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Robinson, L.M.

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Grace, André P.

Breaking the Silence on LGBTQ Issues in Saskatchewan: An Interview with Don Cochrane

Robinson, Laura M.

Terry Goldie, ed. In a Queer Country: Gay and Lesbian Studies in the Canadian Context

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Marchand, Blaine

Mementoes 
BLAINE MARCHAND 
Ever since I began writing as a child, my poetry has explored the 
themes of solitude, love, and death. Lurking under my adolescent 
scribblings was the question of sexuality, which came to the fore in 
my fourth book, Bodily Presence. Increasingly, my poetry and my 
prose are preoccupied by differences - cultural and linguistic- in 
Canada and between Canadians and people they encounter in other 
parts of the world. This poem is from my current poetry manuscript 
The Craving of Knives. (blainemarchand@hotmail.com) 
I was taken aback when I saw his death announcement. Usually, I'm 
not surprised to discover occasionally that someone I know has died. 
In fact, this is the reason I read the obituaries every day, to keep 
track. But his: Dieudonne, Guy. I vaguely recalled some gossip two 
years ago about how he had died. At the time, I had speculated it 
must have been AIDS. According to the press, everyone in the 
community was dying of the 'plague.' Maybe this announcement 
was really an In Memoriam notice. Maybe it had been accidentally 
misplaced. No, it was an obit. 
But I was surprised by his age. 57. He couldn't be that old. 
Perhaps it was a different person. Someone with a similar name? 
My finger skimmed the details: the names of his sisters, predeceased 
by his mother. It had to be him. No hint as to the cause of his death. 
A wave of loss overwhelmed me. Why? Perhaps it was because 
I had fixated on him all these years. But why him? True, he was 
physically imposing: tall, rail thin, with a head of blond serpentine 
curls. His skin was translucent, as if your fingers could pierce it 
without any effort. I had been walking down the Sparks Street Mall 
on a humid July night. A heat wave had gripped the city like a clamp 
for a week. The street was thick with people walking to escape the 
furnaces their Centretown apartments had become. Teenagers were 
hanging out, gawking at the first ghostly forms of the National Arts 
torquere: Journal of the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Studies Association I 
Revue de Ia Societe canadienne des etudes lesbiennes et gaies 
Vol. 3 (2001) © CLGSA I SCELG 
112 I Marchand 
Centre rising from the deep pit along Elgin Street. Then they would 
break out into gangs, dispersing along the canal's banks. 
I used to do that, but now my purpose was different. I needed to 
escape the claustrophobic townhouse I shared with my mother. To 
her, I was still her "little man," a term which conjured up for me 
Buster Brown shoes, flannel pants, and a navy blue blazer trimmed 
with piping. "My little man," she would say when I was a child, and 
tug at the bottom of my blazer to make the corners sit straight 
whenever we headed out to church or to a restaurant. I hated that 
gesture, the proximity of her hand to my crotch. I would squirm, 
pull away, desperate to break free of her hold. 
As I grew more and more sullen over the years, she retreated too, 
to the solace in drink. Evenings would find her softly splayed on the 
couch, one arm fallen open, her fingers cradling the neck of a bottle. 
The TV screen cast its pearly light across the room, her snoring like 
the purring of a cat. Escape was easy. 
The city was changing. Old buildings were being pulled down 
and new boxes of glass were towering over the streets. More and 
more, I found suburbia monotonous, confining. We lived in Parkwood 
Hills where there were no parks, no woods, no hills. Downtown 
called, a promised land full of potential and a life my mother would 
have never guessed. Danger tasted sweet. 
By the canal's edge, I would linger by the clumps of lilacs or 
sprawl across a bench, waiting. Waiting for another young man to 
walk by and stop just beyond where I was. There were plenty of 
older men, but I found their fleshiness, their obsequiousness, repulsive. 
Luckily, there were guys my age too, if I waited. One would pass, 
light a cigarette, and then circle back. We'd exchange words for a 
few minutes, our eyes sizing each other up. Then we'd disappear 
beneath the arches of the Pretoria Bridge. 
Those first feeble fumblings were tentative, awkward but 
exhilarating. The way desire would fill my body, a container wanting 
to burst. I had buried my need for affection when my father died. 
But in my teens, when I first experienced sex, it became a hunger I 
fed in secret, the way as a kid I snuck cookies into my bedroom and 
relished their creamy centers beneath the privacy of my covers. 
Over time I learned the ropes. As soon as I could pass for 21, I 
hit the clubs. There it was easier. Everyone had the same thirst in 
their eyes. They nestled their beer bottles close to their chests, running 
Mementoes I 113 
their fingers along the necks, tearing off the labels. 
That July night was so humid. Cars buzzed around Confederation 
Square. The walk light refused to change. 
"Hello there." A husky voice warm as a hand hovered just behind 
my shoulder. "Do you have a light?" A cigarette curved close to my 
face. I could smell the sweetness of the tobacco, spicy aftershave on 
the fingertips that held it. 
"No, sorry, I don't smoke." I stepped sideways to a safer distance, 
out of the range of the scents. 
