Another child has committed suicide because of bullying over sexual acts she committed with a boy. Here's the link: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/women/womens-life/10255283/Girl-performs-oral-sex-on-boy-in-field.-Photo-goes-viral.-Shes-a-slut.-Boys-a-hero.-What-should-we-do.html.
As a grown up woman, and mother to a pre-teen daughter, I certainly have a lot of thoughts about this topic.
I remember when I was a child myself, just how long a day would seem. It's something that adults forget - the completely different perception of time children have compared to ours. We know if we're having a bad day, or even a bad stretch - we know that it will be over with at some point. The ancient saying, "This too shall pass" is succinct and bang-on accurate ... but to believe this proverb it surely helps if you've lived long enough to witness first-hand just how true it is.
Children don't have that luxury. And to a child a day is long. A bad day is unbearable. A bad week or month is the end of the world - often by their own hand.
A broken toy, or lost friend, can be devastating for a 9 year old. We cuddle that child, protect her, tell her things will be okay. We shield her eyes from filth and horror, large and small, that come her way. And we forgive the child for their misdeeds and failings. We allow them to learn from their mistakes and move on.
But only a few years later, that same child can be thrown into a pit where she'll have to battle sexuality, dishonest people with ulterior motives, public shame and humiliation, and the list goes on. Parents become the "last ones" kids feel they can talk to. The internet makes it so much worse for these children, because while it can create the illusion of a delightfully supportive friendship network, it is in reality filled with sharks.
In my rather-small Ottawa suburb high school, as a 14-year-old, I once left my wallet on top of a pay phone for about a minute before I hustled back to retrieve it. The wallet - containing plenty of identification, and money I had been saving up to buy a camera lens - was gone. I asked the office staff to make announcements, which they did, and I checked daily to see if someone had returned the wallet, but it never reappeared.
That was the first time, for me, that I realized that there are people among your social circles - people you would never suspect of being capable of cruelty or evil - who would easily hurt you if they could. If they could get away with it. If they'd never be found out. Someone I interacted with every day at school had knowingly done this to me. Wow.
As someone who always corrects a cashier if he or she gives back too much change, or returns even the coolest gadgets to the nearest logical authority, this was news to me. A stark revelation.
A wallet was a horrible thing to have stolen - but I did leave it out there for the taking. Didn't I? Even if only for a moment. Now consider what it is that our children put "out there" for the taking every day, in our wired world. With cameras everywhere, and on everyone, there can be reminders of every embarrassment, every hurt, every mistake. I can think of at least two television ads running right now that make light of this phenomenon. One is a Rogers TV spot that makes fun of a man who studies newspaper ads to find the best technology deal. His friend takes a photo of the man - his face covered in black newspaper ink fingerprints - and we just know the humiliating image is bound for facebook or twitter.
Adults can handle something like that. Kids can't. Period. And yet kids have their self worth and self esteem out there, ready to be snatched from them, all day long, every day. For girls the risk is very high - possibly much higher - because they risk the shame of being called sluts if the wrong photo of them should make the rounds online. Whether they actually did anything wrong or not. For gay youth, the risk is also high. That's why you don't see any suicides among the football team members who raped the girl and posted photos online. But you do see plenty of suicides among the girls and gays who are victimized, like Hannah Smith, Rehteah Parsons, Amanda Todd, Audrie Pott, and a young man named Tyler Clementi who was outed as a homosexual on video by his school roommate.
The victims kill themselves. The perps live on.
I guess this is as good a time as any to make my point. And the point is that I want young people - people who have their dignity taken from them EVEN IF IT'S THEIR OWN DAMNED FAULT - to know that this too shall pass. Please, believe me.
If you're distraught because you have done something you're ashamed of, and you're hearing about it online, and you feel all the fingers are pointing at you? I agree. That's a bad and difficult experience to get through. But you must get through it. Just let today turn into yesterday. And tomorrow, do that again. Eventually, if you just wait it out, you will get through to the other side of this. I promise. Don't let the biggest bully in your world be the voice in your head. Get up on top of it and tell that voice to shut up.
Get the help you need. Don't do this alone. And once you rise above it all ... maybe, just maybe, you'll find that the bright and beautiful joy at the end of the tunnel some day is the ability to turn around and help someone else who is going through the same thing. Sure, you'll still have your failings. But they'll be packed in the smallest pocket of your massive suitcase filled with love, and learning, and new experiences and all the gifts you know you can give the world.
And in keeping with the theme of putting something online that people might laugh at, and ridicule, I wrote a poem just for you. Whoever you are.
Only Yesterday
My self defence just feels so weak.
No one hears it anyway.
So throw your stones at me all day.
Cast them over yesterday.
Yesterday. Yesterday.
The endless void of yesterday.
It's all just yesterday.
What you see and think of me?
That was only yesterday.
Those things you say?
They will all be gone away.
Beneath another yesterday.
Yesterday. Yesterday.
They'll all be yesterday.
I am aware what your eyes see
But that won't take control of me
You see ghosts of yesterday
Not real no matter what you say
In darkness lies all yesterdays
Tomorrow lights upon new days
Not yesterdays. Yesterdays. They're only yesterdays.
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
Monday, 26 August 2013
Odd to be deathly ill as a child
But I know she will be okay in a few days. Up and around, starting projects and making messes and hogging the computer to research some new exotic pet we ought to adopt. I know she'll get out of bed every morning and I know that next Tuesday morning she will put on a special outfit and go to school. And we'll be hearing R tell all her many stories again - the many tales and dramas of the 10 and 11-year-olds in her world - not to mention all the eccentric teachers. Coronation Street's got nothing on these people.
Last week, we went for a playdate at R's new friend's house. It was my first time properly meeting this girl and her parents. I had seen them briefly at the camp bus, the day R returned from camp (where they met), but that was all.
The girl is 12 and we'll call her Lara (EDIT: "Lara" is shown in the photo above, in white. My daughter is on the right, in the bubble-gum pink top).
The sound of Lara's voice is the part of her I think of first - possibly because I heard it on the phone the many times she has called R to chat and plan the play date. The melody of her voice spills out of the phone like laughter when they talk.
