I've decided to edit this down and remove most of the post; the bulk of it probably should have just gone in a sparkly diary with a little pink lock.
I'll just leave it as:
1) Patrick moved out yesterday.
2) I'm "not the same girl he married."
3) There's more to it than that.
4) I feel hurt, humiliated, and betrayed.
5) I'm certain he feels sad, too.
He's not a bad person, I'm just not the same girl he married; I'm so much better than that.
February kicks off Black History Month - a reminder of not just the history of black people, their accomplishments, and how they rose up against inequality and intolerance, but it's also a reminder of the history of the people who challenged progress (or, to be exceedingly kind about it, "didn't know any better"). It is the history of a multicultural society that has made leaps forward, and can continue to make leaps forward, provided that we learn from the past.
A little while ago, I shared one of my not-so-fun vintage finds, an article from 1965 about neighbours giving their opinion on the prospect of a "Negro family" moving onto their street. While I can't claim to have the most extensive of vintage media collections, that article was among the earliest I had in my hoard pile possession that straight-forwardly dealt with race relations and bigotry. Because I tend to collect magazines and books targeted to women in the 1950s, the content of the material I have is decidedly focused on homemaking, family relationships, and fashion. Current events tended to take a back seat to "Easy Flower Arrangements You'll Love" and "How To Choose A Fur".
But if you specifically look for examples of how civil rights and attitudes around race were addressed in the 1950s mainstream media, you'll surely find them. Below is a half-hour drama called Crossroads that aired on CBC in 1957. Directed by the National Film Board's Don Haldane, Crossroads is a "sensitive drama that tells the story of a couple, Roy and Judy, and the reactions they encounter when they announce their intention to marry, reactions complicated by the fact that Roy is black and Judy is white."
According to what I've researched, Crossroads was well received by the Canadians who watched it on TV in 1957 and was applauded for its sensitive and accurate portrayals of people at the time. One wonders how it would have gone over in the United States.
It's interesting and sad, inspiring and infuriating, and it's a part of your history and mine, regardless of where our ancestors came from. It's a history that shapes relations and politics today within our countries, and it's hopefully a history was can continue to learn from.
If you know this blog, you know I loves me some vintage living. But what I like to explore - however ridiculously at times - is how a chapter in history was reflected in its media (and, in turn, the ideals and values that were impressed upon the culture). Well, that, and disgusting retro recipes. This is not, however, entirely reflective of reality. If you were to go purely by the 1950s women's magazines I own, you'd think, "race relations? What race relations? Shouldn't we be busying ourselves with a Jell-O mold right now?"
But come 1963-ish, magazine cover stories became less about "Soups Men Love!" and more about stuff like this (you'll know it when you see it):
"When A Negro Family Moves Next Door", written by Suzanne Hart Straight for Parents' magazine, January 1965. Oh, cringe.
I debated posting this entry because, well, it's totally horrible. That, and I'm a giant pussy whose intellect is more on the level with topics of Marshmallow Fluff than racism. But seeing as Martin Luther King Jr.'s life is celebrated today, it seems appropriate to remind people (and in some cases, educate people for the very first time) what he and those who fought for civil rights and dignity were up against.
Despite the unfortunate opinions expressed by some of the people interviewed in this article, I'm quite thankful for it, as it provides a look into what people really were thinking and feeling at the time without a PC-filter. It shows how far we've come, but it can also, perhaps, allow us to connect a few dots between those attitudes and how we view other groups and minorities in society today.
Isn't it weird to see those words in a magazine? It startles me that an article like this was relevant just 47 years ago and during my parents' lifetime (Barrack Obama would have been four years old, and my mom - whose birthday is today! Happy Birthday, mom, sorry to hijack it with this hate crime! - would have been eight.). It is downright strange to read what "normal" people once (?) were concerned about when it came to black people and all kinds of horrifying to read the vile things less-than-normal people were proud to express to a nationally-read magazine.
What's more, as I was reading, I had to keep reminding myself that this discussion wasn't about some weirdo town in the South that we all figure was full-on batshit racist, but was instead a middle-class neighbourhood in New Jersey. Yeah, buddy.
Let's not kid ourselves, there are still plentyofshittythingsgoingonoutthere, said and done by people who weirdly claim it's not hateful (it's free speech! It's my religious belief! It's a genuine threat! It's hilarious! It's against my vision of America! The founding fathers wouldn't like it! Their hair products cloudy up my pool!). Give me a fucking break, you fucking fuckstains.
The author of "When A Negro Family Moves Next Door" does what I clearly can't do (as I just demonstrated); she responds to some really heinous opinions calmly, with facts and without a lot of judgement, possibly because she knew that you win more flies with honey and that, at the time, Parents' probably had a fair share of readers who related to what was being said by these neighbours.
But that shouldn't stop you or I for letting a "holy fuck!" or a "oh, hell no!" fly out of our mouths while reading this, particularly when you get to the part where "Mr. Heath's" shithead opinion is shared. I mean, just look at what this asshole has to say:
Ugh. Yes, please leave, Mr. Heath.
But the article isn't just a bunch of awful quotes. It shows a turning of a tide, people who were clearly rational and thoughtful and no doubt helped to shape the attitudes of their own neighbours. And - as a lesson for me, they did it without calling anyone a "fucking fuckstain":
So, without further ado, here's the article in its entirety, followed by a "Group Discussion Article" - some questions and information for people to use when discussing this article with friends, family, co-workers, or neighbours (I love that! Gold star, Parents'!). You should be able to open these images into a separate tab where you can expand them to a legible size:
Discussion Prompts:
So, thoughts? Anything surprise you? Can you share any memories (or perhaps stories from your parents) from this time? Does any of it feel familiar when thinking of other groups that are currently marginalized in our society?
And finally, how are you spending Martin Luther King Jr. Day?
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It's Remembrance Day and hopefully you've used this as an opportunity to reflect on the wars of our past, the sacrifices of veterans, and what we have to be thankful for. November 11th (and every day, really!) also presents us the opportunity to think about the struggles going on today and what we can do to make the world a more peaceful place.
In reflection of World War II and the rebuilding process of Europe, Eleanor Roosevelt said in 1950:
I, personally, am not for rearming Germany, but I am for giving her every opportunity to get back on her feet in an economic way and to trade with the rest of the world so she will not have to depend on trade with the eastern part of Europe.
It is true that, given a free hand, Germany by its ability and industry may again dominate the economic situation in Europe. That, without military power, is not a catastrophe.
I think it is essential that we help her to regain economic stability and a sense of pride in her citizenship, for no one can live happily under constant humiliation. If we want Germany to understand democracy we must realize that it has to be demonstrated over a long period of years. She has never had democracy except for a short time and her people have never understood the processes of democracy or the individual responsibility entailed.
And I think we can all agree that this attitude (and economic and political actions) led to a beneficial and healthy relationship between the world and The-Once-Biggest-Bad-Ever, Germany, yes?
While our conflicts today are different (and in some ways not), compare the attitude above with the words of another woman in the political arena right now:
Sweet Cheesus.
Yeah, that's the ticket to creating peaceful relations and pro-America, pro-democracy sentiments: send a bill to a traumatized, vulnerable, volatile country that you went into under false pretences. Sounds like a winner of an idea to me. Hey, while she's at it, maybe Michelle Bachmann can track down the people who were liberated from concentration camps in WWII and see if they can pick up some of that military tab, too.
Le sigh.
