The Return of the Repressed: or, notes from the bushwhacked

There is only one cliche of lesbian life that rivals the old joke about bringing a U-Haul on a second date. This is the unspoken rule that dykes be the best of friends long after they've been mutual bushwhackers.

Why is this so, when you end up being friends with your all your ex-lovers' ex-lovers and can't get a date in a town who hasn't already slept with someone you've already slept with? For that matter, you don't even need to be in the same town to be plagued by the spectres of all the bushes you've ever whacked. Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias, really must have been lesbians in drag when they croned on "to all the girls they'd loved before."

But, as you'll come to know about me, I have a theory about this, as I do about most things. And it has nothing to do with the lesbian continuum or with women being more capable of friendships that outlast lover-ships. It has to do with telling a good story. And trust me: good stories abound. I am living proof.

Wanna hear a story?

The Great Canadian Beaver

Have you ever been the maid of honour at the wedding of your ex-lover (as she was getting married to a man)? This is the best category of stories about "all the girls I've loved before." There is a veritable genre of bushwacking stories in this vein. My story, of course, is the best. Keep reading.

[Background: I was maid of honour at another wedding (definitely a lesbian no-no, I've learned). My sister got married two years ago. I wanted to wear a suit because I'm allergic to dresses. My family would have none of this. So off I went to the affiar in a skirt and tank dress, wearing (drumroll please) metallic sandals. I managed to outlast the whole affair and the drinking was beginning--a very important part of a Newfoundland wedding, you must understand. In order to dance better, I traded the metallic sandals for my trusty Birkenstocks. I think this angered the fashion gods. Picture it: the DJ is playing The Bloodhound Gang's "The Bad Touch" and my 85 year-old grandmother is dancing up a storm to it. This is the kind of wedding it is. At this point, even the Birks are cramping my style and I just want to dance barefoot. So I leap over to the table to toss them off. I am in midleap, having tossed one sandal off, ready to flick the other. Down my foot lands on some ice that one of the kids had spilled. Three hours later, I am still flat on my back in the Emergency Room at the hospital, with only 2 out of 3 ligaments remaining in my ankle (and unlike bones, these suckers don't grow back or repair themselves). I had to stay in Newfoundland much longer than I expected and still spent the rest of the summer tits up and not having a bit of fun in the position.]

It is a few weeks after the events of the background story have taken place. I am still tits up, still on crutches, barely in physiotherapy. My phone rings. The first bush I ever whacked is calling.

She is getting married next summer, she says. Will I be her maid of honour?
"Don't you have a sister?" I say.
"Yes," says she. "But I want you. The wedding is in Calgary in a year's time."
"I can't afford to buy a plane ticket to Calgary to go to your wedding. I'm sorry."
"That's okay. I'll pay for the ticket."
"Listen," I say, "I'm still recovering from my last outing in a dress. I am not wearing any more bridesmaid dresses."
"You can wear whatever you want," I'm told.

So here she is, systematically dismantling my objections. I guess I could just have said "I don't want to," but here's the rub: I couldn't resist the story I would be able to tell. I knew the wedding would be a fucked up affair. But hell, my whole relationship with this woman has been one big fucked up affair. So I agreed.

One year later....

...I am in emotional tatters, just coming out of a five-year relationship. But I am still packing a bag containing a suit and tie to head to this Calgary wedding. I am to be met at the airport by my ex and escorted (eventually) to her parents' house where we will both be staying. I arrive, 6 hours and 3 times zones later (or earlier, I guess). We have to wait for someone else to arrive at the airport, though; in the meantime, she, the best man, and I hang out in the airport bar. What else can we do but drink, right? So we do. Then we pick up the other traveller, head to the hotel where the men are staying to drop him off, and then end up at some bar around the corner playing foozball (sp?). Soon, I am too tired to stay, and we leave.

Not long after, we are at the parents' house. My ex's family emigrated to Canada from Poland many years ago, though their English remains broken. (This will be important in a minute). They have been working class people all their lives and own a small home in Calgary--a small home whose rooms have no doors. (This, too will be important in a minute.) The mother leads us to a room just inside the front door that has two double beds: one for me and one for my ex. (You can see where this is going, I know.) We each get in our respective bed. the house is quiet and dark. My ex asks me no fewer than 10 times if my bed is comfortable enough. I assure her it is each time. But by the tenth time, I am tired of answering the question so I just say: "If you really want to know, test it out for yourself."

She does.

One thing is leading to another in the testing of the bed. In comes the mother, screaming at us in Polish, dragging the clothes off the bed, throwing the ex in one bed and leaving me in the other. Remember that I have not arrived in Calgary in the best of shape to begin with. I can just imagine spending a week in fear. My ex and her mother are embroiled in a vicious verbal battle. I am in my bed shaking and wondering what the hell is going to happen in the next few days.

Eventually all quiets down. Half an hour later, my ex whispers an apology. In comes the mother again--another Polish screaming match.

I am ready to go back to the airport.

But instead, the next day, I am shipped to the house of one of the other bridesmaids--a Christian pro-lifer. I even get my own sign over the bed I will sleep in. I am neither Christian, nor pro-life (though I am a recovering Catholic, which will also become important in a moment). I worry this could be another hell, though I am also strangely relieved to be in this Calgary suburb that looks like the set of the Truman Show with amicable Christians.

Several days later, the wedding takes place. In my suit, which the the mother actively despises, I am the candidate to be the chauffeur for the bride and the bridesmaids. My ex, ever the organized one, is in the car on her way to the church, when she realizes she has forgot to compose the petitions (prayers of the faithful in the Catholic Church). [The typical prayer/petition is something like this: "For the desceased memebers of the Smith and Jones families": (the congregation responds) "We pray to the Lord" or "Lord Hear Our Prayer." At weddings, people conventionally pray for the couple to have children, long life, all that sort of thing.] As with most things, my ex occupies conventions in very curious ways. No conventional prayers for her. Her husband wants her to write a prayer, asking that the New York Yankees win the pennant this year.

So she does.

And she wants to write a prayer giving some tribute to Canada.

So in the middle of the wedding, my ex's sister, stands up in a conservative Polish Catholic Church and asks the congregation to pray for the "Great Canadian Beaver."

Three guesses as to who that was. (And the first two don't count.)

Need I say more?

Posted by Bush Whacker at February 24, 2003 07:35 PM