It's a very, very, sweet voice. The voice of a curious, happy, hopeful girl - a child who sees everything that happens as part of the lovely build-up to an extremely funny punch line. Some people describe a voice like hers as bubbly. I'd say hers is lighter and floatier than the lightest, floatiest bubbles. I'd even go so far as to say bubbles have something to learn from Lara's voice. It's just so damned eager and positive and happy and fun and affirming and upbeat and young and sweet, just like she is.
The strange thing about it all? This girl has nothing to be happy or hopeful about. She has terminal bone cancer. Stage 4. And to answer the question forming in your mind right now? The doctors say it's only a matter of time.
Lara will be having 3 consecutive days of radiation this week at SickKids hospital. Not to cure the tumours - at least 6 which have appeared in various sites within her body since her left leg was amputated last summer. The radiation treatments will be done just to try to reduce the extreme pain, mainly from the newest tumour that has decided to grow - and grow fast - in Lara's back.
If you've ever gone for a playdate - whether to stay the whole time or to chat with the child's mom for a few minutes before going off to run a few errands- you know how the conversation usually goes. You hear about the other girl's incredibly advanced violin lessons, the soccer championship she's just won, the amazing new teacher she'll be getting. Sometimes in the darkest conversations you might hear how the family recently dealt with a school bully. How math has become a struggle. How they've finally given up on piano lessons. Heavy stuff.
Imagine talking to a mother who has to admit to you that her child won't make it through the coming school year? Without a miracle, will not be alive this time next summer?
Kind of puts things in perspective.
Nothing I can say about it here could possibly do justice to the way I felt, and feel, having been witness to the way this girl's mother is feeling.
The world Lara's mother lives in is a different one from mine. Her world is one of slowly losing the grasp of her most precious thing. Her little girl. A world in which she knows that, soon, she won't be able to hold her baby in her arms ever again. She won't be able to smooth her daughter's hair - what's left of it - off her sweet brow. Won't be able to delight her as easily as offering an ice cream cone. Won't be able to watch her play soccer, or perform martial arts. Won't be able to indulge in a rainy sick day with chicken soup and DVDs and tons of hope and expectations for a busy, healthy, future.
If Lara were my child, I don't know how I'd ever survive the heartbreak of it. Of knowing I'll never hear that beautiful voice again.
And now I really wish the only actual phrase I remember hearing that voice say wasn't "Mommy, I need a morphine." And I'm absolutely certain there's something very wrong with a world where something like that can happen.
EDIT DEC. 2013: Lara has passed away. This is as unbelievable as it is sad.
Tuesday, 20 August 2013
Oddly Roughing It in the Bush in 2013 (written on another even day - oh well!)
We went camping last week. Not in a clean, bright, colourful tent from Bass Pro Outdoor World. But in a shadowy one-room log cabin built deep in the northern back country of Algonquin Park back in 1922.
It's called Bissett Road Ranger Cabin if you want to look it up. If you know me, you won't believe we actually chose this place over a stay at Arowhon Pines, but we did. Eleven-year-old R has been begging us to go on a family camping trip for years and years. And as she's growing so quickly, it just seemed like we couldn't put it off any longer. Oh, the things we do for our children, huh?
The Ranger Cabins are a pretty interesting alternative to tent camping - especially if you don't own a lot of camping supplies already. And if your child is interested in living like a pioneer for a few days, all the better, because this really did remind me of Little House in the Big Woods from the Laura Ingalls Wilder series.
Constructed of logs almost a hundred years ago, it was originally built as a moose hunting camp out in the middle of nowhere. With moose, bear, deer and goodness-knows-what-else wandering freely through the surrounding forest, swamps and meadows ... it must have been a hunter's paradise. But for a middle-cass family from Toronto? Well, its appeal was questionable.
When we first arrived at our campsite after a loooooooong drive along a lonely dirt road upon which the only traffic were squirrels, voles and herons, there was some initial confusion over how to pick up the key to the cabin. Secretly I was pleased because - on seeing the cabin for the first time - I couldn't picture us actually staying there. Even the Bates Motel would provide a more relaxing sleep, I thought. At least we'd know there'd be hot showers! But this wooden hut was very tiny, and rustic, surrounded by trees and clouds of mosquitoes, and looked almost like the crooked little house of folklore.
There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile. He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house.
But we did get the key, eventually, from the nearest Algonquin Park office about a 25-minute drive away. And we did end up sleeping there in that ancient cabin, snuggled against one another on the hard wooden bunk beds, warmed by the fire my daughter built in the black iron wood stove. And by the second morning awakening there, we were very sad to have to pack our things and leave.
Why? Because of the silence, for one thing. We live in a house in the city. The roar of traffic and construction and trash-mouthed people - and just the tiresome din of civilization - is what we hear on a regular basis. We sometimes find ourselves shouting over the ambient noise of our community, just to get ourselves heard by one another.
But at the cabin - aside from the brief rumble of a logging truck that passed once each day - our family was immersed in complete silence punctuated only by the songs and rhythms of the natural world. There were no humans around us for literally miles and miles. The trees were ridiculously tall and wide, with dense, rough, ancient bark embedded with markings that looked like symbols - like Mother Nature's hieroglyphics - telling the dark secrets of the woods and its inhabitants over the past few hundred years.
After their batteries died, our electronic devices were silenced, as well, by the complete absence of electrical power and the lack of signals. No Blackberry. No 4G. No phone service. Nothing.
Day or night, all we could hear were the squawks and calls of birds, the chirrups of chipmunks, and the weird scratching and popping noises of what we liked to imagine was a curious black bear lurking in the shadows. The symphony of blue jays and herons. The occasional hiss of the wind rushing like a river through the pines and birches. The mysterious - almost frightening - drumbeats of the unknown. The hungry crackle of the campfire. The rustle of J and R collecting sticks and branches to keep the blaze fed.
I never wanted to tune any of it out - but rather found myself listening attentively. Appreciatively. Relishingly (which is apparently not a real word, though it should be!).
