It’s a may evening in 1990, and I am eleven years old, heading to gymnastics class at the high school across the street from my home in Scarborough, a suburb east of Toronto. I’m tall for my age but a slight thing, in a tie-dyed T-shirt and jean cut-offs, white-blond hair clipped back in pink barrettes. I’m a late bloomer, eagerly waiting for my body to develop into something else. Something wanted.
- The Walrus
