Don’t Let Fear Drag You Down

Written for the class "Public Relations Advanced Writing"

The night is cold and finding the Blue Moon Lounge on the dark and deserted Gottingen Street has already proven to be an adventure. Entering the bar, we push down a narrow flight of stairs until finally reaching the coat check. What appears to be a hefty woman lumbers over greeting us and tells us to enjoy the show. She turns around and heads back to a group of rather tall women. On closer inspection, one notices strong jaw lines and Adams Apples on the women, which range in appearance from scary to oddly attractive. They are men in drag and they are proud of it. Before long the show starts.

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Natasha, one of my high school friends, as well as my girlfriend and me, sit at a table with Dr. Chris Frazer, a professor of Latin American History. He is one of the last acts.

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At one point in the night, a bald man in a blonde wig and black cocktail dress leans against my table and lip-syncs Beyoncé’s If I Were a Boy. The irony is striking, but the visual has the desired impact. I tense up. He slowly pulls off his large curly wig and his shaved head is revealed. The illusion of femininity is destroyed, but a new one takes its place. He is the epitome of accepting oneself no matter what people may think. He chooses to embrace his desires and his lifestyle and by removing his wig he also embraces himself. He is not hiding anything, but putting everything out there despite fear of judgement. The performer takes a step back and then returns to the stage where he collects tips from the line of individuals offering money. As the song ends he donates his collection to a local social rights organization fighting for gay rights in Halifax.

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This act strikes a chord with me. More than anything else, I admire his bravery. He is being true to himself and though I find no desire to wear a cocktail dress, I can understand how he must be feeling: free, liberated, and perhaps a bit scared. In 2008, Statistics Canada found that one in 10 hate crimes were committed as a result of sexual orientation and of these 56% were violent. Considering a survey from the same organization reported that only 1.7% of Canadians were admittedly gay or bisexual, it seems that these individuals were being targeted. Despite Canada legalizing gay marriage in June 2005, homosexuals coming out to friends, family, and community still face the fear of discrimination. Their bravery in the face of this, present perfect examples of being true yourself in the face of oppression.

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Throughout my life I have met many of these brave individuals, but I grew up with two of them and their stories remain ingrained in my mind. In high school, I had two groups of friends. The first were all agnostics and the second were all Baptists. I tried to avoid inviting these two groups to the same events as fights would regularly break out amongst them. Each group had one girl that stood out. In their own way, they were both leaders with strong personalities and stronger opinions.

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The agnostics had Meagan. She was a guy’s girl, the kind that you could invite to the theatre knowing that you’d be able to watch an action movie, pay only for yourself, and not call anyone the next day. Her coming out story begins on our first Thanksgiving home from university. I had invited my agnostic friends over to reminisce and just before they left, Meagan brought me up to my bedroom, sat me down, and took a deep breath. The silence was deafening.

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“I have something to tell you,” she said as she pushed her short brown hair out of her face. I leaned back in my desk chair for a moment and then leaned forward.

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“You’re a lesbian,” I blurted out expecting the comment to break the awkward silence and garner either a laugh or a quick denial.

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Unblinking, Meagan nodded with a smile. “Yes.”

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I don’t remember my exact response, but it included five questions beginning with, “Did you kiss a girl before me?” and ending with, “What do you think about the girls in our graduating class?” She answered them in a good-natured way and then headed home leaving me astonished. That night I cried for the first time in five years.

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I didn’t feel betrayed nor did I judge her in anyway. It was just an overwhelming realization that everything you knew was slightly different than you understood it to be. After learning something that carries so much magnitude, I was left to adjust my view of both personal history and social justice. That night, my view of homosexuality and all issues related to it were altered and solidified. Previously, I believed that compromise was necessary and gay civil unions were the right answer. But how could I believe that my friend, whom I had known since elementary school, didn’t have the same rights that I enjoyed. The idea seemed preposterous.

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This was not the end of Meagan’s coming out story. Though I was the last of our friends that she had come out to, she still had to tell her parents. Months went by without any word between them until a rumour started to go around our small hometown. She went home that weekend and revealed her sexual preferences to shock and discomfort. Her father refused to talk to her until the following night when he came down from his bedroom and sat next to her on the couch.