It's important to think about these things, reflect on what history has shown, and to compare approaches. Because if we truly want to de-escalate violence and foster democracy, it's really not about withdrawing troops - it's about what you do after they've come home.
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Recently there was an article posted on Jezebel titled, "Oops, I Must Have Been Too Busy Bitching About Not Getting Any Sleep to Mention How Great My Kid Is." by Tracy Moore. The piece (which is conversational, light-hearted and an easy read, so go munch on it for a minute) is largely a response to a conversation she had with a childless co-worker, who, upon listening to the writer complain about some truly heinous child-related sleep deprivation, commented, "Whoa man, you make it sound like your baby ruined your life."
The article goes on to explain that she wishes all of us childless people could simply grasp the awesomeness of parenthood and how, while it's not always a ray of sunshine - in fact, far from it on some days -, that there's something just so marshmagically delicious about babies and being the proud maker of one, that we just can't possibly "get it" if we've never had a child of our own.
Uggghhhh.
You know, I get it. I get it that I don't get it.
I can quite plainly observe friends and family members who find their social lives radically altered, are elbow-deep in the grossest of bodily fluids (some of which aren't even their own!), who come over for a little break and end up sitting on my couch uncontrollably crying (and that's the dads!), who are on the verge of losing their minds over a kid who refuses to sleep more than an hour at a time, who see money spraying out of their bank accounts - like the projectile vomit they have become so accustomed to - on new furniture, clothes and daycare, and who have confided in me that they have moments where they just want to lock their toddler in the room, leave the house, and get wasted in the middle of the afternoon.
But you know what I also observe? That many these same people go and have another baby! Or light up when they see a picture of their kid. Or sit there with a truly enamoured smile long after they've finished telling you a story about their child.
So even though I am an ignorant, childless heifer (though I prefer "childfree" heifer), I understand that there's something - something huge and verging on magical - that counters all the shitty, horrible things about having a kid. It is the "it". "It" is the thing that is more powerful than logic or memory. "It" is individual with each child, "it" is hard to describe, and for most parents, "it" is the best thing that has ever happened to them.
I get it, even if I've never personally experienced "it". You don't have to sell me on "it".
From Jezebel:
For us, it's not about whether a baby is "special" enough to take on all the shit that comes with parenting, it's about whether we are willing to deal with all that specialness, especially since we really like how our lives are now. Why the author thinks people who "get fucked up a lot" would make ideal parents is beyond me, but whatever. Do those people want kids? Because we're personally unsure. Call us "Team Undecided But Sorta Leaning Toward No". Neither of us has felt a big yearning for kids that wasn't fleeting, so to just go ahead and have a child in the hopes that we'd experience "it" and "it" would be worth the risk, is a big leap of faith for us. And since I'm an agnostic and he's an atheist, "faith" isn't exactly our forte.
What's irritating, is that articles like the one on Jezebel presume that everyone who has a child experiences "it", guaranteed, that "it" is what's missing in their lives, that "it" outweighs all other perks of a childfree lifestyle, and that once you experience "it", all those worries about whether you want a kid / would make a good parent / can stick with it until you're dead, will melt away.
And that's something I just don't buy.
I know, without a doubt, that there are people who regret having children. It's hard for them to say this out loud because it goes against, oh, everything, and people somehow derive great pleasure in pointing that out. Many of these people get called every name in the book for admitting what a "real parent" is never supposed to feel. But whether you like it or not, they're proof that "it" isn't universally appreciated. They're selfish monsters adults who discover that they'd be happier without kids - and I don't mean hypothetical children, but theiractual kids - healthy, well-behaved little people with faces and names that they have feelings for. Children they believe are more burdens than blessings when it comes to achieving happiness in life.
And there's another nagging regret to the issue; the fear of "but what if I figure out I want kids and it's too late!" It's something articles poke at, although subtly. If we're too ignorant to "get" the obvious amazingness that is being a parent, surely we're also incapable of knowing how we'll feel about this in the future. How could we possibly know we'll be ok with a decision to not have kids in five, ten, or twenty years from now if we're too [stupid, self-absorbed, immature, goofy] to realize how crazyballs fantastic it is to make a small human being who loves you unconditionally?
Articles on this topic weren't always as cutely presented as the one on Jezebel. From an article by a woman simply referred to as "The Country Contributor" in the April 1911 Ladies' Home Journal (100 years ago!), this awesome opinion was splayed out:
In case you can't read that, the snippet says (to be read aloud in a ridiculously regal voice that I like to call "Lady Boddemboddem"):
No Woman Should Ever Marry Unless She is Willing to have a child or children. If you are not willing to institute a family you should remain single. It not immoral to refrain from having a larger family than you can support, or from subjecting a wife to child-bearing until her strength is exhausted; but on general principles it is immoral to marry with the positive intention of having no children, and it is very vulgar, too, as you will certainly understand some day when you awake to the plain realities of life.
Epic, no?
But beyond the part about being vulgar, isn't the message that "you will certainly understand [it] some day when you awake to the plain realities of life" all that different from "sigh. It's hard to explain till it happens to you directly."?
I think Tracy Moore's article is fine and cheerfully-natured, but I wonder if she realizes that it comes across a touch belittling. What's funny about all this, is that no real person in my life has ever tried to press me on the fact that I don't have a deep understanding of what it means to be a parent, nor the idea that having a child might not be for me. So maybe that's why I find it funny that articles like these keep getting churned out.
Do people really talk like that to one another, or did I win the friend lottery?
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This is the mushy note I had engraved on Patrick's first (and clearly dinged up, scratched up, well-loved) iPod. It's a lyric from a song we both liked called Such Great Heights - and it feels rather fitting right now.
We've now been through them all: the first birthdays, first wedding anniversary, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first New Year, first Valentine's Day, first Father's Day - all without my father-in-law, Paul. And now today is the first anniversary of his passing.
Everyone says the firsts are the worst, and I truly hope so. But what's been unexpected is that the big waves of sadness haven't occurred on these momentous days. Maybe it's because we were all together for them and had things like gifts and meals and booze and The Settlers of Catan to distract ourselves with. But, really, the most gut-wrenching moments of sadness and reality have occurred when you least expect it, like you're walking down the street and a favourite song of his is playing in a car driving by. Or you find a picture of him as you're tidying up. Or you're just laying in bed, trying to fall asleep and out of nowhere the truth about him being gone bubbles up and stabs you in the heart. And there aren't any scheduled 'firsts' to hurdle over for those moments - they just happen and will keep happening. And it sucks.
And while it's OK to feel the grief, it's just as fine if not better to take solace in the antidote - which is remembering the good times and making new good memories. This weekend we'll be going to St. Catharines to stay at my mother-in-law's home to do just that - remember, share stories, laugh, and probably do and say some rather stupid and fantastic things under the influence of alcohol. All very Paul-like, I must say.
My husband and his family are doing one more thing today - and that's going to a tattoo parlour together. Yours truly won't be participating in that because I'm a giant pussy. But the rest of the Bycks have decided they're going to get Paul's signature tattooed on them. I suggested to Patrick that he should get his on his lower back with butterflies around it, simply so that I could giddily refer to it as his 'tramp stamp'. Strangely, he's decided against my suggestion. I think he's decided to get it on the inside of his arm. Ouch. One way or the other, there's going to be some healing this weekend.
