To Be a Dyke

As I walk through the historic cobblestone streets in the heart of Amsterdam for the very first time, a sense of familiarity washes over me. My family roots exist in this city and their stories are already woven so deeply within me. 

On the day I arrived, the word “Dyke” was thrown into conversation so effortlessly. I was caught off guard and felt truly uncomfortable at first, before I realized that the “dikes” being referred to are actually an intricate system that keeps the land from flooding. 

When I hear “that word”... 

Dyke. 

Am I nervous because it’s a slur I shouldn’t be using? 

Am I nervous because my childhood told me it was a sin? 

Am I nervous because the truth is that I am one? 

On my third day, I took a trip to see the village where my Pake and Beppe grew up. On our drive we crossed a 32 kilometer long dike called The Afsluitdijk. This dike has connected the provinces of North Holland and Friesland since 1932 and runs directly through the sea. In this long stretch of land,  the dike works against the turbulent North Sea. 

Dykes are steadfast structures. 

Dykes reclaim and protect. 

If the canals could talk, they would whisper that the dike is more than a physical barrier: it is a symbol of resilience. 

Dykes shape the Holland landscape. 

Right there in my heritage, my own story is unfolding. 

So what does it look like to reclaim the word “dyke”? To take a word that was once a weapon and wear it proudly? 

I won’t walk in the pride parade again, but I sure as hell will walk in the Dyke March. 

As I step into the street for the Toronto Dyke March with thousands of others, there is a sense of unity that transcends words. I feel a rhythm beneath my feet, ready to march forward with a community desiring to reclaim the word “dyke” and lift its oppressive history. Capitalist signs loom over the streets, attempting to brand and commercialize our very existence. Yet, in the midst of this vibrant space, I find myself drawn to the quiet rebellion. A deliberate choice to diverge from the mainstream Pride Parade. 

The Dyke March is a movement. The Dyke March is an unapologetic celebration of queer identity. The Dyke March is unburdened by corporate sponsorships and rainbow capitalism. The Dyke March is a declaration of existence for those who have often been pushed to the sidelines. The Dyke March is not a parade. It is taking up space. It is an assertion of our right to be seen and heard. We are not here for the glitter or the flashy floats. We are here to walk our truth. The Dyke March is where we get to make our own statements on hand-crafted signs. 

There’s an irony in here somewhere about using an Amazon box to make a sign that says “Dyke’s Rule.” Forgetting to paint the other side, we write in marker: “Gay On This Side Too.” The city becomes our gallery, each person carrying their own personal canvas. 

As the sun dips below the horizon and casts a warm glow over the city, I find solace in the unity of our diverse community. Friendships are formed as we move through the city collectively. There is a moment of relief where we are able to shed the weight of societal expectations. I feel alive in the richness of my identity. 

I am reminded that being a dyke is not just a label. It is a celebration of my resilience, a reclamation of space and a commitment to living authentically. While dikes hold back the water, I hold back nothing. I embrace the fullness of my existence. I carry the legacy of those who came before me: the ones who shattered norms and paved the way for our future.