It took three years in Montreal for me to finally explore the derby scene. My only regret is waiting so long to do so.

I had heard that, in Montreal at least, derby culture is imbued with a feminist and queer vibe, and I had to see it for myself. “It’s not reflective of every individual or every league,” Rodriguez said of the assumptions of queerness often attached to derby players, “but it definitely rings true for this league.” In terms of structures, rules, and community dynamics, she said, “derby is basically like a sorority of athletic queer positivity, which is great!”

My first derby experience wasn’t disappointing. The match was hosted by a drag queen, the players were unapologetically rough and determined, the beer was cheap, and the spirit itself was both competitive and lighthearted. “I’m not sure how it developed in this way,” Rodriguez said, “but the values associated with derby are community, acceptance, and general positivity.”

“A lot of people think [Roller Derby] is like really badass and we are just beating each other and ripping each other’s hair and stuff.”

“Most women’s sports are watered-down versions of the men’s sports, whereas derby is like kind of the opposite,” Paula Youwakim, a current member of the Montreal league, told me. Unlike other female-dominated sports, such as figure-skating or volleyball, derby is a contact sport. “Women’s derby is so much more popular than men’s and it’s just as physical, just as tough,” Youwakim added.

Roller derby, however, wasn’t always like this. Originally part of an endurance sports craze in the twenties, roller derby used to be a long-distance race lasting several days that followed imaginary routes across the U.S.. Participants skated laps that were equal in distance to these routes. Much like a relay race, skaters would switch in and out when exhaustion hit them, and if a team could not complete this distance, it was eliminated.

“Derby is basically like a sorority of athletic queer positivity, which is great!”

Governed worldwide by Women’s Flat Track Derby Association (WFTDA), the roller derby we know today is a result of a revival in 2000 in Austin, Texas. Physical contact is permitted, and the scoring system rewards teams for overtaking opponents. Up to five players from each team play in each two-minute round called a ‘jam.’ Each team selects a ‘jammer’ to score points by lapping members of the opposing team, and a ‘pivot’ to block the opposing team’s jammer. If the jammer in the lead wishes to end the jam before the two minutes are up, she taps her hips, and the game moves on.

Overall, WFTDA and the associated leagues have worked to create an inclusive and friendly culture and environment for all players. “I once went to a training camp close to Boston and they told me, ‘do you wanna stay over with someone here so you don’t have to pay for hotels?’ We are competitive on the rink, but as soon as the game ends people are like, okay let’s go out for drinks!” Youwakim recounted. Rodriguez added that, “you can even drop in on other leagues’ practices, so the system is really flexible. If you wanna skate somewhere most places will let you.”

Women’s sports, by and large, suffer from a lack of sponsorship and funding. As a growing sport that has remained largely mysterious in popular culture, roller derby can be financially inaccessible to current and prospective players. Although the games often draw large crowds, the Montreal league is primarily funded through participants’ dues. In Montreal, players essentially run the league: be it coaching, refereeing, or organizing events, the league is the result of the players’ voluntary labour. For league members, the bare minimum of attending practices can amount up to ten hours a week, and you can be placed on probation if you can’t make 75 per cent of practices. The players may be dedicated, but “at the same time,” Youwakim said, “you can’t live off of derby.”

Echoing Youwakim’s sentiment, Rodriguez added that, “[derby] is an expensive sport to play. Equipment is really expensive as an upward investment […] You have to do maintenance on [the skates] and buy different wheels. I’ve gone through four different kneepads until I found the right ones.”

The lack of funding, Youwakim said, could explain why the growth of the sport has been so strained. “A lot of leagues don’t have the people to train them or they don’t have access to the equipment and it’s really expensive,” she said.

Founded in 2006, the Montreal league comprises of around 150 members. It is the first derby league in Canada and the first non-American league in the WFTDA. Seasons run November to August for home teams, and to playoffs – often in September – for travel teams. “A lot of teams in Canada look up to Montreal, because we’re also the biggest league in Canada,” Youwakim told me.

“Canadian derby just isn’t as well developed as in the States. It just hasn’t been played here for as long.”

Last year, Montreal Roller Derby hosted the International Championships playoffs. Montreal’s “A” travel team, “The New Skids on the Block” (or just “The Skids”), became the first Canadian team to make it to the Championships, but lost 116-217 to Angel City Derby Girls, and was eliminated early-on. Regardless of the defeat, Rodriguez was optimistic about Montreal’s success, “At least they made it,” she said. In defense of the Skids, she added, “Canadian derby just isn’t as well developed as in the States. It just hasn’t been played here for as long.”