As far as years go, 2001 was pretty much a flaming bag of dog shit and donkey balls. Of course, there's that standout reason why 2001, as a whole, has a bad rep, but I've observed that a lot of people had additional things happen in their lives - before and after September - that helped cement 2001 with the title of Worst Year Ever.
For me, I broke up with my live-in boyfriend, which wasn't a big tragedy or anything and was actually / eventually a good thing, but it was a tough change. A week or two later while we were still living together, he got jumped by some real winners and was stabbed in the neck. He survived (and we're still friends. He came to my wedding, even!) but spent a good deal of time in ICU and recovering at home under my care and it was an incredibly fucked up time, to put it lightly. Later in the year, after I had just moved into a new apartment, I got unexpectedly laid off from my job and couldn't find work in my field for months. So, yah, 2001 sucked it just fine without terrorists coming along and mind-fucking everyone.
One day in early July of said heinous year, I got a call from my dad. His voice sounded so weird - so hollow. He said, "I have some really bad news."
My stomach dropped and I felt like I had turned to stone from standing so still and waiting for what felt like an eternity for whatever horrible thing he was going to say next. It had probably only been a week earlier that he had called me with a hesitation in his voice and with a similar lead-in to the conversation: He had then let me know that he had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer.
I mentioned that 2001 was a total asshole, right?
"No, it's not that. It's not me," he quickly said, guessing that this was now two bad news calls in a row and that I probably thought they were related.
A sense of relief flickered for a second, only to be replaced with a new sense of dread. God, what else? What now?
"Um," he stammered for a moment, "Your cousin Jonathan has died," he finally croaked out.
When your brain is running around in that moment of waiting for bad news, your 18-year old cousin dying in a car accident tends not to be among the possibilities. I remember feeling all cold and nauseous and then immediately feeling waves of sadness for his family and the shock and grief they must have been in the pits of.
That was 10 years ago this weekend.
At the request of his family, this anniversary isn't to be marked with sadness, but we'll instead remember him fondly, share memories, and as you'll soon see - partake in some of his quirky passions.
My strongest memories of Jonathan are mainly from when he was younger - he was probably around nine or ten-years old or so. We lived a solid 12-hours drive from the Staniec's farm in Lanigan, Saskatchewan, so we didn't see the family all that much, but when we did, the visits were memorable. We often did "kid switches" where I would stay with the Staniecs for a week or two and their daughter, Jill, who is my sister's age, would came back with my parents and hang with my sister in Fort McMurray (and then vice-versa where my cousin Kim and I would go back together to Alberta).
I remember thinking it was oh-so clever of Jon (although, sure, totally mean) that he used to call his sister "Heather" - "Heifer". It was word play! Farm word play! And he wasn't just calling her a cow, he was calling her a virgin cow! Oh, how hilarious I thought that was. Because I, unsurprisingly, was a ho-bag and a word-geek even then.
I also recall all us kids listening to this one particular Ian Tyson song in a car ride into Saskatoon called "The Coyote and the Cowboy" by Ian Tyson. It was recorded in a bar, and there's a part where Tyson and the crowd sing about a "son of a bitch", and just like the people in the bar, we would SCREAM the word "bitch" every time. Hey! Don't blame us! Just following the lyrics! There's also a part of the song that we would get into fits of giggles over because it sounds like Animal from The Muppets is hollering in the background (from around 2:05 through to 2:20 in the song, should you be listening for it. I listened to it today and it TOTALLY SOUNDS LIKE ANIMAL. We were so right!). We'd play the song over and over and over again until my Aunt Janice justifiably yelled at us to knock it off:
I remember after one particularly grueling trip out to the farm, my family had driven over a stretch of highway that was just being paved and was in no condition for a car to go over it. My dad was seriously pissed about this, as a bunch of wet tar and asphalt had kicked up and splatted all over the hood and around the wheels. We had gone to a professional car wash before arriving in Lanigan and even these guys couldn't get the muck off.
For Jonathan, this was his Everest.
"Can I wash your car, Uncle Joe?" he said, his eyes glimmering as he looked over the tar-speckled minivan.
"Oh, you don't have to do that, Jonathan," my dad said, slightly surprised by the request.
"But can I?" Jonathan asked again.
My dad was stunned. Maybe it was because he was the father of two brats girls who would view having to clean the car as a form of punishment.
"He likes it," my cousin Kim said. "Like, he, really, really, REALLY likes cleaning cars."
"Well, if you insist," my dad said, still perplexed. "But if you can't get that tar off, don't worry about it. The guys at the car wash couldn't even get it off."
This look crossed Jon's face as if to say, "this car hasn't met me yet."
The rest of us kids went off to do the things we most liked doing on the farm: ride the ATVs, form a secret spy club with headquarters in the barn, play with the new calf, and pee our pants from laughing too hard - something someone would later blame on an animal ("I sat in cat pee ..." Sure, Jen, sure. Something you should know about me: I've never let a full bladder get in the way of a good, hard laugh. It's disgusting, really.).
Jonathan, however, went to work on the minivan with a determination worthy of an inspirational 80s power ballad. I even remember him working through lunch, something I've never let happen in my 30+ years on earth.
Hours later, my dad had summoned us all to marvel over Jonathan's work. The beige-but-blackened minivan that had tiredly rolled onto their gravel driveway earlier that day now looked like it had just come off the sale lot.
"Jesus Christ," my dad said, staring at the sparkling vehicle before him. "You really did a hell of a job on that. I mean it. You really did a phenomenal job."
Jonathan smiled with a quiet pride, simply said, "thanks" and strolled off. This, too, stunned my father, as he was generally used to kids - namely a certain daughter of his - lapping up the compliments like a pig and spending the next hour explaining exactly what she had done and how hard it was and why it was so important that it be done in the manner she had painstakingly done them.
Jon's love of cars - and cleaning them - became a hallmark of his, as was the way he mowed a lawn (alternate directions each time, no going back and forth, and whenever possible, he'd get two mowers going to pretend that he had a dual combine set up). There was the wrong way, the right way, and the Super Meticulous Jon Staniec way of doing these things. These things were so much a part of him that this weekend, his family recently asked everyone to mow their lawns or wash their cars "as Jonathan would" while thinking of him.
D-bag Condo Girl here has neither a car nor a lawn, so I improvised:
It is so not the car Jon would go for, but alas, the little gift shop I went to had no sports cars. It was this or a pink new Beatle with flowers on it. Of the two, I'm pretty sure this is the better choice to honour Jon's memory with:
Sparkling new!
And for the lawn ... the closest thing I could find was organic wheatgrass at the market:
Thank you, superfood-loving-hippies-and-yuppies of Toronto.
Even with scissors, I didn't do nearly the good job Jonathan would have done. That, I can guarantee.
Sorry Excuse For A Woman(said stoically): I think I'm going to have sushi today. You know, in honour of those in Japan.
OMFG.
Shoveling dynamite rolls down your gullet does not honour people who are in the midst of a horrible tragedy, you magnificent turd. Sorry, I take that back - that's an insult to turds.
Want to really show you care?
Donate to the Red Cross. Click here if you're in Canada. Click here if you're in the US. You can also text donations ($10 to Canadian Red Cross: Text REDCROSS to 30333 or $10 to American Red Cross: Text REDCROSS to 90999). If you're reading this blog, there is a very good chance that you can chip in $10 or more and not even feel financially impacted. That money, however, will help these earthquake and tsunami victims and their families when they need it most.
Be nice to people. Even (or especially) people you don't know.
