Queer Across America: Anxiety and the Canadian Moshpit

As a solo traveler driving around the country exploring LGBTQ+ communities in each city for my Queer Across America project, being alone and queer in states where I don’t know a single person can be terrifying. Anxiety creeps into my mind. What if I need help and there’s no one for me to go to? What if I go to someone and they turn out to be ultra-conservative? What if I get stranded somewhere?

What if? What if? What if?

This is how I’m feeling as I take a bus from Seattle up to Vancouver, British Columbia. It’s one thing not to know anyone in a state; it’s another to not know anyone in the entire country of Canada! 

I decided to take a bus when I found out it was only a couple-hour drive to the Great White North. Driving through customs in my own car sounded like a hassle. There was also snow on the ground, and my Los Angeles-native self had never even seen snow before, let alone have driven in it!

The bus crosses the border as I listen to one of my favorite queer punk bands, Strange Breed, an all-women group that plays hard-hitting songs like “The C-Word” and rocks out with the chorus “consent is cool!” over slamming guitar riffs. They are my whole reason for visiting Vancouver. The band is playing an intimate show tonight, and I have never been this close to the border before. I can’t let the opportunity slip away.

I arrive in Davie Village, Vancouver’s queer neighborhood. Nothing could have prepared me for the icy winds that whip up what’s left of the snow on the ground and chill my core beneath my cheap H&M jacket and thin pants. I rush under a concave sculpture in a small plaza to take refuge from the homophobic weather. 

I hide in the sculpture, noticing that it’s in the shape of a giant pink-and-turquoise megaphone. It’s just enough to block the wind from pelting my unaccustomed skin. 

I peer out to see that it’s beginning to snow heavily. I have never seen snow fall before and, though part of it seems majestic, panic washes over me. What if I freeze out here? What if I can’t get somewhere that has food? What if the bus can’t take me back, and I’m stuck in a country where I don’t know anyone?

What if? What if? What if?

I decide that I won’t be going to the show anymore. I need to find a hotel and take the next bus back to the U.S. before I get stuck in Canada. I have never been in such harsh conditions, which is probably comical to Vancouver locals or native Coloradans. But the fear of being trapped is amplified further by the solitude of being way out of my comfort zone. 

As my panic escalates, I look to my left to find an inscription on the sculpture:

“A safe space inspired by Jim Deva’s lifelong passion for freedom of sexuality, gender diversity, and the fight against censorship. Where LGBTQ people and allies can meet, share ideas freely, dare to dream, and love unapologetically.”

The megaphone isn’t just a sculpture, but a monument created as a memorial to Jim, a gay rights and anti-censorship activist who co-owned Little Sister’s bookstore down the street. In the 80s, the shop had been a target of the federal government’s censorship laws that accused queer books of being “obscene” and therefore illegal to distribute. Jim had fought for the rights of queer content.

Anxiety is a crazy thing, because the anticipatory fear of “what ifs” can hold you back from doing so much. But, the truth is, you can go on about the “what ifs” forever. You can spend your life afraid to leave home by thinking about all the possible ways things can go wrong. However, if you think of the negative “what ifs,” you also have to think of the positives, because they are equally as likely to happen. What if I’m smart enough to figure things out? What if I’m capable of staying safe? What if I’m in control of my situation?

What if? What if? What if?

I emerge from the megaphone and make it to the venue, not allowing the inclement weather or my anxiety to hold me back. I rush toward the stage just in time to hear Strange Breed’s opening chords. The crowd erupts, and a mosh pit breaks out around me. Knocking into pierced nonbinary folks, long-haired bros, and queer teens is exactly what I need. It’s a mix of fear of getting hurt with the excitement of being part of something bigger than myself. It’s a controlled chaos that shows me that no matter where I am, all I need to do is find the queer community in order to feel safe.

“We are here for all the queers,” the frontwoman says. “We’re here for all of you who don’t always feel represented or seen or heard. We hear you, and we love you, always.”

Continue with me on my Queer Across America journey next week as I visit Sin City to gamble with money, pride, and my life in a most chaotic adventure. 

A map of many of the queer businesses around the U.S. It’s a work in progress as I’m focusing on queer-owned businesses rather than just queer-friendly ones.

Photos courtesy social media and London Alexander’s private collection