The Whole Damn Fire

It’s late, and I’m tired.  I have been having trouble settling for the past few nights, with my mind focussed on the news out of Aleppo.  So this will probably not be a very polished post.

I usually love Christmas. I love the decorations, the baking, making or shopping for the right Christmas gifts.  I love the lead up to the day, reflecting on the age old traditions of the Christian church.  For Christians, the season of Advent leading up to Christmas is one of preparation, of anticipation of the hope, love, joy and peace of the season, and the birth of the Prince of Peace.  Even for people who do not celebrate the religious aspects of the season, there is a sense of excitement and anticipation.  The decorations, the lights, especially in big cities, the special events, all create the “holiday spirit” with which we are so familiar in our society.

This year, however, I am struggling with the idea of Christmas. Instead of feeling hopeful and joyful, the overwhelming realities of our world are causing me to feel despair.  News broadcasts bring stories of violence, poverty, and now, daily, the horrifying and distressing news out of Aleppo, where civilians broadcast their goodbyes via social media in the wake of the violent war there.

Last year, Syria and the plight of its refugees was very much in the forefront of the news, and in my life.  I posted here about the efforts of my town to sponsor a Syrian family.  We were excited and busy with preparations for our family.  Since then, we have welcomed two families to our community.  But a year ago, Syria, the refugees, and the realities of the world were still very abstract and faceless.  It was something that was happening somewhere else, and did not affect us personally.

A year later, and the story has become so much more personal.  Now I know people who lived in Aleppo and Syria, who fled their homes and arrived in Sackville with all of their worldly possessions in four suitcases, whose family and friends have also fled their homes, have died, have drowned in the Mediterranean.  The situation in Syria is not so abstract any more, because now it is the story of real people with faces and names that I have come to know and love. 

Yesterday, I decided to start some Christmas baking, and I turned on some Christmas music.  One of my favourite albums is Steve Bell’s “The Feast of Seasons.”  On it, he sings  “I Heard the Bells.”  It has never been one of my favourite Christmas carols, but today, with thoughts of Syria not far away, I found myself listening and appreciating it so much more than I ever have before, especially when I heard:

    And in despair I bowed my head;
    "There is no peace on earth," I said;
            "For hate is strong,
            And mocks the song
    Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

I had to stop what I was doing when I heard that.  It sums everything up for me right now.  Longfellow wrote the poem on which this carol is based during the American Civil War.  His son had been horribly injured, and his wife had died tragically.  He felt deep despair, maybe similar to what I am feeling.

We have been at this crossroad before in recent history.  Bosnia.  Rwanda.  The Holocaust.  All situations where hate was strong enough to prevail.  In all of those cases, “The World,” the powers-that-be, the politicians and diplomats and military forces, had the knowledge and the power to stop what was coming.  They did not, however, have the will.  I fear that it is the same with Syria and Aleppo now.  Many people have opined over the past few days that Aleppo will become another name synonymous with Bosnia and Rwanda, yet another moment in history that will mark the failure of The World to avert catastrophe.  We, The World, had the opportunity to avoid this.  We chose not to.

I wish I were powerful enough that I could intervene in Syria and in other places in the world that are ruled by hatred and violence.  I wish I were rich enough to make a difference in the lives of all who are refugees and displaced persons.  I am neither.  I am an ordinary person, in an ordinary town, with a pretty ordinary life.  The fact that there are nations and people who do have the ability to make a difference, but choose not to, fills me with despair. 

And yet, in the midst of despair, there are signs of hope.  The two families that our community has sponsored to date have brought so much joy to those of us who have had the privilege of getting to know them.  Our lives have been changed by their presence, and I am a better person for knowing them.  Their hope and faith in their search for a better future give me hope.

There are young adults all around me who are engaged, both globally and locally.  Only yesterday, my BFF’s youngest son celebrated a short but very successful fundraising venture for cancer research by shaving his head when the goal of $15,000 was reached (he actually raised almost $16,500, and donations are still coming in).  My daughter is passionate about social justice, and is searching to find the right career path for her to work with children or young adults who are somehow disadvantaged.  My son wants to coach high school football and be a teacher, and influence children in one of the most profound ways.  Our university students are learning and sharing about the issues of our world, and I hear the passion in their voices as they discuss and argue and set out, determined to change their world.  They bring me hope with their lofty ideals and their awareness of the world and what is wrong in it.

Yesterday, my daughter and I packed bags for our town’s Christmas Cheer programme.  The generosity of people who donate gifts and money for struggling families in our town gives me hope in the face of global despair.

I mentioned to a few friends that I was having trouble getting into the Christmas spirit this year.  One person told me that now more than ever, the world needs hope to triumph over despair.  Another friend reminded me that each person can only do so much, and that I can be the one drop, one light, and one friend for the people around me.  Maybe that’s what hope is, the realization that while those of us who are ordinary mortals can not change the whole world, we can change the spaces around us.  I might be powerless on a grand scale, but in my spheres of life, maybe I am not as powerless as I feel.  

I saw a quotation that reads “It’s OK if you fall down and lose your spark.  Just make sure that when you get back up, you rise as the whole damn fire.”  I have fallen and lost sight of my spark temporarily, although I know it is still there.  When I get back up again, I want to bring the whole damn fire.  I want to make sure that in my life, and in my spheres of activity, right will prevail over wrong, and hope will triumph over despair.  In this season of hope, joy, love and peace, I want to be reminded, like Longfellow was, that peace on earth and goodwill will triumph.  I want to be regenerated, re-energized and made ready to burn brightly.

So maybe it won’t be a Merry Christmas in the same way it has been in the past.  Maybe I will be more deliberately thoughtful and grateful about things I take for granted, and about the things I need to change in my own life in order to make my world more just and peaceful.  I hope it will be a Christmas when we, individually and collectively, take up the challenge to be the whole damn fire and to be the change our world needs to ensure that what is right is what wins in the end.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    and wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
    And with the sound
    The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
    "For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

A Tale of Two Grey Cups

A few days ago, I returned home from my second consecutive Grey Cup weekend.  The Grey Cup is the championship game of the Canadian Football League.  Like the Superbowl, only Canadian, and better.

Last year’s Grey Cup, my first, was in Winnipeg.  This year it was held in Toronto.  My team, the REDBLACKS, who employ my son, played in both.  This year, they won. That’s right.  My son is now a member of a Grey Cup championship team. 

Having been to the Grey Cup two years in a row, I feel that I am now a veteran Grey Cup attender.  Two very different cities, two different stadiums, and two unique experiences. 

The Game, of course, is the centrepiece of the weekend, but the days leading up to The Game are also fun.  Events such as the CFL Players’ Awards, the VIP Tailgate Party and Empowering Women and Community through Sport Luncheon are included if you have lots of money to spend, but for me, one of the real strengths of the CFL is that the VIP experience is actually not where it’s at; in my opinion, it is the mingling of CFL fans on the streets and in the more accessible events that makes the Grey Cup Festival what it is.

One of the things I love most about the CFL is its relatively small size.  There are only nine teams, and many of the players have played for more than one of those teams.  Other professional leagues like the NHL and NFL have many more teams and players, and correspondingly huge numbers of fans; their stadiums and arenas hold many more people than CFL stadiums.  For instance, in 2015, the highest average attendance for games in the NFL was in Dallas, where the Cowboys attracted 91,400 fans to every game.  The St. Louis Rams, who attract the smallest crowds, averaged 52,400.  The CFL, by comparison, had an average attendance ranging from 31,500 in Edmonton, to Toronto’s 12,430 (but Toronto is a bit of an anomaly in terms of CFL football).  The whole atmosphere of the CFL is intimate.  And you really feel this intimacy, this feeling of family at the Grey Cup.

Last year, I flew from Ottawa to Winnipeg via Pearson International Airport in Toronto. Frankly, I was astounded to see people wearing various team clothing greeting each other in the Toronto airport like long-lost friends (Ti-Cat fans hugging Argo fans???).  Listening to their conversations, it became clear that they had not seen each other since the previous year’s Grey Cup.  It seems as if there are a lot of people who attend each Grey Cup, no matter which teams are playing.  And it doesn’t matter what jersey you wear.  If you’re wearing a CFL jersey, you instantly become part of that CFL family.