Stop whining for a day. Have some gratitude for all that you have.
Keep the victims of this disaster in your thoughts (or if it's your thing - in your prayers).
In honour of the 100th International Women's Day, I'm doing something special: Taking the day off to watch Classic Family Feud while feasting on cheese and Campari in bed. Just kidding - I do that every day.
Nope, today I'd like to chat a little bit about feminism, which I'm sure is a disappointment for those who came to this website to read about bitches and 1950s housewife life. I assure you, I'll get back to all that very shortly.
If I had to write a list of all the things I am, the word "feminist" admittedly isn't the first thing that comes to mind. But if asked the yes or no question, "are you a feminist?", I'd immediately and enthusiastically answer "Yes!" To me, it's like answering the question, "Should people be nice to each other?" or "Are Cool Ranch Doritos delicious?" It's so automatic, that I can't help but be surprised when I hear modern people say that they're not feminists - or to even suggest that they're anti-feminist. I think there's a valid argument for someone who prefers to think in terms of being a humanist vs. feminist, but to me, that doesn't explain anti-feminism.
So, if I were to guess why some people flinch at the thought of being labeled a feminist, it has to do with what they think feminism is. I'll give you a hint: It's not about burning bras or hating men or voting liberal. It's not about dumping on women who wear make-up or get married or have kids or stay at home. It's even not about ignoring biological differences between men and women.
For me, feminism is about the freedom of self-determination. It's the idea that a woman shouldn't be limited in her chosen path because of notions of what a woman should, shouldn't, can, or can't do.
(Fellow humanists, feel free to replace the word "woman" with a race, class of people, or sexual orientation.)
It's a philosophy that ultimately encourages women to strive to become the individuals they want to be. Do you believe that? Yes? Surprise, you're a feminist! Doesn't it feel great?!?
Frankly, the only people I can think of who are opposed to this concept are those who are entrapped in a belief system that profits, depends on, rewards and punishes based on keeping a woman (or herself) "in her place". If you are such a person, I hope you have the freedom and drive to question it for yourself.
If you are already a feminist, I hope you have the freedom and drive to help your fellow lady out (here and abroad) and work to build and protect that which allows women to choose their own paths in life ... which leads me to the one political thing I'll say:
The defunding of Planned Parenthood in the United States is an atrocious affront to women. This isn't about abortion (none of Planned Parenthood's federal dollars ever went to abortion, and roughly only 3% of Planned Parenthood's work involves abortion procedures) - it's about affordable and safe access to health services, birth control and family planning education. Not sure how that fits in with a woman's freedom to live the life she wants? I'll let the legend, Loretta Lynn, explain it to you:
Have another bone to pick when it comes to women's rights and advancement (like how women perform 66% of the world's work, earn 10% of world's income and own 1% of the world's property)? Check out We Are EqualsRead more...
(Note: I could be wrong, but some of the info in this documentary might already be outlined in the stats-focused article, "The End of Men", that was in The Atlantic last summer. Anyone know for sure?)
Based on the promo, the documentary largely focuses on the effects of the recent US recession and how jobs predominantly held by men have been lost. The film explores how this has impacted the male psyche - one that is arguably or traditionally shaped by his ability to provide for and protect his family.
For some wonky reason, the CBC doesn't allow embedding, but you can see a four-minute clip of the show here. The entire documentary will be loaded on the site after it airs, should you be interested but already have plans to watch The Office or TLC's 12 Little Fudge-Makers And Counting (OK, not a real title, but at this point, anything is possible with TLC).
Because the documentary hasn't aired yet, it's hard to comment on it - but that, of course, hasn't stopped anyone else. I saw a Tweet in response to the doc by someone who was annoyed by the title. The tweet went something like, "End of Men? This should be called the Evolution of Men!" It reminded me of responses to the other article where people applauded women's inability to cook and clean as progress in an evolving society.
Again, I don't see it. Just as I don't see an inability to make a nutritious meal as an accomplishment, I don't really get how it's progress for millions of people to be out of work or for a chunk of their identity to be ripped away from them. I see progress as both men and women gaining new opportunities, abilities, representation and choices regardless of gender.
Is a recession that forces men into a position where they become a homemaker (or underemployed) the catalyst for our society to see this "role reversal" as a viable, long-term option? Is it an unexpected opportunity for men and society as a whole to "re-wire" themselves from believing that "real men" need to work outside of the home? In a way, it's not entirely unlike how the demands of World War II suddenly encouraged women to join the work force. I don't know the answers - but from watching the promo, I don't see too many of these men rejoicing in it. I don't think it's because they're chauvinists - I think it's because they didn't get to make the choice. And isn't 'choice' truly the jewel of an evolved society?
Anyhoo - if you tune in, let me know what you think of it. Je suis curious. I'll be taping it - not because I'll be watching something else - but because I get to go to a fun Mad Men-inspired event held by the LCBO tonight. My choice is to get my booze on. Yay! (And will blog about that later!)
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It's a total faux pas to do something nice for someone and then announce it and brag about it (and as you'll see - photograph it - good grief, I have no shame!), but I kind of don't care. I don't care because sometimes I wish more people would think to help each other out and if this dumb post inspires someone out there to do just that, it's worth the lapse in manners.
I'm not sure if it's because all the magazines and books I've read from my 50s housewife days (which I still love to read!) presume a person pitches in when her friends, neighbours, community and country could use a hand, but lately I've been feeling like maybe we've become a little too focused on our own bubbles.
I don't think this is the case because people have become uncaring - I think we're just busier now, have more distractions and have become a mind-your-own-business society (which has its pluses and minuses) that is terrified of offending others (except when it comes to the comment section of articles, blogs and YouTube videos - there, some live to offend). We often worry that when we stick our necks out to offer help, the other person will somehow feel judged, and even get angry with us. In a post I wrote a while ago, I linked to this fabulous speech by JK Rowling that speaks to the importance of imagination. In her speech, she mentioned that through imagination, you can gain empathy and use that to help others. The roadblock that many of us face, however, is that we also imagine a backlash to helping. We worry about making that person in a wheelchair feel less capable if we offer to grab something on the grocery shelf for them. We hold back saying something to a mom whose toddler has pulled off his winter hat for fear that she'll think we believe she's a 'bad mother' for not noticing. We don't offer directions to the person who's clearly wandering about looking for landmarks because we don't want them to feel dumb. We often even keep to ourselves when it comes to people we know well. We don't want them to know that we've noticed that they could maybe use a hand or a break.
These fears aren't completely unwarranted, but maybe we should risk the potential backlash more often.
One of my good friends is the mom to a 1.5-year old. Her daughter is gorgeous and funny and smart and will surely grow up to be a brilliant human being I'll be proud to know. But as nearly all moms can attest, you can have the greatest kid in the world and still need a time out for yourself. My friend didn't have to (and didn't) tell me this - I just knew she was due for a break.
So, yesterday, without offering or needing to explain to her why, we swapped homes. I came up to her place to babysit her daughter (and do a bit of a tidy with my new little helper) and she arrived at my place to discover this:
At the end of the day, she came back to her place where her family's dinner was magically ready and more wine was begging to be had.
It's OK, you can say it: I am pretty awesome. Har.
If there's a new mom or dad in your life, or anyone who could use a little relief, please steal this idea from me. You'll never feel so appreciated!
