photo editor video editor graphics editor business manager system administrator

Contributors

Talia Kliot Maria Chabelnik Parker Sherry Abegail Ranaudo Youmna El Halabi Morgan Moakler Jessiman BeNjamyn Upshaw-Ruffner

Cover

Board of Directors

Reina Ephrahim Olivia Piché Florent Aniorte Stefania Bodea Hannah Louisy Stella Mazurek Carleen Loney

Savannah Stewart Olivier Cadotte Laura Beeston Rachel Boucher Marcus Bankuti Michelle Pucci

Voting Members Non-Voting Members

Esteban Cuevas

The Link is published during the academic year by The Link Publication Society Inc. Content is independent of the university and student associations (ECA, CASA, ASFA, FASA, CSU, AVEQ). Editorial policy is set by an elected board as provided for in The Link’s constitution. Any student is welcome to work on The Link and become a voting staff member. Material appearing in The Link may not be reproduced without prior written permission from The Link. Letters to the editor are welcome. All letters 400 words or less will be published, space permitting. The letters deadline is Fridays at 4:00 p.m. The Link reserves the right toedit letters for clarity and length and refuse those deemed racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, libellous, or otherwise contrary to The Link ’s statement of principles. The Link acknowledges our location on unceded Indigenous land. The Kanien’kehá:ka Nation is recognized as the custodians of these lands and waters. Tiohtiá:ke is historically known as a gathering place for many First Nations. T HEL INK NE W SPA P ER .C A

Volume 41, Issue 4 March 2021 The Link office: Concordia University Hall Building, Room H-580-3 and H-511 1455 de Maisonneuve Blvd. W. Montreal, Quebec H3G 1M8 Editor: 514-848-2424 x. 7407 Arts: 514-848-2424 x. 5813 News: 514-848-2424 x. 8682 Business: 514-848-7406

JA NUA RY 28, 1986

M A RCH 2021