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“So, do you think Angelina Jolie is hot?” he asked testing the water.

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She responded, “Hell, yeah.” He laughed and left. In his own way, he was showing that he accepted her. I know that Meagan was scared telling her parents and I admire her for facing that fear.

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My Baptist group of high school friends had Natasha, the sort of no-nonsense Christian that growing up in a small town to very conservative parents created. Her faith was only eclipsed by her eccentricity, which regularly expressed itself in unconventional ways. Two years went by after Meagan came out and in May 2007 I went home for Easter. Natasha was bringing home a girl that resembled a surprisingly cute boy. When I arrived home after the three hour drive with the pair, I told my parents that I thought that Natasha was coming out of the closet this Easter break. They scoffed, suggesting that I was reading too much into her short hair cut and transgendered friend. There was no way that two of my best girl friends would come out. In a graduating class of 70, we had already had our 1.7%.

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Natasha never mentioned her sexual preference on the trip and I lost interest. A few weeks later she messaged me on MSN. We talked idly for a while until she let me know that she would be visiting in a week. I asked the reason for the sudden trip and she explained that it was Halifax Pride Week and she would be attending with some friends. Our MSN conversation unfolded:

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JEFF DEVILLER says: So... I have to ask. It doesn't matter and if you want you can lie and a good person wouldn't ask, but I'm a curious person... do u like girls?

NATASHA says: Lol. I was waiting for you to ask… and yes I do

JEFF DEVILLER says: I KNEW IT!!!

My response wasn’t ideal in hindsight and there is no justifying my less-than-sensitive reaction. She came that weekend and stayed the night. We talked and hung out like we were in high school. She explained that once she realized she wasn’t straight she had told a few of her ‘queer friends.’ She had waited until Easter to tell her parents. However, prior to coming home her mom called her and asked her outright.

“I was very startled and didn’t really answer,” she recalled, “which was an answer in itself.”

A day later her father called asking the same questions. “He told me that nothing was going to change the way they felt about me, and they were still very proud of me even though they don’t really agree with it.”

On the ride home for Easter she wasn’t worried that they would react poorly when she officially came out, but she felt the awkward silence that filled the car. Her friend provoked my suspicion, which was all part of her coming out plan. She is now the Vice President of the LGBT Society at Saint Francis Xavier University. Despite embracing her identity, she told me, she still worried that people would stereotype her.

“I still feel worried whenever I tell someone new that I’m queer,” Natasha explains. “You never know how people are going to react and it’s a good way to get instantly stereotyped. I want to be known as Natasha, who likes biology and hiking, not as Natasha, the queer girl. Being queer is only a part of who I am as a person.”

Natasha had to face her parents and conservative friends and tell them she was something that they felt was a sin against God. However Natasha never faltered and faced them with bravery, being loyal to her self identity. It was in support of Natasha that my girlfriend and I found ourselves at the Blue Moon Lounge. Months after she came out, she returned to Halifax for the Annual Coronation Ball, which is a large gala event in which two drag queens are named “Imperial Crown Prince and Princess.” Natasha invited my girlfriend and me to the pre-show.

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This man singing Beyoncé reminds me of the importance of being who you are despite the world and reminds me of how brave my two closest friends are. Perhaps it wasn’t the song that inspired me, but the act of singing it. Truly embracing ones identity in the face of potential judgement is a sign of bravery that all homosexuals must have and all heterosexuals must aspire to. These two girls in my life are my inspiration as I see this bravery in both of them and aspire for my own bravery to be myself against the odds.

A Dollhouse Built With Love

From the April 2008 issue of the Cobequid Check Up

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In 1931, an eleven year-old Donald Mackenzie and his seven siblings faced the loss of their mother. It was during the depression and their father had already warned them that this Christmas “Santa is hard up.”

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At the local Rexall Drug Store in Oxford, NS, anyone who spent over a dollar received a raffle ticket for a dollhouse. The people in Oxford knew of the Mackenzie’s loss and many put Don’s sister Dorothy’s name into the raffle. On Christmas Eve, the owner of the Rexall Drug Store came to the Mackenzie’s door and told them they had won the dollhouse. On Christmas morning, Don and his sister, with wagon in tow, went to the store for their Christmas miracle.

