Writing about professional wrestling

I’ve always enjoyed professional wrestling (to my mother’s ongoing bafflement) and I like writing about it. I’m a casual fan. Every so often I’ll get together with friends to watch a big event, and a few times a year I’ll head out to the Halifax Forum, the Spryfield Lions rink or the Alderney Landing theatre to watch a show live. It’s fun to see the big names when they come to town — I don’t think I’ll ever forget the heavy, brooding, magnetic presence of Roman Reigns in the ring — but I particularly enjoy going to the local shows, where most of the performers have day jobs and wrestling is a true passion.

Maddison Miles has been a mainstay at those local shows for years. I was about to say decades, but Miles is only 19. She started coming to wrestling as a child, decked out in a cape, and eventually stepped into the ring herself. After five years on the local circuit, she’s gone to England to pursue her dreams there.

I wrote about Miles for the November issue of Halifax Magazine. It’s one of my favourite pieces from the past year, and one of the magazine’s most-read 2019 stories.

Wrestling is fake, of course, in the sense that the outcomes of matches are pre-determined. But there is nothing fake about Maddison Miles leaping off the top rope and landing on several opponents outside the ring. Or a wrestler hoisting an opponent over her head before slamming him to the mat — usually a piece of plywood with a pretty paltry amount of cushioning over it.

Because wrestling is “fake” wrestling fans have a reputation for being suckers, or just not too bright. But that’s a gross misunderstanding. The outcome of Avengers movies is pre-determined too, but the millions of people who enjoy them are not idiots. Fans know what they like — to cheer the good guys, boo the bad guys, and enjoy the theatrics and athleticism. In wrestling parlance, Miles sells. She makes it look real. That’s her selling in the photo at the top of this post. A couple of summers ago I saw local wrestler Markus Burke pick a pre-teen out of the audience and use him as a battering ram to hit former WWE star Jack Swagger in the gut. Swagger staggered around. “He really sold for the kid,’” a friend said after the match. (The kid had a huge grin on his face after Burke dropped him by his seat again.)

Miles goes for the pin.

I’ve written about wrestling before. My 2016 Walrus piece on local wrestler Troy Merrick, aka The American Patriot, was a National Magazine Award finalist. And I wrote about how wrestlers can touch us after the death of Chris Pallies, aka King Kong Bundy.

Bundy had a brief period in the spotlight during the 1980s, as a bad guy (heel, in wrestling parlance) feuding with the then stratospherically popular Hulk Hogan. Obituaries variously describe him as being 61 or 63 years old when he died.

My reaction to Bundy’s death got me thinking about the emotional connections people feel to professional wrestlers. Three years ago, I was researching a radio documentary and magazine feature on professional wrestling. Whenever I mentioned these projects in conversation, I was struck by how many people would fondly recall watching wrestling as children — either live or on TV — and how often they had one particular wrestler they were taken with: Leo Burke, the Cuban Assassin, the Ultimate Warrior. Stewart Young, my producer at CBC Radio, told me the most intensity he had ever felt at Maple Leaf Gardens came not during a Leafs game, but when he went to a wrestling show and watched Hulk Hogan work the crowd like a master.

What strikes me about the wrestlers and fans I’ve interviewed is their level of knowledge, dedication and commitment. Fans will travel across the province for a show. Wrestlers will study the psychology of crowds to learn how to work them. When I was interviewing Miles for Halifax Magazine, I mentioned a moment in one of her matches and told her it seemed very emotional. She didn’t say anything. Then I thought right, she knows how to sell. “Or maybe it just seemed that way because you’re good at getting us to feel what you want us to,” I said. When I was interviewing Markus Burke, we got to talking about Jake “The Snake” Roberts, and he said, “Jake Roberts: his mind was the best part of his wrestling. He just knew how to tell a story. You thought it was real whatever he did.”

Miles relaxes after the show.

One of the great things about the local scene is the proximity between wrestlers and fans. The performers are at their own merch tables at intermission and after the show. They smile and take pictures with kids. They don’t feel like they have to stay in character once the show is over. Here is Miles, smiling as the crowd cheers, moments away from taking the mike to thank them for all their support.

Madness and Pride

Sign at the 2017 Halifax Mad Hatter Tea Party

I have a feature in the April 2017 issue of Halifax Magazine on the nascent Mad Pride movement in Halifax. You can read it here. 

 As you can imagine, the label of "mental illness" is a complicated one. I have known people for whom a diagnosis of mental illness comes as a relief -- finally, they have a framework that helps them understand themselves and their experiences. Other people may reject that label altogether. And some embrace it.

In my Halifax Magazine story on the Mad Hatter Tea Party, I have a few quotes from Anna Quon, who describes herself as a "mixed-race middle-aged Mad Woman." She is the author of several novels and books of poetry, and also creates beautiful visual art. (She often donates the proceeds from her artwork to the Schizophrenia Society of Nova Scotia.)

She told me:

"Originally I had a lot of internalized stigma -- self-stigma -- and I didn’t want to talk about the fact that I'd been hospitalized and had problems with depression and some psychosis. And I didn’t want my dad to tell people who he thought might help me because they’d been through a similar situation. Even though I came from a family that was supportive, I had internalized stigma just by growing up in this world that has so much stigma about mental health.

"It was a personal journey to actually acknowledge who I am. I don’t have to hide it or pretend do be “normal” or pretend to be something that I’m not. I feel comfortable with it so I’m willing to be out there about being mad to a certain extent."

Think about the standard recovery narrative: your life falls apart, you are hospitalized, get diagnosed, get treatment, then start getting better. There are a few setbacks along the way, but eventually you are able to carry on with your life in a healthy, satisfying way.

Many people's lives line up with this narrative. But many don't. And while some people reject the notion of mental illness, others embrace it as a fundamental part of who they are.

Anna said she wouldn't have a career without her mental illness. After being hospitalized, and unable to find work, she started writing for the Dartmouth-based Ability Network. Then, she got a Canada Council grant "to do a memoir of madness in poetry -- so some of my art and work came about because of my mental health challenges." Not in spite of them.

Last summer, a family member asked if my partner and I wanted to go with him to the Mad Hatter Tea Party on the Halifax Common. It was an event organized by the Schizophrenia Society of Nova Scotia, and was inspired by the global Mad Pride movement. I had no idea what to expect. I certainly didn't think I'd be writing about it. I was just planning to enjoy a sunny afternoon on the Common.

The most striking thing about the Mad Hatter Tea Party is that it was FUN. Sure, there was a broader political purpose, but it was also just flat-out fun: crazy (yes, crazy) hat-making,  gentle yoga classes, music, food, face-painting, and a general atmosphere of celebration. "Are you here to cover this?" Anna asked, when she saw me there. (We had previously met a couple of times.)  "No," I said. "I'm just here for the event." 

Of course, I did wind up writing about it -- and about the underpinnings of mad pride, and why it has taken so long to come to Halifax. There's another tea party planned for next summer, and I'm hoping I'll be able to be there again.

Halifax Street Art

Halifax does not like street art. There is almost nowhere for young graffiti artists to paint legally, and the police sometimes visit business owners and non-profits who hire graffiti artists to paint murals -- warning of the dangers of graffiti culture. 

You can read more about the state of street art in Halifax -- and what other cities are doing -- in "Paint the town", my story in the April issue of Halifax Magazine.