"Too bad, man. Might be great if you did. Smoke that is." A 
laugh jumped from his lips. His head tilted back and tendons, thick 
as rope, stretched down this long neck. He was wearing a mesh tank 
top, orange as hot embers. The streetlight cast a shadow across his 
chest, highlighted a large brown nipple. 
"What are you staring at?" 
He placed the unlit cigarette in his mouth and growled like an 
animal. 
"Ooh .. . nothing ... your shirt." I decided honesty was less 
dangerous than a lie, though I chose not to mention his nipple. 
"Groovy shirt isn't it? Makes me feel sexy. Do you think it 
does?" 
"But everyone can see your chest." I inched closer to the curb. 
"That's the idea. Advertising, man. Got a great bod, why not 
show it off? Advertisement ... the way of the future. Hey, you didn't 
answer my question. Do you find me sexy?" 
I stepped off the sidewalk and waded through the stream of cars, 
crossed the Square and headed toward Union Station. 
"Too bad man. Don' t smoke. Don't answer questions. Tete 
carn~e. Could have been the beginning of a ... " 
Cars swooshed by drowning out his final words. 
Coincidence is an amazing thing. Almost as if things are meant 
to happen. Maybe I'm obsessive, drawing links that aren't really 
there. Unearthing patterns to make sense out of the chaos of life. 
And death. 
A month after the obit about Guy, there was one for his sister 
Lucie. "Apres une lutte valiante," it stated. She must have been ill, 
Cancer? Lucie, I noticed, was the same age I was. Four years younger 
than Guy. Funny, I could have sworn she was even younger. 
Where he was tall and blond, she was short, dark and heavyset. 
114 I Marchand 
Her hair had been shagged, as the popular style was then called. I 
first met her at a new club, Ray's Place. It was above a greasy 
restaurant on Rideau Street and drew a young crowd convinced it 
was exploring the edge, the boundaries of experience. One, we 
believed, that most others in this gray, middle-aged civil-servant city 
didn't know existed. 
As I approached the only table in the club with an available seat, 
I heard her speaking French to a friend. 
"Est-ce cette chaise gratuite?" My voice stammered as if I was 
coughing. 
She burst out laughing. "No, but it's discounted by 50%. The 
reduced price is on the orange tag on the back." 
"Huh?" 
"The word is 'libre' not 'gratuite.' You mean free as in available, 
not as in having no cost.'' 
"Oh, sorry." 
"Yes it is. And so are we. Sit down before someone else does. 
At least you are harmless looking." 
She winked at the woman sitting next to her, pulled out the chair. 
"I'm Lucie. This is Danielle." 
I wanna take you higher, the voice of Sly Stone trebled through 
the room. 
"Excusez.'' 
The two women moved to the packed dance floor. High, high, 
higher warbled in vibrato. An amoeba of colored lights floated across 
her face and clothes. Lucie smirked from the dance floor, walked 
toward me. 
"Venez!" 
She took my hand and led me toward Danielle, whose slight body 
moved delicately as a ribbon falling through air. The three of us 
spun around each other. At the end of the song I made my way through 
the gyrating bodies, back toward the table. 
"Non. Restez ici. II faut danser. Vivre, c'est danser." 
After thirty minutes we returned to the table. "Je suis tellement 
fatiguee." Lucie's hands shuffled her layered hair. 
"Et mouille," added Danielle mopping her face with her sleeve 
and fanning the fabric of her shirt. 
"Let's go back to our place and have a swim," Lucie suggested 
as much to me as to Danielle. 
Mementoes /115 
"But I don't have my bathing· suit." 
"Swim in your underwear. Or borrow my brother's. He lives 
with us." 
On York Street, we pulled into a spitfire-red mustang. Dangling 
from the rear-view mirror were a rosary, a Shiva, and a necklace with 
a pendant of a raised fist encircled by the female symbol. The car 
sped along Rideau, across the Cummings Bridge, and down Montreal 
Road. 
The brakes seized and the car spun around in a sharp 45-degree 
angle toward the entrance of Notre Dame Cemetery. Lucie stepped 
on the gas. The car lurched forward. 
"What the hell!" I braced myself against the front seat. "What's 
this? A shortcut?" 
"Mais non!" 
Lucie let out a cry, the kind a small animal makes when it is 
struck by the wheel of a car. 
''J'ai decide de visiter rna mere." 
"Lucie! Mais non!" 
Danielle's voice filled the car with reproach. A heated exchange 
erupted in French. I couldn't follow it. Through the window, rows 
of tombstones surged past. The car slowed, halted. Lucie's door flung 
open and she hurtled down along a row of graves. Danielle turned to 
me, shrugged, quietly pushed open the door, and slipped out after 
Lucie. 
I felt I was an intruder on this private moment. I debated sneaking 
away, catching a bus home. But something held me pinned as the 
sound of crying seeped through the open window. 
My father was buried here somewhere. A jumble of memories 
were all that remained from that day ... numbing cold ... my father's 
gray casket ... a lurid green carpet ... earth mounded .. . the grave like 
a wound. 
Danielle stepped out of the shadows, leading Lucie by the hand. 
