by Radclyffe U. Hall
Just the other day I was completing a lovely paint-by-numbers watercolour when I realized that I hadn’t read a book since Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. I was repulsed by myself and decided that it was the necessary time to crack open my sealed box of literary classics. I read the usual Grade 10 shit: The Lord of the Flies, The Great Gatsby, Jane Eyre, Black Like Me. But the two that really stuck out for me were Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet. And I wondered why that was. And then it became clear. They are me! I am Wuthering Heights! I am Romeo and Juliet! And by “I” I mean the entire lesbian community.

I will admit that this is purely an observation. I have not canvassed the lesbians of Toronto to come to this conclusion. But I just cannot ignore the similarities: One – the frightening speed at which two people can fall madly “in love”; Two – the extreme intensity of said people that is generally only found in sociopaths and children; Three – the inability for said couple to see that they are engaged in a toxic relationship despite the rational warnings and loving advice of friends and family; and Four – a crippling insanity that ends in either a drug overdose or attempted grave robbing. This is basically lesbian scripture and all originates from one main source: the desire for something that you can’t have.

A foreign eye might look at Snatch on Saturday nights are merely see a group of lesbians dancing, drinking and laughing. But now I can’t help but think that if they were all wearing codpieces and swords instead of vests and wallet chains, they could be re-enacting the Capulet Ball. Somehow Romeo killing himself for his woman has turned into one of the most romantic and heroic gestures in dramatic history. Same for how Heathcliff, a feral psychopath, has managed to become the Victorian literary equivalent of Brad Pitt. And this is all no different than the common lesbian thought that if you can just date your ex-girlfriend’s best friend you will become the most heroic and noble of dykes and that followers will raise a pint of ale in your name for centuries!

There is no code of conduct in the lesbian world, except perhaps that everyone must be emotionally damaged by their first love. Lesbians carry this baggage that allows them to do whatever they want because no one has suffered as much as them. It thus enables them to fuck their ex’s sisters and roommates and still think that they are shoo-in for Most Passionate Lesbian of the Year. There is apparently a heroic pride in all of this as weird and clueless as it really is.

So when Juliet fails to notice the stupidity of elaborately faking her own death or how Romeo is too much of a whining muff to be patient and wait for his mail, it is perceived as ultimate sacrifices for love instead of self-involved lunacy. The same for how Heathcliff has been remembered as Catherine’s dedicated soul mate instead of a scary creep who goes for raving midnight walks in thunderstorms because his crush is a schizophrenic bat.

Obviously then, I am also guilty of being a hero. I too want what I can’t have. Exhibit A – this entire column…like Dana from The L Word, Danii Campbell, ‘Buffy Summers’, Ashley Tisdale, straight girls at a club. Despite what you might’ve thought, I have not yet succeeded in having any of them. But I don’t want to diminish how my heart aches for them. Every day. Every breath is a sword into my soul. So yes, I do consider myself a hero. A hero for love.