Blame the mother

You know it was Pride Week in Toronto when the media starts resurrecting stories postulating the causes of homosexuality. This past week's CBC story, Younger brothers more likely to be gay, basically says that a man is more likely to be gay if he has older brothers. They think that some sort of in utero autoimmune response may be at play but, of course, they are not sure.

There have been a lot of theories put forward over the years beginning with the “overbearing-mother-absent-or-distant-father” theory. Since then we have been told various hypothesis. One points to an excess of male hormones in the womb affecting sexual orientation. Another, which focuses on twins, speaks of childhood gender nonconformity to explain why one brother plays with GI Joes while the other likes to play with Barbies. How the hypothalamus region of the brain is stimulated by body odors is another area of study to explain the difference between straight and gay. The oddest study I've come across, apart from the one citing the length of ones ring finger, particularly in women (curiously known as the "Finger Papers" - no shit) as a possible indication of sexual orientation, is the one linking differences in the function of the inner ear to the sexual preference of women.

Ok, is it just me but doesn't it sometimes seem like people are trying to find the “cause” of homosexuality much in the same way they look for cures for cancer? Am I the only one besides Timothy Murphy who questions the rationale or ethics behind these types of studies?

What would happen if they were to find out that “gayness” is caused by a gene, or pregnant women smoking pot or death rays from Mars? Living in a world that presumes heterosexuality, I can only venture to guess that the next step would be to find a cure or way to prevent homosexuality.

My problem with studies like these is that they work from the assumption that heterosexuality is “normal” ergo, any other sexual orientation is not. That's like saying being Christian is “normal” while any other spiritual belief is not. Or being white is “normal” while being a member of the world majority is not. Awfully presumptuous don't you think?

Personally, I find my life more interesting when I presume that everyone I meet is gay. That way I can feign sympathy when they disclose they are not and secretly blame their mothers.

Here's some food for thought:

21 Questions for Heterosexuals

1. What do you think has caused you to be heterosexual?

2. When and how did you first decide you were a heterosexual?

3. Is it possible your heterosexuality stems from a neurotic fear of people of the same sex?

4. If you've never slept with a person of the same sex, how do you know you wouldn't prefer it?

5. Isn't it possible your heterosexuality is just a phase you may grow out of?

6. Isn't it possible that all you need is a good gay lover?

7. If heterosexuality is normal, why are a disproportionate number of mental patients heterosexual?

8. To whom have you disclosed your heterosexual tendencies? How did they react?

9. Why do heterosexuals place so much emphasis on sex? Why are they so promiscuous?

10. Do heterosexuals hate and/or distrust others of their own sex? Is that what makes them heterosexual?

11. If you were to have children, would you want them to be heterosexual knowing the problems they'd face?

12. Your heterosexuality doesn't offend me as long as you don't try to force it on me. Why do you feel compelled to seduce others into your sexual orientation?

13. The great majority of child molesters are heterosexuals. Do you really consider it safe to expose your children to heterosexual teachers?

14. Why do you insist on being so obvious, and making a public spectacle of your heterosexuality? Can't you just be who you are and keep it quiet?

15. How can you ever hope to become a whole person if you limit yourself to a compulsive, exclusively heterosexual lifestyle, and remain unwilling to explore and develop your homosexual potential?

16. Heterosexuals are noted for assigning themselves and each other to narrowly restricted, stereotyped sex-roles. Why do you cling to such unhealthy role playing?

17. Even with all the societal support marriage receives, the divorce rate is spiraling. Why are there so few stable relationships among heterosexuals?

18. How could the human race survive if everyone were heterosexual like you, considering the menace of overpopulation?

19. There seem to be very few happy heterosexuals. Techniques have been developed that could help you change if you really wanted to. Have you considered trying psychotherapy or even aversion therapy?

21. Could you really trust a heterosexual therapist/counselor to be objective and unbiased? Don't you fear he/she might be inclined to influence you in the direction of his/her own preferences?

Talking to Americans

I just watched a video of some of Anne Coulter's comments about Canada. I just had to revisit this old CBC special as it helps me put her ignorance in perspective. Enjoy.

We're not gonna take it

I couldn't resist sharing this link with you. I heard about it on the CBC yesterday.
It's billed as: Protest Karaoke Style. www.werenotgonnatakeit.org
Rock on!

What's Wrong

When I was a little girl I believed I lived in a world of moral absolutes. There was right and there was wrong. There were Catholics and Protestants. Cops and robbers. The Freeworld and Commie bastards. I was taught to respect authority and trust in the principles of a good government that would always do the right thing. I had a child's confidence that life's decisions were simple. You picked good or evil and if you always picked good, everything would turn out fine.

As I grew and experienced a world beyond the swing set in my chain-linked backyard, I learned that things were not always as simple. The world was not a place of moral absolutes and sometimes what we thought was right, later proved to be quite wrong and the trust we had placed in our government and leaders was sometimes misplaced.