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Yesterday, I shared with you my most ridiculous and self-indulgent blog post ever (although I'm sure I'll best it before you know it - I have a knack for acting like a twit). Now, I'm awkwardly switching gears to touch on something completely different and not nearly as idea inspiring absurd as Patrick's Man Cage.
Today in Commonwealth countries and the Netherlands, we recognize Remembrance Day. In the U.S., it's Veteran's Day and in France, it's Armistice Day. In Germany, it's We Really Can't Be Trusted With Right-Wing Leadership Day. Aw, I kid, Germany. I like you .... now.**
**(Edited to say: Ack - I just don't have the heart / balls / other anatomical feature to leave that joke hanging there like that today. In all seriousness, the average German person was just as much a victim of expansionism and fascism and runaway government power as the rest of the world. I genuinely don't want to belittle that fact or appear like an ignorant dick. "Too late, Jen," said the masses.)
[Back to serious ...]
It was 92 years ago today that World War I - "the war to end war"- was officially over. As a society, we seem to be very good at coming up with catchy slogans and unfortunately very bad at living up to them. The estimated 55 Million people who died in World War II alone (which started just 21 years after World War I ended) is sad proof of this.
Today we think about and honour our fallen, those who served and those who still serve. They deserve our respect and reflection not just today, but every day.
This is not a pro-war sentiment. If anything, facing the grim reality of war should act as a deterrent for violent aggression of any kind. War should not be romanticized. It is not Andrews Sisters songs or handsome uniforms or brightly coloured flags. While we often see true examples of courage, determination and loyalty in the midst of it, war is a story of death and despair. It is brutally efficient in its ability to rip apart families, maim the body and spirit, and destroy human potential in ways we can never measure. We'll never know what marvelous possible inventions, cures, ideas, inspiring words, works of art and moments of happiness were stamped out with all those precious lives - military and civilian.
I'm reminded of this fact by some of my books (and no, I'm not thinking of all those cookbooks I have that could all basically share the title of Good Housekeeping's Book of Why We Now Have Food Stylists). Second in size to my shelf of 1950s housewife-focused material, is my collection of books and publications produced for the British and North American war wives of the 1940s.
Every one of these is amazing and interesting and worth sharing, but one especially stands out for me today.
They Can't Ration These was written by Vicomte De Mauduit, a food enthusiast who considered himself a "wandering nobleman" and enjoyed life in France, England and America. Originally printed in 1940 (mine's a reprint), the book details all the ways a person can find unexpected food and fuel sources available in the wilds and country-side. With food and fuel scarcities being real problems for the people of wartime Britian (an issue that often fell on the shoulders of wives and mothers to resolve), Vicomte De Mauduit's tips on identifying and cooking things like wild grasses, roots and birds and information regarding which types of bark, plants and forest material could keep a fire going best may have saved, or at least, bettered countless lives when in the hands of industrious women. He even showed people how to have a little cheer, with tips on making homemade wines, beer and the odd beauty product.
Vicomte De Mauduit was a person of greater stature than the average war wife and likely didn't always have the same concerns and needs that she did. And yet, he used his resources during this difficult time to get such a book out to her. Along with attempting to show others how they could fulfill their basic needs, Vicomte De Mauduit was also inspired to promote a sense of optimism of the future and better days, a time in which he hoped this information could continue to help people. In the book's preface, he says:
During the war [this book] will serve to relieve some of the strain on the nations' food supply and will teach those of us who will turn to the country-side for immunity from direct war destruction how to maintain life in the case of difficulties with regard to the carriage and distribution of food.
And when Peace will again come on Earth, the people of Britain, already made conscious through food rationing that meals no longer consist of a hot and then cold "joint with two veg", will find this book a practical and valuable guide to better things.
The little boost of cheer given by Vicomte De Mauduit is sharply flattened by news on the book's inside flap:
Vicomte De Mauduit wrote four cookery books, THEY CAN'T RATION THESE (1940) being the last. He is believed to have been captured by the Nazis after the Fall of France and to have died in Germany.
It makes your stomach flop to read that. He became another brilliant soul snuffed out (we presume, it's horrible that we don't even know for sure what happened to him) just like millions of other brilliant souls the world never had a chance to know to begin with.
And so, today, as we honour our soldiers present and past, consider taking a moment to also think about the other victims of war and the larger impact it has on our collective being. We owe it to our troops, the memories of those before us and the future of those ahead to think about this every time someone in a position of power attempts to rally a battle cry. Thinking about whether it is worth the cost - the real cost - is the very least we can do.
[I promise, my next post will be more cheery than this ... unless it's about a JELL-O salad, in which case, I apologize in advance for the depressing turn this blog has made.]
Here's a totally-not-related-to-the-1950s kind of post, but with the experiment done, I'm allowed!
When it comes to raising awareness and funds for diseases, there appears to be two ways of going about it:
The lady way: running marathons, walking 10k, hosting giant galas
The man way: growing some facial hair
I don't want to be a traitor to my sex or anything, but I have to stand up and slow clap it for the gents (in my fantasy, I'm wearing a Letterman jacket - please feel free to visualize that too).
In case you have no idea what I'm talking about, November is prostate cancer awareness month and the various charities that fight the disease have promoted something called Movember - a month of mustache (mo) growing. These mustache-growing warriors collect money from their hard-earned efforts which all then go to the cause of curb-stomping prostate cancer.
Patrick isn't growing a mustache. See, he kind of .... can't. I don't know what the deal is, but his face has basically refused to foster much follicle action above his upper lip. He can get it scratchy but not patchy.
If anyone in our home is going to grow a mustache, the responsibility sadly (and if you're my face - eagerly) falls to me. All I need is a week in the woods and I'm ready to blend into any fireman's reunion. I'm kind of not kidding. In those moments in life where I space out and think about things that will never happen, I've contemplated what my "personal luxury item" would be if I were ever on Survivor. I can never decide between Nair or just biting the bullet and bringing a razor. Those are the dilemmas that my brain spends its time working on. How amazing of it.
and .... [/tangent]
Prostate cancer is something that has impacted my family. We're really lucky though (well, we'd be luckier if my dad never had cancer to begin with but you know what I mean) - my dad is doing all kinds of wonderful now - still getting tested and still getting the occasional treatment - but his 60-year old butt is kicking prostate cancer ass. This wouldn't be the case without research and donations by everyday, awesome, beautiful, thoughtful folks like you.
Mo'tivated?
A friend of ours, Dave, is growing his Mo - but he's also offering you something more if you donate at least $15: He'll draw your portrait! For that paltry sum and a pic of your choice, he'll turn you into a 2-D thing of beauty. He's doing this all through an official website set up by Prostate Cancer Canada, so you need not think this is some kind of scam by the good folks at Jen But Never Jenn.
The pic up top is one such pieces d'art. That's of my brother-in-law, Jason. Handsome, yes?
So, if you have $15 to spare (or more! He'll take more!) and a burning desire to see a cartoon version of yourself, please click the link. In the "message" part (after you've filled in your payment method), pop in your e-mail address so he can track you down and you can send him the picture you want cartoonized.
Update: Here's a toon of us from our wedding day! Muchos muchos love to any of you who do this. You are good.
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Despite his supposed desire to limit the attention he gets over such things, we're making a bit of a big deal of him. Patrick and I flew out to Alberta and my sister came down from Edmonton. We're going to goof around the mountains today, which might involve a bit of hiking. Despite getting him a Flip camcorder and painting a picture of him (no, I am not 4), this outing is really my ultimate gift to him. In case you didn't know it from my circumference and the small moon that orbits me, exercising is not my favourite thing in the world to do and exercising in public is THE DEVIL. I can barely muster the will to chase an ice cream truck around the corner. So, climbing and scrambling up hills and little cliffs with no ice cream at the end? Unheard of. But since a certain newly-minted senior citizen likes that sort of thing, off we'll go.
