Hi, my name is Wes and I’m almost three years old!

Ok, that’s not exactly true, my body is 36 years old. However the person everyone knows as Wes has existed for only about three years. You see, I identify as transgender and spent much of my life living, loving, socializing and interacting as a woman.

When I was born, I’m sure the doctor said “Congratulations, it’s a girl” and from that perspective the doctor was correct. My body was born female, two X chromosomes and everything (and before you ask, yes it’s been checked. I really do have XX genetics) and as such, I was raised and socialized as a girl. Well, mostly as a girl anyway.

In many ways, I was lucky in that my parents by and large left me to my own devices as I was growing up. They let me hang out with whomever I wished (boys for the most part) and I was expected to do all manner of tasks around the house, from getting the firewood to mowing the lawn when I was old enough. I was the oldest of three kids and we were expected to help out around the house, period. It didn’t matter that the youngest child was male; I was expected to learn how to help around the house and do all kinds of useful things from starting a fire in the fireplace to where the dishes go when they’re dry. In fact, all the kids (three of us in total, my youngest sibling being my brother) were expected to learn these skills as my parents simply considered them the price of living in the household.

I would like to say that I had an idyllic childhood, but I’d be lying through my teeth. My mother drank and my dad worked, a lot. Life was tumultuous at best, and downright nasty at its worst. I suppose it didn’t help that I was dealing with ADD (something I didn’t find out about till I was in my 20’s) and that as far as my parents and the school system were concerned, all I had to do was pull myself together and BOOM, all would be well.  If only it were so easy.

I spent my childhood, and in fact a large portion of my adulthood, thinking there was something fundamentally wrong with me. I knew I wasn’t like the other kids around me, and it wasn’t just because I wore glasses and had a heart condition. No, I knew there was something fundamentally different about me; I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I was pretty smart, loved to read, hated school and had a hard time physically keeping up with the other kids at times; however that wasn’t it.

As I grew older, I left the small town I was raised in and landed in Toronto, my own personal City of Hope.  It was the first time I’d ever had exposure to the ‘rainbow’ community and boy, was I shocked! I saw other girls who dressed like me, who seemed to think and move like I did.  I was able, at least on the surface, to see myself mirrored in faces around me. The tough looking butches that strutted down the street, the leather clad dykes that hung out in bars resonated in very deep places within me.  I felt like I had come home…and yet, there was still something I couldn’t put my finger on.

Looking back with retrospectively perfect vision, I can see that what wasn’t resonating was the fundamental acceptance these women had of their biological ‘woman-ness’. Granted, like every female growing up, they had absorbed images of what was acceptable and what was ‘allowed’ with respect to being a woman in society however these women had stepped outside those boundaries. By the simple act of being in love with other women, they had begun to disregard what society said was acceptable and carve their own paths. This was what appealed to me; this sense of self determination.  These women (because let’s face it, the gay men scared me for no sensible reason) embodied the boldness, the fearlessness and the sense of adventure that I wanted to have or rather, that I did have but needed to become comfortable with. Seeing these women live their lives gave me permission to start living my life the way I wanted. 

There was only one, small, tiny problem. You see, I wasn’t exactly consummately sexually attracted to women. Fact of the matter is, I rather liked men. I liked their smell, their bodies and the general way they carried themselves. I felt at home with men, comfortable and in many ways, felt like I belonged. You think this would have set off warning bells right? No such luck. I tried very hard to fit myself into the straight girl mold while at the same time, to others I looked more and more like a butch lesbian with each passing day.  I didn’t know it, but I was setting up an internal dynamic that would take nearly 14 years to resolve.

to be continued . . . . 

Wesley (or Wes as his friends call him) is a 36 yr old transman who lives in Kitchener, Ontario. When he’s not busy parenting his 6 year old son, Wes is out in the community speaking to students about his life and experiences as a transgender person. Using a combination of wit and facts, he invites his audiences to walk with him and learn about how he interacts with gender and how they can as well. 