I'd love to say - now that we're home - our family yearns for the tranquillity of Algonquin Park. That we wish we were still back there burning pancakes on the outdoor grill. That we're rugged nature-lovers of the true north, strong and free. But none of that is the case. A family of Catharine Parr Traills we're not!
Despite being back to the grind of work, and emails, and subway delays and ready access to all the world's bad news again (hello again, Rob Ford, Egypt, and Sammy Yatim) ... we are very glad to be back home. And we are grateful that we can simply swipe a light-switch when it's dark, or boil our water on the kitchen stove, or go to the bathroom without a massive tarantula-like spider staring at us from the outhouse door. And the ability to flush? Pure heaven! Yup, convenience, on demand, is how this family rolls. Yikes, hold on a second while I see why my phone beeped ... Oh, I have to take this call. Bye for now blog.
It's called Bissett Road Ranger Cabin if you want to look it up. If you know me, you won't believe we actually chose this place over a stay at Arowhon Pines, but we did. Eleven-year-old R has been begging us to go on a family camping trip for years and years. And as she's growing so quickly, it just seemed like we couldn't put it off any longer. Oh, the things we do for our children, huh?
The Ranger Cabins are a pretty interesting alternative to tent camping - especially if you don't own a lot of camping supplies already. And if your child is interested in living like a pioneer for a few days, all the better, because this really did remind me of Little House in the Big Woods from the Laura Ingalls Wilder series.
Constructed of logs almost a hundred years ago, it was originally built as a moose hunting camp out in the middle of nowhere. With moose, bear, deer and goodness-knows-what-else wandering freely through the surrounding forest, swamps and meadows ... it must have been a hunter's paradise. But for a middle-cass family from Toronto? Well, its appeal was questionable.
When we first arrived at our campsite after a loooooooong drive along a lonely dirt road upon which the only traffic were squirrels, voles and herons, there was some initial confusion over how to pick up the key to the cabin. Secretly I was pleased because - on seeing the cabin for the first time - I couldn't picture us actually staying there. Even the Bates Motel would provide a more relaxing sleep, I thought. At least we'd know there'd be hot showers! But this wooden hut was very tiny, and rustic, surrounded by trees and clouds of mosquitoes, and looked almost like the crooked little house of folklore.
But we did get the key, eventually, from the nearest Algonquin Park office about a 25-minute drive away. And we did end up sleeping there in that ancient cabin, snuggled against one another on the hard wooden bunk beds, warmed by the fire my daughter built in the black iron wood stove. And by the second morning awakening there, we were very sad to have to pack our things and leave.
Why? Because of the silence, for one thing. We live in a house in the city. The roar of traffic and construction and trash-mouthed people - and just the tiresome din of civilization - is what we hear on a regular basis. We sometimes find ourselves shouting over the ambient noise of our community, just to get ourselves heard by one another.
But at the cabin - aside from the brief rumble of a logging truck that passed once each day - our family was immersed in complete silence punctuated only by the songs and rhythms of the natural world. There were no humans around us for literally miles and miles. The trees were ridiculously tall and wide, with dense, rough, ancient bark embedded with markings that looked like symbols - like Mother Nature's hieroglyphics - telling the dark secrets of the woods and its inhabitants over the past few hundred years.
After their batteries died, our electronic devices were silenced, as well, by the complete absence of electrical power and the lack of signals. No Blackberry. No 4G. No phone service. Nothing.
Day or night, all we could hear were the squawks and calls of birds, the chirrups of chipmunks, and the weird scratching and popping noises of what we liked to imagine was a curious black bear lurking in the shadows. The symphony of blue jays and herons. The occasional hiss of the wind rushing like a river through the pines and birches. The mysterious - almost frightening - drumbeats of the unknown. The hungry crackle of the campfire. The rustle of J and R collecting sticks and branches to keep the blaze fed.
I never wanted to tune any of it out - but rather found myself listening attentively. Appreciatively. Relishingly (which is apparently not a real word, though it should be!).
I'd love to say - now that we're home - our family yearns for the tranquillity of Algonquin Park. That we wish we were still back there burning pancakes on the outdoor grill. That we're rugged nature-lovers of the true north, strong and free. But none of that is the case. A family of Catharine Parr Traills we're not!
Despite being back to the grind of work, and emails, and subway delays and ready access to all the world's bad news again (hello again, Rob Ford, Egypt, and Sammy Yatim) ... we are very glad to be back home. And we are grateful that we can simply swipe a light-switch when it's dark, or boil our water on the kitchen stove, or go to the bathroom without a massive tarantula-like spider staring at us from the outhouse door. And the ability to flush? Pure heaven! Yup, convenience, on demand, is how this family rolls. Yikes, hold on a second while I see why my phone beeped ... Oh, I have to take this call. Bye for now blog.
Saturday, 10 August 2013
Odd topic for today: Racism and why celebrities like Oprah do more harm than good.
Americans have succeeded in bringing about a "dialogue" on racism after the Trayvon Martin case. Everyone seems to be talking about racism, from Barack Obama to Oprah.
In the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, Obama told us that he was, at one time, treated with suspicion because of the colour of his skin. Until he became a Senator, he explained, women were afraid to be alone on the elevator with him. And, of course, Oprah was recently denied a chance to view a very expensive handbag while shopping in Switzerland. These, they claim, are incidents of racism that they've had to endure.
I have a few thoughts on the matter. First one being that I do believe "isms" exist. There are isms all around us and racism is unequivocally a very real and serious one. But at least it is frowned upon and generally outlawed. However, there are few sanctions against people who are classist, for example. And I think it can be argued that the situations described by Barack Obama and Oprah fall into that category. I've been uneasy being alone on an elevator with a man of any colour. If the man is dressed a certain way, the uneasiness can be intensified. Obama himself said he suffered that kind of discrimination until he became a Senator. We all know Senators wear spiffy suits. So, once he was dressed with dignity and class, his skin colour no longer posed any problems on elevators. Hmmm. Makes you wonder if skin colour had been a factor at all?