This year I took the train from Ottawa to Toronto, and was seated beside a Calgary Stampeders fan named Ken.  He was probably in his 70s, and he was on his way to his fifteenth straight Grey Cup.  We chatted off and on for the trip, and then went our separate ways.  Over the course of the weekend, I randomly ran into him twice more: once at the Grey Cup Festival headquarters, and then at The Game itself, where he was sitting about ten rows directly in front of me.  Both times, we greeted each other with hugs, as if we had known each other much longer than our five-hour train ride. This is why I love the CFL.

Each team hosts a party.  Some of the parties happen every day of the 3-day festival; other teams have a single afternoon or evening event.  Some are free, and others have cover charges. 

Only in the CFL can you attend an annual party for a team that has never actually existed.  Last year, we decided that since we are Maritimers, we had to pay the $20 cover charge and attend the Atlantic Schooners party.  Who are these Atlantic Schooners, you ask?  In the early 1980s, Halifax was awarded a conditional CFL franchise.  The organization hired coaches, sold preliminary season tickets, and came up with a name and branding that would represent the four Atlantic provinces.  Unfortunately, funding to build a stadium of appropriate size never materialized, and the ownership group had to withdraw its franchise bid in 1983.  I am told that every year since then, the Atlantic Schooners have hosted a party at the Grey Cup Festival.  Their mascot is a lobster (of course), and their two mottos are “Still Undefeated” and “Keeping the Dream Alive.”  Some day, Atlantic Canada.  Some day.

So we paid our cover charge, believing that we would receive a lobster roll as part of it, only to discover that we had to pay extra for the lobster roll, and the Keith’s (Maritime beer) that was being served at the bar cost almost as much as the cover.  They had a live band playing mostly Great Big Sea covers, and they were pretty good.  Ironically, the band was actually from Regina, if I recall correctly.  This is why I love the CFL. 

Next, we hit the Saskatchewan Roughriders’ party.  We didn’t actually pay the cover charge to go in, as it was spilling out into the hallway, and we had no trouble hearing their live music.  Rider fans are unique, even for the CFL.  I’ve been to several regular season games over the past years, and it doesn’t matter whether the Riders are playing or not, I always see at least a couple of fans dressed in their Rider green.  They show up at all kinds of sporting events: NHL games, the Olympics, curling.... you can always pick out the Rider fans. So we had our obligatory photo-with-the-crazy-Rider-fans taken, listened to some of the music, and moved on.  This is why I love the CFL.

We attended the REDBLACKS team party, an afternoon event at a local pub.  It was very crowded, an experiment, perhaps, to see what the fan base would look like for this new franchise.  It was just a little bit cool, being Winnipeg, but also being Winnipeg, regardless of the frigid temperature, the party spilled onto the outdoor patio.  This is why I love the CFL.

Winnipeg held a joint Santa Claus/Grey Cup parade (Toronto did not).  We stayed well past the point where we could no longer feel our fingers and toes, and left while the parade was still in full swing.  Winnipeg also had a dramatic procession of the Grey Cup on game day from Festival headquarters at the Convention Centre, to the Forks.  Fans took turns carrying the Cup.  When we got to the Forks, the Cup was put on a helicopter and flown to the stadium.

My first experience of a Grey Cup was a thrill.  CFLers were visible all over the city.  I admit, even though I am a mum of grown up children, I went a little fangirl crazy, especially when Travis Lulay, the quarterback of the BC Lions, sat down for breakfast a few tables away from me, and when Mike Reilly, the Edmonton quarterback, sat at the table right behind me with his family at lunch time.  I am pretty much a lifelong CFL fan, and it is just a little thrilling to see these stars up close in real life. 

This year, the atmosphere was a little bit different.  The sports market is very competitive in Toronto, and the Grey Cup did not have the same all-encompassing influence that it did in Winnipeg.  For example, the hotel where we stayed had no idea what the Grey Cup was and could not help us with any information about the Festival or The Game – despite the fact that one of the teams playing in the Grey Cup was staying at the same hotel!  The Game was not even listed on the Events calendar that the hotels receive.

As it got closer to Game Day, though, there were more people on the streets wearing CFL gear.  We shared several serendipitous moments with other fans, walking for several blocks with fellow REDBLACKS fans (that I had never met before) and discovering our mutual connections to the team.  (I also ran into some of them later in the weekend). 

This year, my darling daughter was able to join us for the weekend (last year, it was my son’s best friend).  We spent Saturday afternoon at the REDBLACKS team party, another crowded event (I think they will need a much bigger venue next year) and then headed down to Festival HQ.  There are all kinds of fun drills and competitions: the obstacle race/footwork course, throwing the football for accuracy and speed, and trying to catch a pass in midair while jumping into a big pile of foam blocks (and then trying to get out again).  Last year in Winnipeg, we dressed up in shoulder pads and helmets, and were filmed running out of the “tunnel” onto the “field” at the beginning of the game.  If you are so inclined, you can also be a TSN anchor person, or go into the virtual huddle and hear the play calls.   

After some friendly familial competition (where I am proud to say I actually held my own), and some live music on the outdoor stage, we headed in to check out some of the parties, but not before running into a friend of ours, Andre Durie, and some of his Argonaut teammates.  I love that you can “run into” someone you know at a Grey Cup event.

The Atlantic Schooners did not have any live music when we passed by their venue.  In fact, it sounded a little bit like they were having a trivia night.  So we passed. 

Surprisingly, the Roughrider party was also a little bit downbeat from what it was last year.  So we moved on.

The Argonaut party, in The Shipyard, was rocking, with a cover band, the Dwayne Gretzkys, providing live music.  Good vocals, good instrumentals, and a nice variety of music, with different band members taking the lead.  We found a table, got some refreshments, and settled in for the evening.  My daughter, being the social one in the family, ended up on the dance floor, and immediately had fans from various teams hugging her and welcoming her to the floor.  I think she probably made a dozen new friends in the space of ten minutes and received invitations to a few tailgate parties.  That’s my daughter. 

Having received some advice about the best parties to attend from my Stampeders friend, late in the evening (or was that early in the morning?) we headed over to the Spirit of Edmonton party at one of the downtown hotels.  Ken was right.  You need to be there well in advance of the party.  When we arrived, the line to get in was up two flights of stairs and down the hallway, and it was late/early, so we did not stay.  Next time, we will know better!  (We also missed the free Calgary Stampeders pancake breakfast, but that's another story).

And The Game!  The centrepiece of the weekend and the season!  Last year in Winnipeg, it was so cold that I spent most of one quarter and the entire halftime trying to track down some hot beverages.  This year in Toronto, it was mild and the lineups were not half as crazy.  Each stadium is different; Investors Group Field in Winnipeg is actually a bowl, and is deceptively large; it feels like a college stadium in size.  BMO Field is beside Lake Ontario, with a view of downtown Toronto, and has great sightlines.

This year’s game was made more exciting by the fact that our team won!  And it was dramatic.  I will resist the temptation to rehash the game, as that information is readily available elsewhere (like here and here), but the shoestring tackle by Abdul Kanneh to prevent Calgary from scoring a touchdown and then the overtime bobbling touchdown catch from Henry Burris to Ernest Jackson (two of my favourites), were mind-bogglingly thrilling!
 

After the game, families and friends were able to go down on the field and celebrate with our team.  There were fireworks and confetti, and tears and excitement.  And lots of hugging.  We eventually made our way into the locker room shortly after the traditional champagne spraying, where the hugging and excitement continued, this time through a thick haze of cigar smoke.  The music and dancing continued on the bus ride back to the hotel for the celebration party.  There was more champagne.  And some food.  And photos with the Grey Cup.  And more hugging. 

