Ten years since my denunciation of the Formula 1 circus which arrives in Montreal like a conqueror1 before the summer solstices. Fifteen years of: I don’t want to sell myself to the loss of soul in girlfriend experience under racing flags before Sainte-Anne. Nor suffer the bludgeoning of profit by threading cocks having as a common language the power of money in bed.
Posted yesterday at 10:00 a.m.
Ten long years after the student slogan: “Charest, you laugh, but check ben ton Grand Prix”, then the repression, as eloquent as it is inaudible, on my life and its quest for liberation. And the rest of my life to tell you the eternity of a demonstration against sex tourism and the gentlemen of the deposit.
Once criminalized, still excommunicated today
Already, I know that here I must ask your forgiveness. As a shameful sinner or an unreasonable victim, I commit the affront of not, from the outset, praising the chance — no, the blessing — of having received the gentle caress of pity when it was not that of the charity. Am I stupid! I’m just a needy bad-life impetuously daring to challenge an incapacitating and perpetually reified neo-missionary morality through charlatanism or preaching the good news.
Certainly, I was able to enjoy the privilege of media attention. After all, I had the honor of smiling benignly at the cameras to end up in the interstices of a social responsibility guide to human trafficking.
Being both a Canadian anti-martyr and an ignored native strategist, my exploit as a domesticated savage was to satisfy voyeurism while achieving my ends to satisfy my hunger.
Scrutinize me in my natural putassery, document without me the cannibalism marking my skin, measure my misery gropingly while I know by heart the Standing Man, his curses and his ravages. Despite the denial of justice forcing zombification, I am as much cursed as ancestrally immune to pimp thought.
The siren song muffled by the crowd
In truth, there are few things that ultimately distinguish me from those ambassadors of destruction strutting Crescent Street. Like them, no one ever really cares about my real speech or the capacity of my mind. Renamed TEEN ESCORTI am carried as a mascot frozen in time by forcing me to attend my own show from the blower’s hole.
Transformed into a registered image of herself, my emblem serves, on the one hand, to reassure others about the idea of a just world and, on the other, to boost the careers of real women, those to whom at least we recognize the right to have complex feelings if not, at best, a capacity for action. Could you then, masters, be kind enough to note that I am, all things considered, a squaw educated knowing as much to scalp as to love? Know that I know I am not alone.
Nearly 50 years later, the thought of Colette Guillaumin, French materialist feminist and anti-racist activist, remains cruelly topical. She wrote that to help us cultivate the fantasy that women are not trivial objects, “all means are good. Even the stories. From passion to tenderness, from cautious silence to marked lying, and in any case, flowers, decorations, always available to crown the foreheads of cattle on feast days or fairs. And if that is not enough (and indeed it is not enough), from physical violence to the Law, there is still a way to try to prevent us from getting involved in it”.
In the night, the “race of paying women” enlightens us
Against all odds, I take head-on this constantly renewed collective contempt for our sex sacrificed for the joy of some and the money of others. Burned alive on my throne of fleur-de-lis gold, wearing my disautochtonized lumpenproletarian tiara, I bring to light with my Indian pen the theology of the “little way” of prostitutes.
Faced with neocolonial putophobia, courage, humility and wisdom are lessons that finally accompany in grace all my actions and gestures. Indeed, the hope that these learnings will reach society is an eternal flame lit by millions of survivors for centuries. It is up to the world to draw from it, in the future, this light and its power of love. Take, and eat it all: this is the body of the Black Virgins of the Belle Province delivered for you.