In terms of the Oprah incident, my mother loves to go into the most expensive shops on Bloor Street in Toronto. It's our annual "day in Yorkville". The truth is, my mother does have enough money to buy whatever she wants. Not from a lifetime of wealth and comfort but from years of careful planning, saving, budgeting, investing, and self-deprivation. Not to mention years of hard, intelligent, work as a secretary.
But my mother bears the appearance of someone with just enough money to buy a box of Kraft Dinner. She is about 5'2" and shrinking. And she's as plump as any grandma should be. Her hair is silver and fluffy. Her shoes are Birkenstocks. Her clothes are off the rack, from the mall, with horizontal stripes stretched across the girth of her mama-belly. And she is very kind, blue-eyed and beautiful.
Last summer on our day of sunshine and flowers and fancy shops in Yorkville, I recall pretty much all of the shop keepers raising an eyebrow of scepticism when my mother would ask to see an expensive Hermes bag or Gucci wallet. She was actually shopping - not just messing around - though the likelihood of buying a $5,000 wallet with her wise attitude toward money is very small. And we did have a similar experience to Oprah's. The clerk told my mom that she wouldn't be able to afford the ostrich wallets that came in 5 colours. But, the Asian clerk explained, the "ladies from China" could walk in and buy all the colours at once. "These wallets, over here, in regular leather, would be better for you", she said.
So it seems we didn't look Chinese enough to afford the wallets. Though we are clean and well-groomed people, perhaps to her we look more like Honey Boo Boo's family than descendants of the Ming Dynasty.
I took note of the designs and found a very similar wallet for under $100 at Town Shoes a few months later. Obnoxious mustard-yellow leather with card pockets in bold green, blue, red and orange. About five colours all in one design. So my mom got her fancy-looking wallet in every colour, and she got to keep all her money inside it as well!
And we were not crushed by the experience of being called out for the non-billionaires that we are. I thought it was snobby, and foolish, of the clerk to speak to us that way because you just never know who you are dealing with. But again, I bore no injury from the experience and nor did my mom. In fact, I hadn't recalled that incident until Oprah brought up her own, and said it was racism.
I actually believe that all of us in the human race are victims of some kind of "Ism" from one day to the next. I think it's part of the human condition. Very few people are immune to some sort of prejudice based on age, class, sex, weight, height, etc. Some of it is mild. Some of it laced with hatred. In high school my brother was called Pizza-Face because of his acne; I can tell you it hurt both of us as much as the N-word hurt anyone in contemporary North America. Most of us simply tolerate these ignorant slights and get on with our lives. If we focused on these insults too often, or for too long, we wouldn't want to get out of bed in the morning.
As a woman, I see misogyny all around me. In children's movies, like Diary of a Wimpy Kid, the team coach will say to the boy's team "Okay ladies, you can do better than this". An angry commenter on a news article will attack another commenter with: "Are you having your period? Take a Midol". As an ultimate insult, men call one another "douche bags" (a device of feminine hygiene) and label each other "pussies" or "vaginas". It's also common to say "he screamed like a little girl". And singers like Justin Bieber are ridiculed because their "only fans are 12-year-old girls". All of which implies that anything female or feminine can and will be used as a pejorative. It seems that girls and women are considered the lowest of the low by half the population.
More importantly, there are also very serious examples of sexual discrimination - like the fact that even in Toronto, a woman can't go out to pick up milk at the corner store after dark without hoping she won't be raped. And female children have to be cautious in a Walmart that some predator won't try to carry them out as a sex slave. Or that boys at a party won't have sex with your daughter and post pornographic photos and humiliating remarks about her on social media.
So yes, there are many serious examples of women having to face dangers more severe than everyday ridicule and put-downs. But I wanted to highlight the mild, day-to-day sexist remarks and attitudes because they are so widely accepted we don't even notice them anymore. Parents aren't gasping when the coach in the movie says "Johnny, you run like a girl". Nobody is bringing up these instances in interviews, saying how crushed they were that their gender is held in such a low regard. Not because these everyday insults to girls and women are subtle, but because they are part of the fabric of our lives. There's no "dialogue" happening about it, and none is in the works, either.
Even having said all that, I still haven't made the point I want to make. And that point is this. Racism is a problem for black people and anyone who cares about them, which we all should. Absolutely, it is a problem. Black people are stopped while they are driving nice cars. Questioned by police more often. Black teenagers are asked to produce ID more often.
When I was younger I was reunited with an old friend from Ottawa. We had known each other as children, but ended up working together at a publishing company in Toronto. She is black - not Halle Berry black, but Oprah black - and tall, slim, elegant and pretty. She was a book editor, and always dressed like one. We were having lunch together, and talking about jogging, and she brought up the fact that there wasn't always a convenient way to carry ID when going out for a run. All the other young women at the lunch table asked "why would you need to carry ID when you are jogging?" And the black friend answered, "well, because I get stopped by the police. I once went running without ID and the police told me it was against the law not to carry ID. So my brothers and I, we all do. And when we get stopped we can show who we are".
When we get stopped?
This story always stuck with me because this girl and I had grown up in Canada, both of us starting out in grade 1 in Ottawa and ending up in a publishing company in Toronto. We were living parallel lives. And yet the colour of our skin really had made an important difference to how we were treated. Neither I, nor any of the white or middle-eastern girls at the table had ever been stopped by the police. None had ever bothered to carry ID when jogging or going to the park or going to buy a popsicle from the ice cream truck. The whole notion seemed crazy. Yet that was about 20 years ago and since I do follow the news I can see that the situation has gotten worse. Not better. I don't think it's gotten any easier to be black. Not at all.
Not because someone looks at you and decides you can't afford a purse. But because someone looks at you and messes with your freedom. Your daughter's freedom. Your son's freedom. And this is where I believe the narrative should stay focused. I admit, I admire Oprah and Barack Obama very much, because they are incredibly accomplished people who do very good things on this earth.