The highlights of this year’s Grey Cup for me?  Well, the win, of course.  And experiencing it with both my kids.  And running into former students from Mount Allison University, sometimes randomly (like our waiter at the REDBLACKS party).  And running into our friend Andre a second time just before The Game, after he searched us out to give us one of his signed jerseys (Thank you, Andre.  We are presently negotiating custody arrangements for The Jersey).  And meeting new people (I’ll be looking for my Stamps friend Ken next year) and finding connections between players and people you actually know.  And talking to CFL legends (like Pinball Clemons and Henry Burris) and legends-to-be and “hanging out” in the same space and chatting with the Grey Cup champions, who also happen to be my kid’s friends and coworkers. 

Next year?  The Grey Cup will be hosted in Ottawa.  It will be a time, as they say out east.  I am excited to see how Ottawa will compare to these two experiences.  It is a venue with a lot of potential for excitement.  The stadium and the area around it will be filled with CFL fans, and it will be an extra special celebration in the nation’s capital for the nation’s 150th birthday.  Hopefully it will be extra special for our family too, and we will ALL be able to experience it together.

This is what we’re made of, and all of this is why I love the CFL.
 

The Morning After....

I had not planned to write about the US election on my blog.  After all -- not my circus, not my monkeys.  And I think I probably expected, like many of you, that sanity would prevail, and there wouldn’t really be anything to talk about.

But the events of the past 24 hours, and the election of Donald Trump as the next President, have left me utterly shocked and shaken to my core (Disclaimer: I am not a huge fan of Hillary Clinton either but if I had had to choose...).  Waking up this morning and hearing the news, I literally turned the radio off and rolled over to go back to sleep in the hope that it was a dream and when I really awoke, the news would be different.  When that didn’t work, I lay in bed looking out my window to see if the sun would actually rise today.  (It did, and it was a fairly spectacular sunrise, as most mid-autumn sunrises on the edge of the marsh are).

I know millions of people will be writing about the election results, and probably all of them will have many more profoundly insightful things to say than I do.  But for me, part of the process of writing a journal or a blog is for my own personal benefit, to try to unravel the deep mixed emotions of events or issues, and create some sense out of chaos, at least for me.  So here I am, drinking some Fort Henry Black Powder Tea, which, given its origin, seems rather apt, and pondering the aftermath.  (I bought the tea this summer at Upper Canada Village, which partially commemorates the Battle of Crysler Farm during the War of 1812.  The tea is heavily smoked and I think of campfires on the battlefield when I smell it).

Like you, I have listened to the news, followed the fallout on social media, and tried to make sense of what happened south of the border.  I have felt deep despair, fear, a loss of faith in humanity, and yes, even a little loss of faith in God.  And it isn’t even 10 a.m. 

There are many questions as to how Mr. Trump could be elected and how every single pundit and pollster could have been so devastatingly wrong.  There is a lot of analysis out there right now, probably much of it inaccurate.  I saw one graph which showed that Trump was basically elected by white men and women (I think the statistic was something like 64% of white men voted for Trump); every other demographic voted for Clinton.  Another person commented that the results indicate that there are many Americans who are closet racists, misogynists, etc. who were too timid to indicate their real choice (Trump) to pollsters but not too timid to actually vote for him.  One Facebook friend reposted a tweet that said “What I learned on Election Night: Being a racist, bigoted, prejudice [sic], lying sexual predator is still more acceptable than being a woman.”  Van Jones, a CNN commentator, calls this election a “whitelash” – backlash against eight years of having a black president.   There is a lot of talk about how the mostly white voters who supported Trump feel dispossessed in a politically elite system that ignores their anxieties and realities.  

Personally, I feel a great deal of despair.  I do not understand how anyone who claims to care about humanity can vote for Trump.  To me, he is the epitome of a man who represents everything anti-Christian, anti-humanitarian, selfish, greedy.... I could go on, but you have read it all before elsewhere.  I am fearful for Americans of colour, women, gay and lesbian people, immigrants, Muslim Americans, children and anyone else who belongs to vulnerable populations. 

I am fearful for my own nation.  Before we get too complacent as Canadians, let me remind you that we had Stephen Harper as our prime minister for 10 years, and let’s not forget the divisions, distrust and discriminatory policies that characterize his legacy.  We are not immune to Trump-ism.  Even in my own small town there are people who are openly proud to do whatever they can to generate hatred, fear, suspicion and division, and who loudly proclaimed their support for Trump and all he represents. 

I could go on.  Like many of you, I am experiencing so many feelings this morning.

However.... In the midst of all the negativity, and all the options for choosing disgust, despair, and grief, I began to see glimmers of hope.  Several people posted ways in which they would try to find light at the end of what seems like a very dark tunnel.  One of my facebook friends, a very wise young woman, posted the following:

“What I'm telling my kids:
In America, they have had some tough years. Many citizens are tired, broken and afraid. They weren't sure who could best help them so they picked. They may have made a mistake.
And, because we are friends and neighbours, we are here for our friends even when they made choices we don't like.
Our neighbours may have a tough road ahead. They need us more than ever.”

I saw an article on Huffington Post written in response to a school principal that encouraged adults to find positive teaching moments for children in the wake of a Trump victory.  To promise to protect our children and assure them that democracy is not dead.  She wrote: “Tell them... that you will honor the outcome of the election, but that you will fight bigotry. Tell them bigotry is not a democratic value, and that it will not be tolerated at your school. Tell them you stand by your Muslim families. Your same-sex parent families. Your gay students. Your Black families. Your female students. Your Mexican families. Your disabled students. Your immigrant families. Your trans students. Your Native students. Tell them you won’t let anyone hurt them or deport them or threaten them without having to contend with you first. Say that you will stand united as a school community, and that you will protect one another. Say that silence is dangerous, and teach them how to speak up when something is wrong. Then teach them how to speak up, how to love one another, how to understand each other, how to solve conflicts, how to live with diverse and sometimes conflicting ideologies, and give them the skills to enter a world that doesn’t know how to do this.”  (You can read it here).

And I remembered the final vision of Jack Layton, which he shared with Canadians just before his death a few short years ago:

“My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world."

I am still in shock and despair.  But as many of you have chosen to do, I make a conscious decision to choose love, hope and optimism.  I cannot change the outcome of this most unsettling US election, but I can choose how I react to it.  And I choose to take steps that will change the world – at least my small part of it – for the better. 

Two years ago, Canadian Foodgrains Bank posted this prayer, which is so appropriate for today and the coming days.

May all I do today
be for the healing of the whole
May all I do today
mend this broken world
May all I do today
bring blessing on the Earth
May all I do today
be for the good of all
All I do today
~ Jan Novotka

Let’s decide to heal the whole, broken world, with love, hope and optimism.

I am soooo stressed....

My Facebook feed today reminded me that around this date in 2007, I was invited to be a guest columnist for“Through Stained Glass” in the Argosy, the student newspaper at Mount Allison University.  I think it is still pertinent, so I have updated it a bit and post it here for your reflection. Keep in mind I wrote it for a university student audience.... (and please forgive me if I have messed up any statistics.  I am not a good mathematician, but I did check everything at least twice).

I have been feeling very stressed lately. Our family is expecting guests from out of the country for Thanksgiving weekend, and we are in the middle of painting our living room. Last weekend, we went to Lennoxville to watch our football Mounties play against Bishops. We couldn’t find a hotel room in Montreal the night before our flight back because Tiger Woods was apparently in the city  (who knew so many people followed golf?? – we ended up sleeping in the airport). You likely feel stressed about other things – the assignment that is due and hasn’t been started, studying for midterms, whether you did anything you should regret on the weekend. We all complain that we live very stressful lives.

I have also been researching and thinking a lot about poverty. The week of October 14-21 was designated as the Week to End Poverty, and the UN International Day for the Eradication of Poverty is on October 17. At the turn of the millennium, heads of state, charitable and non-governmental organizations, church groups and ordinary people agreed that poverty could be at least reduced, and that extreme poverty, defined at the time as living on less than $1US a day, could be entirely eliminated. The Millennium Development Goals (MDGs) are a set of eight achievable goals which, if met by the target year of 2015, would have gone a long way to easing the lives of millions of people around the world (see http://www.unmillenniumproject.org/goals/). However, in 2016, it seems that there has not been much tangential change in easing poverty; the UN page dedicated to the MDGs has been linked with the UN Development Programmes page, and there is no longer even any mention of the MDGs on the UNDP page.

