After Trump interrupted one of Elon’s responses, the four-year-old left his father’s side, approached Trump, and leaned in to tell him “You need to shush your mouth. You are not the president.” There is no better way to drive home the pecking order between the POTUS, the CEO of Tesla, and the four-year-old son of a man worth over 400 billion USD.

Fears that Musk bought his way into the White House and is now acting as the president while Trump plays golf elsewhere have spread widely since Musk was appointed to two economic advisory councils in 2016. After Trump’s loss in 2020, the two stayed in touch, with Musk referring to himself as Trump’s “tech support.” One of the first decisions Trump made in his second term was to make the X CEO “senior advisor to the President.” With this authority, Musk is apparently permitted to perform press conferences in the Oval Office. A privilege which, prior to 2025, was reserved for the president alone.

Barely two months into Trump’s term, and Musk has already blown through the original limitations of his position. How far he can stretch this power is yet to be seen. Does Musk have more power than the vice-president? How much of this power comes from his appointed role and how much is bought by his billions? Has anyone actually seen J.D. Vance since Trump’s inauguration? What does he spend his days doing now that Musk has made himself Trump’s right hand man? Crying?

The Tesla CEO isn’t the only one of Trump’s new appointees to make headlines. The confirmation hearing for Robert F. Kennedy Junior (RFK Jr.) to be sworn in has been making headlines for the last two weeks. This event offered US senators a chance to vote on whether Trump’s pick would be sworn in.

The hearing spanned over two days and lasted over four hours. Many senators criticized Kennedy’s track record, questioning his competence as Secretary of Health based on his past statements, such as:

2013: “To me, [mandatory vaccinations for children] is like Nazi death camps. […] I can’t tell you why somebody would do something like that. I can’t tell you why ordinary Germans participated in the Holocaust.”

2021: “A hundred percent of the people who died — the first thousand who had AIDS — were people who were addicted to ‘poppers’ […] They were people who were part of a gay lifestyle, where they were burning the candle at both ends.”

2021: “We should not be giving Black people the same vaccine schedule that’s given to Whites because their immune system is better than ours.”

2023: “COVID-19 is targeted to attack Caucasians and Black People, the people who are most immune are Ashkenazi Jews and Chinese.”

2023: “I do believe that autism does come from vaccines.”

At the hearing, Bernie Sanders questioned how RFK Jr. can claim to be pro-vaccine while selling baby onesies that read “Unvaxxed Unafraid” online, as part of his company known as the “Children’s Health Defense.” The website sells merchandise and publishes articles on theoretical “dangers” of vaccines. Some of their most recent headlines are “‘Earth-rattling’: COVID Vaccines Linked to 113% Higher Risk of Underactive Thyroid” and “Pfizer Vaccine From ‘Highly Lethal Batch’ Likely Caused Man’s Death 555 Days Later.” Kennedy stepped down as the organization’s chairman in 2023 to begin his run for president. Prior to that, he was making over 20,000 USD a week from the website.

“Your organization is making money selling a child’s product to parents for 26 bucks, which casts fundamental doubt on the usefulness of vaccines. […] Now that you are pro-vaccine, will you have your organization take these products down?” Sanders asked.

“I’m supportive of vaccines,” RFK Jr. responded.

The onesies are, of course, still for sale – with versions reading “No Vax, No Problems” being sold, despite the fact that over two-thirds of the American children who died of COVID-19 from 2020-2022 were unvaccinated.

Skeptics have also questioned RFK Jr.’s alleged stance on vaccinations based on his response to the prompt, “What would you do if you could go back in time?”

“I would avoid giving my children the vaccines I gave them,” Kennedy said. “I would do anything for that. I would pay anything to be able to do that.”

This has to be the most wasteful use of a time machine ever uttered on camera.

Despite mountains of evidence to the contrary, Kennedy states that he has never made any racist or antisemitic remarks. He also claims that he’s not, and never has been, anti-vaccine, referring to his beliefs as “pro-safety” instead.

After the confirmation hearing, RFK Jr. was successfully sworn in with 52 senatorial votes in his favour and 48 against. With his position secured, Trump states he’s going to “let him [RFK Jr.] go wild on health. I’m going to let him go wild on the food. I’m going to let him go wild on the medicines.”