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This is just the beginning of Donald Mackenzie’s story. Now 89, Don sits in the Cobequid Community Health Centre Foundation Office patiently waiting as I organize my notes and fetch additional paper from my desk. He wears a black leather jacket over a white button up sweater and a sharp red tie. Though his hair is now white, his spirits are still high and the man exudes a certain gentle energy.

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Don served in World War II. He was part of the North Nova Scotia Highlanders and was in France on D-Day. During his five years overseas, he attended the party of a group of girls. Originally the party was for wounded soldiers, but when the men got sick, the girls invited soldiers from the local YMCA and surrounding bases. At the party, he met a girl named Jean, 17. The two spoke briefly and the following day he was invited back to the house to eat supper. The couple who invited him happened to be Jean’s parents.

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At 21, a few months before the war ended, Don had a weeks leave to go to Britain. While his buddies explored the city and visited the local pubs, Don married his soul mate, Jean.

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After the war, Don returned to Canada with his war bride. He joined the RCMP as a civilian and became a Finger Print Technician. The couple lived in Dartmouth, but when their apartment was robbed, they moved to Ontario. When they retired Don asked Jean whether they should move to Florida, British Columbia, or Nova Scotia.

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He smiles as he recalls her answer. “Oh, give me Nova Scotia,” she said. At the time he thought it was a strange choice, but reflecting on it now he admits it was the right one. “You couldn’t get a friendlier place,” he says.

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If you recognize the name of Don Mackenzie it’s probably from the Chronicle Herald article that appeared in December 2007. At age 65, Don began making a dollhouse for a little girl. With Christmas three weeks away and a family too poor to buy presents, Jean knew Don would not be able to say no when she asked him to help the family out. Since this humble beginning, Don has built 36 dollhouses and sold zero. Each dollhouse has been given to a hospital, a care facility, or a child living in his neighborhood.

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Jean was the reason he built that first dollhouse. Seeing the family, Jean knew that her husband would be willing and able to grant the girl’s Christmas wish. As he continued to make the dollhouses for charities and local families, his wife would help by making curtains and offering suggestions.

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“If I built furniture too big or too small I heard about it,” Don recalls. “Sometimes I would make windows too big. I wanted to just throw them out, but she would say, ‘No, we’ll just make the next house bigger.’ She was good at that.”

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Each dollhouse is handcrafted by Don and takes three months to make though he admits that these days it takes a bit longer. When asked how he starts, he doesn’t hesitate explaining, “I just keep cutting wood.”

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On occasion Don has built dollhouses with a particular model in mind. While living in Ottawa, a young minister asked for one of Don’s dollhouses. Don replied, “If you get married, and have a daughter I’ll make you one.” Years later, when the minister had a daughter, Don already had one made based on a picture of a farmhouse that the minister grew up in.

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Jean passed away this year and is survived by the couple’s two children, two grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren. Each of Don’s three great-granddaughters has her own dollhouse. He gave his latest dollhouse, his 36^th, to the Cobequid Community Health Centre to be raffled off in memory of his wife.

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This dollhouse wasn’t his first and it certainly won’t be his last. As I shake his hand, he considers the future. “I might get a few more made yet,” he says. “I think I’ll stop when I get 95 years of age.”

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He volunteers to sell tickets at Superstore as we take his picture with the farm house style doll house and as he leaves the office I can’t help but think that Don didn’t just give us a dollhouse. Don offered us a lesson in charity, love, and kindness and gave us a legacy of a war bride, her soul mate, and a town that took a little time to help a family on Christmas.

Doubt or Faith

From the February 2007 issue of Focused Press

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I’m a PR Student, but whenever I have the chance to take an elective with a more unique focus I take it. Last semester I took an Anthropology course called “Prehistoric Societies,” which was about early humans and their progressive development to present day people. This semester I chose “Christian Traditions,” which is a history of the Christian church. I find the course very interesting. Just recently we learned about the reformation including such characters as Luther, Erasmus, and Zwingli.

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But this course, with the information it contains, is opening my mind and has brought me to question my own faith, Catholicism.