Statistics show that in our country, 1 in every 5 children lived in poverty in 2013. To put that in perspective, in Sackville, with its school age population of approximately 1000 children, that would translate into approximately 250 children, here in our own backyard, who live in poor families. That’s equivalent to almost the entire population of our elementary school. In Canada, the annual income of the richest 10% of families rose by almost $30,000 between 1993-1996, and the annual income of the poorest 10% of families fell. Our Parliament passed a resolution in 1989 to end child poverty in Canada by the year 2000. Instead, over that decade, the child poverty rate in Canada rose by 21.7%, and at the turn of the millennium, there were almost 1.3 million children in Canada living in poverty (that figure in 2016 is now well over 1.3 million). In our indigenous populations, the child poverty rate in 2013 was 40%. The most vulnerable families are those headed by a single parent, and most of those single parents (80% in 2011) are women.  In 2011, these moms earned about 50% of the income that male single parent families earned, a median income of $21,200 compared to $43,300 for men.  Canada has the 30th largest wage gap between men and women out of 145 ranked nations in the world, despite all our attempts at gender equity. And it is worth noting that all of these statistics are skewed way out of proportion if we take into account whether people are indigenous, visible minorities, mentally or physically disabled, or seniors.  We have not come a long way, baby.

That morning in October 2007, I started to make a list of what absolutely needed to be done, what should be done and the little things I wanted to do before my company arrived. It was a long list. I started to feel very stressed, even hopeless. Then I thought about what I had learned about poverty. And I realized that my stress is a luxury. I remembered that my son and daughter would be fed a nutritious supper that night, after they got home from their publicly funded, universally-accessible education. My husband has a job that means we don’t need to worry about the necessities of life. We could afford to paint our living room. We actually have a living room to paint. I realized that I had no right to feel so stressed and hopeless about such insignificant things as whether my house would be clean by the weekend.

The poor, around the world and right here in Sackville, know what it truly means to feel stress. They wonder how they will get enough nutritious food for their children. Sackville’s poor families worry about how they will afford school supplies and winter coats and boots for their kids. They worry about how they are going to pay their rent. They worry about their children’s health, their children’s mental and social well-being, whether they should go to the Food Bank or not (and what their neighbours will say if they do). In developing nations, some families actually have to consciously choose which one of their children will live. The rest of their children will slowly die before their eyes, simply because they only have enough food for one child. That is stress. Next to that, my stress is selfish and meaningless.

In the time it has taken you to read this article, if you’re a fast reader, about 150 people in the world have died from completely avoidable, poverty-related deaths. That’s 25,000 people who will die today. Locally, over 200 families in Sackville will make use of our food bank this month.  In 2014, the Community Association’s Christmas Cheer programme provided food vouchers, toys and gift baskets to 607 individuals in Sackville, 160 of them children.  Still more families will go unnoticed.

If you are walking past the chapel (or a church) this week, go in and sit in the silence for a moment, and say a prayer for the poor in our community and in our world, as the sunlight colours your world through stained glass.

WWF Parenting

(I wrote this a long time ago, and attempted to get it published in a parenting magazine.  Apparently, their email to me got lost in cyberspace, and by the time I figured that out, their deadline had passed and they had moved on.  Anyway, here it is for you.)

 
You might not think it to look at us, but my husband and I have a combined 96 years of parenting experience.  We have a 26-year-old son and a 22-year-old daughter, with their own styles of being kids, and my husband and I have our own styles of being parents; the combined age of our children multiplied by the number of parents equals 96 years.

In this 96 years of parenting, we have learned a great deal about parenting models and strategies.  Like any good ‘90s parents, we bought the trendy books (you might have some of the updated versions of the same ones on your bookshelves) which tell us, in essence, how to be the most effective parents. 

The most important thing we learned is that those books actually function better as  items on the bookshelves meant to impress, than they do as advice guides.  It does look pretty awe-inspiring when a person walks into a family home and sees row upon row of books on parenting and childhood development.  At least you know you’re in a home where the parents are sincere about trying to be good parents.

Like most well-intentioned parents, we actually read some of these books.  We’d sit together in the post-bedtime silence, when our son was finally finished calling for glasses of water and bandaids and another hug, reading to ourselves.  (I should mention that by the time our daughter was born, we were way past reading parenting books).  I’m sure our son, who was likely still awake, wondered what we were doing, because every so often, one of us would spew forth an expletive of one kind or another: “Yeah, that’s not going to work!” Or, “Oh, yeah, right – in their dreams.”  Or, “Ewww... that is really gross” (in response to suctioning snot out of their noses, which we thankfully never ever had to do!).

The problem with these kinds of books is that they make the assumption that all parents and all children are created equally.  In an ideal world, maybe we are.  But our world is far from ideal.  Take the concept of the “Time out chair”, a popular form of discipline in the world of the 90s.  (For the uninitiated, a child who misbehaves is sent to a special “time out chair” and must sit on the chair, by themselves, presumably to contemplate remorsefully the consequences of his or her actions, for a specified time, after which the punishment is finished and the child returns to whatever he or she was doing before).  I have spoken to parents whose children love the time out chair – who knows, in the busy space of the day care, maybe it gives children some peace and quiet, some time to ponder on the large questions of life (like “Why do we have elbows?”). 

Similarly, for my children, being sent to their rooms was not really punishment.  When we were upset with them, and lecturing and berating them, they were only too glad to go to their rooms for a while.  They went quietly and willingly, closing their doors behind them, and ended up staying in their rooms for hours because they rediscovered a previously forgotten favourite book or toy.  Personally, I always think that the whole purpose of sending them to their rooms was defeated when I actually had to convince them to come out again.

Anyway, after much deliberation and discussion, my husband and I developed a new style of parenting.  We call it the WWF parenting style.  I know, it sounds a bit violent, but although bodyslamming and choke holds might sound pretty tempting in some parental situations, our style isn’t actually related in any way, shape or form to wrestling or physical violence.  Our parenting method is “Whatever Works, Fine”. 

We actually stumbled upon it by accident when our son was beginning his quest for independence at the age of 7 months (when he started to crawl).  We had friends who babyproofed their entire family rooms, putting those special safety plugs in the electrical sockets, moving breakables above baby level, blocking off the doors.  I was in one house where the parents went so far as to remove every object from their family room, except an old sofa and the box of baby toys.  We felt this was a rather drastic step to take, so we decided we would leave our home as it was and deal with babyproofing as necessary.  We found ourselves weighing the value and the potential for inflicting injury of every item we owned, especially as our son started teething.  If he was chewing on the furniture or on a book, we intervened.  If it was a dishtowel or a spoon, more often than not, we’d say “WWF.” 

I confess, WWF parenting is not actually an original concept.  It all goes back to common sense.  We ask ourselves a series of questions; for instance, if a child is playing with an object other than a toy, we ask “Is my child likely to damage the object?” and “Is the object likely to damage my child?”  If the answer to both questions is “No” (assuming you are not unrealistically trusting your toddler with your mother-in-law’s favourite Royal Doulton figurine), then we say “if the kid is happy, and if he’s not causing any damage to anything, WWF”.

Admittedly, the WWF parenting style, like most others, has its limitations.  One absolute necessity is keeping it a secret from your children.  Once they know what “WWF” means, the jig is up.  And if used indiscriminately by parents, the WWF method can actually produce children who are, in modern terminology, entitled, and prone to temper tantrums when they don’t get their own way. The temptation is to say “Whatever Works, Fine” in every situation, from shopping for the latest brand name blue jeans with your adolescent daughter, to giving a child candy before dinner to keep him happy.  The real purpose of the WWF method is to prevent parents from overreacting to situations without good reason.  To go back to the teething child, is there any good reason that he shouldn’t chew on your dishtowel?  If it’s clean and it’s relatively lint-free, then no, there isn’t.  Our WWF method is merely an attempt at preventing us from becoming the kind of parents whose automatic response to any request or action from our children is “No.”