But I think that when Oprah allowed the purse incident to hog the microphone away from the issues that actually matter ... I think she does a disservice to the cause. Classism and clerk snobbism are nuisances, to be sure. But the undisputed racism that still goes on unchecked - the kind that ruins lives, not the kind that momentarily dampens a sunny day in Yorkville (or Switzerland) - that is the racism that should always be in the spotlight. This other stuff - like Obama thinking he can read the racist minds of white women on elevators - is just noise that distracts from what really matters.
After the progress made - and discussions opened up - after the Trayvon Martin case, today people will be talking about the purse Oprah wasn't readily-invited to buy. Many, like me, will be able to say they've had the same thing happen to them. And yet tonight a black family driving home from the movies will have their BMW pulled over and they'll be detained for no good reason. And a group of black teens walking to the community centre will be stopped, interrogated, and intimidated. And if one of them fails to show his ID or expresses his indignation at being singled out for his skin colour there could be serious trouble.
That's the stuff the dialogue should be about. So let's keep our focus, people. What happened to Oprah is an interesting story many of us can relate to - but let's not be distracted by it. I really thought we were heading in the right direction on race relations in the United States and Canada ... but somehow we ended up in Switzerland.
In the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, Obama told us that he was, at one time, treated with suspicion because of the colour of his skin. Until he became a Senator, he explained, women were afraid to be alone on the elevator with him. And, of course, Oprah was recently denied a chance to view a very expensive handbag while shopping in Switzerland. These, they claim, are incidents of racism that they've had to endure.
I have a few thoughts on the matter. First one being that I do believe "isms" exist. There are isms all around us and racism is unequivocally a very real and serious one. But at least it is frowned upon and generally outlawed. However, there are few sanctions against people who are classist, for example. And I think it can be argued that the situations described by Barack Obama and Oprah fall into that category. I've been uneasy being alone on an elevator with a man of any colour. If the man is dressed a certain way, the uneasiness can be intensified. Obama himself said he suffered that kind of discrimination until he became a Senator. We all know Senators wear spiffy suits. So, once he was dressed with dignity and class, his skin colour no longer posed any problems on elevators. Hmmm. Makes you wonder if skin colour had been a factor at all?
In terms of the Oprah incident, my mother loves to go into the most expensive shops on Bloor Street in Toronto. It's our annual "day in Yorkville". The truth is, my mother does have enough money to buy whatever she wants. Not from a lifetime of wealth and comfort but from years of careful planning, saving, budgeting, investing, and self-deprivation. Not to mention years of hard, intelligent, work as a secretary.
But my mother bears the appearance of someone with just enough money to buy a box of Kraft Dinner. She is about 5'2" and shrinking. And she's as plump as any grandma should be. Her hair is silver and fluffy. Her shoes are Birkenstocks. Her clothes are off the rack, from the mall, with horizontal stripes stretched across the girth of her mama-belly. And she is very kind, blue-eyed and beautiful.
Last summer on our day of sunshine and flowers and fancy shops in Yorkville, I recall pretty much all of the shop keepers raising an eyebrow of scepticism when my mother would ask to see an expensive Hermes bag or Gucci wallet. She was actually shopping - not just messing around - though the likelihood of buying a $5,000 wallet with her wise attitude toward money is very small. And we did have a similar experience to Oprah's. The clerk told my mom that she wouldn't be able to afford the ostrich wallets that came in 5 colours. But, the Asian clerk explained, the "ladies from China" could walk in and buy all the colours at once. "These wallets, over here, in regular leather, would be better for you", she said.
So it seems we didn't look Chinese enough to afford the wallets. Though we are clean and well-groomed people, perhaps to her we look more like Honey Boo Boo's family than descendants of the Ming Dynasty.
I took note of the designs and found a very similar wallet for under $100 at Town Shoes a few months later. Obnoxious mustard-yellow leather with card pockets in bold green, blue, red and orange. About five colours all in one design. So my mom got her fancy-looking wallet in every colour, and she got to keep all her money inside it as well!
And we were not crushed by the experience of being called out for the non-billionaires that we are. I thought it was snobby, and foolish, of the clerk to speak to us that way because you just never know who you are dealing with. But again, I bore no injury from the experience and nor did my mom. In fact, I hadn't recalled that incident until Oprah brought up her own, and said it was racism.
I actually believe that all of us in the human race are victims of some kind of "Ism" from one day to the next. I think it's part of the human condition. Very few people are immune to some sort of prejudice based on age, class, sex, weight, height, etc. Some of it is mild. Some of it laced with hatred. In high school my brother was called Pizza-Face because of his acne; I can tell you it hurt both of us as much as the N-word hurt anyone in contemporary North America. Most of us simply tolerate these ignorant slights and get on with our lives. If we focused on these insults too often, or for too long, we wouldn't want to get out of bed in the morning.
As a woman, I see misogyny all around me. In children's movies, like Diary of a Wimpy Kid, the team coach will say to the boy's team "Okay ladies, you can do better than this". An angry commenter on a news article will attack another commenter with: "Are you having your period? Take a Midol". As an ultimate insult, men call one another "douche bags" (a device of feminine hygiene) and label each other "pussies" or "vaginas". It's also common to say "he screamed like a little girl". And singers like Justin Bieber are ridiculed because their "only fans are 12-year-old girls". All of which implies that anything female or feminine can and will be used as a pejorative. It seems that girls and women are considered the lowest of the low by half the population.
More importantly, there are also very serious examples of sexual discrimination - like the fact that even in Toronto, a woman can't go out to pick up milk at the corner store after dark without hoping she won't be raped. And female children have to be cautious in a Walmart that some predator won't try to carry them out as a sex slave. Or that boys at a party won't have sex with your daughter and post pornographic photos and humiliating remarks about her on social media.
So yes, there are many serious examples of women having to face dangers more severe than everyday ridicule and put-downs. But I wanted to highlight the mild, day-to-day sexist remarks and attitudes because they are so widely accepted we don't even notice them anymore. Parents aren't gasping when the coach in the movie says "Johnny, you run like a girl". Nobody is bringing up these instances in interviews, saying how crushed they were that their gender is held in such a low regard. Not because these everyday insults to girls and women are subtle, but because they are part of the fabric of our lives. There's no "dialogue" happening about it, and none is in the works, either.
