Patricia Wilson took care of generations of queer kids

When I sat with Patricia Wilson for an interview in 2014, her trademark blend of dry humour, colourful language and self-deprecating warmth were in full effect.

On the balcony of her one-bedroom apartment in the Church-Wellesley Village, we sipped Jack Daniels and Coke, exchanged laughs and reflected on her enduring legacy within Toronto’s LGBTQ community.

“I never thought I’d make f–king 60,” Wilson joked. “Seriously, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll be behind the f–king bar at Buddies with an oxygen tank and a f–king walker, ’cause there ain’t no way I get to retire.”

At the time, the idea of Patricia departing her role as bar manager at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre was incomprehensible. But the organization ended her contract last month in what Wilson described on social media as a “mutually agreed” decision to be terminated. The high-profile exit brings an abrupt end to her almost 30 years at the community institution and comes on the heels of turmoil within the theatre company, including the recent resignation of its board of directors amid an institutional review.

News of Wilson’s departure spread like wildfire online, and a GoFundMe was quickly set up by film and television producer Michelle Mama and interdisciplinary artist Alex Tigchelaar. The fund has generated more than $70,000 for Patricia from more than 800 individual donations, rocketing well past the initial goal of $50,000. The goal is now $80,000.

The comments on the fundraiser are filled with outpourings of grief and adoration, many donors clearly in mourning.

But for anyone who knows Wilson, this response isn’t surprising. A heavy metal matriarch, she joined Buddies at its original George Street location way back in the early ’90s, first as a publicist and later as bar manager. It was in the latter role that she is perhaps most fondly remembered by the theatre’s patrons, a loving but tough gatekeeper who welcomed several generations of queer kids into Tallulah’s Cabaret for dance nights, plays and comedy shows, and at events like Vazaleen — imparting wisdom and supportive words all the while tapping kegs in her signature leather vest.

Wilson’s brand of behind-the-bar mentorship has deep historical roots within queer communities. Long before mainstream acceptance or meaningful infrastructure, clubs and bars doubled as queer safe spaces, offering up literal lifelines, political organizing, and emotional and financial support to our most marginalized. To serve behind the bar was to do more than merely pour shots — as one commenter notes of Wilson’s contributions on the GoFundMe page, “Thank you for keeping my son safe.”

“I always make sure that the kids I know who can’t walk down the street without getting second looks or getting bashed, those are the ones that I take care of,” Wilson said back in 2014. “My queer kids. That what I call them. My f–king queer kids.”

I remember meeting Patricia during one of my first visits to Buddies almost two decades ago, the warmth of her initial acknowledgment something that felt transformative to a tightly wound Catholic kid from the suburbs. Her communication style was honest, direct and disarming — the residue of her love for Beat writers like Allen Ginsberg and William S. Burroughs, and a decade spent travelling Route 66 with “morally dubious” artists.

These influences also carried through to her own art, including her music (as part of the rock band Crackpuppy), and as a published poet and author.

“Buddies is very important to me because it’s about the kids and the art,” Wilson said. “I’ve always felt really strongly that we get to save lives because there are so many kids that don’t get to have a queer experience. And I feel that we’re a refuge for them.”

The restructuring at Buddies and Wilson’s exit have not come without controversy. Beyond measured statements from both parties, there are few details on what motivated her departure. I’m reluctant to say anything other than that community organizations need to evolve to meet the needs of changing communities and that Wilson has always been central to that project. She has always protected our most marginalized. Celebrating her contributions creates a direct line between our collective queer past and, hopefully, a safer, more inclusive future. It’s a process.

“When I use the word community I am saying that all of us have a community that we are part of, but that community is in reality made up of many,” Wilson said. “Hopefully we reach out far beyond ourselves and take in the many so we can be as much as we can be.”

Wilson and I have chatted sporadically over the years; during my time as a volunteer at the theatre, later as a performer, and finally as a journalist and screenwriter. Each interaction has always felt a bit like coming home — even a brief correspondence exchanged last year felt like conjuring the warm, candlelit ambience of Buddies’ bar in my home office, connecting me with my community and making the never-ending isolation of the pandemic melt away. That is Patricia’s magic.

“Life happens so quickly and no one gets to control their life as much as they would like,” she said then. “So much random in the best laid out plans.”

Patricia has always been able to adapt to the random: to survive, thrive and impart all that she has learned to us. And the outpouring of love and support shown to her over the last month is an attempt to provide her with just a fraction of what she has provided to the community over the years.

“Thank you, a million times over,” she wrote to me on social media. “I can promise as you have not forgotten or neglected me, I will never take you for granted ever again.”

But she never once forgot or neglected us. And that is Patricia Wilson’s legacy.