Another distinguishing factor of roller derby is the players’ unique nicknames. Two of the players in The Skids, for example, are called Al K. Traz and Russian Cruelette. And let’s not forget Terror Me Suzie of Montreal Sexpos, the league’s “B” team, and “Hipsqueak of Les Contrabanditas,” one of the league’s home teams.

“Sometimes [nicknames are] given to you,” Youwakim, also known as Falafel la Gazelle, told me, “especially in Montreal, because you go through bootcamp for three months and you don’t have a name when you start, it’s either something you choose or you get. Sometimes after that three month experience we already have a name for someone and it’s like ‘okay, you can’t change now, this is what we’ve been calling you for three months […] It’s just a fun thing.”

Racially, roller derby is often a white-dominated space. As the only Arab person in the Montreal league, Youwakim said that the Montreal league’s lack of racial diversity can be an effect of self-perpetuating social networks. “I don’t think the [Montreal] league has made the effort of going and reaching through other communities to try and bring in other people,” she added.

Still, derby can be diverse in the types of people you meet. “You meet super young people from the juniors, you have like 45 year old moms […] you have students, you have doctors, you have designers. You have everyone,” said Youwakim. Overall, Rodriguez added, “If you can skate it doesn’t really matter who you are or what you are, you can do it.”

Both Youwakim and Rodriguez told me that the community they have built through derby has been important to them. Having gone to Catholic school, Rodriguez said that, “It was really cool as a teenager to be around people who were like, ‘no, you’re unique,’ and encourage that. [Within derby] I was meeting people who were more like me in the sense that we were weird. Everyone was different, and no matter what you wanted to be you could be that. The community was bonded by the fact that we liked the sport.”

[Two players]are called Al K. Traz and Russian Cruelette. And let’s not forget Terror Me Suzie of Montreal Sexpos [and] Hipsqueak of Les Contrabanditas.

Developing sports, especially derby, often have to modify the rules regularly, and with new rules each year come new strategies and new injuries. Last year, Youwakim said, rib injuries were widespread in the league. Rodriguez added, “At first it was just fun, party, get kind of drunk, skate, and hang out. I think as the sport has become more serious, the community is focused on equipment being approved and concussion prevention. But I also I think this came a little late.”

For those wishing to participate in roller derby, keep in mind that Montreal Roller Derby is especially tricky to get into. Rodriguez explained that, “People who are perfectly capable skaters sometimes don’t get in, which is a bummer.” This is partially because, as Youwakim elaborated, the league’s expansion could make its management very difficult: “The bigger the league, the more complicated and bureaucratic it gets.”

The mandatory rookie bootcamp takes place in August for three months. There are five tests: four on skills and one on the game’s rules. If you pass, you are officially in the league, but not necessarily on a team, as drafting takes place later. Also, those planning to leave Montreal can still join the Montreal league and ask for a transfer to another league later. As Youwakim told The Daily, however, people can show up on Mondays to the rink and often have the chance to rent equipments. She said, “Usually people start training before bootcamp, so come Mondays, there’s always people to help.” Men and children can also try roller derby through La Ligue Montréalaise de Roller Derby Masculin or the Montréal Junior Roller Derby.

Age-wise, anyone who can skate and play is welcome to try out. “Most people stop playing sports at a certain age, like when they leave university and it’s not available to them,” Rodriguez told me. “I haven’t played in a while, but I always feel like I can go back at any time.”

The post Of whips and wheels appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I had crushes on boys, too – though not as often or to the same degree as my crushes on other girls. How could I be a lesbian if I had a crush on the boy who rode the same bus home as I did? Did lesbians get butterflies in their stomach when they saw a cute boy?

After a few more years of deciphering my attraction to various people, cautious experimentation, and falling head over heels for at least one woman and one man, I stopped keeping it a secret. By the end of my senior year of high school everybody knew I was bisexual, and I was damn proud of it.

After breaking up with my first boyfriend, however, I suddenly felt myself losing interest in men. And maybe that’s part of the reason I left him; I’m still not sure. About a year and a half later, I had just broken up with my first real girlfriend, and all I knew is that I was wildly conflicted. I was attracted to women but I wasn’t really attracted to men. Surely that made me a lesbian, right?

So I came out, again, as a lesbian. While it felt nice to let the world know I wasn’t interested in men anymore, the label itself still didn’t quite sit right with me. “Bisexual” continued to feel like a better fit – but I felt like a ‘bad bi’ for not liking men. I knew that you could be bisexual and have different levels of attraction for different genders, but my attraction to men seemed to be at 0 per cent and my attraction to women 75 per cent. What about the other 25 per cent?