Kennedy’s new platform will allow him to spread conspiracies stating that there are links between vaccinations and autism, water quality and queerness, and antidepressants and school shooters. It is no accident that Kennedy separates the “Jews” from the “Caucasians,” and that he preaches categorical biological differences between races. These beliefs will have serious social and legislative consequences for all minorities targeted. What exactly RFK Jr. will accomplish with free rein is anyone’s guess, but it’s safe to assume it will cost thousands of citizens their lives.

What Kennedy and Musk have in common is a place in the President’s Cabinet and the privileges that go along with it. This power gives both men the ability to market whatever conspiracies or businesses they so choose. That is how the White House’s platform, a nation-wide stage that can be bought through funds or theories alike, is utilized to its most effective degree. Trump has given this power to men intending to spread misinformation like the plague, and the resulting injustice will put forward policies that take America back decades in the span of four years.

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“Last time I did the show is what made me fall in love with theater,” Quinsey said. “The audience will be transported to another world, although a lot of it takes place in the British parliament.”

Iolanthe originally opened in 1882 at the Savoy Theatre in London. It was the eighth collaborative work of Gilbert and Sullivan, the duo who’s also responsible for Princess Ida and The Pirates of Penzance. The comedic operetta follows Strephon (Matthew Erskine), a half-fairy, half-human man rising through the ranks of British parliament — going from a simple farmer to an even simpler chancellor. With a little magic from his fairy aunts and mother, Strephon is able to get any bill passed in his nondescript British city.

Despite this newfound political power, Strephon is miserable. Phyllis (Aniela Stanek), the girl of his — and the whole town’s — dreams, is contemplating several marriage proposals from his subordinates. In order to regain her sole admiration, Strephon must utilize both his manhood and his fairyhood to run both the parliament and the forest.

Due to asbestos issues in Moyse Hall, this production was performed at the Plaza Theatre. As a result, the orchestra, which usually performed in the pit, played alongside the actors on stage. This had to have been the best unintentional incorporation of the two most essential parts of musical theatre I’ve ever seen. Iolanthe was worth a watch purely to see the look of ecstasy on musical director, Noah Century, as he conducted the band.

“It’s extremely demanding and stressful while it’s happening, but then when we get to it being put together, and we’re performing it … everything sounds fantastic. It’s so worth it. It’s so perfect,” Century said, watching the orchestra rehearse on stage. “They sound amazing up there, and we haven’t even started.”

“Whimsical” was the word Century thought encapsulated Iolanthe. Like Quinsey, his directing process was tinged with deja-vu; in 2018 he’d performed this operetta as a pit musician, and was now acting as the musical director.

From the costumes, to the sets, to the performances, Iolanthe was certainly whimsical. The chancellors and the fairies were all elegantly and outlandish dressed, the “peers” (chancellors) wearing flowing velvet robes and the “peris” (fairies) flowery brown dresses. While some may imagine fairies as peaceful tree-hugging ditzes, the winged girls of Iolanthe live in a magical forest where the go-to penalty for crime is execution. Meanwhile, the nondescript British town their forest is located in follows the traditional British government structure, all under the control of the broken-hearted Lord Chancellor (Samuel Valentim-Gervais), who lies awake at night, teddy bear in hand, wondering why he’s been single for the last twenty-five years.

Iolanthe was, in a few words, “sublime,” and “wonderful,” and also “brilliant” according to lead actor Matthew Erskine. His performance, funnily enough, was also sublime, wonderful, and brilliant.
Magical character work and physical comedy intertwined in a hilarious and stage-stealing performance from Erskine, who played both a convincing fairy and parliamentarian. Iolanthe had some of the most creative and original comedy I’ve seen; the whole cast executed the satirical writing of Gilbert and Sullivan with complete dedication. Erskine and Stanek portrayed star-crossed lovers, separated by the former’s fairyness, with the overdramatic flare of Romeo and Juliet and the airy goofiness of a ‘90s romcom. Their chemistry was truly a treat to witness and something I’d be lucky to see again.

Iolanthe; or the Peer, and the Peri, was, in a word to me, “spirited.” The energy in the Plaza Theatre was unmatched, the performances were energetic and fun, and the plot was fantastical and comprehensive. All in all, it was a truly unique work that managed to make an audience laugh, and perhaps hope that forest fairies infiltrate the British parliament.

Editor’s Note (20/02/2025): In the original web and print version, the article stated that Michael Quinsey performed ensemble in his second year. Michael Quinsey actually performed in Iolanthe in his first year.

