my mother, myself

who has the right to tell a story?

An earlier version of this essay appeared Sunday’s edition of the Toronto Star. It was commissioned and edited by the dazzling and talented Sarmishta Subramanian.

In the early ’90s when I was 14, I stayed up late at a pool party in Toronto, chased a bottle of Schnapps with a tab of acid and ended up in a three-way with my close friend and a guy I’ll cal…