She motioned for me to move out of the back seat. As I stood by the 
door, Danielle folded Lucie into the vacant spot tenderly as one places 
a fragile ornament into tissue. The tips of Lucie's fingers rubbed her 
eyes over and over. Her head was so low it almost rested against her 
knees. Danielle lay her back on the seat but rather than unfolding, 
Lucie pulled her knees up toward her chest. Her sobbing was low 
and deep. 
116 I Marchand 
Danielle swung in behind the steering wheel. She motioned for 
me to get in. As I sat down, her hand reached over and gently stroked 
mine. 
"Her mother died in the spring." Her voice was paper thin. Of 
its own volition, my arm extended back toward Lucie. My fingers 
stroked her hair with a tenderness that surprised me. I had never 
been so intimate with a woman. 
The engine drowned out Lucie's weeping. The steering wheel 
arced to the left and we slowly moved toward the gate, the gravestones 
flickering in the moonlight like memorial candles. 
Danielle leaned toward me. "Sa mere s'est tuee." 
The words sent a shock of electricity through my body. My father 
in the bathtub ... his legs webbed with hairs ... his penis floating dark 
and thick ... an arm fallen over the side ... a red gash at his wrist. I 
clenched my fists, reopened them, rubbed them along my thighs. I 
tilted my head back, closed my eyes, willing the images gone. As 
numbness set in, I lowered my head, opened my eyes and focused on 
the lights of traffic flowing along Montreal Road. I gave myself up 
to the motion of the car. 
We turned, then turned left again, and crawled down St. Laurent 
Boulevard, took the first right and headed up a small incline. Lucie 
had grown quiet. Was she asleep, drawn into the motion of the vehicle, 
a technique used to calm cranky infants? And the plight ofthe parents 
who have not yet learned to decipher nuances in their offspring's 
cries. 
As the car halted before a townhouse, Lucie raised her head. 
Strands of her hair clung like weeds to her face. She looked out from 
them as if she was emerging from under water. 
"Revenons a nos moutons." A guttural laugh broke like a bubble 
from her mouth. 
Danielle turned to Lucie and quickly brushed aside the wet strands 
of her hair. 
"Cherie, la piscine nous attend, n'est-ce pas?'' 
Posters of Robert Charlebois, of Louise Forrestier, and of Les 
Beaux Dimanches were tacked onto the walls of the living room. 
Lucie went upstairs. Footsteps moving across a floor were followed 
by opening drawers and then a quick skip down the stairs. She entered 
the room waving a maroon bathing suit like a flag. 
"La voila. 11 sera si cute avec ~a, eh Danielle?" 
Mementoes I 117 
"But it's so small. I couldn't." 
"Pis? Don't be so English. It's only us." 
I excused myself and went upstairs and into the bathroom. I 
wedged myself into the suit. The fabric was an elastic constricting 
my thighs. On my way out, I noticed Lucie had left the light on in 
the bedroom. I strolled over to shut it off. A drawer hung open from 
a bureau. 
When I came back into the living room, she had already changed 
into her swimsuit and was huddled over the coffee table. 
"Tiens." A cupped hand reached out toward me. 
"What's this?" 
"Rien. Sugar. It will give you energy and dreams." She popped 
a cube into her mouth. I followed her lead. 
Danielle joined us, three towels over her shoulder. With a smooth 
gesture, she pulled one off and swung it around Lucie's neck, drew 
her close and kissed her with a loud smack. I walked over and put 
my arms around them and gave them each a chaste peck. The two 
burst into gales of laughter. 
Out of the patio doors we went, through a gate in the back fence 
and onto the deck of a pool. It was empty except for a row of lounge 
chairs, their ribs of plastic the bleached bones of beached whales. 
Then it happened. As I leapt from the diving board my body 
ascended higher and higher into the air as if it were entering heaven. 
Then it began to plunge. It split a stone that was liquid, that shattered 
into a thousand fragments as I passed through it. Somewhere in a 
nether region of my brain panic set in but the caress of the wet 
brilliance made me want to stay embedded in it forever, like the 
remains of the martyr in a glass reliquary. Rawness seized my lungs. 
I needed air. I burst through the surface gasping, a trail of silver nails 
dripping from my hands. 
My head rotated, my eyes trying to decipher where I was. In the 
'v' edge of the comer of the pool, Lucie and Danielle sprawled across 
the deck, their feet dangling into the water, their arms in the air as if 
they were about to rise like the dead from a grave. 
At the other end of the pool, the door to the yard was ajar. Through 
it, a soft light beat in rhythm with the blood pounding in the artery at 
the base of my neck. The pulse was a voice calling to me to come to 
it. I pulled myself out of the water, walked toward the glow. I was 
surely on the path of illumination, of salvation. 
118 I Marchand 
I slipped through the curtain billowing out of the patio doors like 
a cloud, mounted the stairs and went into the bathroom. At either 
end, against the pale wood of the open drawer, red slashes of cloth 
were stigmata in the palms of Jesus. In the centre of the room white 
sheets, the dug out hull of a boat waiting to ferry me safely across a 
sea. I lay down, crossed my arms over my chest, shut my eyes, ready 
to meet my Lord. 
His breath was upon my face, his soft words tumbled in the well 
of my ear. I reached out to him. 