We're lucky to have my dad. He is funny and smart and loving. He's just as quick to quote Monty Python as he is Shakespeare. Despite always turning the music up way too loud, he has made my mom happy for nearly 35 years. My dad has always been there for my sister and I, and I think you'll all agree that at least one of us turned out pretty awesome. He's also dealt with the roller coaster ride that is cancer (a ride that isn't over, so please give!) with a humour, grace and humility that puts all our tantrums about everyday nothings to shame. I not only love my dad, but I like him quite a bit too - something that not all daughters experience with their fathers - so I feel very lucky to be able to celebrate the person he is with him today.
So, happy birthday, dad! We love you lots.
I'd love to end this post on that note, but I sadly can't. Today has also been exactly two weeks since my husband's father unexpectedly passed away. That day and the days immediately following Paul's death are undoubtedly among the worst of Patrick's and my life.
Paul's sudden death of a massive cardiac arrest at the age of 55 was incredibly unfair. Unfair to him, as he had a lot of living to do, unfair to us as we've been left without him. Despite my claims of being a writer, I cannot find the right words to best describe my husband's father and what this loss feels like, so I suggest you read the work of someone who was able to do this in the most eloquent and perfect way. Paul Toffanello, Paul's best friend, did the eulogy at the service, and it really is a wonderful tribute to a wonderful man.
While my dad and Patrick's dad aren't the same person, at their core they are both people who love their families, have a joy for life and have made huge, lasting impressions on those around them. They are the kind of men that I hope other dads strive to be like.
Yesterday (Canada Day) I took a little walk in my neighbourhood. The park next to our home was cordoned off with police tape as, sadly, the body of a man was found there earlier that morning.
There's a police officer near the park's entrance who has attracted the attention of a group of people in their late twenties.
Uh oh, I think, and strain to hear the conversation as I get closer. The events of the past weekend have created a bit of tension, to say the least, between the people and the police.
"... well, I was on Queen Street," says one of the guys, "and I definitely wasn't there to cause any trouble. It still got all hairy for me."
The police officer says, "Yeah, well, you and me both."
The guy then stretches his hand out. The police officer hesitates for a second and then shakes it.
"Keep your head up," says the man. "The G20 sucked, but we're still ultimately on the same side. Remember that, eh?"
"Thank you," said the officer. "Same to you."
They smile at each other and the guy and his friends walk off.
It's a start to this city repairing itself.
If we could, I think everyone would like to hit a big rewind button and go back to when the good guys were clearly the good guys and the lines between right and wrong didn't seem so muddied. And I think if all of us had the choice, we'd opt to do things differently.
As I've told friends who have very firm opinions on certain topics, I'm really not a black-and-white person. I see things in all sorts of grey shades. I easily feel empathy toward others. When things like the G20 come to town and there's such a mix of experiences, points of view and facts - it gets hard to choose a side, or in the very least, not feel bad for everyone involved. And that's why, as my blog post title suggests - I'm on the fence about a lot of what happened.
Within this post, I won't be debating whether the G20 is a good thing or a bad thing in itself. Nor will I bother to explain what I saw on TV, as you all saw the same thing. I'm just going to lay out a few things as I see them while also sharing my own personal experiences from the weekend. I'm someone who didn't go into the security zone or attend the main protests - and yet I still experienced several sides of this story.
...
So, some genius decided to hold the G20 in downtown Toronto - an area that is both well populated and the financial centre of the country. This decision was dumped onto our mayor, our police chief, our business owners and our residents.
Historically, the G20 attracts a lot of attention and creates a totally different dynamic for the host city (and I'm not just referring to the huge fence that got erected). Protesters (with a great variety of causes and relevancy to the G20), wannabe protesters (people who join in but don't really have a cause or great idea about what the G20 is), G20 delegates and their entourage, gawkers and photographers, media (both mainstream and alternative), international groups and a huge multi-city police force all converge on the city, each with their own agenda and job to do. And let's not forget all the other people here with nothing to do with the G20 (store owners, people working in the core, residents and tourists).
On Saturday, all was seemingly peaceful until some cowards decided to make trouble. We all saw that on TV. I had decided to stay home and watch CP24 coverage rather than going in person. I live downtown, just outside of the security zone and genuinely felt I would be unaffected by everything. Well, I am an idiot.
As I'm watching a police car in flames on TV, I realize it's less than two blocks away. A number of police cars tear down my empty (but normally busy) main street. I look outside and see that some people have come out of their homes and stores and everyone is looking down the street in the direction of the burning cop car. I can't help myself. I grab my camera and mini video camera and decide to become a gawker.
Here's some video I took (it's crap, I know) of what I saw when I walked outside my condo's door. Some people are heading from the protest area (although none have signs), some are people in the neighbourhood. One guy has no idea what's going on and asks me what happened:
As you can see, the police cleared our area. The officer who spoke to me directly (at about 1:35 in the video) was exceptionally polite and professional. He stressed that it was for my own safety that I leave - this - despite the fact that I was dressed in head-to-toe black (hey, it's slimming! Plus, I had no idea anyone was going to be using black garb to hide in that day).
We go inside and head for our rooftop patio to get a safer view. I am convinced that the hooligans are heading our way and I'm freaking somewhat. I am all kinds of grateful to the police for their presence and I'm hoping they're going to be OK. A bunch of fellow condo dwellers also have the same idea and are lined up along the rooftop's wall, taking pictures and trying to get a better look. Here's a picture from our rooftop of a few police lines formed at Victoria and Yonge Streets: Suddenly, before you know it, the police are moving elsewhere and our street is weirdly quiet again. I feel like a dork for being so freaked over it all.
Throughout the day, we watch TV and keep seeing the replays of the vandalism. People on Twitter are furious that this has happened. Protesters are angry that these idiots have taken away from their messages. The media is delightfully screeching the day's events.
Later in the afternoon, a set of police paddy wagons sit outside our home, waiting to be called into action: Patrick and I eventually decide we want to go outside. We've been cooped in all day, are disinterested with what's in the fridge and decide to take a stroll and find out if anything is open. We walk past the police in front of our place and decide to take a look closer at the area where the cop car was burned to see if there's any evidence of the melee left.
We can't get all the way to Bay Street as there is a line of police officers in helmets blocking the way. A small crowd of gawkers (us included) are standing about in the middle of the road, taking pictures of them. Every so often, the line of police walk forward, yelling "MOVE!" The crowd backs up, but no one is particularly intimidated. In fact, as the police yell "MOVE!" and "KEEP THE LINE!" the crowd gently mocks them, imitating the order.
People stand a short distance away from the police, taking pictures of themselves in front of the line-up. I get one of Patrick. The crowd is in a rather jovial mood. Some of the officers are amused by this and try not to crack too much of a smile, others are irritated by the fact they've become a tourist attraction.
The line eventually stands its ground at Yonge Street and Patrick and I decide we've seen enough, so we head south and then east to see what restaurants are open. It turns out most things are open east of Yonge, and we decided on the Hot House Cafe on Front Street. We get a seat on the patio. It's busy, but not super busy. I'd say the patio is about 75% full. The crowd is a bit older, but still a good mix of people. There's a security guard on his break (he tells a nearby table he got to meet President Obama earlier in the day), tourists, locals, a group celebrating a birthday, everybody.
