random thoughts upon completion of a book

Jed Kilbourn

You are holding an anthology of queer youth writing. About a year ago, the Rainbow Youth Coalition, under the guidance of my co-coordinator Gundel Lake, started a project designed to help strengthen the queer youth community in the four counties of Haliburton, Northumberland, Peterborough and Victoria. The project was funded by a grant from the Ontario Trillium Foundation. This is the result of that project.

And I was not afraid will be sent to service agencies, high-schools, and libraries throughout the four counties, and will act as a beacon to queer youth who feel isolated and alone, who feel they aren't represented (or at the very least, painfully misrepresented). It will let young people know that there are people like them living in their community.

And I was not afraid only marks a random point in the growth of our community. Over the last year, through various media, including posters, announcements, word of mouth, our community has been growing. The idea of the anthology, the idea that we can begin to work together on having our voices heard, has begun to strengthen our growing community.

Glance through the book. Flip, it's okay, I'll allow it. Notice how many last names there are. Notice how many stories don't even have names. This lack speaks to why the book was produced. We know the power of naming. Too often we are named -- faggot, dyke -- words screamed at us as we walk down the halls, on the street, in our homes. So what does it mean that we don't name ourselves? That we are legitimately afraid of giving our names, as if staying silent could stop the pain, the screams, the abuse. We need an environment where we aren't afraid to say our names. We need our voices heard, we need to be able to hear each other.

A friend once told me that our identity is found in the stories we tell. I believe him. We tell each other our histories, our fantasies, our epics, our travels. We fill in the blanks. We move from frame to frame, a celluloid ghost making its voice heard, connecting random events into a narrative of our lives.

I want so badly to scream, to cry out, to be heard. This silence is deafening. I'm afraid I'll go insane if I can't find someone to listen to me, to hear my story, to affirm the fact that I exist.

It's not a huge thing (its actually pretty small -- it could fit in your pocket if you wanted to hide it). The stories just turn up. Sometimes they even have notes attached saying where they came from. No names, mind you, but notes to the effect of, I really wanted to submit something, but I didn't want my name attached, is that okay?' And I want to trace them, to follow the writing to the body it came from, if only to say, "I know." And my heart breaks, over and over.

And I want to promise that you won't go through this alone, but I can't. The best I can offer is words. (But if words can hurt, they can also heal, right?) and so here is a collection of words, and when placed in the right order, maybe they make sense, and you can hear them and know, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

We are here, we exist. Thank you for your bravery. Thank you for helping us build what we need most. These are our stories.

Peterborough, 2001

WITH MANY THANKS TO
You, who offered your work
and
Jed Kilbourn,
Gundel Lake,
Taryn Clarke,
the Members of the Rainbow Youth Coalition,
Peterborough AIDS Resource Network,
Rainbow Service Organization,
Marnie Woodrow,
David Cannons,
Dave McConkey,
Pride and Remembrance Association,
Supporting our Youth Project.

Note: the images used throughout are from the Complete Encyclopedia of Illustration.