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Since graduating with a degree in Marketing and Philosophy in 2012, Virani has had exhibitions in Galerie Mile End, Centre Culturel Islamique de Québec, the Art Gallery of Ontario, the Royal Ontario Museum, as well as several online exhibitions. His most recent work, The Memoir Project, is a series of 34 book covers designed using the public’s responses to the prompt: “What would the title of your imaginary memoir be?”

The following interview has been shortened and edited for clarity.

Amelia H. Clark for The McGill Daily (MD): My first question is, do you have any favorite titles and covers?

Aquil Virani (AV): That’s a little bit like choosing between your children, but the one that stands out to me was, Oops: A Memoir, just because it’s such a short title and it’s vague enough that it could mean a lot of things, and yet it has so much character.

I did, in fact, choose one for myself, which I wouldn’t say mine was my favorite, but I did choose a title for myself that was Aquil Verani: Drawing, Connections. That’s part of the fun of the project and what makes it interesting is that each of the titles are interesting, both in terms of what people choose to depict about themselves, to share about themselves, and just the different ways you can go about it right. You could do a funny one, or you could do, like a really descriptive, very telling one, short or long. And so you know that that was very fun in terms of gathering the titles, one of the most fun parts of the process.

MD: One question I would have is why did you direct this question to the public instead of friends or family?

AV: I was interested in responses from the public in general to kind of imply that we all have a story, no matter who we are. So in asking anyone “what would the title of your memoir be?” you’re kind of implying that everyone has a story, not just my friends and family. That is, whoever would see that question has a story worth telling. I don’t think just my friends have interesting stories. I think everyone does.

MD: McGill isn’t really known for its visual arts programs, and yet it does produce graduates like you who succeed as working visual artists. When you were at McGill, what was your creative outlet?

AV: Both visual art and graphic design. There are pros and cons that I constantly think about whether or not I should have gone to art school, but I really appreciated being at McGill because of a few reasons. Number one is the people you meet, right? The people I met in my years at McGill I wouldn’t have met if I went to art school. Both the specific people, of course, but also the diversity of different intellects, different subject areas, and so on.

You know, I had friends in Engineering, in Arts, in Science and so on, which I don’t think happens as much at art school. The other thing is that being in an environment like McGill is very stimulating in a certain way, and because there aren’t a lot of visual artists or graphic designers around compared to art school, you’re given a lot of latitude to experiment and try stuff in an environment where there’s not so much pressure because there’s a million other artists all better than you, right? There’s kind of a freedom and a latitude given, because it’s not an art school, right? So I actually think that helped me a lot in looking back.

MD: You still have a bunch of artwork in McGill right now, including your exhibition Copycat, which I believe you made when you were a student?

AV: Correct! I did two exhibitions as a McGill student. The first one was pronounced “mind fuck”, spelled M, I, N, D, F, C, U, K, and it was in the art lounge in the basement of Leacock. Because I couldn’t find any other solo art show done by McGill student in my research, I marketed it as the first ever solo art show at McGill. Looking back, I wouldn’t do that now, but back then I thought that was a fun idea, and I made sure to not spell the F, C, U, K, so I wouldn’t be in trouble by McGill administration putting posters up.

And then there was Copycat, which was more actually in line with the work I have continued to do, that is to say participatory or collaborative artwork that, in a way, integrates or empowers participation.

MD: The work you did at McGill; What did it mean to you then, and what does it mean to you now?

AV: I’m very lucky and privileged to still be a practicing visual artist. And part of that gratitude I have is to be able to look back at work I made and see one of two things; It’s like, “Oh, that was really early experimental stuff I don’t do anymore, but I’m glad I did it,” or to look at work I did and say “That is actually still in line with work I’m making 10 years later.” There’s work that is participatory, or that integrated public participation, and that’s the work I’m still doing. So it’s cool to look back and feel, even as, you know, an 86 year old, I’ll still be interested in that since it’s kind of baked into the cake of my personality; and maybe that’s why I was interested in it then and why I’m still interested in it now.

MD: Have you always kind of had that sense, even when you were a kid?

AV: I grew up in Surrey, it’s like the Brampton of Vancouver. And so, a large majority of my friends were Punjabi, that is to say, either sikh or not sikh, so it’s a very particular upbringing because it’s a lot of second generation kids, right? Our parents came here to Canada, and now we’re growing up watching hockey and playing street hockey, and our parents don’t understand why we’re watching hockey, but they’re happy for us, you know, even though they don’t get it.