Well, since a certain "Pierre Poutine" has been in the news of late, I have finally decided it is time to give in to Bob's persistent exhortations to write about this gooey delight we know as poutine

I say "we know" rather loosely, because I suspect I am about to introduce you to some incarnations of poutine that do not resemble the dish you might love to "dis". Oh yes, there are many forms of poutine, and I suspect that the ones seen beyond the borders of Québec are but pale imitations of what they might be. This is a story of what might be.

Yes, every small greasy spoon and hamburger joint here has its version of poutine that follows a pretty basic recipe: fries, gravy and some kind of cheese (curd if you're going to be authentic, grated if you're not). But you have to step over to the specialists if you are to appreciate the variety that can be poutine.

One such specialist is La Banquise. A staple of the Plateau Mont-Royal (one of the coolest neighbourhoods on the planet, we are told), La Banquise offers no fewer than 28 versions of poutine on its menu, often drawing a crowd such that you will need to wait in line to get in. Believe me, it is worth the wait, as the poutine taquise (with guacamole, sour cream and fresh chopped tomatoes) will attest.

I recently discovered a new kid on the block, at least one that had recently opened a branch on a block more easily accessible to yours truly. Poutineville bills itself as "poutine reinvented" and you will see why when you visit their lovely website. My recent visit led me to bring out my creative side to make my own poutine from the checklist menu, while my companion chose from the pre-set selections. A little mix-up gave me the form of potatoes he had ordered, and vice-versa, but I have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed my creation of "patates écrasées" with chicken, brie and a lovely wine sauce. Oh yes, this experience took poutine up a notch.

Higher up the old cuisine chain would be the higher-end restaurants and their forays into poutine. Le Canard Libéré and Au Pied de Cochon serve classic-looking poutines, but the fries are cooked in duck fat, making them particularly special. There was even a rumour once of the chef of Toqué! having put together a lovely poutine featuring foie gras, but you won't find this on their regular menu. Not even the little sister of Toqué!, the Brasserie T! in a box on the sidewalk next to Place des Arts lists poutine, despite many dishes accompanied by fries.

Still further up the chain, an experiment by award-winning chef Martin Juneau of La Montée de lait. I haven't tried this and it looks like the restaurant may indeed be closed, but I have managed to capture a still photo of his "poutine jenga" and a link to a short video of him explaining his creation to Urbania magazine.  Even if you don't speak French, I dare you to watch his short video and then tell me you wouldn't want to have a taste of whatever he wants to dish out.

So the question, my friends, ends up being not "Is poutine worthy of my appetite?", but "Is my appetite worthy of poutine as it can be?"

So I am writing from my sickbed... or rather my sick couch.  I forget at times that even though strong, I am not infallible.

When the body says rest, you rest.  It’s just that simple.  But it doesn’t have to be a depressing time.

Here is my favourite pick of five movies to watch when down for the day!

5 - Priscilla Queen of the Desert 

It’s fun.  It’s camp.  And I can go in and out of consciousness and still know all the lines and can see the picture with my eyes closed.

4- Kung-Fu Panda I & II

Ok.  So this is two movies, not one.  I normally can’t stand Jack Black, but as a pudgy panda who gets banged around, he’s charming.  Normally sequences of these sort of cartoons are not the greatest, but watching them back-to-back it feels just right!

3- Horrible Bosses  

Hilarious!  Loved it the first time, and still doesn’t get old.  The little guy, Charlie Day, steals many of the scenes he’s in.  Some great actors play parts in unconventional roles. 

2- Date Night 

They just make me laugh.  I have no idea what the story is most times as I lose track of the plot through waves of headaches or nausea but it still doesn’t seem to matter.  I hope Tina Fey and Steve Carrel do a sequel or another movie together.  Plus Mark Wahlberg – still as hot as ever!  I seem to always pay attention when he’s on – ain’t that funny! ;)

1-     The Italian Job  

Ok.  It’s not a funny one.  But stuff goes fast and there’s Jason Statham, Ed Norton....and OMG Mark Wahlberg!!  LOL!  It’s just occurring to me now I think I have a thing for him when I’m sick.  How funny! 

Again the plot seems of little importance but everything is moving and stealing and cunning and blowing up. I just don’t seem to care.  That and the mini car chase reminds me of the time I got that ticket from the police for using a rental mini Cooper and... Hmm... perhaps I should save that story for another day!