Those parenting books really did look pretty good on our bookshelf.  And there have been situations where we have referred to them, and even followed their advice.  However, our 96 years of combined parenting experience have proven to us that the best parenting method is still good, old-fashioned common sense.  WWF.

Summer Camp

For most of the years between ages 11 and 22, I spent parts of my summers at a church camp in Riding Mountain National Park, Manitoba. 

The camp was what you might call rustic.  I’m talking pit toilet rustic.  The nearest phone was 30 minutes away, and we only had electricity during the day when the generator ran (if it wasn't broken).  Hair dryers and electric razors and other electric accessories were not permitted.  We had no showers, so we washed in the lake.  Later, when I was hired as a summer staff person, I looked forward to my weekly visit to the resort town across the lake on my day off for a hot shower and a visit to the laundromat.  Our baseball diamond was in the middle of a swamp, and we didn’t have anything fancy like ziplines or horseback riding.  Running into a bear on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night was a very real possibility.  It probably wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. 

I loved it.

I don’t recall much about the history of the camp, although I know it was built by Manitoba Baptists in the 1940s.  I have seen photos of the first corduroy road that led into the camp site, and heard stories about hauling sand in to create a beach.  My history began with a girls’ camp, where I bonded with another girl over a butterfly while we were driving to the nearby buffalo compound in the back of a station wagon.  Forty years later, we are still best friends.  I spent subsequent summers as a camper, then a volunteer counsellor, and eventually, a full-time summer employee. 

My memories of camp were rekindled the other day when I picked up a novel from the bookstore’s bargain table called The Firelight Girls, by Kaya McLaren.  It was a light summer read, certainly not Pulitzer-worthy, but the attraction was that it was about a group of women who gather to clean up and permanently close their beloved summer camp.

My camp, Camp Shänti, was built at the west end of Clear Lake, in Riding Mountain National Park. It faced eastward, toward the lake, and was surrounded on its other sides by trees of the boreal forest – spruce, jackpine, and a few aspens.  One of the Park’s hiking trails was supposed to pass through the camp, but it was almost always impassable because of the swamp just down the shore from us.  Bears often passed through the camp, occasionally investigating the garbage pit behind the kitchen and necessitating the placement of bear traps by Parks Canada, and in the late summer, we would begin to hear bugling bull elks looking for mates.  Occasionally we would hear wolves calling as we drifted off to sleep, and we frequently heard loons calling to each other.

Unfortunately, the camp was built on land that had been established as an Anishinabe fishing reserve, which had been taken from them when the Park was established in the 1930s.  After the camp closed, the land was returned to its rightful owners, and now it is part of the Keeseekoowenin First Nation.  Even while the camp was still operating, Anishinabe people would appear a couple of times each summer, and stage a peaceful protest, sitting on the lakeshore, affirming their presence on the land. Being young and white and ignorant, we generally felt threatened by their presence.  As a more educated adult, one of my biggest regrets is that we were so reluctant to engage them in conversation or attempt to create understanding and mutual respect.

Camp was full of amazing and wonderful and exciting experiences.  There was the time we went for a hike in the nearby forest and got lost.  Our leader was almost hysterical, even though we eventually ended up on a road.  We campers sensed adventure, and acted accordingly.  The time that some of the boys wandered off the trail during another hike in a rugged part of the Park and were well and truly lost for several hours.  The occasional road trips to the nearby bison enclosure, always filled with the anticipation of spotting the massive creatures.  On one trip, we encountered them up close and personal, turning a corner to discover that the bison were blocking the foot path that led from the parking lot to the interpretive area.  Overnight trips away from the camp, usually involving canoeing to a group campsite along the south shore of the lake, and almost always including high waves and winds and an eventual canoe rescue, the day ending with banana boats made in the fire and sleeping under the stars.  Countless campfires, songs and skits.  May long weekend camps when there was still ice on the lake; one memorable camp where we all hiked down the road to the “Indian Cemetery” after dark, and a couple of the boys decided it would be funny to pretend someone had been hanged from a tree.  I’m pretty sure some of the girls still get hysterical when they recall it.  The camp personalities, most favourite of whom I’m sure was Percy, who used to start every day by singing “Oh how I hate to get up in the morning” at the top of his lungs (and not particularly well!).  And the counsellor hunts, and the time my best friend fell off the bell tower where she was hiding and the camp director put Absorbine Jr. on her bruises (note: Absorbine Jr. is NOT an effective treatment for bruises, but it does bring out their various hues in a most spectacular way).  Off-site trips to a nearby neighbour’s cottage for special campfires.  And in the last summer, trail riding and wagon rides at a nearby guest ranch. 

And I must not forget the food adventures.  Our cooks were generally shall we say frugal, and the gobs of leftover porridge found its way into all kinds of unexpected dishes (as an aside, coming from a home where my dad regularly made the most delicious porridge, the cold, lumpy, gooey camp porridge remains one of the biggest disappointments of my camping experience).  We were once served spaghetti with no sauce.  One year someone donated jello mixes to the camp – root beer, watermelon and cotton candy.  Let’s just say that the jello found alternate uses.  Although the food was generally not very popular, the freezers full of home-baked cookies donated by Baptist ladies from all over the province were in high demand (my favourites were the monster cookies, which I discovered later were hoarded and saved for the “staff meetings” after lights out). 

Other events like Utensil meals, banquets, skit nights, water games, the year our lifeguard swam across the lake just because, pranks, homesick kids, chores, crushes, water fights, silly games (Train or Lighthouse, anyone?), nature, wicked thunderstorms, bunkbeds, canoeing lessons, newspaper-filled cabins and cars, and as the women in The Firelight Girls reminded me, moths and spiders and the ever-present smell of Pine-Sol in the toilets... so many memories...

The most life-changing thing that happened to me at camp was that my relationship with a certain man evolved to the point that during one particular day off, which we spent together, we became engaged.  The day itself involved the not-very-romantic task of doing laundry in town, followed by a totally unromantic dinner at a local pizza place seated next to a very large table of young families, with children who cried and wailed and whined throughout the entire meal.  However, it ended with a drive at dusk to a nearby scenic lake, where he popped the question (and I use that term purposely, because he later admitted that it was almost completely spontaneous).  On the drive back to the camp, we spotted a large bull moose grazing in a stream, and we stopped and watched him for several minutes.  I think it was a good omen; 31 years later, we’re still married.

Anyone who has fallen in love with summer camp will understand some of the universal experiences of camp.  There is the connection to the natural world, the camaraderie of living with a dozen or so other cabin mates, the freedom of being away from your family and the usual routines of life.  I always felt it was a sanctuary, but I never really considered that for many children, maybe it truly was an actual sanctuary, a safe haven.  In The Firelight Girls, one of the characters grows up with an abusive parent, and she reflects on the meaning of the camp in her life: 

     It was a completely safe place.  She kept expecting the feeling to pass, but it lasted while she lay on a warm boulder and let the radiance of the sun’s heat thaw her.  It lasted while they pitched tents, made dinner, and sang songs together.  It lasted as the talk of girleating bears gave way to snoring.  It lasted into the night and sank deep into her dreams, so that for once they were good.  She even woke up feeling safe and protected in this secret world.
    As the other girls rolled up sleeping bags and tents, seemingly both surprised and relieved that they had survived the night without being eaten by wild animals, Laura felt grief.  She didn’t want to go.  She never wanted to leave this sanctuary where she was hidden and protected from everything sick and mean and ugly.

I was never aware of campers who might have come from situations that were less than ideal, but I was young and naive, as were most of the other staff.  I only hope that for those kids whose lives felt “sick and mean and ugly,” the time they spent at camp gave them a reprieve, a sanctuary, and the strength to survive.

I spent one last summer at the Camp, the summer after I was married.  My husband was the director of the camp.  I knew that since we were moving to Ontario that September that we were not likely to return for several years, so I decided that instead of working at the camp, I would live there as the director’s spouse, with no responsibilities.  It gave me the opportunity to say goodbye to my heart’s home, although we did not foresee at the time that the camp would never operate at that location again. 

