“You know everybody thinks you’re crazy,” a bass player kindly informed me the other day on what must have been a slow news day. Yes, and a few decades of being treated as such by pinched and proud normals has rendered me well nigh loca.
A chance viewing last week of Katharine Hepburn’s portrayal convinced me I do indeed have much in common with the Madwoman of Chaillot. I am kind to animals.
I live more or less off charity and fantasy, and I disagree with the destruction of the world by greedy profiteers. The “countess” at the centre of the film is treated with gentle indulgence as she makes her rounds in found finery. I couldn’t help but start dressing like her. A huge hat for shelter from sun and monsoon. Long layers, flowers.
I set off for the Bed Push Parade, the annual Mad Pride event, July 14, which begins at the Parkdale Library. Wilfully oblivious to the sinister condo towers strangling my neighbourhood, I see instead a friend riding by and waving like a criminally handsome champion on a leg of the Tour de France.
The poster said 12:30 pm. I’m a little early they’re running a little late. Out in the midday sun. The library is closed on Sunday, so I find shade in the park on Cowan next to the drummer who always lets on we’ve never met. Pigeons are doing something I’ve not seen before: lying with wings and tails spread, flattened into the sand in the playground.
Still early, I check the climate in the Church of the Epiphany and Saint Mark behind the library, where I’m welcomed by the new pastor, who tells me this country-style house of worship was built in 1884 and renovated a century later.
Back at the parade site, water, sunscreen, body paint and whistles are being offered. The bed at the head of the parade is more of a gurney, decked in pink stripes and equipped with restraints, a stuffed pink Cheshire cat aboard. There’s a strong element of humour: a man covered in “Have you been taking your pills?” reminder notes, a woman in a T-shirt/straitjacket. A hospital gown is emblazoned “Psych Ward Warriors.” I identify most with “Celebrate difference be the person you don’t pretend to be.” Signs are handmade on cardboard.
This is the 20th anniversary of Mad Pride in Toronto, one of the oldest events in what is now an international movement toward “mad empowerment,” the escape from the asylum into the community. I hadn’t realized this celebration of freedom is staged deliberately on Bastille Day.
“We are all, this week, mad and proud,” proclaims MP for Parkdale-High Park Peggy Nash in a heartfelt speech. The letter read from the office of MPP Cheri DiNovo says she is proudly still one of the maddest elected officials, mad about inadequate housing, low benefits and the continued administration of electroshock paid from taxes.
Gord Perks is mad because he thought the event started at CAMH and he went there first. It used to. This is the first year of its return to where it originated 20 years ago with 10 people. As silence is observed for former participants like a chum of mine who have passed on, the only sound is the buzz of the Indy cars racing to the south of us. I learn that there is a “bonkers” event in Ireland, and that reps of Mad Pride Montreal and Hamilton are in attendance.
“Hey, hey, ho, ho, Mad Pride is around the globe,” as we take a turn around the Parkdale BIA’s rusting world sculpture with the shut-off sprinkler inside.
“What are we protesting?” asks a patron of an up-awfully-early-to-drink-beer festival at the Rhino when we make our way along Queen. The wheely bed leads an entourage of 100 or so on the sidewalk. Chants of “1 2 3 4, what’s this crazy mad pride? 5 6 7 8, learning to self-advocate” go up but die down in the heat. We file through a wooden chute formed by condo construction hoardings.
At the Great Hall, big bunches of yesterday’s expensive flower arrangements of hydrangeas, blue orchids and curly sticks are handed out to cheer along the paraders, probably a leftover from a wedding. We walk by what in my childhood was known as 999, or the Mental, now the massive complex called the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. Walking right by feels very healthy.
A space is found in the newly always crowded Trinity Bellwoods Park. Heinz Klein takes out his 12-string guitar and sings, “I’m down and out but I’m free.” The person I marched beside is under a tree discussing bicycle issues. Food arrives: falafels, Portuguese takeout, tiny potatoes, roast chicken.
I’m a bit wistful leaving my would-be people. On Queen, I meet the bottle collector, who asks me about the parade. He echoes Danny Kaye’s rage as the ragpicker in The Madwoman Of Chaillot. He’s seen the harassment of psychiatric survivors on the street to make way for club crowds of drunken entitled yobs who urinate on his steps. Security guards side with the moneyed invaders, not the humble 30-year resident.
I retreat into the shadows that are looming all around.
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