Beck hopped gently in place, buoyed by his inspiration. “Yes, and then we can pass the focus. So we put our hands to our mouth, hands to heart, then we can point one hand toward the oppressed party that needs to be seen and heard.”
“I like it,” Liv said, trying the gesture a few times. “It’s performative, but only as a way to get other allies to join us in the Resistance, then it challenges us to shift focus to those who need the attention.”
Tonight, we sit around the dinner table to eat canned artichoke hearts and beef jerky. When the conversation turns to the loved ones we have left behind, I tell the group about how you had planned to find your mother, then meet me at Liv’s house.
“But now . . . after everything I have seen . . . I doubt very much we will find each other again. I doubt very much he is alive. No . . . I know he is not alive and I have accepted that.” This is the first time I admit this out loud. As soon as I say it, I feel your forgiveness wash over me.
Peter rises from the table and heads to the living room to sit in his reclining chair. The awkward silence is broken by Hanna shifting in her seat.
“Evan. Evan.” Hanna struggles with the words and we all hold our breath. Perhaps she will tell me that loving you was wrong. Perhaps she will cry and apologize until I am forced to soothe her. Perhaps she will expect me to praise her for not being like the other folks who kept you away from me. “He sounds like a beautiful man. And you sound like a beautiful couple. I am so very sorry this happened. You both did not deserve this. I will work hard and pray that things will change.” With the help of a gentle hand on my shoulder, she rises from the table quietly, tosses her beef jerky wrapper into the garbage bin, then makes her way to her bedroom.
When she closes the door, I look around in shock at Firuzeh, at Beck, at Bahadur and Liv. I silently say, “Whoa!” Firuzeh covers her mouth to stop herself from giggling. Liv exhales. Bahadur shakes their head in wonder. Beck holds his hands up in a hallelujah. Change is possible.
10
Look up,” Firuzeh says to everyone as we set up camp outside the cabin. The waxing moon hangs low enough above our heads that I’m tempted to reach up and grab it. I imagine putting it into my mouth and crunching it between my teeth like a crater-covered potato chip, along with the astronaut and the American flag. Crunch. It’s Firuzeh’s idea to sleep outside tonight. “I want to feel what it’s like to sleep with nothing but nature around me. No ceilings or walls.” We all agree. This may be the last time we will experience such things.
Beck builds a fire in the centre of our gathering. He uses bunched-up newspaper at its base, their unhappy headlines going up in flames and ascending into a smoky memory above the trees. Soon, if all goes as planned, we too will be headlines in those same papers, and maybe, just maybe, we will make history.
“Do you think it’ll matter? You know . . . us calling our names at the summit?” I say while we all unroll our sleeping bags for the night.
“If all goes as planned and if we’re able to say our names at the summit.” Bahadur looks into the centre of the flames, their faraway gaze making black marbles of their eyes.
I turn to Liv and Beck, hoping for clarity. “I mean . . . our plan is to lead a procession up Yonge Street and say our names, and we’ve all been working hard to follow instructions and strategize the best way to do this without getting killed. But sometimes I have to wonder what it’s all for. The bombing of the workhouses makes sense to me. If the Renovation sees us as nothing more than producers and products, it makes sense to resist by ending our productivity. But saying our names . . . I don’t know.” Liv and Beck nod their heads slowly, absorbing my words, one at a time.
“No. I don’t doubt the importance of this.” Firuzeh stands and says with conviction, “Do any of you remember those Palestinian children who broke the Guinness World Record by flying the most kites simultaneously? It was incredible, watching news footage of tens of thousands of kids in Gaza, flying their kites. Each kid had decorated their kite with their dream of what a life free of apartheid would look like.” She illustrates with her hands so that we can all imagine the numerous kite lines and tails soaring along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. “One can look back at that and say, ‘So what? What did they accomplish?’ But you see, what they achieved is so much more than a metaphor. These are children who were born in war and will most likely die in war. When they flew those kites, though, they became the kites. They flew beyond borders. When they flew those kites, they knew freedom.” Firuzeh looks me in the eye. “When I say my name at the summit, I will be a kite.” She reaches out to squeeze my hand and returns to setting up her sleeping bag.
The evening wears on. We’re supposed to be resting, now that all of us are settled for the night, but we can’t stop chatting.