One of my most special memories of camp occurred during that last summer. 

Usually every summer, one camp consisted mainly of young First Nations children from Winnipeg.  These camps were always a challenge.  This particular camp was more challenging than usual.  The children were unenthusiastic about the activities that the staff had planned for the week, and unresponsive.  After a couple of days, the staff met to reconsider its approach, and decided to scrap their plans and try something different.  One of the highlights was taking the kids off-site to the bison compound.  Most of these children had never seen live bison before, since they were city kids, but the response when they encountered these animals, so important to their culture and history, was palpable.  The other highlight was a day spent completely in the water – canoeing, swimming, and water Olympics.

One white girl was not happy to be at camp.  She had attended camp in the past and had always been a bit of a handful, but during this particular camp she was downright unpleasant.  She spent part of her time bullying one of the First Nations boys who was small for his age.  One evening after supper, we were all heading from the dining hall towards the cabins, and we saw the girl wander off to the end of the dock.  She was obviously crying.  We were debating what we would do when we saw the boy veer off toward the dock as well.  We stopped and watched, and received a lesson in true compassion from a boy who most likely had not received much compassion himself during his young life.  Not one of us would have blamed him if he had gone up to the girl and pushed her off the dock into the lake.  Instead, he gently approached her, and when he was beside her, he stretched out his little hand and took her hand in his.  He stayed with her, silent, until she had stopped crying. 

Camp meant so many things to me.  I loved the people I met, the natural surroundings, the place.  I loved the fact that everyone had favourite cabins and counsellors.  I loved the familiarity of the place; as one of the characters in the novel muses, “There was something profoundly comforting about places a person knew in the dark, these trails like old friends she hadn’t forgotten.  The young trees had grown.  They looked different.  But it felt the same.”  Camp was home for my spirit, the place that, as another character says, housed my essence.  There was nothing like the anticipation of driving down the back road for the first time each summer, passing the Indian Cemetery, driving through the tall trees, and finally, at last, rounding the last corner and catching the first glimpse of the lake and then the camp.

I wonder if it would feel the same to me, even though the trees have grown and the buildings have been removed.  I wonder if I would remember to avoid that big tree root that was by the Chapel, or be able to find where the campfire used to be.  One day, maybe I will muster the courage to ask the Keeseekoowenin Band for permission to find out.  In the meantime, I treasure my memories about camp, and tomorrow, I will mail a copy of The Firelight Girls to my best friend.  

 

Help me understand....

Once again this week, there has been disturbing news of gun violence in the U.S.  Police officers shooting black men.  And then people targetting and killing police officers in retaliation.

I am not an American, and I admit, I truly do not understand the passionate appeal of the gun culture.  I am not completely anti-gun.  I have worked for a provincial Fish & Wildlife department and I have lived in the country.  I know that hunting is necessary, for subsistence for some people, and for conservation when a particular species becomes too plentiful.  I know that there are times on a farm when it is necessary to humanely put an animal out of its misery.  But personally, I do not need a gun.  I do not own a gun.  I do not want a gun.  And I would definitely not fight to the death for my right to own a gun.  “From my cold, dead hands”?  There are many things you would have to pry out of my cold, dead hands, but a gun is not one of them.  I am happy that guns are licensed in Canada, and I am very happy that weapons that are meant for military purposes are restricted.  The sole purpose of the existence of guns is to kill people (or animals).  There is no secondary use.  Why is that worth fighting for?

That’s just half of the equation, though, isn’t it?  The other half is the prejudice and hatred that seem to be so prevalent in our society.  I also do not understand that.  Why does it matter if a person is black or white?  Or gay or straight?  Or female or male?  Or Jewish or Christian or Muslim?  Why can't we just all be humans?

Don't get me wrong.  Not for a minute am I suggesting that black people or gay people or women or indigenous peoples or poor people or others have not been marginalized or mistreated or suffered from other prejudices.  And I definitely am not suggesting that we forget or deny history, and that the injustices of the past do not matter.  I am not saying that a person’s race or gender or religion are not important.  Of course they are important.  They are part of what makes each of us unique, and part of our individual identities. 

And yes, I am approaching this as a white, middle-class woman, supposedly from a perspective of great advantage.  And my race and social status automatically cause anything I have to say to become irrelevant and insignificant.  And as hard as I try, I will never be able to truly comprehend the reality of people who are other than white and middle class.

But I want to understand.  I want to understand why it is that our politicians, in the 21st century, are so completely crippled when it comes to enacting legislation to create a justice system that is fair and just for everyone, equally.  I want to understand why it is that some people working in law enforcement and the justice system believe that they are above the law, and that black men, or mentally ill teenagers, or vulnerable women, can be treated differently than others.  I want to understand what makes it okay for citizens to arm themselves with lethal weapons and purposefully and intentionally kill the people that are supposed to protect them.  I want to understand what makes people strap bombs onto their bodies (or the bodies of someone else) with the intent and knowledge that those bombs will kill other people whose ideologies or nationalities or religions are different from theirs.  I want someone to explain to me how we got to the point where our right to defend ourselves against perceived threats, no matter how insignificant they are, or whether they are real or imaginary, trumps another person’s right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. 

I want to understand why we can’t see each other as fellow humans first, before we see the colour and the religion and the sexual orientation and the gender and the disability.  I want to be able to comprehend why some lives matter more than others.  I want to know why all these things divide us, and why we are so afraid of the “other-ness” of others.  I want to know why it seems that my empathy with people who are different from me is seen as not sincere because I am white and middle class.  I want to know how we can move from “cultural appropriation” to being able to celebrate other cultures with respect and honour.

I am filled with fear when I contemplate what level of tragedy it will ultimately take for us to seek peace and justice instead of fear and hatred.  Our society has survived Columbine, Oklahoma City, 9/11, Newton, Orlando, École Polytechnique, Moncton, La Loche, Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, and so many other tragedies that it is impossible to list them all. And each time, the politicians shed a tear or two, and talk about how terrible it all is.  And we wring our hands and wonder what can be done, but then our lives move on, basically unaffected.

And now we are faced with Alton Sterling, Philando Castile, and Dallas.  There are more tears, more hand-wringing, and ultimately, nothing will change.  I don’t even want to consider what it will take for us to collectively truly seek change. 

Gordon Lightfoot wrote “Black Day in July” following the Detroit riots in 1967.  Nothing much seems to have changed for the better in the almost 50 years since. 

Black day in July
Motor city madness has touched the countryside
And through the smoke and cinders
You can hear it far and wide
The doors are quickly bolted
And the children locked inside

Black day in July
Black day in July
And the soul of Motor City is bared across the land
As the book of law and order is taken in the hands
Of the sons of the fathers who were carried to this land

Black day in July
Black day in July
In the streets of Motor City is a deadly silent sound
And the body of a dead youth lies stretched upon the ground
Upon the filthy pavement
No reason can be found

Black day in July
Black day in July
Motor City madness has touched the countryside
And the people rise in anger
And the streets begin to fill
And there's gunfire from the rooftops
And the blood begins to spill

Black day in July

In the mansion of the governor
There's nothing that is known for sure
The telephone is ringing
And the pendulum is swinging
And they wonder how it happened
And they really know the reason
And it wasn't just the temperature
And it wasn't just the season

Black day in July
Black day in July
Motor City's burning and the flames are running wild
They reflect upon the waters of the river and the lake
And everyone is listening
And everyone's awake

Black day in July
Black day in July
The printing press is turning
And the news is quickly flashed
And you read your morning paper
And you sip your cup of tea
And you wonder just in passing
Is it him or is it me

Black day in July

In the office of the President
The deed is done the troops are sent
There's really not much choice you see
It looks to us like anarchy
And then the tanks go rolling in
To patch things up as best they can
There is no time to hesitate
The speech is made the dues can wait

Black day in July
Black day in July
The streets of Motor City now are quiet and serene
But the shapes of gutted buildings
Strike terror to the heart
And you say how did it happen
And you say how did it start
Why can't we all be brothers
Why can't we live in peace
But the hands of the have-nots
Keep falling out of reach

Black day in July
Black day in July
Motor city madness has touched the countryside
And through the smoke and cinders
You can hear it far and wide
The doors are quickly bolted
And the children locked inside

Songwriter: Gordon Lightfoot
Black Day In July lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

No, I do not understand why we cannot look at our differences as things worthy of respect and celebration.  At some point, we need to move beyond the bewilderment of the disparities of our society.  My life as a white, heterosexual, married, female, mother, daughter, aunt, cousin, stay-at-home mom matters.  And your life matters just as much as mine, whether you are black, Hispanic, Chinese, gay, bisexual, Muslim, Christian, male, female, big or little. Why indeed can’t we just all live as brothers and sisters, and live in peace? 

