Note from Maysie: I wrote this a week ago and posted it on Facebook. While this is a departure from what I usually post here on my blog I figured, what the hell. Plus I was inspired by this wonderful piece by Black Girl Dangerous: 10 Thing Us Queers (And the Rest of Y’all) Can Do Today to Grow a Little . Read it.

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This poem/manifesto/screed is dedicated to all my heartmates. You know who you are.

I’m not laid back, easy-going or chill. I will demand a lot of you if you’re going to be in my life as a friend, a political comrade, an ally, or a lover.

I require emotional honesty. I expect truth, kindness, humour, love, ferocity and silliness.

I will dig into my issues, I will be vulnerable, I will tell you my weaknesses/ challenges, I will describe my process, my personal and political struggles. And I will listen when you do the same.

I desire intelligence, critical thinking, tenacity and a true heart of compassion and anger, because all of these energize me and sustain me.

I’m a fighter, a righter of wrongs, a short, plump community-based grassroots super-hero. Nothing can stop me. But I can’t do it by myself.

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Dear Renata,

I don’t know anything about you, but I do know some things about abusers, the cycle of abuse, and feeling trapped in a life with an abuser.

After the “This Hour Has 22 Minutes” debacle on Monday October 24, those of us who are against your husband’s draconian right-wing policies had a good laugh for a few days. Once again, your husband made a public fool of himself, proving to us once again that he isn’t fit to run for dog-catcher, never mind be the mayor of the largest city in Canada.

But I remember.

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On the College streetcar heading to the people’s procession today, I pass Native Child and Family Services, holding an art sale. They’re raising funds, of course, for the organization, or a specific program. Toronto Police Headquarters is right next door. They aren’t having an art sale or a garage sale. They have all the funds they need.

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At Queen and University I wait for my friends at the side of a building, crouched in some stingy shade, hiding from the hot sun until the last possible moment. Around me people wear orange. I pull out the flimsy orange, brown and white scarf I bought in Chinatown yesterday. It’s too girly for me to put it in my hair, so I tie it to my purse.

The police are here. On bikes, leaning against patrol cars. I look at them and think “I remember”.

One year and two months ago. I remember.

I jot down badge and car numbers just for the hell of it.

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Part 1 June 2010

What more can I write about it that I didn’t write already?

Maysie on June 12 2010

Maysie on June 26 2010

Maysie on June 26/27 2010

So, what’s still outstanding? Some activists who were preemptively arrested are still in jail. Some of those that have been tried and released are subject to appalling parole terms that severely restrict their legitimate movements in their communities.

It seems the mass violation of the civil rights of over 1000 people was a smokescreen.

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This post has been a long time in the making.

This post is about a personal experience I had with a so-called progressive employer.

But I’m an anti-oppression educator. Silence doesn’t protect me. (that’s from a quote by Audre Lorde)

My realization that I needed to make my story (more) public happened while reading this lengthy article called White feminist privilege and feminist organizations. I had an epiphany of sorts.

Please read it. It’s a bit longer than most online articles but well worth it.

Sections of that blog speak directly to an experience I had a few months ago. I had been volunteering with a well-known leftist/progressive organization for years, then was a staff/employee/independent contractor person for about a year.

Then I was fired.

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