Watching the Canadian Olympics from Texas

I am so very proud to be Canadian at this moment.

Yes, Canada is far from the ideal state. Yes, our history is one of oppressing marginalized peoples. Yes, racisim still exists and gender inequalities have yet to be defeated...

But at the same time, there is so much that is good and beautiful about Canada.

These Olympic opening ceremonies show just some of these qualities.

Canada, like the world, is multicultural. The ceremonies make no attempt to erase Canada's colonial history. Both French, English, and mulitple Indian languages are used in the opening ceremonies. In fact, the Indian nations, who were the original inhabitants of the land of Canada, symbolically invite the world to the Vancouer Olympic Winter Games. Leaders of the Indian nations are included amongst the offical delegation of the Olympics which include the IOC president and the Prime Minister of Canada. The ceremonies recognize Canada's colonial past, but attempt to move past the trauma and oppression of colonialism, by recognizing the Indian nations claim to the land and integral role in forming the nation of Canada.

Canada takes responsibility, and by doing so, does not erase its history of colonialism.

Canada gives voice to those on the margins.

Canada accepts and celebrates difference.

Canada accepts and celebrates the many cultural forces that influence our world and the nation of Canada itself.

The world does indeed need more Canada.

Not thick, but still very attractive

Since I've been back, I've made two important realizations. Because I flew from Austin directly back to Canada, and then from Canada directly back to Austin, I think the ability to acknowledge the differences between the two much easier. As a result, here are my findings:

1) Most people here do have accents. The student population of University of Texas at Austin is mostly Texan born and raised. Something like 80% of students are from Texas. Upon my first arrival, maybe because my migration was gradual as I drove to Texas through the Midwest, I didn't notice any thick accents. Upon my return to Texas after my holiday, in which I flew directly from Regina, I do notice accents. Though not thick, a subtle southern-drawl is present.

2) The boys in the gym are hot. Much hotter than the guys at the gay YMCA in Toronto. This, of course, is not surprising. Young active men at University age are much more likely to appeal to me than older blue collar types. But still, it wasn't something I had noticed until now. Previously, I had taken the beautiful bodies around me at Gregory Gym for granted.

Back!

I'm back in America.

I survived my first term. I endured aggressive criticism of my scholarship. I negotiated the egos of faculty and other graduate students. I barely made it through the administrative nightmare of immigration and social security. I battled with entitled undergraduates who thought they deserved everything in the moon for merely handing in a paper. I learned. I grew. I survived.

Now I'm back. I'm more prepared. I know what I'm in for. I've learned from my mistakes. I've acknowledged my successes.

I'm ready.

Settling In America

After two and a half months living in Austin Texas, I have settled.

I have navigated through the bureaucratic nightmare of immigration and social security. I have managed two and a half months of an overload of reading academic books and scholarly journals. I have learned how to wade through pages and pages of complex arguments both with my sanity, and a better understanding of what I've read, in tact. I have found a small group of friends who I support and who support me as we endure the trials and tribulations of graduate school.

I am a resident of Austin and a student at the University of Texas.

There is always something lacking. More here than when I lived in Toronto. I lack a community outside of the one I have at school. My friends in my program are invaluable, but I need something beyond academic discourse and departmental gossip. What I lack is that community of gay men, academics, artists, and friends with whom I personal history that I had in Toronto.

But I can't have everything, can I? Graduate school and a community I am proud to call my home?

But I've settled. I've settled for Austin. For now...

The Meaning of Matthew Shephard

Matthew Shepard was beat severely by two young men, tied to a fence, and left to die outside of Laramie Wyoming eleven years ago.

Tonight I heard his mother, Judy Shephard, speak about the meaning of his life and death, and how it has affected gay activism and the fight for gay rights in America.

She told this story:

"The town of Caspar, Wyoming is encourage me and my work of my cause. I have old ladies, grandmothers, stopping me in the aisle of the grocery.
"I'm so suppportive of why you're doing. I have a gay grandchild" they whisper.

I say to say "Thank you very much. But please, don't whisper, say it out loud.""

Game Day

It's game day!

The stadium sits like a colliseum in the middle of the campus. Towering over the surrounding architecture, Roman in nature. It is a temple of athletics.

When I walk through campus at noon, I see the preparations for the game at 6 pm have already begun. Not just parking attendants and orange vested volunteers in charge of crowd control, but the tailgaters have also arrived.

Tailgating is a perverse version of the American family picnic. Named after the tailgate of pickup trucks where these perverted picnics take place, tailgating now has spread beyond the back end of pick-up trucks. As I walk through campus, I see, in the park space available merely fifty yards away from the stadium, event tents covering televisions connected to satellite receivers, coolers filled with ice and beer, barbecques, and a collection of lawn chairs. The families who have arrived six hours early will watch other football games all afternoon, before watching the Texas Longhorn football game that will be played in the stadium across the street.

America continues to reaffirm my assumptions about its culture: An almost religious obsession with football, family activity centered around the television, and the automobile at the center of life.

I speak to a friend as I walk through campus telling him what I see around me. "Football," he says, "is just a way to distract the masses from realizing how shitty their lives and the world around them really is."

Winning is so pure, I think to myself. It is so final. A clear, unadultered positive in a world where nothing is as good or as bad as it seems. And being a fan, tailgating, cheering your team on, is like a ritual, a prayer.

Later that night, at approximately ten p.m., the Longhorns beat Louisiana 59 to 20.

The Gods are benevolent to their Texas fans today.

Social Security Office

"I'm here fo my So-cal Suh-cur-iddy number," she says.

Class is alive and thriving in America.

Americans, true Americans, upper-middle class white Americans with homes in the suburbs and a car for each member of their household don't come here.

I scan the hundreds of people waiting with their number for their chance to see a social security officer. The white people are outnumbered one hunder to one.

The down and out, the poor, the old, the handicapped, the unemployed, the Black, the Mexican, the Asian, come here. These are the Americans America doesn't want.

As a student from Canada, I feel more foreign here than anywhere I've been since I arrived. The discrimination of class is palpable.

From the outside, I see those on the margins, here, to fight their way out of obscurity, to the heart of the American dream.

There is no security in the social climate of America.