I do not know what the answer is on the larger scale.  But as I contemplated all of this today, I needed this reminder that showed up on Facebook:

Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.

Do justly, now.
Love mercy, now.
Walk humbly, now.

You are not obligated to complete the work.
But neither are you free to abandon it.

Appreciation?

"Being told you are appreciated is one of the simplest and most incredible things you can ever hear.”

That is a quotation that popped up in my Facebook feed this week.  And at this particular moment, it resonated with me quite deeply.

I have been an active volunteer for most of my life, starting in school when I was a member of various student councils.  Most of my volunteering has happened in the town where I presently live, beginning in my children’s Play School, then Home & School, and then various town and church committees and Boards.  At times, I have become overcommitted, and at other times, I have had to take a step back because of other things happening in my life.  It’s fair to say that I have generally found my participation in community groups rewarding and fulfilling, although not always without challenges. 

I do not volunteer with the expectation that people will fall at my feet with gratitude.  I volunteer because I believe that a particular issue or cause is important, because I enjoy being involved with my community, I enjoy interacting and planning and discussing issues and ideas with other community members, and I learn about other people, perspectives and communities.

Just a couple of months ago, I resigned from two organizations with which I have been involved for several years.  In the first one, I was a Board member for about 10 years.  I was the founding Chair of two of its committees and a member of others.  I particularly  enjoyed chairing one committee; its members were a diverse mix of dynamic and creative members, and there were many invigorating discussions and exciting ideas.  It is possibly the most enriching committee I have been involved with. However, after a disturbing and insulting e-mail conversation with a fellow Board member, it became clear to me that I could no longer work within this Board, specifically with this Board member, and I offered my resignation, a painful decision.

The second resignation was from a church committee.  I have been involved with this group almost as long.  We were a small committee, but we had many discussions and ideas about issues that were important to us, and that we believed should be important dialogues within a faith community. 

Last year, the church reorganized its governance structure to get rid of traditional committees.  The church leaders believed that it would work better to have small, time-limited commitments to specific events, rather than term commitments to formal committees.  Our committee, after some discussion, decided to remain intact.  We were subsequently referred to in a written report as a  “resistant” group.  Instead of celebrating that there was at least one group of people who actually were dedicated enough to commit to regular meetings and leadership, and instead of encouraging us, uplifting us, and supporting us, the leaders considered us irritants, “resistant” to their way of doing things.  This attitude was reflected in a lack of support for the initiatives that fuelled our passions through actions such as the loss of a dedicated budget for our committee, and simple things like repeatedly not including announcements about our events in the church bulletins.  That fleeting comment in the report (which was written after I resigned) reflects the frustration and isolation that I experienced, which ultimately led me to step away from the committee, and, for the time being, from the church. 

It’s true, it is gratifying to be told that you are appreciated.  But although expressions of appreciation might have gone a small distance to making me feel as if the past 10 years of my life haven’t been a complete waste of time, as another quotation says, “talk is cheap.”  Words can be powerful, but they can also be meaningless if they are said as an afterthought,  with a lack of sincerity, or merely because it is expected.  Perhaps another popular idiom, “actions speak louder than words,” is more à propos.

Honestly, I am bitter about these two experiences.  My involvement with both of these groups was meaningful to me, and together, we accomplished a lot of good things.  It is hurtful that others did not feel the same.  I suppose in some ways, this is a cathartic post, an attempt to put my feelings into some kind of perspective.  And I don’t really have any words of wisdom to offer.  I think I feel a little bit as if a significant relationship has gone sour.  You put your energy into building a relationship with an organization (and the people in it), you work at it, invest yourself in it, but at some point, the relationship becomes damaged beyond repair, and you feel you have no choice but to walk away.

Maybe in the end, it is about hope.  Hope that the bitterness and sadness will pass, and another “relationship” will come along that will be mutually fulfilling and beneficial.  Hope that what I have learned from my past experiences, good and bad, will shape me into a better person, a better volunteer, a better committee member.  In the meantime, I am proud of and grateful for the many interesting events and discussions and ideas in which I had the privilege to share.

So after I take some time to regroup, I expect I will be back out there, and I will find other opportunities.  When I do, I think I will have a slightly different attitude.  I will be a bit more cautious and judicious about how I choose to expend my energies and with whom, certainly.  I think I will be more open and honest about frustrations, and maybe I will be less patient and less diplomatic (not sure if that’s a good thing).  Finally, I hope that I will be able to express my appreciation for the contributions that others make, certainly through words when that is appropriate, but also through my actions.

In Defence of Motherhood (and Mother's Day)

In the lead-up to Mother’s Day in recent years, it seems there are plenty of articles, blogs, and reflections about all that is wrong about Mother’s Day as we observe it.  One particularly poignant post I read reflected on how having a day to celebrate mothers dehumanizes women who do not have children and makes them feel like failures.  Even Anne Lamott, who I really respect, has written a scathing attack on Mother’s Day and mothering.  Those articles have stayed with me, and I admit that I have some very mixed feelings. 

First of all, some disclaimers.

Disclaimer #1: My family isn’t really into over-the-top celebrations.  Our wedding was pretty low key, we rarely had big traditional birthday parties for our kids, and even Christmas, compared to almost everyone else, is, for us, mostly a time to slow down, rest, relax and be together.  I am not a creative decorator, and although I love to cook and bake, it is a stretch for me to make any of those wonderfully dramatic birthday cakes you see on Pinterest (or at almost any other kid’s birthday party).

Mother’s Day, especially, is almost non-existent in our family, because it almost always falls on Convocation weekend, the busiest weekend in my husband’s professional life.  I’m lucky if I see him for more than a couple of  hours from Friday morning until Monday night.  Because of this, fairly early on, my husband and children decided that they would have a “surprise” Mother’s Day for me, so it happened any time between the beginning of May and the middle of June, and usually consisted of cards, chocolate, small gifts, and maybe breakfast in bed. 

Disclaimer #2: I am not one of those women who will threaten to leave my husband if I don’t get a new piece of jewellery or a spa day every anniversary or birthday or Mother’s Day.  For one thing, we are not in that income bracket.  But mostly, that’s just not who I am.  My family knows that all I really want on Mother’s Day, or any day, for that matter, is a nice piece of chocolate and a little bit of love (or this year, some really cheesy garlic fingers and pizza).  So I am not defending the commercial idea of Mother’s Day as a day to get me some new bling.

Disclaimer #3: I love being a mother.  It is the most honest thing I’ve ever done.  Being a mother has changed me in a thousand ways that I could list for you, and probably another thousand ways that I’m not even aware of.  I have never regretted our decision to have children, and, although it has been difficult financially and socially at times, I have never regretted my decision to stay home with my kids.

However...

In these days of political correctness and radical inclusiveness, there are a few attitudes about “motherhood” that make me feel defensive and apologetic and guilty, sometimes all at the same time.

First, and most annoying as far as I am concerned, I am constantly informed that having a “furbaby” is as valid a form of motherhood as having a human baby.  Really?  Does a “furbaby” come home crying from school because the other “furbabies” were mean to it?  Or because a “furboyfriend/girlfriend” just broke up with it?  Do “furbabies” spend a lot of time stressed out because of all the wicked things that happen in the world, and all the choices that lie in front of them, and all the pressures to succeed?  Do “furbabies” suffer with mental health issues?  I apologize; I realize that pets are important parts of people’s lives, and I do not want to minimize the very significant impact that pets can have on a family.  But it doesn’t matter how much you love your pets or how much you attempt to humanize them, having a pet is nothing like having a child.  Nothing.  And I am insulted by the inference that parenthood is that simple.