Take for example the Avro Arrow. Most Canadians know of this story of pride and betrayal. During the height of the Cold War Canada had developed the world's fastest interceptor but on the verge of success, the project was scrapped throwing thousands out of work. Some say the Arrow project could have been completed for the cost of the project's cancellation fees.

As a teen the Vietnam War was served up in clips and sound bites each evening on the nightly news. Like most Canadians I felt a certain smugness that we harboured draft dodgers in opposition to the war. Later we learned how Canada was not only complicit in the bombing of North Vietnam but that our own government had endeavoured to hide this information from us. Canada's secret war: Vietnam

Earlier this week the Supreme Court of Canada heard the government's arguement about the necessity of maintaining security certificates to protect national security. These procedings come on the heels of the American news reports of the suicide of three Guantanamo Bay detainees.

All of this brings to mind the 2004 movie Strip Search which examines this issue of individual rights versus national security through the story of two individuals and two governments. The very thought that you could be snatched up off the street for the suspicion of being a threat and imprisoned for years without ever knowing what evidence was being held against you is frightening. In Canada they say they can only do this to foreign nationals and not Canadian citizens but when the basic premise of due process is being trampled, that's small consolation.

If we, in the West, are supposed to be the beacons of democracy and freedom is it not hypocracy to abandon these principles when it becomes inconvenient?

These days we are told that we live in a different world. A more complicated world. A world where we often must choose the lesser of two evils. Perhaps this is simply an excuse. Perhaps we are too lazy, too greedy, too scared or too self-righteous to take the time to really figure out what's wrong.

Conversation Piece

Gather two or more Black women together for any appreciable amount of time and the conversation will eventually get to the topic of hair. I was about six years old when I discovered that one can have either "good" hair or "bad" hair. Curlier or "nappy" hair was bad and straighter or less curly hair was good.

My hair is somewhere between the two - too curly to be "good" hair and too straight to be "bad" hair. I suppose it's simply naughty.

Today I took my naughty self to the salon next door to my office for a trim. This was the first time I had my hair cut there and I have to admit, I was a bit nervous. See, not every stylist knows how to cut curly (or Black folks') hair. Sure, they all say they can but not all of them can.

Way back in the day, much to my mother's dismay, I used to wear a wicked 'fro. Now, any decent Cleopatra Jones wanna be knows that to keep the 'fro looking good, you gotta get it regularly trimmed. One time, being short on funds, I found myself in one of those cheap, franchised, clip joints waiting for someone to call, "Next!" I have since learned to sprint the moment I see a set of electric clippers. That woman sheared me like a sheep and the results were nothing but baaaaaaad!

Today's trim, however was fine and I'm very pleased.

After I got over the 'fro, and into the 80s, I used to chemically relax my hair. This made my hair straight but also as dry and brittle as a corn broom. To get it to look half-decent I'd have to, strangely enough, set it on rollers to take a curling iron to it. For years I'd go to salons and complain about my hair. It was too frizzy, wouldn't stay straight, took too much work and cost a fortune in hair products to maintain.

Then one day a new stylist was working with my hair and said, "You know, women come in here and pay good money to get hair like yours." That's when the penny dropped. I must have been out of my mind paying all that money and wasting all that time trying to fight genetics. I got all my chemically treated hair chopped off and went au naturale!

I've kept my hair natural for twelve years now and I've never loved my hair more. It's long. When you stretch it out it goes almost to my waist. I can braid it, twist it, pull it back, wear it down and put it up. It is healthy, strong and I can play with it!

What never ceases to amaze me is that other people want to play with it too. I've had total strangers come up to me and gush, "My what beautiful hair you have!" and reach out to touch it. Ok, I know I'm not the only coloured gal to experience this so I have to ask, what is it that compels people to want to touch the hair of a black person? Sheesh, I've had times where I thought I was the attraction at a petting zoo.

In some cultures the top of the head is supposed to be the most sacred part of the body. In other cultures the hairstyle is deeply connected to spiritual belief or journey. In these cases it is quite offensive to touch the head of another person without that person's consent. To me, whatever the culture or belief, to touch another person's hair without permission is simply rude. So unless you are my stylist or my lover, please purge the urge.

My Son's Wedding

My son Matthew, got married last month. Here he is with his beautiful new bride Susan.



After the ceremony we had a small reception in the church basement. Dinner was served later at our Lakeside Lair.

While waiting for the bride and groom and other guests to arrive we took some family pictures. There are six kids in Lise's family. Three of them are gay. Here's a shot of the three happy couples.

Love was in the air...

Dinner was casual and served under a lovely white festival tent.

Later, the kids cut the cake...

Of course, Sue is a little devil...

But she's cute...

This is my daughter Jennifer...

And her boyfriend Patrick...

Despite it raining for the three days before the wedding, the sun came out, the weather warmed and it turned out to be a very nice party.

Of a Certain Age

There comes a time in every woman's life when she begins to appreciate the value of properly fitting undergarments. While I am not obese, I am one of the millions who should be religiously practicing girth control.