So now, at the end of Bisexuality Visibility Week, here I am coming out for a third time. I am a bisexual woman who is not attracted to men.
I know what you might be thinking: “how can she be bi if she doesn’t like men?”

The Bisexual Resource Centre (BRC) defines bisexuality as “an umbrella term for people who recognize and honor their capacity for sexual, romantic and/or emotional attraction to more than one gender.” Wikipedia still uses a more outdated definition, calling bisexuality the “romantic attraction, sexual attraction, or sexual behavior toward both males and females.” This latter definition assumes that the gender binary (the belief that there are only two genders) is true – which it is not. Some bisexual people may indeed only be attracted to men and women. Others may be attracted to men and other genders, but not women. My bisexuality means that I am attracted to women and other genders, but not men. I can only speak from my own experiences, and I certainly don’t intend to speak for all bisexual people – every person experiences their attraction differently.

“But doesn’t bi mean two?”

Technically, yes. This is why, oftentimes, bisexual people describe their sexuality as an attraction to two or more genders. Being bisexual doesn’t mean that your attraction is limited to two specific genders, or that the only two genders you can be attracted to are men and women. Some bisexuals are attracted to only two genders, some are attracted to more. Some bisexual people describe their attraction to two groups, the first group being people of the same gender, the second group being people of other genders. Each bisexual person can have a unique definition of their bisexuality.

“Wait a second, how can there be more than two genders? I thought there were just men and women.”

To put it simply, gender exists on a spectrum in a similar way to sexuality. Some people don’t identify as a man or a woman. Some peoples’ gender fluctuates. Some people don’t have a gender at all. You can be a man with a vagina, or an agender person with a penis. Your gender is yours, you know it best, so only you know how to define it.

“How can you know that you’re bi if you haven’t had sex with different people with different genders?”

You don’t need to have sex with somebody to discern whether or not you’re attracted to them. Plus, you can be bi and asexual, which means that you experience reduced or no desire to have sex.

“Okay, so then what’s the difference between bisexuality and pansexuality?”

In short, bisexuality is the attraction to two or more genders, while pansexuality is attraction regardless of gender. A bisexual person may be attracted to any/all genders but feel more comfortable identifying as bisexual than pansexual. Some bisexual people use bisexual and pansexual interchangeably.

“So if pansexual people are attracted to all genders, but bisexual people perhaps aren’t, does that mean pansexual people are attracted to trans people but bisexual people aren’t?”

No. This is another common misconception which assumes that trans men and trans women are not ‘real’ men or ‘real’ women. Take a bisexual person who is attracted to men and women. Because trans men are men, and trans women are women, this particular person would be attracted to trans men and trans women the same way they would be attracted to cis men and cis women.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anyway, because bisexual people always end up picking a side.”

Not true! While some bisexual people will one day be married or decide to spend their life with one specific person, this does not mean that they have ‘picked a side’. A bisexual woman who ends up with a woman is not a lesbian, she is still bisexual. A bisexual man who ends up with a woman is not straight, he is still bisexual.

“But I know several lesbians and/or gay men who used to be bisexual! Bisexuality is just a phase, a stepping stone to coming out as really gay.”

Yes, this happens! I also know several bisexual women who used to call themselves lesbians, and several bisexual men who used to identify as gay. Sexuality is fluid. Changing how you identify just means that you’re getting to know yourself better, not that bisexuality is a phase.

“Well, I know some bisexual girls who are actually straight, they just make out with other girls or have threesomes sometimes, it’s probably so guys think they’re hot.”

I’m guessing the girls you’re talking about know their sexuality better than you do. Who’s to say that making out with girls and having threesomes isn’t bisexual? Who says you must have relationships with all the genders you’re attracted to in order to become a Licensed Bisexual? No individual has the right to scrutinise or call into question how someone else chooses to identify their gender or sexuality. In fact, hiding under the “straight girl just making out with other girls to get attention from guys” stereotype can be a safe way for questioning girls to experiment with other girls without ‘officially’ coming out. Instead, question why guys think girls make out at parties just to grab their attention.

“Okay, okay. I get it. Bisexuality is the attraction to two or more genders, and each bisexual has their own definition of and experiences as bisexual. So why do bisexuals need a visibility week, or even a visibility day? Isn’t Pride enough?”