"Quelle surprise! Quelle delicieuse surprise!" 
My eyes popped open. Kneeling by the side of the bed was Guy. 
His tongue wet his lips, a cat staking a bird. My heart beat against 
the trap of my ribs. 
He moved closer, the stubble on his chin scraped my cheek as if 
it were pumice cleansing me. A fragment of recall, like a flake of 
skin, tore loose, floated before me. My father and I when I was 
seven ... in the living room ... rough-housing on the green carpet ... I 
thrash about in his arms, raise my head ... his comes down .... the 
sharp drag end-of-the-day growth across my face painful, yet 
comforting as calloused hands ... I roll over and push my face against 
his wanting to do it again. 
"No. Don't do that!" My father's voice a slap. 
He straightened himself, shook out his trousers and his shirt, left 
the room. I lay on the floor, my hands pressed against my chin to 
contain and hold the sensation of his bristle. 
I bolted up in Guy's bed, my fists clenching and unclenching. 
How could I have forgotten this memory? How could I have 
submerged it? It had happened the week my father had killed himself. 
I grabbed Guy's head and dragged it against my face. Once. 
Twice. Three times. 
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Tears lubricated our faces. The friction 
of the stubble still burning. 
"Arret! Arret! Es-tu fou?" 
I jumped up and ran down the stairs, flung open the front door 
and fled, somehow making it home despite being barefoot and wearing 
only Guy's bathing suit. I have no idea how I did it, but I did. 
I ran my finger over Lucie's obituary as if I could recapture the 
life that was. I shoved myself out of the chair, away from the glare of 
the reading lamp, went down the hall into the bedroom and pulled 
Mementoes I 119 
open a dresser drawer. I rummaged among my socks and underwear 
and found it. The maroon bathing suit. 
I picked it up, cradled it in my palm like a bloodstone. I had 
always meant to return the suit but I couldn't face him. Even in 
those first years, when I knew where he lived, when I would 
deliberately walk down his street looking into the windows of his 
apartment, hoping he would pass in front of them or come out. But if 
he had, it would have meant explaining. Each time I neared his place, 
I would rehearse what I would say. I would have to sound surprised, 
natural. But though it never happened, although I never saw him 
again, I could not discard the suit. I took it with me each time I 
moved. 
I reached down, slid open the lowest drawer. Sitting there in a 
green felt pouch were a worn pair of kid gloves, a stained silk scarf, 
and a watch. My father's. I discovered them in an armoire at my 
mother's when I was cleaning out her things after she died. Odd, I 
found no photos of my father in the house. I never recall her having 
any. These three things were the only fragments of his life she had 
chosen to keep. Why? 
I don't even remember what my father looked like. He 
disappeared from my life just as I did from Guy's, never having the 
chance to explain, to make things right. Funny, but in some vague 
way the memory of Guy became the image of my father. 
Carefully I folded the maroon briefs, rubbed their sleek surface 
one last time across my face, placed them in the pouch among the 
mementoes of my father. I bent down, mounded sweaters over them. 
I closed the drawer. It rattled. 


Mementoes

Dyck Fehderau, Ruth

Suitable for Children 
RUTH DYCK-FEHDERAU 
I Ruth Dyck-Fehderau currently teaches at the University of Alberta in Edmonton. In her spare time, she writes stories and things, scores plays and things, lifts weights and things, and fantasizes about living in other lands. 
M y mother has brought me a book from the church library again. She says she brings me books because my books from class aren't suitable for children. The book she 
brought me this time is called The Compleat Housewife. It doesn't 
have any pictures. Well, except for the picture on the cover. A tired-
looking woman from olden days sits by a thick table peeling 
vegetables with her red hands and a small knife. Stacks of vegetables 
sit beside her on the table and under it. I guess she'll be peeling for 
a long time. Maybe til her hands split and ooze out the cracks like 
TheCompleat Housewife: 
Or, Accomplish' d Gentle 
woman's Companion: Pr 
eface: It being grown as 
unfashionable for a Book 
now to appear to People 
without a Preface, as for 
a Lady to appear at a Ba 
ll without a Hoop-Pettico 
at; I shall conform to Cu 
stomfor Fashion sake an 
To make a Hare Pye, ski 
n your hare, wash her, d 
ry her, and bone her; sea 
son the flesh with pepper, 
salt, and spice, beaten fin 
in a stone mortar; do a y 
beetjuice dripping from a knifecut. When 
I ask my mother why this book is for 
children if it doesn't have pictures, she 
says because it has Virtue. I ask her if 
books with Virtue can't have pictures, and 
she says I'd better just be quiet already 
and read it to her while she peels bushels 
and bushels of tomatoes for canning with 
her red hands and a small knife. 
I show the book to my friend Darlene and 
we make the Salve For a Sprain. Except 
we don't know what burgundy pitch is and 
we don't have any frankincense so we use 
Vaseline and her mother's most expensive 
perfume instead. We pretend that Darlene 
torquere: Journal of the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Studies Association I 
Revue de la Societe canadienne des etudes lesbiennes et gaies 
Vol. 3 (2001) © CLGSA I SCELG 
oung pig at the same tim 
e in the same manner; th 
en make your pye, and la 
y a layer of pig and a la 
yer of hare till it is full; p 
To make Salve For a Spr 
ain, Take a quarter of a p 
ound of virgin-wax, a qu 
arter of a pound of franki 
ncense, half a pound ofBu 
rgundy pitch; melt them w 
ell together; stirring them 
expensive perfume. 