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I believe in Jesus with all my heart, but I question the accuracy of the bible and, even more, I hesitate when hearing varied interpretations of the bible. Jehovah’s Witnesses, for example, believe blood transfusion is bad based of a handful of scriptural quotes, which in all likelihood were badly translated cooking warnings. Because of this belief, dozens of children have died unnecessarily refusing blood transfusions. Where did Jesus say to give up on your children? Where did Jesus say that in two thousand years Christians shouldn’t be able to share their blood through amazing medical advances? He didn’t. Jesus didn’t say that. So, how accurate is the bible after two thousand years and countless revisions and translations. What was lost? What has changed?

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Breaking it down in my own mind Jesus, as controversial as he was and still tends to be, had a fairly simple message. To me, it reads as: “Love everyone, put God first, don’t judge, and do good to your fellow citizens.” And that’s good. That’s what this world needs. Killing is bad. Discrimination is bad. Judging is bad. We are all equal in the eyes of God. And I don’t know where we went wrong.

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My doubt is not based on the spiritual nature of the church. I continue to believe that there is a God and that Jesus is one of the most influential, righteous men to ever grace the earth. Was He God? That’s not a matter of logic, but rather of faith and faith is not chosen, but rather it is given. Faith is a gift and for those of us who do not naturally come by it, faith is a journey.

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I find that my faith has had its peaks and valleys. At one point I wanted to be a priest. At another I had a bizarre problem with whether or not I’d like heaven. (If there’s nothing wrong how can we appreciate eternal goodness?) As I struggle with my current doubt I’ve begun to wonder how much longer this yo-yo will continue. And happily, I’ve found my answer.

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I was in church last Sunday and a man sitting across from me seemed to be having a spiritual struggle of his own. His head rested in his hands and has face was construed in a confused glare. In my mind he seemed to be going through the same sort of doubt I was going through. And as I telekinetically consoled his spirit the answer to my question donned on me. Perhaps not the answer, but certainly a conclusion that appeared to make sense. Being Catholic… being any faith is not a declaration. You can’t just say, “I’m a Christian,” and let it be. The answer isn’t that simple. Faith is a question, that throughout our lives we attempt to figure out. Churches are there to guide us, but the journey is our own. It has valleys and mountain peeks. Being Christian is the process we all go through to find our conclusion.

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I still doubt, but that’s okay. It’s okay to question now and again. It’s okay to be thrown off balance. As long as you keep trucking along you’re on the right path. The yo-yo never stops. Life is just complicated like that.

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See you next month.

Dreams of Sicily

From the November 2004 issue of the Unofficial Unorthodoxed Newsletter

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Do you think your dreams are trying to tell you something? I don’t know. I dream quite often and I wonder what dreams really are? Some say it’s your subconscious trying to tell you what’s really going on. Some think it’s just your body pulling together random events and thoughts from your day to make random images as you sleep. Others believe it’s the supernatural, giving you a window into your future.

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Have you ever had one of those dreams where you realize it’s a dream? Those are pretty cool. And there are always the falling dreams and the slow motion dreams and those dreams where you’re trying to call for help, but you can’t say anything. Those suck. Sometimes I dream in movie format and sometimes it’s a cartoon. Sometimes it’s not even images, just feelings and emotions.

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When I was young I had two recurring dreams, both of which were incredibly weird. In one I would swim through a swamp and talk to these two cartoon sharks. When I would get out of the water I was completely green. I don’t know why, but this dream kept me up night after night. I was really scared of turning green.

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The other one was of this dog who had finger handcuffs in his mouth that when you’d put your finger in them it would cut your finger off.

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I had an unusual dream just recently, a very vivid dream of running through the streets of Sicily naked.

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These dreams are all pretty bad, but you’d be surprised at what my worst was. It was about three weeks ago and I still remember every second of it. It was at Drumlin in the parking lot. A misty evening and realistic to every level. The specifics are unimportant, but it was perfect in every way and accurate to every detail. It had everything I could ever want in life and put it within my grasp. I faced fears that in real life I was always too afraid to encounter and I did it in the same way I would if I could. Woven into the dream I found true happiness and cried with joy and praised the Lord out loud for giving me such luck. Not a scary dream at all you might say.