I can tell by Beck’s body, in its freedom of movement, that his parents are inside, keeping to themselves, not wanting to be feasted upon by the mosquitoes. Here, among us Others, he is comfortable in his gayness, his squat wide as he pokes at the embers.
“I wish we had marshmallows,” says Liv wistfully.
“Shit, I wish we had a side of beef!” Beck says while rolling his sleeves up to showcase his defined deltoids. We all eat our crackers and wince at the familiar blandness of dry goods. “If the Renovation never happened, I’d probably be out, having a burger on a patio somewhere.”
“I love that!” Liv exclaims. “Jeez. What would we be doing if the Renovation never happened?” She hums a bit and rubs her chin pensively. “Around this time, my wife, Erin, and I would probably be chasing down our son, Myles, trying to get him into the bath. What about you, Bahadur?”
Bahadur sits up and begins shyly making a pile of rocks in the triangle made by their crossed legs. “I don’t know.”
“Come on! What’s more boring than bath time?”
Bahadur exhales. “I . . . would . . . be . . . most likely . . . surfing porn.” We all burst out laughing. I am rolling on the ground unable to control myself. “I had a roommate in the shelter who had data on their phone. I traded an hour of internet every week for doing their laundry. Hey—you’d watch porn too if you spent all day sorting garbage.” We laugh even harder.
Bahadur raises an imaginary wine glass, and we join them in a toast. “To porn. God, I miss porn.” Everyone clinks imaginary glasses. Bahadur looks at Firuzeh and says, “Okay. Your turn.”
Firuzeh laughs and almost spits out the cracker she is munching on. She waves her hands in embarrassment. We all egg her on. “Okay, okay.” She wipes her mouth and flicks crumbs from her lap. “Prepare to be underwhelmed, everyone. Okay. I would be home making a Loving Kindness meal for myself.” We all look confused. “It’s because I was trying to heal from a really bad breakup, coming out of a co-dependent relationship. So I had to learn to make a meal just for myself. I had to learn how to date myself. I had to learn how to love myself.” A pregnant pause ensues, with everyone’s faces slowly evolving from deep compassion to withheld laughter. We begin to spit out our guffaws. “See? I told you it was underwhelming!”
Liv adds more logs to the fire and our faces get brighter. “It’s not that it’s underwhelming. It’s more like, it’s funny because of how hard Queer relationships are, and how much we worked at them and worked on ourselves. I miss those conversations. I miss processing.” We laugh even harder.
Firuzeh adds, longingly, “Perhaps something a bit more exciting would be the workshops. Back at the centre I would head these workshops and sometimes they’d schedule them for Fridays, and then you’re stuck in a room full of Trans youth who’d rather be at a club picking up than with you learning about writing theatre scenes or learning movement. But then each of them would get up, turn on some music, dance to their favourite song, and you could see how important these sessions were. It’s as though performing in front of each other, being seen, is medicine. We’re told by straight people that we’re lying to ourselves, that we’re not real. There’s something about being onstage, using o
ur imagination. Instead of being invisible, we are the stars of the shows in our head. And that keeps us alive.”
There is another pause and my face gets hot with the weight of everyone’s gaze on me.
Beck breaks the silence. “Kay. Queen Kay. What would you be doing tonight if the Renovation never happened?”
“Well . . . what day is it?” I sit on a log and cross my legs, longing for a pair of heels.
“It’s Friday,” says Beck.
I look up at the moon, this almost-full moon, and I imagine a spotlight. “I would be performing.” Everyone leans in, curious.
“Where?” Beck asks.
“Probably the cabaret space at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre. That was my usual place on Friday and Saturday nights. Epic on its Thursday club night and Glad Day Bookshop for the Drag Brunch on Sunday mornings.” Everyone’s eyes are full of wonder, full of memories. “Around this time, I would be heading into the dressing room. The place would be lousy with queens. Beside me, Fanny, my old roommate, would be powdering down her face and bitching.” Bahadur stands and looks at me. It’s a moment in which we can hear each other’s thoughts. Just as Firuzeh said, performing in front of each other, being seen, is medicine. It is time to imagine. It is time to play. To be the stars of our own show in our heads. We nod in agreement.