Suitable for Children I 125 
has a sprain in her bum and I have a sprain 
in my stomach. And I rub the sprain salve 
into her bum and she rubs it into my 
stomach until it's all gone and there isn't 
even any salve left to put in the little bottles 
in her doctor kit. Then Darlene says that 
smelling like expensive perfume might get 
us big spankings. So we sneak out to their 
cowbarn hayloft and play in the hay until 
suppertime so that we smell like cowbarn 
and hayloft and not too much like 
One day, when I get home from school, my mother says not to read 
to her. My father killed a pig today. Behind the barn this afternoon, 
while I was in school, he pulled a knife across the pig's throat and 
opened the door to its hallways of blood. And then he hung it up by 
its back legs from a barn beam and let the blood fall out into a pail 
sitting on the barn floor. He took the saw that he uses to cut wood 
and the pig that was alive before and he sawed it in half the long way. 
Then he hauled it into the house, a half at a time, and heaved it up 
onto the kitchen table. Now he has taken the sharpest knife in the 
house, sharpened it some more, and is cutting the pig that was alive 
before into pieces the size of my mother's roasting pan. My mother 
says I have to go into the kitchen and keep him company. 
I watch from the door. I want to be anywhere anywhere else in the 
world even the principal's office even the backroom closet where 
For a Distemper got by a 
n ill Husband, Take two p 
ennyworth of gum dragn 
ant, pick it and clean it, a 
nd put it in an earthen pot 
; put to it as much red ros 
e-water as it will drink up 
my father's new leather strap hangs beside 
the old leather strap he wore out. When 
he reaches for the saw to pushpull it across 
an extra-thick bone, he sees me and asks 
me what I did at school today. The push-
pulling jiggles the table . I watch a 
stopandgo stream ofleftover blood wiggle 
to the end of a sawed-off pigfoot and 
somersault slowly into a red-brown puddle 
on the floor, and I think about the pig that was alive before, and I tell 
him that today I learned about people who are Vegetarians. 
126 I Dyck-Fehderau 
drip drip 
He laughs. And gently, lovingly, slips the sharpest knife in the house 
under a thick warm strip of muscle and silently, smoothly slices it 
away from the bone. When the warm weight of it slides against his 
bare arm his fingers slowly move up to brush brush brush gently 
across it his eyes close halfway his cheeks and bald head turn 
pink his mouth opens halfway his upper lip gets shiny when his 
tongue drags slowly across it I've never seen him feel this good 
before. 
So. I tell him I will read to him from the Bible. I walk into the 
kitchen, reach behind him and take the Bible down from the corner 
shelf beside his usual chair at the table. 
drip drip 
And moving into the farthest chair away from him, I open to Leviticus 
11, and I read: 
drrri 
"The Lord said to Moses and Aaron, 'You must not eat the meat of a 
pig or touch its carcass. Whoever touches its carcass will be unclean. 
Do not defile yourself by any of these creatures. Do not make yourself 
unclean by means of them."' And I drop the Bible and run away, 
knowing that he will not chase me with his bloody hands and drip 
red-brown blood through the house. 
In the picture on the cover of The Compleat Housewife, a dead rabbit 
To make a fine Hysteric 
Water, take zedoary, roo 
ts of lovage, seeds ofwil 
d parsneps, of each two 
ounces, roots of single pi 
ony four ounces, of mist/ 
etoe of the oak three oun 
swings from the ceiling very close to the 
tired woman's head, its front paws almost . 
brush brush brushing velvet across her 
forehead. 
Her feet are hidden by a bunch of dead 
birds and a big dead red lobster. Oh, 
there's a puppy watching her. And it's 
alive. But it's not eating the dead birds on 
the floor. Puppies eat dead birds, you know. They do it all the time. 
Maybe this puppy knows that if it eats the dead birds, it will be next 
on the dead animal list and will be hung up by its back legs to swing 
Suitable for Children /127 
from the ceiling and brush its fur across her forehead. Or maybe it 
knows it will get a very very big spanking too. 
*** 
The next week, my mother brings me another book, even though I'm 
still reading The Compleat Housewife to her. It's called How to Tell 
Your Children About Sex: A Guidebook for Christian Parents. It 
doesn't have any pictures either. I'm supposed to read it alone, my 
mother says, but I show it to Darlene up in my bedroom the next 
Sunday afternoon. Quietly we read it to each other and try to 
understand. It tells us that when our children turn nine or ten or 
eleven, it's time to tell them about sex. And that what we should do 
is send our husbands away for the evening and let the girls come into 
the room when we change the diaper on their younger brother and 
show them his Genitals. Darlene asks if Genitals are like the Gentiles 
in the Bible. I tell her I don't think so, but we check the dictionary 
just to make sure. 
The dictionary says that Genitals are human Gonads. 