MD: And were your parents encouraging of your art?

AV: Oh, on the whole I would say yes. I think there was a bit of pressure to become a lawyer or to become an actuary. I was good at math and sciences as a kid and in high school, but I always had this sense that being an artist will make me the happiest, regardless of what that lifestyle implies financially. I told myself as an undergrad, I’d rather be sure about happiness and make the money work, then be sure about the money and make the happiness work.

MD: I think that’s totally the only direction to go, and especially telling considering things have worked out very well. I saw that you’ve won quite a few awards. How does it feel to receive such recognition for your work?

AV: I’m filled with gratitude at any kind of external validation of my work. Basically it’s an organization saying, “we like what you’re doing, keep going.” That’s how I see it. It’s sort of like institutional cheerleading, almost. And in line with those awards and with getting older and becoming a bit more assured in what you’re doing, the meaning of awards morph or change a little bit.

Like when you’re on a hike and you see markers on a tree, a pink ribbon. When you’re younger you see the markers on the trees, and you’re like, “Oh, I’m on track.” Whereas, as you get older, it’s like, “Oh, I’m still on track.” It’s a different feeling. It’s like I’ve reached the midway point of the trail, as opposed to earlier on when you’re like, “Where’s the trail? I haven’t seen anyone. I think I’m alone. It’s getting darker, and my flashlight is out, and I’m a little scared that I’m not even on the trail.” Whereas now
because I’ve lived through those years it’s like, “Oh, I’m still on the trail.” So, it’s a little less nerve wracking these days.

MD : Did your experience at McGill shape the artist you are today?

AV: Okay, two quick answers, and then maybe a longer one. Number one, definitely yes. My
years at McGill were formative in the development of my personality and my political values. They were formative in the friends I made. Attending McGill, for me, was like going to class with a bunch of people who are smarter than you no matter what, and so you’re just there to make such good friends with just about everyone who’s smarter than you. That’s very formative; both in terms of getting to know different people with different backgrounds and different life experiences, and I think it’s humbling. I think personally higher education humbles people because you’re like “I am in this context where I am a student by definition, that means I have something to learn from others, not only profs, but TAs, not only TAs, but other students,” right? You’re in a learning mindset which breeds humility.

The other thing I’ll say when I talk about my politicization is that I illustrated for the McGill Daily. When I think back to my days with the McGill Daily, it was not only really nice to be around a bunch of other illustrators, and engaged with the world around you in the way that being a student journalist or being interested in the news does is. But, I also think that I learned a lot in discussions with friends about how everything is political, and about the different power dynamics at play.

MD: I completely agree with what you mean about the vibe at the McGill Daily and the other student papers. It’s really nice to just be around other people who are as into it as you are.

AV: Totally, I learned Photoshop from working at the Daily and so when you talk about formative
years it’s like, how would I become an artist and graphic designer if I didn’t initially learn
the basics of Photoshop as a Daily illustrator? That’s scary to think about. Maybe I’d have become a textile artist or something. Whatever time I wasn’t spending at the Daily I actually would join the crocheting club and get really into that.

There’s something, and I’m not gonna toot the horn of student journalists because I’m biased, but there’s something about wanting to learn about the world around you, and making other people’s problems your problems, that I think engaging with the news does. Reading the news and caring about what’s happening in the world forces you, in a way, to be a citizen in the world and help shape the world you want to see.

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For the last five years Launière has been creating art in almost every field at a breakneck pace. In 2023 alone she: premiered her first album on Spotify, Taueu (“in the centre”); published her first book, Akutu (“suspended”); acted in a short film, Katshinau (“Dirty Hands”); and created two stunning (click the link, you’ll thank me later) visual art pieces, Takutatinau and Ninanamapalin – My Body is Trembling. 

In 2019, Launière founded her production company Auen Productions to “interweave the presence of the two-spirited body and experimental audiovisual while drawing inspiration from the cosmogony and sacred spirit of the animals of the Innu world and express a thought on silences and languages ​​through the body.” Launière has directed seven completed performance works so far, and she has another titled Takutauat on the way. 