Bahadur sits next to me and begins powdering their face, pretending to be Fanny. Everyone laughs, but it triggers something inside me. It’s like Fanny is sitting right next to me. The forest around me fades into the underground dressing room of Buddies in Bad Times Theatre. I am no longer sitting on a rotting log; I’m sitting on a rickety plastic chair with bras hanging over my backrest. I look down, and I am no longer wearing my runaway clothes covered in chicken shit. I am wearing my signature red-leather strapless pencil dress, the one I found for $14.99 at the Goodwill.
“Girl, tell me the truth. What is the difference between a sixty-five-dollar highlighting palette and two-dollar glittery eye shadow?” Fanny would say to me, her face framed by a halo of bulbs and a mirror.
I look at Bahadur and play along, my heart aching. “Nothing, I guess.”
“That’s right. Nothing. All you gotta do is use a big-ass blush brush and you’re off to the races. Thank you, dollar store. No thank you, Sephora.” As I am outlining my lips, Liv gets up from the fire and walks into our imaginary dressing room, turns one of the dead lightbulbs on our mirrors clockwise, and it is alive again.
“Evening, ladies.”
“That’s ‘goddesses’ to you.” Fanny corrects her playfully.
“Well, goddesses. You’re up in five.” Liv exits and heads upstairs.
“Thank you,” I say, as I lean forward to turn my head upside down and crown myself with my cherry-coloured wig. Before I put my red evening gloves on, I help Fanny into her dress and zip her up. She does the same for me. We do one last pat-down of any sweat in our armpits and head up the two flights of stairs to the cabaret space. We can hear bass music pounding against the concrete walls. When we enter, the place is alive with shirtless men. Quartets of gender-Queer folks book-ending each other and swaying to the beat of the music. A couple of leather-dykes kiss in the corner. Three baby Queers wearing rainbow suspenders take selfies on the dance floor. We pass the bar. Beck gets up from the campfire and joins in on our improvisation. Behind the bar, he wipes down a glass and nods in our direction.
“Hey, Queen Kay! Hey, Fanny! Are you up soon? Have time for a shot?”
“We always have time for a shot!” says Fanny.
Beck pours us all tequila shots, including himself. We toast each other, down the golden liquid and suck on limes. Liv interrupts us before heading to the tech booth.
“Goddesses? Places, please.” We wince at the strength of the tequila and nod at Liv at the same time. We head to the stage. The light changes, and Fanny gets the mic. I take my place in the wings.
“Happy Pride, bitches!” The crowd goes wild. Fanny scowls and she assesses the crowd. The spotlight is so powerful that she has to shield her eyes with her flat, gloved hand. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh.” People giggle. Fanny spots a handsome bearded man in floral printed briefs. “Yes, please.” More giggles. “And you, ma’am?” Firuzeh gets up from the campfire and points to herself.
“Me?”
“Yes, you.” Bahadur reaches out their hand and brings her into the scene onstage. Firuzeh is suddenly onstage with Fanny, nervously covering her face. “What’s wrong, darling?”
“I’m so nervous!” she says.
“Let me guess.” Fanny puts her fingertips to her forehead like a psychic. “You have just been through a breakup.” Firuzeh nods and giggles. The audience laughs. “And you’re here to celebrate Pride and maybe . . . perhaps . . . if you’re lucky . . . you’re hoping to find a meaningful relationship?” The crowd guffaws. “I mean, that’s where you find meaningful relationships, right? At Pride? That’s where I find my meaningful relationships: during Pride, at the bathhouse.” More laughter. Firuzeh covers her face in playful embarrassment. “What’s your name, darling?”
“Firuzeh.”
“Well, who here would like to help Firuzeh have a great Pride tonight?” The crowd cheers. “Who wants to bite her box?” More cheers. “Who wants to put a dog in her bun? Who wants to teach her the Big Finger Bang Theory?!” The crowd goes wild. “Well, beautiful Firuzeh, if I have my friend, Queen Kay, sing a song for you, would that help you get over your breakup?” Firuzeh nods eagerly. “Okay. You go ahead and have a seat among these good-looking people.”
I wait in the wing of the cabaret space, knowing my moment is coming. I go over the lyrics of the song in my head. I practise the hand movements.