Second, some discussions about how Mother’s Day affects women without children make me feel guilty and apologetic.  And resentful for feeling that way.  I once attended a church service on Mother’s Day where the (female, unmarried and childless) minister spoke bitterly about how alienating Mother’s Day was for her, as she had neither children nor a good relationship with her own mother, and how insensitive and selfish it was for mothers to basically flaunt their motherhood in the faces of those women who were not mothers.  She made it appear that not having children was somehow a massive failure, and she made me feel guilty and selfish for having children and a husband when she did not.  I admit, I was angry after that sermon.  Instead of taking the opportunity to talk about the nurturing and yes, mothering qualities that a healthy church and community should have, and instead of acknowledging and encouraging and supporting the young mothers in the congregation, she left me (at least) feeling that I needed to apologize for my choices to marry and have children.  (And here I insert Disclaimer #4 – I would be very happy if churches did not “celebrate” Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.  But if they have to, there are plenty of ways that they could be much more theological about it). 

Let me be perfectly clear.  My heart breaks for those women (and men) who have lost babies and children, or who desire children but cannot have them.  I weep with those parents whose children have gone down dark roads, or who suffer from debilitating and life-threatening illnesses.  I completely understand that the way our society “does” Mother’s Day can be alienating and hurtful for many women, for various reasons. 

But although I empathize with these women, I do not believe that their circumstances should minimize my own mothering.  I have been fortunate.  I have a loving and supportive partner in parenting, and my children have (so far) been healthy, mostly happy, and are now independent and following their own life paths.  But being a mother is bloody hard sometimes, and I suspect that for many, many mothers, it is done without any encouragement, validation or recognition.

I have friends who don’t have children, including an aunt and one of my closest friends.  Though they might not realize it, they have each “mothered” and nurtured and supported me and my children significantly.   I do not think less of them because they do not have children.  Their lives are not any less meaningful or real or fulfilled than mine.

Third, among modern mothers, there is a great deal of tension.  It seems to me that in recent years, motherhood has become much more polarizing.  On one end of the spectrum, we have the “good mothers.”  They use cloth diapers, breastfeed exclusively as long as possible, feed their babies organic homemade baby food, and they practice “attachment parenting,” “co-sleeping” and “baby-wearing.”  They are super-involved in their kids’ schools, sports teams, play groups, and well, their entire lives.  On the other end of the spectrum, there are the “bad mothers”: those who use formula and disposable diapers, who stock up on store-bought baby food, and who plant their kids in front of the tv with a bowl of potato chips because they JUST. NEED. FIFTEEN. MINUTES. OF. PEACE.  Or, as in Winnipeg recently, they let their children play outdoors UNSUPERVISED.  Or even worse, they go back to work and their children are left in the care of others.  Motherhood has become a competition, a judgmental battle of moral (and economic) superiority.

The Conflict: How Modern Motherhood Undermines the Status of Women, written by French feminist Elisabeth Badinter in 2010, discusses this last point.  She looks at motherhood through a completely feminist lens and argues that the zealous dedication of modern mothers actually “tethers” them to their homes and children to an extent that hasn’t been seen since the 1950s, before modern feminism really took root.  Although I disagreed with much of what she wrote, I found myself agreeing with much of it too.  Badinter argues that the choices that modern day “good mothers” make have actually marked a significant regression in women’s rights.  She writes “... there is no denying that male domination persists... [Women’s] increased responsibility for babies and young children has proved just as restrictive, if not more so, than sexism in the home or in the workplace... The tyranny of maternal duty is not new, but it has become considerably more pronounced with the rise of naturalism, and it has thus far produced neither a matriarchy nor sexual equality, but rather a regression in women’s status.  We have agreed to this regression in the name of moral superiority, the love we bear for our children, and some ideal notion of child rearing, all of which are proving far more effective than external constraints... there is nothing quite like voluntary servitude.  And men have not had to lift a finger to accomplish this fall.  The best allies of men’s dominance have been, quite unwittingly, innocent children” (pp 96-97).  In other words, if I am interpreting her correctly, the way that modern mothers choose to be mothers, dedicating themselves completely to every need of their children, is actually detracting from struggles towards equality, and supporting “male domination” in our society. 

That’s a pretty provocative statement, and as a woman who chose to stay at home with her children (and who breastfed, used cloth diapers, and made baby food), my initial reaction was pretty negative.  But after some reflection, I think her point is that the modern motherhood movement seems to have lost all sense of balance and common sense.  Many modern mothers have dedicated themselves to their children to the extent that they have lost their own identities and any sense of being independent people.  In doing so, we create children who feel entitled to having every moment of attention focussed on them, from the day they are born, because we make sure that every need is immediately met, they have the best of everything, and every possible intervention is provided, even if it isn’t really needed.  We raise children who are incapable of becoming independent adults without a great deal of assistance. Motherhood should include, as Signe Hammer wrote, “taking care of someone who is dependent and at the same time supporting that person in his or her efforts to become independent.”  And even though Badinter is more concerned with the status of feminism than she is with family dynamics, I think we can also agree that these expectations of what makes a “good” modern mother has created a huge disconnect among parents, women who can afford to stay at home with their children and those who can’t, those who believe their place in the working world is as valid as their place in the home and those who choose to stay at home, and among mothers of different socio-economic groups.

If I was a young mum today, I’d definitely be at the “bad” end of the scale.  I chose an obstetrician over a midwife and had my babies in hospitals.  My kids thrived on a schedule, including feeding, they slept in their own rooms from the beginning, in a cradle and then a crib, and although I believe in the power (and the importance) of baby snuggles, I was not a baby-wearer.  I would not have been able to cope otherwise, not because my children were demanding, but because that is not who I am.  I made the choices, with my husband, that I believed were the best ones for me and my family, and I regret none of them.

Would I care if society “cancelled” Mother’s Day?  Honestly, I wouldn’t.  But I have two great kids and a husband and a whole network of people out there, women and men, who consistently affirm me as a mother AND a woman.  There are many mothers who are raising children by themselves.  Or who have kids who are sick.  Or kids (or spouses or others) who treat them with disrespect or are rude and sassy.  Or families and networks that are just not supportive.  Instead of competing with each other, and discussing who is doing it “right” and who is doing it “wrong,” we should be encouraging each other, and respecting the judgment and ability of women to make the decisions that are right for them, and for their children, even if they are not the decisions we would make ourselves. 

So here’s my bottom line.  Motherhood is not easy.  It isn’t always rewarding.  One day a year to honour the nurturing and loving qualities of mothers, and everything that is good about motherhood, doesn’t seem like a lot to ask.

On Mother’s Day, I will celebrate those women who have been mothers to me, first and foremost, my own mother, but also my mother-in-law, my aunts, my friends, and all the other women in my life.  I will celebrate my own motherhood, the joys and blessings, the challenges, the many ways motherhood has changed me for the better.  I will celebrate, and say a prayer for, the mums who are struggling or who feel that they are failing, but still wake up every morning determined to do the best that they can for their families.  I will celebrate the fact that every one of us, male or female, mothers or not, has the capacity to “mother” children through kindness, hugs, snuggles, reading to a child, listening and caring.  I will celebrate the presence of so many wonderful “mothers” in my life and in my children’s lives.  I will celebrate the legacy of my grandmothers and my great-grandmothers, women who were pioneers and truly knew what it was to sacrifice for their families, women of strong faith and strong character. 2019 Edit: I will also celebrate refugee mothers, who have left everything behind, their kinship networks, their customs, their homes, who have faced the unknown and unfamiliar future in a strange country for the sake of their children, sometimes with their husbands and sometimes without, with strength and courage and generosity. 


Happy Mother’s Day.

Motherhood brings as much joy as ever, but it still brings boredom, exhaustion, and sorrow too.  Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality – especially while you struggle to keep your own.
        – Marguerite Kelly and Elia Parsons