So. We look up Gonads. And there's a little picture. Genitals must 
be a boy's things. I know all about a girl's things, but I don't have a 
baby brother to look at so I've never even seen a boy's things. Darlene 
whispers that she hasn't either. So we put our heads under the blanket 
so no one can hear us whisper, and we decide to investigate Genitals 
and spy on our older brothers. 
That night, I go to bed at 9:30, but I take The Compleat Housewife to 
bed with me and put it under my back to make sure I stay awake even 
when my eyes are closed. At 10:30, when I hear two of my brothers 
A Plaister for Wonns in 
Children: Take two oun 
ces of yellow wax, and a 
s much rosin; boil them 
half an hour, stirring the 
m all the while; skim th 
em well, and take it off 
and put to it three drac 
hms of aloes, and two s 
come up the stairs and close their door, I 
climb out of my bed, pull up my 
nightgown so I don't trip on it, and tiptoe 
quickly down the green hallway carpet to 
their bedroom door. I can hear people 
moving around downstairs behind me and 
I know that if anyone sees me spying at 
this door I will get the worst spanking of 
my life. My bum still has sore places from 
128 I Dyck-Fehderau 
the Leviticus spanking and our second batch of Salve For a Sprain 
isn't helping at all. Quietly quietly, I turn my brothers' door handle 
and push open the door the smallest, teeniest crack. I listen for 
footsteps on the stairs behind me, I crouch to make myself small, 
and, through the doorcrack, I watch. 
My older younger brother climbs into bed and takes his clothes off 
under the sheets, throwing his pants and t-shirt out so they land on 
the floor. I can't even see his legs let alone his Genitals. And then he 
lays back and fastens his eyes on my older older brother undressing 
in front of him. My older older brother glances sideways at the door 
but he doesn't see that I have carefully opened it a tiny bit, I don't 
think he sees. His arms reach back to pull his t-shirt over his head 
and then down to push off his jeans. But when it comes time to take 
off his underwear, he turns slowly to face my older younger brother. 
A Salve for the King's E 
viZ: Take a burdock-roo 
t and a white lily-root, w 
ash, dry and scrape them; 
wrap them in brown pap 
er, and roast them in the 
embers; when they are so 
ft, take them out, and cut 
off the bum or hard, and 
His back faces me and when the underwear 
slides down his legs onto the floor, all I 
see is his bum. An ordinary e v e r y d a y 
bum. Like Darlene's bum when I put 
Salve For a Sprain on it except bigger. And 
then he gets into bed and curls up slowly 
like a spoon close behind my older 
younger brother. Four nights in a row I 
spy on them and every night I see exactly 
the same thing. Just an ordinary everyday 
bum. Just an ordinary everyday bum. Finally, I give up on my 
brothers. 
And decide I have to spy on my father. (This might not be such a · 
good idea.) 
He's the last one in the family to go to bed every night, so I have to 
stay awake longer. The first night, I fall asleep and wake up in the 
morning with a long bruise on my shoulder from where The Compleat 
Housewife dug into it. But the second time is better and I stay awake. 
After I hear him drag heavy feet up the stairs and into his bedroom, 
hear the door close behind him, I climb out of bed, pull up my 
nightgown so I don't trip on it, and tiptoe quickly down the green 
Suitable for Children /129 
hallway carpet to his bedroom door. I try hard not to think about the 
new leather strap in the backroom closet as I quietly quietly tum the 
door handle and push the door open the smallest, teeniest crack. 
Listening for noises behind me, I crouch to make myself small, and, 
through the doorcrack, I watch. 
He undresses slowly, slowly, like a tired old man. First, he unbuttons 
his denim shirt with his red sandpaper hands. When the shirt slides 
off his shoulders, he pulls in a sharp breath as it rubs over the scar 
from a long ago accident. Then come his jeans. He unzips, pushes 
them down to his knees, and he lands heavily on the bedside chair. 
Slowly, he bends forward to pull the jeans off the hook of his foot, a 
low growlsound falling from his mouth. And then all that's left is his 
underwear and socks, and I have a clear view of his front. But just as 
he's about to slide his underwear off he reaches inside the front of 
them straightens up turns to look at my mother asleep in the 
bed his eyes close halfway his cheeks and bald head tum pink 
his mouth opens halfway his upper lip gets shiny as his tongue 
drags slowly across it All of a sudden, I forget about the new 
leather strap and think of warm pigmeat, and I have to tum away 
quick quick, without seeing anything. I don't even make it to the 
stairs before bringing up and up and up. 
One two three all the bedroom doors open just like that. 
I am too sick even to feel guilty. When my brothers and my father 
complain about the smell of all the bringup, my mom tells them to go 
A Cure to Stay Vomiting 
: Take ash-leaves, boil t 
hem in vinegar and wate 
r, and apply them hot to 
the stomach; do this ofte 
to bed, that I'm bringing up there on the 
green hallway carpet in front of her 
bedroom door because I was coming to 
wake her up and tell her I am sick and need 
something for my stomach. I'm so 
relieved that I bring up even more. 
*** 
When I go back to school, Darlene meets me after school like always. 