We need visibility because, while we are not straight, we’re oftentimes excluded from the LGBTQA+ community because we’re “not really queer,” because we can be in relationships that appear to be straight. Bisexual Visibility Week helps to combat stereotypes and misconceptions that can be harmful to the bi community. It also helps draw attention to the struggles that bisexual people face, like how around 50 per cent of bisexual women will face sexual violence in their lifetimes, or how bisexual people are more likely to consider suicide than their gay and lesbian counterparts. Bisexual women are also often accused of being more “sexually available” because of their attraction to multiple genders, which leads to victim blaming and slut shaming. Bisexuality visibility events allow us to meet and connect with other bisexuals near us and all over the world, and help foster a sense of community that we might not otherwise have access to.

Bisexuality is broad and beautiful and badass. We exist across space and time – that is, throughout the world and throughout history – and our presence is valid. There is no one way to be bisexual, and your bisexuality is perfect just the way it is. There is no one in the world who has the right to question your bisexuality, however hard they might try. Happy Bisexual Visibility Week!

The post “What even IS bisexuality?” appeared first on The McGill Daily.

No, not Tara Maclay or Delphine. Or Tosha. Or Toshiko. I’m talking about Commander Lexa from The 100.

The 100 takes place 97 years after a nuclear war destroys the Earth and follows 17-year-old Clarke, who lives in a colossal space station named “The Ark,” along with what is left of the human population. The purpose of “The Ark” is to keep the human race alive until Earth is habitable again. Clarke’s engineer father finds an unfixable flaw in the oxygen system of “The Ark”, threatening the lives on board, and thereby the human race overall. He attempts to make this knowledge public to the citizens of “The Ark,” but is caught and executed.

Clarke tries to finish what her father started, but rather is imprisoned, along with a hundred other juvenile delinquents. In a desperate attempt to save humanity, they are sent back to Earth to test its habitability. If they survive, “The Ark”’s citizens can follow suit, and human repopulation can begin.

The kids find Earth habitable, but quickly realize that they are not alone—somehow, humans managed to withstand the radiation and created a community comprised of 12 united clans called the Grounders. The hundred adolescents are immediately forced into war with the community that had survived.

Admittedly, the show is well-made, offering a critical commentary on a theme of land disputes, land ownership, and how far humanity can, or should, go to ensure survival. Clarke winds up being the leader of her people and meets Grounder commander Lexa. The two aim to bring peace between the Grounders and the Sky People and fall in love in the process. After Lexa is forced to betray Clarke to ensure the survival of the Grounders, Clarke sets out for revenge. After a series of plot twists and dramatic events, Lexa regains Clarke’s trust, and the young women finally get the intimate scene that the audience was waiting for. Just moments after, Lexa’s advisor Titus attempts to kill Clarke in disapproval of Lexa’s romantic feelings for the Sky Girl; Lexa ends up killed in the crossfire.

Out of the 35 LBPQ characters that 2016 started with, 15 have been killed off. We are only 5 months into the year and about 43% of the limited LBPQ representation on TV is dead.

So, what’s the big deal? Characters die. Get over it.

The big deal is that Lexa’s death perpetrates “Bury Your Gays,” a wildly homophobic trope in which queer characters never get the same happy endings as straight characters. In the off-chance that a queer character isn’t used for comedic purposes to perpetrate other tropes—for example, the Predatory Lesbian as exemplified in Pitch Perfect—a stereotypical queer best friend who loves shopping and musicals, or a cameo, they often meet their demise through suicide, murder, illness or accident. “Bury Your Gays” appeared in 1930s in Hays Code, an early attempt at film censorship, forbidding anything that promoted what was believed to be unnatural or morally wrong. This allowed for the inclusion of LGBT characters, but with a catch: they had to be punished for their immorality. Acceptable punishments included perpetually sad and dissatisfying outcomes, or being killed off.

Why, after 86 years, are we still misrepresenting a marginalized community in such a violent way?

Even though Lexa’s death has arguably been the last straw for lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, and queer (LBPQ) viewers, this isn’t just about one character in one show. Out of the 181 LBPQ characters in television and film history, 155 have been killed off. Only 29 have had happy endings, if you consider not being killed off a happy ending. Out of the 35 LBPQ characters that 2016 started with, 15 have been killed off. We are only 5 months into the year and about 43% of the limited LBPQ representation on TV is dead.

[I]n The 100’s universe anyone can die! But anyone can die in the real world, too. The problem lies when anyone can die, yet death has disproportionately high rates for minorities, real world or not.

