The Canadianist Exclusive | Journeys
There are some conversations you could never plan.
I met Gay during the ordinary course of my day. We started talking, and somewhere along the way she told me something that has become surprisingly complicated in Canada.
Her name.
Gay.
Not Gail. Not a nickname. Not short for Abigail.
Gay. G-A-Y.
She grew up in the Philippines, where introducing herself was once as simple as saying, “Hi, I’m Gay.”
Nobody thought much of it.
“They know your name,” she told me.
After living in Canada for more than half her life, she has learned that the same introduction can mean something entirely different here.
These days, she is more likely to say, “My name is Gay.”
The distinction saves some confusion.
Especially now, when identity and sexual orientation are discussed much more openly, saying “I’m Gay” can understandably sound like a declaration rather than an introduction.
Sometimes coworkers have even asked her directly, “Are you Gay?”
Her answer is wonderfully precise.
“My name is Gay.”
Then she watches their faces.
There is something very funny about all of this, and Gay knows it. She has spent years navigating people who think they have misheard her, people who think Gay must be a nickname and people who simply seem reluctant to believe that those three letters really are her name.
Over the phone, she spells it.
“G-A-Y.”
Sometimes they still hear “Day.”
She spells it again.
Eventually, she reaches the point many of us would.
“You know what? Whatever. Call me whatever.”
Her name has also become a small lesson in how language changes.
Gay reminded me that the word gay had another common meaning long before its modern association with sexual orientation.
Happy. Cheerful. Lighthearted.
That was the meaning her mother had in mind when she named her.
There was another reason too.
Three letters.
Her mother figured that when her little girl eventually learned to write her own name, she wouldn’t have to struggle with some enormous collection of first and middle names.
G-A-Y.
Done.
There is even a family connection that makes the story better. An older cousin is named Joy.
Gay laughs that if their birth order had been reversed, perhaps she would have been Joy and her cousin would have been Gay.
Same sentiment. Different word.
Our conversation eventually wandered into Meet the Fockers. Ben Stiller’s character is Gaylord “Greg” Focker, a man who, perhaps understandably, goes through life as Greg.
Gay doesn’t have that option.
Greg is short for Gaylord.
Gay is just Gay.
What started as a funny conversation about a name gradually became a conversation about language, immigration and Canada.
Gay has been here for decades. She has watched her neighbourhood change around her. She described her street as almost like the United Nations.
Pakistani neighbours. A Syrian-Palestinian family. Macedonians. Greeks. Italians. Jamaicans. Filipinos. Chinese.
Some of the people who lived there when she arrived have died. New families have moved in. Different languages, backgrounds and cultures now occupy houses along the same Canadian street.
She has lived there for almost 23 years.
That’s immigration when you strip away the politics and statistics.
People arrive. They buy or rent homes. They meet neighbours. Their children grow up. Older neighbours disappear. New ones arrive. Eventually the newcomer is the person who has been there for 23 years watching the neighbourhood change.
Gay came to Canada carrying a three-letter name that meant exactly what her mother intended when she gave it to her.
The name didn’t change.
The culture around it did.
She adapted, as people do. She learned when she needs to explain it, when she needs to spell it and when it’s easier just to laugh.
As we were saying goodbye, I couldn’t resist.
“Keep being you. Keep being Gay.”
She didn’t miss a beat.
“I was born like this, so I don’t think it will change anytime soon.”
I couldn’t have written a better ending if I’d tried.