While we're eating, a TTC bus marked "special" rolls up to the stop light. It is filled with police officers. From my seat, I take a picture of it, much to amusement of some of the officers on the bus. I wave and they wave back. The table next to us laughs and strikes up a conversation about the police presence in the city. We all agree that it's "crazy" and we're eager for the city to get back to normal. More police-filled buses roll by. It becomes a game for the people on the patio to wave at the officers and see if or how many of them wave back. Eight police buses eventually drive through. Every bus has officers who wave back - some of whom are more smiley and enthusiastic than others. One officer pretends he is trying to claw his way out of the bus - and that gets a huge laugh from the patio. Another officer indicates he wants a drink. When we raised our glasses to him, a bunch of the officers on that bus cheer and mime that we should bring the drinks to them, all with goofy grins on their faces. On another bus, one of the policemen responds to our waves by dramatically blowing kisses to the patio and doing the "Queen wave", as if he were a homecoming princess in a parade. It is hilarious and unexpected and has the whole patio laughing and smiling and waving at the officers.
Part way through dinner, sirens draw close and a motorcade led by police motorcycles makes its way through the intersection. Someone at another table excitedly asks out loud, "Is it Obama?!"
As it turns out, the motorcade is for a paddy wagon going to the detention centre. The entire patio erupts in applause. Table to table, people talk about how "horrible" those vandals were and how they hope the police were coming down on them hard.
Meal complete, we decide to walk home, but in true gawker fashion, decide to go up Yonge instead (a slight, minor detour) to see if the police lineup is still there. As we walk up Yonge toward King, it starts raining and it instantly becomes dark. Out of nowhere, police vehicles are racing around, minivans filled with cops in riot gear unload all around us.
Some young guys walk by and suggest that we should to turn back. I say, "but I live up there!" and he says, "so do I, but no one's allowed to get north of King." Since we didn't technically have to get north of King - just to King - we keep walking. As we get to the intersection, we see a massive crowd of protesters on Adelaide, heading west. It was a giant mob of fast-moving, chanting, drumming people. Their chants are loud, even angry. I can't tell if they were 'good' or 'bad' protesters - but the sight of them all (which I later found out to be about 2,000 people) and their chorus of yells startles me.
The riot police are spilling out of moving vans everywhere and they're putting gas masks on. It's a flurry of helmets and shields and rain. Everywhere officers are yelling and checking their equipment. I try to take some pictures while I'm walking (idiot, I know), but they're all super blurry as I'm more interested in getting out of there than capturing a Kodak moment. Patrick is tugging at my arm to hurry up.
I wonder if the people we're passing are the same officers we were smiling and waving at earlier. I feel like saying something to them - like "thank you" or "keep up the good work" - but even with two tasty pints of Grasshopper in me, I can't find the courage. The police are all in the 'zone', suiting up for what feels like a battle and I feel like the best thing I can do is just get out of their way.
As we get to our condo, another van of officers piles out in front of us. I finally croak out to one of them, "Stay safe."
He glances up at me for a second and says with a tired voice, "We'll try to do that. Thank you, ma'am."
We get home and watch from our window as the mounted unit rides by and more police head west. A small police blockade is set up at Church Street, cutting off everything in front of our place. The streets are wet and the police lights are reflecting off them into every direction.
Only a few minutes pass and our street returns to quiet again, the biggest sound coming from the pounding rain. There is no sight of the officers who had just taken over the street.
For the second time that day, I feel stupid for feeling so panicky.
Late that night, we hear loud cursing. Like drama vultures, we swoop to the window and press our faces toward the noise. Down the street at King and Church, a man is screaming at the top of his lungs. He is so filled with rage that his body contorts with nearly every syllable. The best way I can describe it is to imagine Elaine from Seinfeld dancing - but to a rant. The angry man stands next to two police officers who are in normal police uniform.
"HOW FUCKING DARE YOU?! I'M A FUCKING PEACEFUL PROTESTER! I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING, I SHOULD BE ABLE TO GO WHERE I WANT, YOU FUCKING SACK OF SHIT!!!! EVER HEAR OF RIGHTS? I'M FUCKING PEACEFUL!!!"
To which we hear, "SIR! MOVE! THIS IS YOUR WARNING. YOU NEED TO GO - BUT GO NOW."
We watch the man turn off around the corner, heading north away from the police at the intersection. I think I can hear the sound of a newspaper box getting kicked.
Patrick and I stare at each other for a second, each making a 'WTF face'.
"That didn't sound super peaceful to me," I said.
"No shit," said Patrick, "that was a major exercise in police restraint if I ever saw one."
Our opinion of the police, at that point, is sky high. They saved our little stretch of the road from the crazies. They were courteous and friendly with us. They waved at us. They had a sense of humour. They didn't take Angry McGee down Rodney King-style, and in fact, let him go "in peace."
We are, however, completely ignorant to the arrests and protester break-up that occurred in the Free Speech Zone at Queen's Park earlier that day and the mass arrest of those sitting-in on the Esplanade (around the corner from us) at that moment.
We wake up the next morning, take care of a few things and then turn on the TV and my Twitter feed. It's like the city has been flipped on its head. Hundreds of arrests, a raid at U of T, and what looks to be a peaceful protest at the detention centre gets aggressively broken up. Reports and rumours are coming in of journalists getting hit and arrested by police, a friend on Facebook talks about getting a gun pointed at her face in Queen's Park, another talks about being detained in Union Station by police and not being able to join the protest. Many of these stories are coming from people I know, people who are not liars. More are coming in from those I don't know - from people making allegations of police brutality and rampant, unwarranted arrests and searches.
A friend sends me a message on Twitter saying that another protest is being organized across the street from me. I think "Oh, crap." It turns out to be a "nonviolent prayer vigil" organized by the Student Christian Movement. I figure that's safe enough to go outside and check out.
There's maybe 50 people standing on the lawn of the St. James Church. The signs are of poverty issues and some about freedom in the city (people upset about the fence and how the G20 has taken over everything). Someone is dressed up as a cob of corn - why, I have no idea. A young couple have brought their baby, but everyone else appears to be an adult of all ages. There are two police officers on the lawn as well, standing next to the organizer. She gets on a megaphone and explains to the protesters that they are there peacefully, that they will march to the fence (or as close as they can get) and will follow police instruction. She tells people not to wear any masks or bandanas. She stresses to keep things peaceful and to follow police instruction. By the time they're ready to get going, the crowd has grown to about 75 people. A minivan of police lead the group down King with a line of officers walking along side the marchers. They head west. It is very calm. Patrick and I don't bother to follow them. We are gawk'd out.
At home, we learn that their march has stopped at King and Bay and officers aren't letting them go any further. They've sat down and are mainly singing songs, clapping and chanting. More people have joined them.
We later find out that after a sit-in, police have directed them north. Some people involved in an earlier bicycle protest have joined them (the rest are at the detention centre, participating in a sit-in that is again growing tense). The group eventually ends up on Queen and heads west. Some people from the original prayer vigil have left, but more people have joined in.