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That morning when I woke up I was satisfied for once in my life. Happy that what needed to be done was finally completed and the repercussions of these actions would continue to radiate happiness for a very long time. I was happy in those blissful moments before truly waking up. And when I woke up I was angry for I realized that it was just a dream.

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Nightmares are not only your fears, but also can be giving everything you’ve ever wanted and then mocking you since you can not have it. Maybe dreams are just one of God’s little mysteries. Maybe it’s better we don’t know what they are. Maybe they’re just little reminders in our everyday life that anything is possible.

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Oh and Sicily is a very nice place to visit and I suggest it for any of your vacations.

The One

From the February 2007 Issue of Focused Press

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There is a scene in West Wing that defines my Public Relations beliefs.

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Josh is working for the Vice President at the time and, on the advice of a friend, goes to see the New Hampshire Governor who is running for President. He is told that the man is “the real deal.”

Josh goes to Sam, a lawyer friend of his, and tells him that he is going to see Governor Bartlett. He asks Sam to come with him, but Sam is at work and can’t.

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Josh asks, “If he’s the real deal do you want me to come and tell you?”

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Sam replies, “You have a poor poker face. If he is the real deal, you won’t have to tell me.”

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At the speech, Josh is stunned by the well spoken Governor, who when asked by a cow farmer about a milk tax that he supported, bluntly said, “Yea… I screwed you on that one” and then continued to explain why he did it.

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Josh rushes back to Sam, who is in a group meeting with rich oil clients. Outside the window, Josh points to his smiling face. Seeing this, Sam stands up and leaves the meeting, quits his job and becomes Deputy Communications Officer for the Governor who eventually becomes President Bartlett.

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It’s that moment in my life, watching that scene in a fictional world play out, that I decided I wanted to go into public relations. I know it sounds bizarre, but it’s the idealism that gives me my passion for the field. It’s the possibility of finding that person or organization that is the “real deal.” When you finally do what you were meant to do and you are representing someone that will make a difference in the world. We are all waiting for one of us to point to our face and smile so that we can find peace in knowing that we are ready for the challenge of our lives.

Love, I Think

From the February 2007 Issue of Focused Press

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As I wait at the bus stop in the dark heading out to pick up the latest Sims Games for my girlfriend, I wonder what love is. Can it be found in a one night stand? Will it reveal itself before our time runs out? Is it forever or fleeting? Very deep questions, I must say, for a bus ride.

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I consider those that I have “loved” in the past. I once had a huge crush on a girl who eventually came out of the closet. Now, I’m dating a girl who I love, despite the fact that she drives me crazy. Love is complicated, but at the same time, it is possibly the thing that focuses the human mind more than anything else. When you’re in love you focus… you know what you want and things, despite the fog, seem clearer.

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Now, I’m not claiming to know what love is. I don’t. And I think very few of us do. What we experience is in fact just glimpses of what love truly is. We experience a fleeting glance or an ache in our heart when separated. We long for another’s embrace. But it’s far from love.

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The other day, for example, I saw true love. My grandmother moved into an old age home about 12 months ago and my grandfather, at the time, still lived at home and visited her on a daily basis. He wasn’t well himself, having had an aneurism years back and having the use of only one of his legs. Two months after she moved into the home my grandfather had a Gout Attack and was brought immediately to the hospital. I remember the first time I visited him there. He was sitting up right in bed, tubes coming from his body, and he turned to my father and asked, “Is Tessie alright?” After fifty years of marriage the first thing that came to mind after a medical emergency, is will my wife be alright. After fifty years he still had that instinct to protect her. After fifty years he still loved her.

God, I don’t know what love is, but I know it when I see it.

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He died this weekend and we miss him. But that’s another type of love isn’t it? That part of you that is lost without the affection of your other. That aching question that asks, without answer, “How will I go on without them?”

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So the question remains. What is love? Could it be that hour you take out from your evening to buy your girlfriend a much wanted present? Is it that never ending desire to care for and protect your special person? Or can it only be truly appreciated once it is lost? Whatever it is, it certainly makes life that much more interesting.

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See you next month.

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Tessie passed away two years ago this summer. They both are dearly missed and their love is a testament to the best in us all.