Now if they were to come out with a comedy movie with Mark Wahlberg playing a shirtless nurse, I’m sure I’d feel better in no time!

Nineteen years.  My god!  I know this place well.  St Michael’s hospital in downtown Toronto is a bit of a labyrinth – a rather decrepit building comprised of four wings and numerous tunnels. Having visited almost every department but maternity in my time, I know this place like the back of my hand. I feel almost at home here.

This Wednesday morning I have a ten o’clock appointment, but I’m early so I sit in the fourth floor Positive Care waiting room looking around.  Beige walls, beige linoleum, purple-flowery chairs, a few bland prints on the walls.  The overall impression isn’t terrible but clearly a gay designer wasn’t involved either.  It’s hospital blah, but in fairness a cut above some other waiting rooms in the hospital,

The fifteen chairs are arranged in two lines facing each other, which gives you an unparalleled chance to stare at your fellow patients and wonder at their stories.  Only two chairs are occupied right now – one by a young and stylish Asian, obviously gay young man in sunglasses (surely no need for those here unless it’s his idea of disguise.) In the other occupied chair sits a man who I shared the elevator up with and I would have guessed was going anywhere BUT the Positive Care Clinic.  He looked too straight, too ordinary, and with too bad hair for that. But he is a patient and there he sits waiting for his HIV doctor, just like me. Score zero for my poz-dar.

No women here today but there often are.

Time was when there was a little old lady who used to hang out in the Positive Care waiting room, a candy-striper (as opposed to a candy stripper)  I think they call those volunteer auxiliary people, dispensing tea, cookies and chat. It was nice, but left me with the impression that we were deserving of sympathy, so I wasn’t unhappy to see the service go.  Plus I don’t like tea much.

Like I said, I’m early which is generally a mistake as it seems to make no difference what time you arrive, you still have to wait.  I did get a cheerful "hi, how are you?" from the cute male receptionist when I arrived, though, which is a plus.

I don’t have to wait long today.  Nurse Rachel ushers me in to the inner sanctum – she’s newish and cheerful and polite.  I’m weighed and my blood pressure is taken  - 100 over 60 she says, that’s good.  Must confess I never bothered to learn the meaning of those numbers, but if Nurse Rachel says it’s good, that’s good enough for me. She asks me only a few questions:  have you had your flu shot, how have you been since your last visit, have you  had any broken bones (whaaa?) And then she’s out of there saying that Dr F, my HIV doctor for the last nineteen years, will be with me in a minute.

And he is. He’s a short Asian man with thick glasses.   He’s a no -nonsense type, is my doctor, not great on the bedside thing, but a real wiz, as far as I’m concerned, when it comes to HIV, and that’s what matters most to me. We don’t exactly have the ideal relationship in that treatment decisions tend to be ordained rather than negotiated, but I’m OK with that.  Treatment isn’t my strong suit, so my strategy has always been to favour the knowledge that comes from his years of medical training plus hands-on experience in one of the country’s busiest HIV clinics over my thumbing through back issues  of Readers Digest So I put my trust in him.  Given that he’s kept me well for nineteen years through thick and thin, I have accumulated a lot of faith in him.

He moves right away to scrambling through my chart. He’s flipping pages like mad, transcribing numbers to my visit records.  First things first; my CD4 is 733, down from 800 last visit (no big deal)  my viral load is undetectable. I, wanting to give at least the appearance of being a good patient, take notes.

Now I am not someone who keeps spreadsheets of my numbers – that veers far to near the good patient category for me – but I do write things down.  So I have this tatty piece of paper which records the meds I’m on now (because I can never remember their names)  and my key numbers since May 2007.  Who knows where the previous sheet is now. Anyway, I dutifully write down my numbers and a few other things he is saying.  He is working on something new now, jotting down figures which he says will give me my "risk calculation".  Risk of what, I wonder, but he’s buried in his numbers for several minutes and interrupting him doesn’t seem wise.  Eventually he looks up.  “You have a moderate chance of a heart attack” he says. "What does that mean?” I say.  It means, he explains,  that based on my weight and cholesterol and smoking record (I don’t smoke) and other factors, I have a 15.6% chance of a heart attack in the next ten years.