Jason Rothenberg, executive producer and lead writer of The 100, actively queerbaited the community. He shared pictures of ‘Clexa’—a ship name for Clarke and Lexa—actresses Eliza Taylor and Alycia Debnam-Carey eating rainbow candies, attempting to reaffirm his status as an ally. After Lexa’s death was filmed, writer’s assistant Shawna Benson promised fans on LGBT forums, our safe spaces, that Lexa would not be killed off. Benson stated that if we didn’t believe that the writers loved her as much as we did, then we might want to “seek counselling” for our “trust issues”.

Before the season started, fans noticed that Debnam-Carey was not credited on IMDB in any episodes after “Thirteen” (the episode in which Lexa is killed off) and made public their concerns she would be killed off. Rothenberg shared pictures of Debnam-Carey and Taylor on set of the season’s finale, inviting fans to watch the filming in Vancouver, insinuating that Lexa would indeed be alive and well. As it turns out, Lexa is likely in an afterlife state known in The 100 as the City of Light. We were led to believe that Lexa would not be claimed by “Bury your Gays”, and that the showrunners genuinely cared for the LGBT community.

Rothenberg carried on promoting the seventh episode of The 100’s third season, “Thirteen,” as “game-changing” and urged viewers to watch it live unless they wanted to see big spoilers everywhere online. It isn’t surprising that just days after the original air date of “Thirteen,” which was a big trend online (reaching 1.38 million viewers), The 100 was renewed for another season. Through deceit and careful planning, Rothenberg used his LGBT fans to gain popularity, ratings, and viewers to ensure another year of the show.

Showrunners and filmmakers alike need to understand that the media does not exist in a vacuum, and what is shown in movies impacts life outside the screen. Younger LBPQ girls may not have anything to hold onto except limited representation of LGBT characters.

TV and film crews still don’t seem to get it. Although Rothenberg apologized to fans, his apology is more concerned with expunging “Bury Your Gays” and queerbaiting from his reputation. He tried to assure us that it was never the intention to cause harm to the LGBT community, because in The 100’s universe anyone can die! But anyone can die in the real world, too. The problem lies when anyone can die, yet death has disproportionately high rates for minorities, real world or not.

The thing is, Lexa didn’t even need to be killed off. The story could have very easily continued with her. Rothenberg unfairly blamed Debnam-Carey’s other show Fear the Walking Dead for creating scheduling conflicts. This cannot be proven as we have not seen Debnam-Carey’s contract with Fear the Walking Dead. Regardless of whether or not she could return to The 100, Lexa did not have to be killed off in such homophobic fashion.

Showrunners and filmmakers alike need to understand that the media does not exist in a vacuum, and what is shown in movies impacts life outside the screen. Younger LBPQ girls may not have anything to hold onto except limited representation of LGBT characters. I remember being in grade 8 and ecstatic to discover the existence of bisexual Dr. Remy “Thirteen” Hadley on House M.D., only to find out that she had been diagnosed with Huntington’s Disease, a genetic neurodegenerative disorder that often results in death. Thirteen disappeared, perhaps to find treatment or protect her friends from future heartbreak when she would inevitably succumb to her disease. I was heartbroken. The only character I identified with was gone.

I would like to applaud the teenage LBPQ viewers who are fighting tooth and nail to get mass media to notice the issue, and who are rightfully pursuing the genuine apology that we deserve.

The struggle to understand and accept my sexuality was made harder by media’s refusal to treat LGBT characters with respect. I’m lucky that Lexa’s death came after I learned to love myself and my identity, having moved out of the small homophobic town that kept me in the closet for 17 years. I am privileged to have found a wonderful group of queer friends that support and care for each other. The same is hardly true for many younger, often closeted and isolated, LBPQ girls.

That being said, I would like to applaud the teenage LBPQ viewers who are fighting tooth and nail to get mass media to notice the issue, and who are rightfully pursuing the genuine apology that we deserve. LBPQ viewers may well be the ones to inspire a whole new generation of TV and film, free of harmful tropes. They have inspired multiple trending topics on Twitter every week and raised over $100,000 in Lexa’s name for “The Trevor Project”, a charity organization aimed at suicide prevention for LGBT youth.

Queer teenage girls are adamant about this fight and have already made an impact. Former writer and co-executive producer of The 100, Javier Grillo-Marxuach, has confirmed that he is no longer involved with The 100. He has taken LBPQ grievances seriously, inspiring hope among LBPQ viewers as he will be co-executive producer for the Xena: Warrior Princess reboot. The struggles of LBPQ teenage girls are not trivial. LBPQ girls are a force to be reckoned with.

To TV and filmmakers: bury tropes, not us.

To my fellow LBPQ sisters: As is often said in The 100 by Grounders who have been wronged and are seeking justice or retribution, “jus drein jus daun”.

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