As we walk home she tells me that she's not allowed to play with me 
anymore because my dad shot her dad's dog the last time he was in 
130 I Dyck-Fehderau 
the mood. But she promises to send me secret notes about new doctor 
games I can play by myself. I give her a hug goodbye and when I do 
she whispers into my ear that she saw her brother's Genitals. She 
says the word like she owns it. Genitals. And she even saw him pee 
out of his thing. A straight thin stream like it poured out of the end of 
a straw, she says, like it poured out the end of a drinking straw. 
*** 
All quotes are taken from Eliza Smith's The Compleat Housewife: 
or Accomplish' d Gentlewoman's Companion: Sixteenth Edition, With 
Additions. 1758. London: Studio Editions, 1994. 
Thanks go to Workshop West Theatre and Guys in Disguise, especially 
to Ron Jenkins (director) and Daniela Vlaskalic and April Banigan 
(actors) who performed a version of this piece at Loud 'N Queer 
2001. Their input was invaluable. 


Suitable for Children

torquere 
Journal of the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Studies Association I 
Revue de Ia Societe canadienne des etudes lesbiennes et gaies 
torquere is published by the Canadian Lesbian and Gay Studies Association I 
torquere est l'organe officielle de Ia Societe canadienne des etudes lesbiennes et 
gaies. 
Editor I Directeur 
John L. Plews (University of Calgary) 
Managing Editor I RMactrice en chef 
Heather Zwicker (University of Alberta) 
Book Review Editor I RMactrice associee pour les comptes rendus 
Katherine Binhamrner (University of Alberta) 
Creative Submissions I Soumissions des oeuvres de creations 
Kathryn Payne (George Brown Community College) 
French-Language Submissions I Soumissions de textes franfais 
Claudine Potvin (University of Alberta) 
Secretary I Secretaire 
Rachel Warburton (University of Alberta) 
Treasurer I Tresorier 
Garrett P. J. Epp (University of Alberta) 
Editorial Board Members I Conseil de redaction 
Rick Lee (Rutgers University), Christoph Lorey (University of New Brunswick) 
Production Assistant I Assistante a Ia production 
Marge Hayes (University of Alberta) 
Website Manager I Directrice du site ''Web" 
Mo Engel (University of Alberta) 
Advisory Committee I Comite consultatif 
Gamal Abdel-Shehid (University of Alberta), Barry Adam (University of Windsor), 
Douglas Arrell (University of Winnipeg), Glenn Burger (City University of New 
York), Heather Cameron (York University, Freie Universitiit Berlin), Sheila 
Cavanagh (University of Western Ontario), Dianne Chisholm (University of 
Alberta), Dennis Denisoff (Ryerson Polytechnic University), Lee Easton (Mount 
Royal College), Gloria Filax (University of Alberta), Terry Goldie (York Univer-
sity), Nathalie Kermoal (Directrice du journal Le Franco), Rosalind Kerr (Univer-
sity of Alberta), Christoph Lorey (University of New Brunswick), Michael 
MacKinnon (University of Winnipeg), Robert K. Martin (Universite de Montreal), 
Anna Pellatt (Athabasca University), Claudine Potvin (University of Alberta), 
196 
Nasrin Rahimieh (University of Alberta), Sharon Rosenberg (University of 
Alberta), Eric Savoy (University of Calgary), Debra Shogan (University of Alberta), 
John Stout (McMaster University), Gerard Theoret (Cornish College), Janice 
Williamson (University of Alberta) 
Aims and Scope 
torquere seeks to publicize scholarly and creative work on topics concerning queer 
aspects of Canada and its social, political, material, and textual culture, or on queer 
topics outside Canadian Studies by scholars conducting queer research in Canada. 
We welcome a diversity of approaches from a wide spectrum of areas - from 
Sociology, History, Political Science, Anthropology, Education, the Sciences, 
Business, Law, English, French, Modern Language Studies, Cultural Studies, 
Native Studies, Women's Studies, Philosophy, Drama, Film and Media Studies, 
Religious Studies, Religion, Music and the Fine Arts. torquere also welcomes 
previously unpublished creative writing and visual art by and about Canadian queer, 
lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered people. We are particularly interested in 
work that seeks to play with conventional forms and genres in ways that are 
innovative and challenging. 
Objectifs 
torquere se propose de publier des articles scolaires, des nouvelles, des poemes et 
des dessins et photos portant sur les dimensions sociales, politiques et textuelles de 
Ia culture queer au Canada. On publiera egalement des articles ecrits par des 
chercheur( e )s en etudes lesbiennes et gaies aux universites canadiennes mais qui 
travaillent dans des domaines de specialisation autres que les etudes canadiennes. 
On est ouverts a des approches diverses venant de toute une gamme de champs, tels 
que Ia sociologie, l'histoire, Ia science politique, l'anthropologie, Ia pedagogie, les 
sciences, le commerce, le droit, les etudes culturelles, les etudes autochtones, les 
etudes feministes, Ia philosophie, le theatre, le cinema et les media, les sciences 
religieuses, Ia musique et les beaux arts. On aimerait recevoir aussi des textes de 
creation et des photos et dessins qui n' ont pas encore ete pub lies ailleurs et qui 
presentent un point de vue queer, lesbien, gai, bisexuel ou transgender. On 
s'interesse surtout a des oeuvres innovatrices. 