I’m thinking “those odds aren’t bad”. Probably not bad enough to make me want to walk -  briskly – for one hour a day – that he is now suggesting I start doing.

Discussions of my mortality, out of the blue, are a new one for my clinic visits. It throws me a bit. But then we are off on meds talk.  It’s all about my favourite side effect, peripheral neuropathy and whether it's responding to treatment and does it feel touchy or stingy and whether I should be taking gabapentin AND nortriptyline for it or just gabapentin. (Clearly I lean towards the less pills rather than more, and since these both are antidepressants besides their neuropathy-busting abilities, I’m wary.  I say "I’ll see", which usually means I won’t.)

Doc’s getting more chatty by the minute though and throwing out tips as he does a quick go round of my body parts as I sit on his examining couch.  Eat more fish. Cut out fatty food.  No pastries. (No pasties? Is the man crazy?) But then he follows it up with a compliment.  “Honestly, you’re doing pretty well for your age” he says.

And then we’re done. New scripts written, appointment made for four months time, see you next time.

Overall I rate the experience quite good. It’s an instutionalized experience, it’s true, which comes from my choice of a clinic rather than attending a private practice.  But the clinic model serves me well.  This one has a multi-disciplinary team that seems to works well together. In my time, I’ve consulted with their nutritionist, their social worker, their psychiatrist, their resident  pharmacist and their clinical trials specilaist.  The nurses are great too. In a way, it's a model of how things should operate.

 Now if I could just be a model patient.

Jaw dropping. That’s the word that springs to mind at what happens on the stage of Toronto’s Princess of Wales Theatre when the horses come out in War Horse. It’s a story of how horses – and one horse in particular  - were used in the battlefields of World War I At first we a see an awkward young foal - Joey, but he quickly transforms before our eyes in to a full grown horse. It’s a huge coup de theatre, which drew gasps from the audience, but it’s followed by one coup after another - horses ploughing, horses galloping across the stage, horses in battle, peaking perhaps with the illusion that full grown Joey leaps right off stage and in to the audience at the end of Act One.

This is truly spectacular stagecraft,  but not of the typical Broadway show variety.  This all-Canadian version comes to Toronto from Britain’s National Theatre and New York, replete with six Tony Awards, including Best Play, so it’s a quality ride all the way. What we see is not so much razzle-dazzle as a director stretching the limits of what can be done on stage within the context of approachable and engaging drama. It’s impossible not to be dazzled.

This  history of a horse who is sold to the army and shipped to the  battlefields and carnage of World War I is strongly plotted. Arthur, Joey's young owner, enlists to find him, and he does, of course in the end (it’s no secret that all leads to this) but the journey is grim for much of its running time. So family fare this is not, at least unless the youngsters can handle scenes of death, animal cruelty and extremely tense moments. But there is a heartwarming finish which will bring tears even to the most hardened eyes and ultimately this is a joyous ride, with humanity triumphing over the evils of war. But be warned - it will move you to tears, so be prepared for an emotional journey.

I haven’t mentioned how all this magic is pulled off.  For those not familiar with the show, the horses – and there are six full size animals on stage at one point, although the attention is focussed on just one, are played by life-sized puppets, courtesy of South Africa's Handspring Puppet Company.  Joey is manipulated by three actors throughout, underneath him and at his side, who soon fade in to the background, so lifelike are Joey’s movements, mannerisms and – yes – acting ability.  For Joey, is required to act throughout and it’s a clever and cleverly executed performance indeed.  In fact it’s hard to avoid suggesting he steals the show.

Not that the human cast isn’t impressive, but honestly, all pales compared to what the horses do here.  Production values are superb too – every scene is a joy to look at.  There are set pieces here where symphonic sound and lighting and superhuman feats of puppetry create illusions that yes, make the audience gasp. It is an incredibly visual show.

It’s also an absolute must see for those who can afford the Princess of Wales’ prices (look for special offers.) Gallop over and check things out, because theatre like this comes to town very rarely indeed.

The astonishing War Horse plays at the Princess of Wales Theatre in Toronto until June 30.  For tickets and information go here.