The Edumacation of Trixie

Education is a theme that seems to be coming up a lot more frequently lately, and I'm beginning to suspect that the universe is prodding me to re-reconsider the subject.

Way back in the days when grade 13 existed in Ontario's school system, I had to make that crucial, terrifying choice about what to be when I grew up. I always use the metaphor "grabbing a swinging vine" to describe that feeling of panicky ambivalence I had, knowing an important choice had to be made on someone else's timeline. I lacked (and envied) the certainly of a few of my school-mates with talents and passions for music, acting or science. Although I loved art, and had decent marks and abilities in both fine and theatre arts, I was unconvinced that I possessed enough of that creative spark that would push me past self-doubt. That year I had a sketchbook full of 10/10 marks: I could draw, but seemed to need to be told what to draw. And my art-loving journalist father gently couselled me that it was difficult to make a living as an artist of any kind. At the time I knew he was right, because I was so easily convinced.

By the way, my first recorded ambition was "fancy lady", printed in my mum's tidy block capitals in the School Years scrapbook she kept for/about me. I believe I was referring to the bejewelled-and-feathered creatures I had seen riding elephants in the circus when asked that "what do you want to be?" question at age 5. This did not seem relevant or helpful when I was 18.

The enthusiasm I showed for Hamlet as I rambled on about the themes of death and decay in Denmark to my mum one afternoon prompted her suggestion that I would make a good English teacher. I had never thought of it. It was one of my strongest subjects, and that year I had one of those take-no-shit teachers that I loved and respected all the more because other students called her a bitch. She told me she thought I would make "a fine English teacher". It was settled then. So I applied to UWO, and two of its affilliate colleges; I was in no hurry to move out of my parents' house, and agreed that it made good financial sense to attend university in my hometown. Kings' College offered me a good scholarship and I accepted. I was a bit shocked by the huge bronze crucified Jesus sculpture on the main building; I had apparently glossed over the Catholic history and culture of the college in favour of small class sizes. Despite a very unpleasant and rigid priest who was my philosophy 20 prof, I really liked the small community and still had access the main campus courses and amenities. I successfully completed a double major honours degree in English and History - solid teachable subjects - and spent a year or two in the pre-education society.

It was 1994 when I graduated, and though I had enjoyed my student life, I was desperate to live without assignments, essays and reading lists. A friend's mom got me a good-paying hospital switchboard job in Toronto, and I was happy to live independently in a tiny bachelor apartment tucked behind the hospital, a block away from the super-gay intersection of Church and Wellesley. I volunteered a little at Jarvis Collegiate, but found it a bit discouraging at the time. I worked, joined a gym, made friends, went dancing and shopping like a good little twenty-something as I quietly and tentatively learned about the gay community I was so close to.

I figured myself out for sure with the help of my first girlfriend, and did all the coming out stuff like telling friends and family. No problem with the friends: lots of support and and a few "I kinda wondered" responses. The parents were a different story. I was desperate to reassure my bewildered, angry mum and remember saying "I'm still the same person, I'm still going to be a teacher...", even though that was yet another thing I was questioning. Dad was dismayed, open-hearted and very conflicted. I was (and still am) lucky to have a brother who was my tireless ally in the difficult years that followed.

The joy of self-discovery and the exciting newness of finding my way into a new world was of course tempered by sadness and alienation, but I knew I was growing stronger, and was proud of myself for being truthful. At this time, there was a lot of animosity between the provincial government (it was the hateful Harris years), and the teachers' unions. Every night as I rode my bike past the Queen's Park legislature buildings on my way home from my switchboard shift, I thought about how much conflict and negativity toward educators seemed to be a part of the job of teaching. I tried to imagine dealing with my new queer identity in a school environment, and I hate to admit it now, but I was afraid of coming out all over again, and assumed it would be something I would have to do over and over with each new class, each year. I remembered what high-school students said about teachers whose personal lives, or even personal style, seemed to vary from the mainstream, and fretted about the possible disapproval (or worse) from other teachers, school boards, administrators, parents. So I decided to forget the whole idea, and figure out some other path. In the meantime, I had a good job.

And then the hospital announced that they were amalgamating with 2 other hospitals, and certain support services would be merged, including the switchboard. Not all jobs would continue, so we were asked who wanted to leave with a settlement package. I still wasn't sure what I wanted for my future, but over coffee with friends, I found a direction. They asked what I liked to do if I could do anything, and my answer was "make jewellery". I said I would take the settlement package, and began planning a trip to Europe and researching jewellery-design schools. But the hospital had neglected to check with the Fire Marshall's office about their amalgamation plans. On-site alarm-monitoring was non-negotiable, and the switchboard's role in emergency communications was a big reason why the salary was good. So the deal was off, but we all still had our jobs. I was disappointed, but continued to work on making jewellery. (One of my favourite co-workers was crushed, and I still think about what a cruel turn that was for her: she wanted to get an education so badly, but felt tied to the job because she had to support her twins.) Over the next couple of years I met the love of my life, went part-time to focus on my nascent business, and then quit the job altogether. I've been self-employed since January 1st, 2000.

So fast-forward 9 years. I have a great life full of love and friends, and have had learned so much about running a creative business with many new self-taught skills. As Trixie and Beever, we've had opportunities to make and show art, and perform onstage in a variety of cabaret shows (complete with low-budget fancy-lady costumes!). The strained relationship with my parents has healed, but sadly my dad passed away early last year.

I started writing this post with the intention of talking about another new opportunity for learning, but found myself writing this much longer story. I guess I needed to. I'm still new at this blogging thing. So I'll leave the topic of our recent anti-homophobia workshop for grades 4 to 6 students for another post. I promise it will be shorter.