Even having said all that, I still haven't made the point I want to make. And that point is this. Racism is a problem for black people and anyone who cares about them, which we all should. Absolutely, it is a problem. Black people are stopped while they are driving nice cars. Questioned by police more often. Black teenagers are asked to produce ID more often.
When I was younger I was reunited with an old friend from Ottawa. We had known each other as children, but ended up working together at a publishing company in Toronto. She is black - not Halle Berry black, but Oprah black - and tall, slim, elegant and pretty. She was a book editor, and always dressed like one. We were having lunch together, and talking about jogging, and she brought up the fact that there wasn't always a convenient way to carry ID when going out for a run. All the other young women at the lunch table asked "why would you need to carry ID when you are jogging?" And the black friend answered, "well, because I get stopped by the police. I once went running without ID and the police told me it was against the law not to carry ID. So my brothers and I, we all do. And when we get stopped we can show who we are".
When we get stopped?
This story always stuck with me because this girl and I had grown up in Canada, both of us starting out in grade 1 in Ottawa and ending up in a publishing company in Toronto. We were living parallel lives. And yet the colour of our skin really had made an important difference to how we were treated. Neither I, nor any of the white or middle-eastern girls at the table had ever been stopped by the police. None had ever bothered to carry ID when jogging or going to the park or going to buy a popsicle from the ice cream truck. The whole notion seemed crazy. Yet that was about 20 years ago and since I do follow the news I can see that the situation has gotten worse. Not better. I don't think it's gotten any easier to be black. Not at all.
Not because someone looks at you and decides you can't afford a purse. But because someone looks at you and messes with your freedom. Your daughter's freedom. Your son's freedom. And this is where I believe the narrative should stay focused. I admit, I admire Oprah and Barack Obama very much, because they are incredibly accomplished people who do very good things on this earth.
But I think that when Oprah allowed the purse incident to hog the microphone away from the issues that actually matter ... I think she does a disservice to the cause. Classism and clerk snobbism are nuisances, to be sure. But the undisputed racism that still goes on unchecked - the kind that ruins lives, not the kind that momentarily dampens a sunny day in Yorkville (or Switzerland) - that is the racism that should always be in the spotlight. This other stuff - like Obama thinking he can read the racist minds of white women on elevators - is just noise that distracts from what really matters.
After the progress made - and discussions opened up - after the Trayvon Martin case, today people will be talking about the purse Oprah wasn't readily-invited to buy. Many, like me, will be able to say they've had the same thing happen to them. And yet tonight a black family driving home from the movies will have their BMW pulled over and they'll be detained for no good reason. And a group of black teens walking to the community centre will be stopped, interrogated, and intimidated. And if one of them fails to show his ID or expresses his indignation at being singled out for his skin colour there could be serious trouble.
That's the stuff the dialogue should be about. So let's keep our focus, people. What happened to Oprah is an interesting story many of us can relate to - but let's not be distracted by it. I really thought we were heading in the right direction on race relations in the United States and Canada ... but somehow we ended up in Switzerland.
Saturday, 3 August 2013
Odd Secrets to a Long and Happy Marriage
Sixteen years ago on this day, at this time, I was at Isaiah Tubbs resort, passionately making out with my husband-of-several-hours. No, wait, I think at this point we were still in the car on our way there. I can still hear the THWACK of night-bugs hitting our Honda's windshield. So, yeah, that hottub-makeout-session was actually a few hours later than this. Right now it's 6:49 pm and not really looking like it ever wants to be night time. The leaves are still aglow with sunlight, swaying in a gentle breeze. A perfect evening for a sixteenth anniversary date, or stroll, or a getaway to Prince Edward County.
But that's not what we are doing tonight. It's a fairly ordinary family day, as I kind of knew it would be. J and R are enamoured with the iPad I ordered from AIR MILES. And I'm taking this time to write this blog post.
It's not original, but I thought I'd write one of those "secrets to a long and happy marriage" posts. And I think I will do that - but sixteen years isn't really long enough to call oneself an expert. My parents were married for that length of time before they split up, after all. But I do think 16 years is a pretty long time to be with one person. And when you add in the 3 years we were a couple prior to tying the knot, then ... well, I'm sure you are capable of doing the math.
So, off the top of my sleepy head, here are a few secrets to a pretty-long, pretty-darned-happy marriage:
1. Stay married.
2. Don't get divorced.
3. Don't talk about not staying married. Don't discuss getting divorced.
4. Those were really important pieces of advice, so I'll just re-iterate that the best way to stay married is to eliminate thoughts of separation, divorce, or not staying married. The rest of this is just some bla-bla-bla you don't really need to worry about if you accomplish #1-#3. But you can read on if you really want to!
5. Be nice. Try not to criticize your mate, but do pay them all the compliments they've earned, and even some they haven't, every hour of every day. Compliment their work aptitude, their looks, their sense of humour, their boudoir badassedness, their cooking, their taste in mountain bikes, their weedwacking, their having remembered to change the snowtires, etc.
6. Don't bicker. Whenever I'm out, I hear a lot of families that bicker back and forth. Like ... We're late because YOU had to change your outfit at the last minute. Well if YOU hadn't told me that dress was too tight I would have left it on!
I think the banter starts out as kind of cute and funny repartee when people are young and the relationship is still fresh. But by the time your neck starts to fall, and your husband has a more intense relationship with his blackberry than he has with you? Bickering shouldn't be your main mode of communication. It shouldn't be part of your communication repertoire at all. If you have something that desperately needs to be said -- something that can't wait until after the picnic, day at the zoo, afternoon at the Smithsonian, or traffic jam on the 401 -- sandwich that criticism in a giant loaf of kindness. Like ... I know I'm a nervous passenger, honey, but maybe just drive a tad slower, considering every car ahead of us for miles has its brake lights on, including that guy you're tailgating. I know, silly me, what a backseat driver I am, sheesh!
