| It
was 1999, and the Toronto Dyke March, only
three years old, was in danger of dying.
My friend, Jenn, had gone to a Pride Toronto
meeting and left as co-chair and sole member
of the Dyke March committee. Jenn's friends
emerged from the woodwork. I was the only
bisexual.
It was as difficult
as dating. We were desperate to make the
committee seem desirable. We held a rave,
an art show, consciousness-raising workshops.
We wrote a mandate, created a manual. Each
project, served to distract us from the
crunch that loomed ever closer: the day
when we would somehow have to guide ten
thousand women down Toronto's Yonge St.
The Dyke March Committee
was invisible most of the time. It's host/parent
group, Pride Toronto, was so big, so splashy,
and such a money-maker that our little march
just sort of slipped in unnoticed. By 2000
I was co-chair with Jenn. As co-chairs,
we were like spies. Most women didn't have
a clue who we were. It was about the mission,
not the glory. No one clamoured to interview
us. No one noticed our controversies or
sought to expose them.
And we did have controversies.
At one meeting half the group quit because
of our decision to welcome transwomen in
the march. Those who left that night were
outspokenly biphobic. They viewed bisexual
women and transpeople of all stripes as
portals through which straight men would
steal lesbian space. That experience galvanized
my commitment as a trans-supporter.
I hoped that my involvement
would help make the march a more bi-friendly
place. Bi marchers (myself included) had
been subject to rude remarks, and some lesbians
literally |
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ran rather than be seen marching near us.
I hoped being in at the ground floor of
the march could improve that.
I constantly expected
people to challenge my right to be there.
We had late night debates about the word
"dyke," and what it meant, and
who could claim, or reclaim its use. I was
desperate to find a politic -- something
that would invest me with a sense of authority.
I needed to name my growing sense that Pride
Toronto was "gay and lesbian-centric."
The inclusive language of "GLBT"
was, in practice, an order of preference.
Bisexual and trans concerns were often not
even on the radar. I wanted a theorist who
could tell me: this is our problem; this
is how we fight it. I found bi writers and
theorists of all stripes, but nothing akin
to the Lesbian Theory I was encountering
among the biphobic women who seemed to challenge
my authenticity even as they abdicated responsibility
for the event over which they claimed ownership.
By 2001, my co-chair
was Corinne, another bi-friendly dyke. We
spent up to 40 hours every week organizing
fundraisers, attending meetings, filing
paperwork, and responding to emails, in
addition to our "real" jobs and
school commitments. We referred to our partners
(hers, female; mine, male) as "Pride
widows." At our peak, we were a group
of fanatics: women committed to working
beyond reason, in the face of indifference.
We were the neurotically organized. Our
methodology was obsessive-compulsive. It
was only in retrospect that I realized why
I never found the sense of authority I was
seeking. Authority was not a thing to be
bestowed or claimed, but a verb. Doing the
thing itself had become the authority.
Ms. Robinson is
a doctoral student at Regis College, University
of Toronto, specializing in sexual ethics. |