“Now, who is ready for some show?” Screams. Thunderous applause. “Next up is the performer I know you’ve all been waiting for.” The audience goes silent. It’s quiet enough that I can hear Fanny’s hand rub against the handle of the microphone. I can hear her laboured breathing. “Let me tell you about her. You may know her as Queen Kay. But I know her as my sister. She told me to run. I didn’t listen. And I know every day she thinks of me and wonders if I am safe.”
I can’t resist peeking my head around the curtain of the wing. I can see Fanny’s stunning fat silhouette against the heat of the spotlight. It is a voluptuous shape achieved from our countless weed sessions and late-night poutines. My jaw drops at the sight of you in the front row, wearing the suit you wore when I met you. You are smiling from ear to ear. You sit proudly, awaiting my performance.
“And tonight, I want to tell her that no, I may not be alive. Her beau, Evan, may not be alive. But girl, thanks to you, we lived.” Liv, Firuzeh and Beck’s eyes become misty, and they hold hands waiting for me to step onstage. “Everyone put your hands together for her royal highness. Queen Kaaaaaaay!”
The crowd cheers. Liv puts leaves on the campfire to create smoke. It diffuses the light of the moon above my head. I take my place, my back to the audience, taking hold of the wall.
In the mist and semi-darkness, Liv cues a Deborah Cox song and starts the laser light show from the tech booth. Everyone is on their feet, screaming and dancing to that familiar song with the endless intro. A side light bathes my silhouette in red. The light shifts to a crisp spotlight over my head. Applause at the sight of me. When the lyrics begin, I whip around and lip-synch, looking directly at Firuzeh. She shyly points to herself and I nod my head in approval. I sing to her as if she is an unwanted romantic interest, someone I cannot resist despite having given up on love long ago. I hold on to the wall, stifling my desire for her, and the crowd howls. Firuzeh’s face erupts into blushing.
In the audience, a bearded queen twirls her skirt, revealing her fat, hairy legs. A lesbian elder dances as if it were her very own show, her audience in the corner of the bar. A Trans femme twirls a baton into the air and catches it. The beefcake in his floral briefs nods his head to the music.
As the song crescendos into a frenzy of bass beats, you begin dancing to the beat of
the music, your arms conducting a staccato symphony of Queerness. My eyes well up with tears. My beautiful Evan. My beautiful people. We are visible. We are dancing. We are fearless. We are fierce. Full length, width and depth. Our bodies at full volume. Unfurled. Unhiding. Just as the song reaches its zenith, my lips quiver the sustained final note in mock vibrato, you toss a handful of golden sparkles into the air, and we all watch the sparkles fall.
The cabaret fades away. In its place, a meteor shower streaks the night sky. We are surrounded by trees once again, the sound of crickets singing among the reeds.
We hold hands, shaking, crying. The five of us Others. History-makers. Soon to be dead. Soon to be free. Under the cosmic light show of our resilience.
11
When I wake, I sit up immediately to confirm the location of the moon. It has moved since last night. It now sits prettily in the sky to the west of us, just above the skeletal remains of a rotten cedar trunk. It is the full moon now. It is time.
Beck pours a bottle of water over the campfire’s embers, and smoke sizzles up towards the cloudless blue above. We are taciturn, considering our precious last tasks on the farm. We pack up our sleeping bags. We eat another humble meal of dry goods. Liv takes inventory of the weaponry and distributes it among us. I sit beside Firuzeh, and we load our magazines with bullets. Click. Click. Click. Each one a life we may take today. I notice Bahadur standing over the remains of the campfire with their eyes tightly closed.
“Hey, Bahadur,” I say gently. “Are you okay?” They smile weakly before picking up a stray cracker sleeve wrapper from the ground and wandering away from my concerned gaze.
Hanna stands on the porch, watching us carry supplies to the van. Back and forth. She cradles her big bosom like a bag of spoiled apples she no longer wants, her face sour with helplessness. Each time Beck passes her I can see words forming at the edges of her lips. And each time those words are about to spill, I see her catch the eye of Peter, who is scowling as always and pretending not to care about our impending journey. Beck makes his way to the van again, this time with a case of bottled water. He almost falters in his grip and Hanna steps forward. Another strong scowl from Peter and Hanna backs off, swallowing hard.
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