Earlier this October, I attended a production of Launière’s latest work, a performance art piece titled Aianishkat (“One Generation to the Next”) at Agora de la Danse theatre. The show starred Launière, her mentor Rasili Botz, and her three-year-old daughter Maé-Nitei Launière-Lessard, bringing together three generations of Indigenous women to explore the process of intergenerational pedagogy. The first notes I took after leaving the show were: “Never before have I seen such beautiful hair,” “The child did everything right,” and “Merci, bon nuit.” 

I can’t call it “hairography” because that word would cheapen Launière’s use of hair in this performance. Nor can I leave it at “beautiful” because that would leave out the significance behind its use: Launière utilized her own and Botz’s hair to explore how both trauma and knowledge are passed down through generations. 

Aianishkat began with Botz alone on stage, carefully unwrapping a blanket to reveal chunks of cut black and brown hair, which she spread across the floor as if they were ashes. Then, while braiding her own hair, she fashioned the blanket into a makeshift basket and collected what hair had been thrown away. 

Fabric is integral to this piece; most of the props were either clothing or blankets, which the actors manipulated into different forms to serve a unique artistic purpose. Launière entered the stage shortly after Botz had finished cleaning the floor, carrying a basket of her family’s laundry and sitting down to fold the pieces in an orderly fashion. Her daughter soon joined her onstage. 

Prior to the performance, my friends and I debated how a toddler could participate in this piece. We wondered how a show could run orderly when one of the actors may not understand the concept of a script or cues. I was pleasantly surprised by how perfectly Launière’s daughter performed. Although her actions were, like any toddler’s, unpredictable and spontaneous, everything she did fell completely in line with the performance. Botz and Launière easily ran with the child’s improvisations, occasionally using wind-up toys to coax her back on stage if she wandered into one of the wings. Her sheer joy at accompanying her mother on a stage littered with interesting objects, sounds, and shapes delighted the audience. She not only added a lightness to the second half of the 90 minute show, but also an air of hope for the future. 

Prior to the work, the only performance art I’d seen was a “deconstructed” production of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet performed at Toronto’s Young People’s Theatre. It was titled What if Romeo and Juliet… and had four actors each playing changing parts of the scenery from integral scenes in the original play. One actor played a fountain, squatting and flailing his arms. Someone else was a sword, standing on their tippy toes and pointing their fingers at the ceiling. Another actor played the floor.

It left a bad taste in my mouth when it came to the phrase “performance art.” The idea of a primarily improvised production, mainly told through movement instead of words, didn’t particularly interest me. After What if Romeo and Juliet…, I didn’t see how performance art could function well as a medium. 

Yet I became intrigued by Aianishkat as soon as the show lights came on, revealing Botz. I came to a realization about performance art 30 minutes later when all three actors were brought on stage together. The way they interacted was fascinating and told a story all on its own. I realized that nobody on stage was trying to act out a storyline – they were instead performing a truth. Through movement, they were acting out the process of intergenerational teaching. They visually embodied the struggle and perseverance that Indigenous communities have and continue to demonstrate in the fight to uplift their culture in the face of colonization. The power behind this performance stood in the unspoken bond between mentor and student, mother and daughter, artist and audience. 

Launière ended Aianishkat with the only spoken phrase of the performance, “Merci, bon nuit.” She said this with her daughter cradled in her arms, both waving goodbye to the audience and smiling. It didn’t feel right; I thought she should have said “you’re welcome,” because a “thanks” on my part was in order. 

We are all lucky to live so close to Launière’s work. Her next performance art piece, Takutauat, is still in production – updates regarding the time, place, and runtime will be available on her website, www.soleil-launiere.com. In the meantime, I’d implore any art lover in Montreal to treat themselves to one of her many art pieces available online including her book, visual artworks, and award-winning music on Spotify. You can also experience Launière in person at Mundial Montréal on November 19, the Marathon Festival aux Foufounes Électriques on November 20, and Cégep Saint-Laurent on November 29.

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“You don’t like tapioca?” she asked. “If I wanted balls in my mouth,” I said. “I would’ve
been straight.”

She laughed, looking into my eyes and giving me a shoulder nudge, or perhaps… Was that a shoulder caress? The beginning of a romance, the likes of which this town had never before seen? Smitten, I pursued her for four months until she showed me her saved folder of Timothee Chalamet edits. My heart was decimated. What I thought was a spark ignited by a gay witticism turned out to be pure imagination.

It’s difficult being a lesbian without a gaydar.

