When I first thought about hate crimes, I thought, no, I haven't experienced any hate crimes, especially as a member of the lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgendered (queer) communities. I had never been beaten up because I was a lesbian.

I began to educate myself about hate and prejudice and oppression. I realized I had never felt safe or welcome in the world. I grew up feeling the world was a hurtful place. I couldn't understand why everyone put each other down and made fun of those who were different. I was picked on because I was brown-skinned, fat, smart, and refused to let boys win.

As a young woman in school I overheard comments and whispers about those man-hating dykes, and faggots. I was advised to stop doing so well in school because guys didn't like to be beaten and I didn't want to be known as a ball-breaker. I didn't really understand what they meant but I knew being a dyke was shameful and disgusting. Every day I heard things that put women and other minority groups down, especially First Nations. Little did I know that I, like almost all children and youth, was in a racist, sexist and hetrerosexist training ground. This training was invisible, it was so common it was never even remarked upon.

I grew up and became an addict. I couldn't stand to live in a world with such pain and with the self hate I had learned. The only choice I could see was to withdraw into a world of numbness. I got into a relationship, a long loving 11 year relationship and together we were strong against the world. I didn't care about the whispers, I didn't even hear them, until she died. My world crashed. The hospital refused to release her effects to me and refused to release her body to me because I was not family. The pain was (and sometimes still is) incredible. Her death shocked me into entering recovery.

My world opened up when I stopped using substances. I was in a small town in the interior of BC. I became absolutely aware of how much at risk I felt, as a lesbian, as a person of mixed heritage, and as a woman. I again heard all those hate-filled comments about those who are different. I was torn between fear and the need to hide and outrage and the desire for justice and fairness. When I came back from my first trip to Vancouver I wore buttons that proclaimed my pride. My lesbian friends abandoned me, their fear of being outed and the very real consequences such as having their houses spraypainted, their kids beaten up, jobs lost and eviction notices were too much to face. I was determined to remain openly out. I believed that the only way things were going to change was if we did come out. When I was also verbally bashed by my straight friends in my support group I knew I couldn't continue to face the shame, attacks and fear and I moved to Vancouver.

When I think about hate crimes today, I don't just think of violent bloody confrontations. I think of those training grounds, those sniggers, contemptuous looks, shaming jokes and just plain invisibility we are all faced with every day.