My son recently got married and in preparation for the event I was faced with the daunting task of finding something suitable to wear. The very thought of trudging through the mall depressed me so I found myself, one day, sitting in my recliner thumbing through the Sears catalogue. Having found a navy A-line dress with organza covering blouse, something I believed was suitable to a mature woman, I ordered it.

A few days later I was notified that the dress was available to be picked up at Duncan's Furniture Store, which is the nearest Sears Catalogue Depot. The dress looked quite beautiful in it's long, clear plastic garment bag and I couldn't wait to try it on.

Rushing home I scurried into my changing room, wiggled out of my clothes, slid the dress over my head and wound myself up in a circle reaching behind to try to pull the zipper up. Then I put the blue sequined blouse on and turned to look in the mirror. As pretty as the dress was, it was not designed for someone with my body shape.

I'm five feet four and one-half inches (yes, that one-half inch DOES matter thank you), I have a short waist and, as I like to call it, a nicely pronounced dorsal representation of my cultural heritage. In this dress the waist fell just about the top of my hips and the hip flare in the skirt fell right at the top of my thighs. This gave an unflattering allusion to jodhpurs. The dress was slightly below ankle-length on me so I grabbed the catalogue to see if I had somehow mis-measured or mis-read the description of the dress. No, my measurements were correct and I did correctly read that the dress was supposed to be mid-calf length.

Looking again in the mirror, and seeing how, even though the dress was the wrong cut, my breasts sagged beneath the bust area, I determined that I looked decidedly matronly. Oh vanity, where have I offended thee?

I had always told myself that I was going to age gracefully and not be like one of those pathetic women who vainly grasp at every fleeting strand of youth. You know what I mean – you've seen them at the mall in the food court. Platform-heeled, callused big toe, 50ish women in Daisy dukes and spider-veined legs. Bingo dabber laiden, fake plastic Louis Vuitton bags slung over their shoulders stuffing a Cinnabon between their lipstick-smeared incisors. Who, in an effort to stay young by wearing teen-aged fashion, look more shop-worn than a grease monkey's torn cover-alls. Gee, aren't I bitchy? Estrogen supplement anyone?

Nah, that wasn't gonna happen to me. So as I aged and settled into my menopausal measure, my taste in clothes became less trendy and more conservative. I played it safe. No wild colours, prints or designs. No tight or form-fitting clothes. I chose items which could cover and not draw attention to my multitude of sins (aka cellulite). I stopped wearing make-up. I let my roots show. I wore “comfortable shoes”. My wardrobe had conceded to age and drifted to the (a)isle of the elastic-waist-band.

Maybe it was a mid-life awakening or maybe the influence of the L Word marathons but I always knew that within the facets of my byzantine personality lurked a lipstick lesbian. As I slid that ill-fitting dress over my thighs and scanned the lackluster clothes hanging on the walls around me, my Bette Porter emerged. I might not be as young as or have her figure but a determination began to grow to make me a mini-Bette in comfortable shoes!

With the frumpy frock returned to the catalogue depot and cash in hand, I hit the outlet mall. I remembered reading somewhere that having the right bra made a big difference in how well a gal's clothes fit. I had long-ago abandoned the discomfort of underwire for the utility of full-figured lycra and had always found bras to be very uncomfortable so the idea of shopping for bras was about as appealing as chewing tin foil. However, my Bette Porter alter whispered, “Get fitted”. I soon found myself wandering into La Senza and before I could say, “Kiss me Carmen”, I was in a fitting room with a sales clerk wrapping a measuring tape around my bust.

Ok girls, listen up: Go get fitted. That is one of the things I wish my mother had told me and if your mom hasn't mentioned it, go do it. It is SO worthwhile. If you are shy and are not comfortable having someone else measure you, here are the DIY instructions. I learned a lot that day. For example, that women can have more that one bra size.

Anyway, I found a beautiful bra that puts the gals back where they belong which actually makes me look slimmer. My next quest was to find something to control the bit of below-the-belly-button flab I've been carrying around for the past twenty-something post-natal years. That's when I discovered Spanx. I tell ya, Spanx are the next best thing to a pilgramage to Lourdes experience – a bona fide miracle! They'll take five pounds off of you and give you a Jenny-from-the-block booty faster than you can say, “cotton lined gusset”.

Finally fitted with the proper undergarments which dispensed the adipose in a more flattering manner, I began my search for a suitable wedding outfit. I don't know who, in the fashion world, penned the rule that the fatter the woman, the taller she be, but that is entirely false. I was finding it impossible to find something to fit that didn't need to be altered. As I was about to give up, I passed a kiosk and there I found the perfect thing. It was elegant, comfortable and wrinkle-free! With my hair and make-up done, in this outfit, for the first time since my disco-diva days, I felt glamourous!

In all of this, the libra that I am is beginning to find a balance between acknowledging that I am a woman of a certain age and that age has it's own beauty. I guess I've come to accept and honour my inner lipstick lesbian.

Here, Lise and I have just returned home from the ceremony. The guests were due to arrive soon for dinner and we're having a tequilla shot to “settle our nerves”.


Later, we're outside having cocktails with our guests.