7. Acceptance. Your mate will not always be exactly the mate you want. Not as romantic, perhaps. Not as interested in the same things you are, and vice versa. My advice? Be accepting, because people are really hard to change. As long as he or she is a good person, try not to let it get you down that they aren't as rich, gorgeous, fun or romantic as ________ (fill in the blank) as some other person's mate seems to be.
Maybe it's just me, but there has never been anyone else I'd rather be married to. For me, it's romance that I notice in movies or in other people's relationships. When I see that recurring scene of the guy chasing his lover to the airport ... I get choked up every time. I think part of the emotion is the knowledge that J would never do that. If I ran off to the airport I think he would be very logical about the fact that there are so many gates and terminals, plus security, parking woes, traffic on the highway, etc. etc. etc. that it wouldn't be worth the effort to follow me. Best to surf the mountain bike sites a while and maybe I'll change my mind. At least he'd be home when I returned, rather than tapping the shoulder of every 40-something brunette in what's probably the wrong terminal anyway.
Speaking of romance, my husband's idea of a romantic outing is a trip to Costco in which I'm allowed to get anything I want -- paper towels AND toilet tissue -- and he'll pay for it with his cash and put it all in the trunk for me. Or he'll trim the hedges in the back yard before I even get out of my pyjamas. Or he'll fold all the laundry and put it away - even my undies. All of this without fanfare. Just quiet displays of love. So when I hear about one of my friends being taken up into a hot air balloon, in Paris, and given a dozen roses, and asked to re-affirm her wedding vows? I just remind myself that I wouldn't want to be married to her husband anyway. He's awesome, and he's hers, but to get those roses -- and romance -- I'd have to accept the whole package. I'd have to trade J for someone else. And there isn't one man on earth whom I'd trade J for, even if that other man bore armloads of roses and Peanut Buster Parfaits for me.
8. This is out of order, now that I think about it, but I don't want to have to re-structure this post. So you can read the most important piece of advice (almost) last. The most important secret of a long and happy marriage is to marry the right person. Marry someone who makes you belly-laugh. If you can't think of the last time the person made you laugh? Maybe not a good sign.
Other bad signs are:
Drinking. If alcohol or drugs play a significant role in your dating life? They'll be unwelcome fixtures in your marriage. Unless you ever want to have to say "sorry, kids, Daddy's drunk again". Unless you want to find yourself googling "What is a functioning alcoholic". Or worse.
Being critical of other people. Just remember, later on the person on the receiving end of that criticism will be you, and maybe your kids, too. The guy who says "look how fat she is!" may think you're a major porker while you're pregnant. Imagine if you never lose the baby weight! And the guy who says "what a bleepin' wimp" may just say that to your nerdy son who can't catch a ball to save his life in ten years. The guy who lets the waitress "have it"? Whether she deserves it or not, this guy's lack of patience won't be fun for you some day when you burn the dinner, or forget to turn on the oven, yourself.
Being dishonest. Is he dishonest to other people? Does he make up a lie to get out of going into work on a Monday? Hmmm. I wonder if he'll ever lie to you?
Being on "best behaviour" all the time (who knows what he's hiding?). If he treats you like a princess? Make sure that's the real deal and not a sales pitch. Nine times out of ten it's a sales pitch. Too good to be true often is. He should be authentic and authentic people are awesome whether they're in Prince Charming mode or not.
Idiotic friends. If his friends don't impress you, I wonder what that says about him?
My mom always told me that people tell you who they are - it's just up to you to listen. If he says he's got a bad temper and trying to change? That's nice, but he may be a better candidate for some other girl. Not you and your future kids.
9. Back to the secrets of a happy marriage. The ninth one? Loving words and touches. Every day. To varying degrees, of course!
10. Be grateful. Remember that you are lucky to have someone like your mate. That all the bars and nightclubs on earth are filled with people who'd kill to be married to someone they love, who loves you back, like you are. You have found the holy grail - so quit envying the people who're still digging. If you were to start a new life with someone else, there'd just be a pile of new challenges and problems you'd face with that person anyway.
I've written the requisite "10" items, but I am sure this list isn't long enough. However, it's a good start. And if you've read this far you're obviously determined to stay married anyway. To not get divorced. So really you could have stopped reading at #1 or #2 and you'd have been just fine. Good for you! All that's left to say is that I wish you and your mate a wonderful life together. Now I'll log out and get back to mine. Still a few hours left of this anniversary. It's almost time the 11-year-old went to bed so this anniversary party can really get started. Hmmm... I wonder what bubble bath flavours we have?
Thursday, 1 August 2013
Odd: Failure, Guilt and Blame
Okay, I know it's odd that I'm writing on an even day.
Yesterday I just couldn't. But I can't let Moldova down for too long, now can I?
The topic for today: Failure, Guilt and Blame.
“Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.” ― Albert Einstein
Some high profile cases have captured the world's attention lately. Cases in which something horrific happens and then the players involved - the ones who are still alive, at least - rush to point fingers in order to absolve themselves of all blame and assert the guilt of others.
Our systems are designed that way, I guess. At first glance, it appears that there are no grey areas. You're guilty or you're innocent. You're sainted or condemned. Epic win or epic fail.
We've all heard that there are "two sides to a story". But when a case becomes high profile, we actually get to see scientific proof that there can be two completely different ways of looking at the same set of facts. A continental divide in perceptions. In the Trayvon Martin / George Zimmerman case it was about 49/51% for those who agreed or disagreed with the verdict. Among white-skinned people, that is. And among non-whites, who would understandably see the verdict through a different, more personal lens, it was more like 70/30, with the vast majority seeing the verdict as unjust. But still, there wasn't 100% agreement on the matter. And you won't find a group of people on earth with 100% agreement on anything, let alone the Zimmerman verdict.
“Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” ― L.M. Montgomery
To me, situations such as the Trayvon Martin case capture so much attention because they are like a concentrated snapshot of what goes on in everyday life. Smaller, less important matters, yes. But matters that affect you, and me, and our kids, and everyone around us. The Martin/Zimmerman situation shows that even when all the facts are laid out, and a fair trial is held, and a verdict is pronounced, there can still be a complete lack of certainty over who is wrong and who is right. Who is guilty, who is not. Who is at fault, and who is not.