Information for Contributors 
Submissions may be written in English or French. Please send scholarly submis-
sions in triplicate to the editor (John L. Plews, Editor, torquere, Department of 
Germanic, Slavic, and East Asian Studies, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB, 
Canada T2N 1N4 I e-mail: jplews@ucalgary.ca). Essays should follow the format 
outlined in the MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers (Fifth Edition). We 
require footnotes, not endnotes. Preference will be given to manuscripts between 15 
and 25 pages. Please send creative submissions- poetry, short prose, photography, 
cartoons - in triplicate to the Editor (John L. Plews, Editor, torquere, Department of 
Germanic, Slavic, and East Asian Studies, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB, 
Canada T2N 1N4 I e-mail: jplews@ucalgary.ca). Creative submissions must not 
exceed 12 pages. Manuscripts should not have been published previously. Authors 
of accepted manuscripts will be expected to forward a copy of their work saved to 
disk (ffiM-forrnatted WordPerfect 9) along with one hard copy. Because all 
submissions are refereed blind, please include a cover note giving your name, 
address, telephone and fax numbers, email address, and the title of your work. 
Please include an SASE. 
197 
Note aux auteur(e)s 
Les articles et les oeuvres de creation soumis a Ia revue torquere doivent etre 
rediges en anglais ou en franyais. Les articles scolaires doivent etre envoyes au 
directeur (John L. Plews, Editor, torquere, Department of Germanic, Slavic, and 
East Asian Studies, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB, Canada T2N 1N41 courriel: 
jplews@ucalgary.ca) en trois exemplaires. Tout article doit suivre le modele MLA 
decrit dans le MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers (Fifth Edition). Les 
notes seront placees en bas de page. On publiera de preference des textes et articles 
de 15 a 25 pages. Priere d'envoyer les textes de creation- poesie, nouvelles, 
photos, dessins- au directeur (John L. Plews, Editor, torquere, Department of 
Germanic, Slavic, and East Asian Studies, University of Calgary, Calgary, AB, 
Canada T2N 1N41 courriel: jplews@ucalgary.ca) en trois exemplaires. Les textes 
de creation ne doivent pas depasser 12 pages. Seuls les textes qui n' ont pas ete 
publies ailleurs seront acceptes. Si Ia revue accepte I' article soumis, I' auteur( e) 
devra foumir une copie sur disquette (IBM formatee, WordPerfect 9) et une copie 
imprirnee du texte. Tous les articles et les autres textes seront Ius par un lecturlune 
lectrice anonyme. On vous prie de faire parvenir vos documents en y joignant une 
lettre de presentation qui indique vos coordonnes : nom, adresse, numeros de 
telephone et de telecopieur, couriel. On vous prie d'envoyer sous le meme pli une 
enveloppe pre-affranchie. 
Subscription Information 
torquere is published annually. Members of the CLGSA receive torquere with their 
membership. Subscription rates are as follows : $60.00 (CDN) per year for regular 
members; $30.00 (CDN) per year for students; $75.00 (CDN) per year for 
institutions. For more information about membership with the CLGSA please 
contact the association's treasurer (Robert W. Gray, Secretary/Treasurer, CLGSN 
SCELG, 354-1755 Robson Street, Vancouver BC, Canada V6G-2B7 I e-mail: 
rwgray@telus.net). torquere is a member of CELJ, the Conference of Editors of 
Learned Journals, and CALJ, the Canadian Association of Learned Journals. 
torquere is able to offer reasonable advertising rates. 
Renseignements sur l'Abonnement 
torquere parait une fois par an. Les membres de Ia SCELG reyoivent Ia revue grlice 
a leur cotisation : les droits seront de $60.00 (can) par annee pour les membres 
reguliers et de $30.00 (can) par annee pour les etudiants et les chercheur(e)s 
communautaires ; le prix a payer par les institutions sera $75.00 (can) par annee. 
Tous ceux/toutes celles qui voudraient devenir membres de Ia SCELG sont pries de 
s' adresser au tresorier de Ia SCELG (Robert W. Gray, Secretary/Treasurer, CLGSN 
SCELG, 354-1755 Robson Street, Vancouver BC, Canada V6G-2B7 I couriel: 
rwgray@telus.net). torquere est membre de Ia CELJ, et de la CALJ. Les tarifs de 
publicite sont disponibles sur demande. 
198 
Acknowledgments I Reconnaissances 
For ongoing support, the Executive and Members of the CLGSA I SCELG; for 
technical support, Aimee Morrison and the Technologies for Learning Centre, 
Facu1ty of Arts, University of Alberta. 
Cover Credits 
Image © Terry Malanchuk. Cover design by Jaroslaw Malanowski, Mo Engel, John 
L. Plews, and Heather Zwicker. 
Printed by Quality Color Press Inc. I lmprime par Quality Color Press Inc., 
Edmonton 
© Canadian Lesbian and Gay Studies Association I Societe canadienne des etudes 
lesbiennes et gaies 2001. All rights reserved I Tous droits reserves. 
CN ISSN 1488-5182 
http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/-torquere 
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