My Grandfather in a Nutshell

Written for the class "Public Relations Advanced Writing"

During my first year at Mount Saint Vincent University, my mother was chronically concerned that I would be homesick. On top of the dozens of care packages she sent throughout the year, she also had my relatives write me letters which would periodically pop up in my mail box. The first letter was from my grandfather – my Grampie.

It is written on a small sheet of note paper, no more than three inches by six inches. He had donated money to the Canadian Wildlife Federation and they had sent him the sheets as a gift. It was a god-ugly green color with a picture of a baby bob cat at the bottom. At the top, his name was typed “Mr. George W. Deviller” – to add that personal touch.

The note is short, simple and written in barely legible cursive. It is dated September 10, 2005. It reads:

Hi Jeffrey;

How are you doin’. I trust you’re settled into your new quarters by now and making loads of new friends. It’s exciting times all right. I trust the Mount is to your liking. Do I hear the girls outweigh the boys almost 8 to 1? I see! You guys don’t stand a chance. How I envy you.

I was in Halifax yesterday to see my doctor ‘Sergian’ about my operation 12 years ago. He gave me a good report which was comforting.

Take care of yourself, Jeff.

Love Grampa OXO

I had a black Dollarama frame empty in my desk and on a whim hung the note on the wall. As I moved six times, I kept the note and hung it wherever I called home.

It was just so… Grampie. His grasp of modern slang (‘How are you doin’) mashed with his outdated lingo (‘quarters’) captured my down-to-earth grandfather. The fact he was comforted, comforts me. His kind words at the end show the love that my grandfather had for his grandchildren. It was, however, the side note ‘How I envy you’ that struck me as both funny and strikingly genuine. It was my grandfather in a nut shell. He loved women. He was human, but his humanity made him all the more likeable.

Over the next two years, my Grampie’s and my Grammie’s health deteriorated both physically and mentally. Before long, my Grammie was put in a home, while Grampie stubbornly clung to his freedom. In 2007, my grandfather had a gout attack and was sent to the hospital. While there, my grandmother died in her bed. He passed away six months later.

Throughout his life, my Grampie wasn’t always the perfect man. However, throughout my life, he was the perfect grandfather. Nothing that I inherited from him so encapsulated the man I knew as well as this note. It hangs in my bedroom to this day.

Knick Knacks and Little Rats

Written for the class "Public Relations Advanced Writing"

I sit on a Queen-sized bed shoved in the corner of the bedroom I share with my girlfriend. The room is painted an awful asylum-white except for the yellow mold growing in the corner. Bleaching it is on the top of my ‘To Do’ list.

To combat the lackluster white, the walls are covered in an assortment of shelves filled with knick knacks collected over the past few years. The head of a wooden giraffe, I purchased as an anniversary present, hangs on a hook by our mirrored closet doors. I remember being concerned by the sheer quantity of mirrors that fill the apartment, but they have proven to be quite a convenience. These mirrors double the room’s size, while cutting down on the time my girlfriend and our roommate spend in the bathroom.

A varnished shelf holds a wooden block puzzle that will never be attempted, a row of portraits of each of my girlfriend’s cousins, and a large figurine of the Red Baron. The ornament was purchased for my sister by an ex and was plucked from the garbage to find its place on my shelf. I adore Snoopy. Above the shelf hangs a black rose, a symbol of my girlfriend’s dark sense of humor.

The walls are crammed full of our furniture and even now the room can be suffocating. Two bureaus, one brown and one white, take up most of the wall space. In one corner sits a rat cage large enough to fit a Labrador Retriever. Usually buzzing with the tell-tale sounds of our three rats nibbling on puffed wheat, the cage is ominously silent. It regularly gives off the faint smell of urine. Since the cage was cleaned recently, I sniff and relish in the pleasant lack of odor.

While sitting, I hear the muffled sound of my girlfriend in the bathroom across the hall. She is reassuring our three rats as she gives them their weekly bath. I imagine Sophie, an albino rat, is probably timidly sitting at the edge of the tub, while Ada, a gray-hooded rat, sticks her head playfully into the water with Daisy, a tan rat just reaching puberty, following her every step.