Gaydar is generally defined as a mythical sixth sense that predicts another person’s sexuality. The term originated in the 1980s, though queer people have been using it as a survival mechanism for many decades. Up until 1969 in Canada and 1985 in the U.S., homosexuality was illegal. As a result, before and after their existence was decriminalized, queer people had to look out for undercover police officers “playing gay” to avoid arrest. These cops would be sent into queer spaces with the intent of arresting unsuspecting queer folk. Hitting on the wrong person could get you assaulted or imprisoned.

So, how do you know the difference between an actual gay person and an undercover cop? You use your gaydar, if you can.

People tend to look for traits that signal someone as safe to approach. For queer people, this works as a survival strategy; for straight people, it’s a bragging right. There’s no need to come out to someone with a heightened gaydar. After all, they knew you were gay before you did! How are these people more confident in their gaydar than I am in mine?

The truth is, my gaydar is just too gay to work properly. It’s a function of hope. Thankfully, I don’t need to fear being arrested during romantic pursuits; I just risk getting rejected. A gay friend of mine with an excellent eye for these things stated that their gaydar can easily “recognize traits in others that I know already exist in myself.” I mulled over this strategy in the mirror, searching for my “gay” traits.

I have tried to categorize the difference between my “straight” and “gay” characteristics: a Jekyll-and-Hyde process that has resulted in two very different people. One is an evil force that would make an exception for Cillian Murphy and enjoys straight things like frat parties and dairy milk. The other one has shorter hair, cut to resemble both Stevie Nicks and Joan of Arc. She used the dating app Her for a while: a graveyard where straight men try their luck for threesomes and lonely gay high schoolers try to fill the hole in their hearts. At McGill, she tried out for the rugby team, despite never having played the sport before, simply because the girls advertising the club were attractive. She gave up after getting body-slammed at the first tryout. (Getting choke-tackled by a muscular athlete sounds fun in theory, but it ends up being a lot more painful than expected.) Even though she had no interest in the sport itself, she was desperate to find connections in a new place.

Neither of these people provide an accurate blueprint for heterosexuality or homosexuality. For one, Cillian Murphy is everyone’s kryptonite. Secondly, I don’t think having short hair or trying out for rugby makes you inherently gay. I still fail to recognise queerness until it is explicitly clear. This left me with one last resort: turning to the straights. Luckily, there are plenty of heterosexuals willing to boast “yes” when asked if they have a good gaydar. I just need to ask them how they can tell.

“I just can,” says one with downcast eyes and a suddenly uneasy expression. Many people can’t define their gaydar when pressed. They seem regretful and ashamed of their previous confidence. Or maybe they want to keep their method to themselves – a magician never reveals his tricks, after all.

Another straight interviewee claims, “It’s how they dress,” before quickly adding “So well! You know?” They force a smile that seems to say, “Take the compliment and please, for the love of God, do not ask me to describe how someone dresses ‘gay.’”

I’d try this strategy if it hadn’t miserably failed me in the past. The number of people I’ve assumed were queer simply because they dressed a little alternative, emo, or indie is almost homophobic. Likewise, I’ve hit on a lot of women in flannel only to quickly discover they didn’t have cottagecore dreams of growing old together on a farm.

The weirdest response – “it’s their voice” – was what helped me get to the core problem of gaydars: how gaydar serves as less of a compass and more of a mould. It’s a mental image of a gay person, compared against a living breathing individual. It’s a checklist of superficial traits like somebody’s style, their interests, or even the tone of their voice. It’s the stereotypical aspects of a person, either by choice or by birth, that ultimately mark them as “gay” in someone else’s eyes.

Is there harm in that? Is it accurate to say that a guy who does musical theater is probably gay? How about a girl who plays rugby – is she more likely to be gay than the theater guy? Is being in a musical “gayer” than playing rugby?

The answer to all the above is no. If I learned anything at the rugby tryouts – and I definitely did not learn how to play the game – it’s that rugby players are no gayer than ballet dancers. My assumptions were horribly misguided as a result of both projection and stereotyping.

To straight people who “can just tell,” keep your secrets. I don’t want to hear your thought process if it has to do with unchangeable aspects of someone’s character or their love of “gay” things. To my fellow oblivious queers, I’ll find you at Unity or Barbossa – or I’ll figure you out in a few weeks, months – maybe a year. The mystery is half the fun anyways.

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