In Toronto's controversial Sammy Yatim case, we are already seeing buckets of blame tossed back and forth, and we'll see that continue as the case is discussed and analyzed from now on.
You have in one corner the folks who say the police officer pumped 9 bullets into a teen carrying nothing more than a 3-inch blade - a completely unjustified action, a failure on the part of police. That police are trigger-happy lunatics who live for the opportunity to kill.
On the other side, you have the argument "If you bring a knife to a gunfight, prepare to die" from the people who believe that the teenager is to blame for his death. That the failure to avoid this outcome was Sammy's. And that his parents failed to bring him up right - so they are to blame as well. And we mustn't forget that Syria, Sammy's birthplace, is also to blame for being a violent country. And so on.
In everyday life, when a failure happens - and let's face it, they happen all the time - the facts are never laid out the way they would be in a high profile news story or court trial. All you have is a smattering of thoughts, words and perceptions from two sides of an argument, two opposing sides with equally full-blown determination to prove the other side is at fault.
"You rear-ended me!"
"No, YOU hit the brakes without warning!"
And again, our systems - and our world - are not set up for people to casually raise their hands and say "you know what? I could have done better. I'm sorry." Nor is our world a place where one's opponent would counter that admission with, "Oh my gosh, no, it was my fault. I can see why you screwed up there. Your mistake was honest. I'm just as much to blame as you are. I get it."
“We learn from failure, not from success!” ― Bram Stoker, Dracula
In everyday life, blame is an endless dance. Back and forth it goes, as each partner does his best to deflect guilt and cast blame. Neither party admitting to even a 1% contribution to the failure.
And you don't have to shoot someone to feel caught up in the tango.
If we live in a society in which we're not free to accept, admit, and be forgiven for our failings ... a society in which we'll only be rewarded if we succeed in making blame stick to someone else ... then we must accept the fact that we'll spend our entire lives walking a dangerous tightrope. A fine line, from which any of us - you, me, or someone you love - could easily take a massive fall.
With the swirling dance of guilt and blame in our minds and all around us, we'll never learn to accept and forgive ourselves for our failings, let alone others. And that, I believe, is one of mankind's most epic fails of all.
“Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.” ― Mahatma Gandhi
Yesterday I just couldn't. But I can't let Moldova down for too long, now can I?
The topic for today: Failure, Guilt and Blame.
“Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.” ― Albert Einstein
Some high profile cases have captured the world's attention lately. Cases in which something horrific happens and then the players involved - the ones who are still alive, at least - rush to point fingers in order to absolve themselves of all blame and assert the guilt of others.
Our systems are designed that way, I guess. At first glance, it appears that there are no grey areas. You're guilty or you're innocent. You're sainted or condemned. Epic win or epic fail.
We've all heard that there are "two sides to a story". But when a case becomes high profile, we actually get to see scientific proof that there can be two completely different ways of looking at the same set of facts. A continental divide in perceptions. In the Trayvon Martin / George Zimmerman case it was about 49/51% for those who agreed or disagreed with the verdict. Among white-skinned people, that is. And among non-whites, who would understandably see the verdict through a different, more personal lens, it was more like 70/30, with the vast majority seeing the verdict as unjust. But still, there wasn't 100% agreement on the matter. And you won't find a group of people on earth with 100% agreement on anything, let alone the Zimmerman verdict.
“Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” ― L.M. Montgomery
To me, situations such as the Trayvon Martin case capture so much attention because they are like a concentrated snapshot of what goes on in everyday life. Smaller, less important matters, yes. But matters that affect you, and me, and our kids, and everyone around us. The Martin/Zimmerman situation shows that even when all the facts are laid out, and a fair trial is held, and a verdict is pronounced, there can still be a complete lack of certainty over who is wrong and who is right. Who is guilty, who is not. Who is at fault, and who is not.
In Toronto's controversial Sammy Yatim case, we are already seeing buckets of blame tossed back and forth, and we'll see that continue as the case is discussed and analyzed from now on.
You have in one corner the folks who say the police officer pumped 9 bullets into a teen carrying nothing more than a 3-inch blade - a completely unjustified action, a failure on the part of police. That police are trigger-happy lunatics who live for the opportunity to kill.
On the other side, you have the argument "If you bring a knife to a gunfight, prepare to die" from the people who believe that the teenager is to blame for his death. That the failure to avoid this outcome was Sammy's. And that his parents failed to bring him up right - so they are to blame as well. And we mustn't forget that Syria, Sammy's birthplace, is also to blame for being a violent country. And so on.
In everyday life, when a failure happens - and let's face it, they happen all the time - the facts are never laid out the way they would be in a high profile news story or court trial. All you have is a smattering of thoughts, words and perceptions from two sides of an argument, two opposing sides with equally full-blown determination to prove the other side is at fault.
"You rear-ended me!"
"No, YOU hit the brakes without warning!"
And again, our systems - and our world - are not set up for people to casually raise their hands and say "you know what? I could have done better. I'm sorry." Nor is our world a place where one's opponent would counter that admission with, "Oh my gosh, no, it was my fault. I can see why you screwed up there. Your mistake was honest. I'm just as much to blame as you are. I get it."
“We learn from failure, not from success!” ― Bram Stoker, Dracula
In everyday life, blame is an endless dance. Back and forth it goes, as each partner does his best to deflect guilt and cast blame. Neither party admitting to even a 1% contribution to the failure.
And you don't have to shoot someone to feel caught up in the tango.
If we live in a society in which we're not free to accept, admit, and be forgiven for our failings ... a society in which we'll only be rewarded if we succeed in making blame stick to someone else ... then we must accept the fact that we'll spend our entire lives walking a dangerous tightrope. A fine line, from which any of us - you, me, or someone you love - could easily take a massive fall.
With the swirling dance of guilt and blame in our minds and all around us, we'll never learn to accept and forgive ourselves for our failings, let alone others. And that, I believe, is one of mankind's most epic fails of all.
“Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.” ― Mahatma Gandhi
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