This area eventually becomes the site for the now infamous Queen-Spadina "show down" where the police use the kettling technique for all the city to see. It seems bizarre and insane that so many people are being treated like criminals and forced to stand out in the pouring rain as they're being arrested one by one, for what charge, we can't understand. I wonder how it seemed to be more of a matter of luck that Patrick and I hadn't been caught up in a scene like that. After all, we were no better and no worse than the people trapped at Queen and Spadina and had been out and about - even at times looking to see what was going on - just the night before.
People are crapping themselves on Twitter (myself included), our parents call us to make sure we're alright, people are phoning in to CP24 to give a range of opinions. My feelings on the police are radically different than how I felt about them the day before and I have trouble matching my own experiences with what others have expressed and with what I'm seeing on TV.
Later we learn that over 900 people have been arrested and that most are claiming to be peaceful protesters and bystanders. People are talking about the conditions in the detention centres and how unlawful and unfair it all seems.
....
For the last few days, I've been seeing and hearing a lot of opinions, some I agree with, some I understand but see a different side to, and some I disagree with entirely. Here are some popular ones, and how I feel about them:
"The city was out of control!" It certainly appeared that way on TV, but many of my friends who were actually there insist the mayhem was overplayed. They, themselves, barely saw any of it. There were 25,000 protesters on the big day and roughly 100 - 200 people using Black Bloc techniques (and among them, according to some people in the crowd, only about 20 were "super aggressive").
"We were a peaceful crowd." I believe this, for the most part, but I also think some people have a weird idea of what 'peace' is. I've seen a lot of videos of people taunting the police (even before the Black Bloc crap), saying things to them like:
"Are you normally an asshole, or are you just paid to be one?" "Did you know that you're a banker's dog?" "Go fuck yourself, pig!" "Oh, sure, you're so tough with all your riot gear on, but I don't think you'd be so tough if I met you in an alley!" "Can't you think for yourself, you fucking robot? You're a fucking paid goon!" "I'm paying your salary, so how about you get out of my way?"
If we ever talked to someone like that in a bar, we could probably expect to be punched in the face.
I later saw someone being interviewed by the media after he was let out of the detention centre. While rolling his eyes he explained that he was being charged with carrying concealed weapons. Dripping with sarcasm, he says (and I'm paraphrasing) "Yeah, these are the weapons I had on me. They're baggies with flour and paint. I figured that if the police used teargas on me, I could throw these at them to retaliate. A little paint on their uniforms! So what? It'll wash off in the rain."
I watch that and I think this guy should thank his lucky stars to be arrested. Imagine his plan had actually come to fruition: Do you think the police are going to stand there as some strange objects are being hurled at them? You think they're going to - in the midst of a screaming crowd and teargas - stop, investigate what's on them, maybe go to the lab to see what it is - and then decide how to respond? For all they know, you've just tossed chemicals at them. Their response would be to take you down - HARD. And I wouldn't blame them. You might as well be pointing a toy gun at them while you're at it, moron.
"You should have all stayed home. You were asking for trouble by being there." Sorry, but I think this is bull. I do think people shouldn't act dumb about why they're out (if they're not true protesters) and should acknowledge that if they're walking into an area that's filled with cops that you have to take certain responsibilities for your actions, but it's a living-breathing city. As I illustrated from an account of my days, protesters and police seemed to come out of nowhere in areas outside the security zone. No one should have to act like the city is being held hostage just because some idiots broke some windows. Some of the people who got tackled and hauled off to the detention centre included TTC employees with full uniform (who were on the job), waiters getting off work, restaurant patrons, journalists doing their job, shop owners looking to protect their stores from vandals ... and so on. Their arrests seem like total, crazy overkill and an overreaction to the previous day's craziness.
Additionally, I think protesters had every right to protest. No one won the right to vote, the right to choose, the right for equality, etc. by staying home and shutting up. The majority of people cooperated with the set protest "rules" with police and yet were still stripped of their rights to protest and assemble, seemingly without warning. Utter and total crap.
"If you don't listen to the police to leave, you deserve what you get." I'm all for complying with the police - but according to many people in the locations, they were never given the warning to leave. I've watched many G20 protest videos, and I haven't heard ones were the police were on their big megaphones giving clear instruction. They need to do this in order to get people to comply. They need to explain in a clear and consistent way why a legal protest is getting disrupted by the police.
Furthermore, in the videos where you do hear individual officers telling people to leave or go home, there's no way for people to do that. They're being boxed in at every direction with no way out. People who are politely (at first, more angrily later) asking for a way out aren't given that option or information. You can see some of that (and get a sense of a) some shit talk police have to listen to and b) how scary it must have been to be boxed in like that) in this video.
"This is all a set-up by the police." When I was watching TV and the image of the little snot punks breaking windows and burning cop cars filled my screen, I was just waiting - with a touch of blood lust, I'll admit - to see an image of the cops swooping in on them, batons swinging. And then it didn't happen. With all that I saw (hundreds, thousands of officers) and all the spending and planning that I knew went into the weekend, it was confusing to see a lack of police action and presence when things were running amok.
People then started to theorize that police "allowed" the thuggery to occur and / or that the police in fact helped to instigate these crimes via "agents provocateur"so that they'd be given a carte blanche to crack down on the city and hippie citizens hard later and / or so that people would stop bitching about the $1.3 Billion event price tag.
Unless someone has information otherwise, I'm not under the impression that the police officers are getting paid based on who or how many people they detain and arrest. I don't think there's any "bonus pay" out there for the police force on this. I have a certain amount of faith (maybe ill-placed, but I guess that's my own failings, in that case), that the police chief and command officers don't have secret deals with the Prime Minister to make him look good. From some of the reporting done, there was confusion on the ground, everyone was speaking over each other on the radio and these criminals took advantage of that.
If facts arise that say otherwise, I'll be the first person to change her opinion. And the only silver lining if that IS the case? It tells these little Black Bloc "anarchists" that they're just predictable pawns used by the authorities they claim to be against. Chumps!
"I was tortured by the police." / "The cops are neo-Nazi fascists." I don't doubt that some people were treated poorly, even possibly illegally, by certain officers - and that needs to be dealt with in the firmest manner possible. That said, I don't deal well with people who swing around heavy, heavy words and apply them willy-nilly. Tortured? We live in a world where people are trying to deny that water-boarding is torture. I don't think sitting in a cold, cramped cell (while totally shitty) quite compares. And Nazis? I hate that one. Nazis murdered millions of people. You reduce the severity and the horror and atrocities that were actually committed by Nazis by thinking every person who offends should also be labeled as such.
"The place was a war zone." / "The city was infiltrated by terrorists." The same goes for above. Let's not get all dramatic with our language. It wasn't a war zone. It was downtown Toronto and it featured a small riot. And last I checked, terrorists murder as many people as possible in the name of a cause or a group. People who stand for nothing and break windows are just little pathetic pukejobs. Big difference.
"The people complaining are just pussies. We're pampered here. In other countries, they'd be murdered for their protest actions." Personally, while I feel lucky to live in this country, I don't think we have "pampered" rights. I think our rights set the bar for others. Our rights are BASIC. Rather than view ourselves as privileged, we should view those who don't have similar rights as exceptionally unfortunate - not as more "hardy" than us when it comes to civil liberties. I think we should never be complacent about what we have, and that these rights (to assemble, to free speech, to a free media, to only be arrested with charge, to an attorney, to have our laws spelled out for us, etc.) should be protected and fought for.
I also think that the experience many people had in the detention centres were far from pleasant and something most people would complain about if it happened to them. I found this person's account of his evening and arrest to be quite enlightening (although, to be clear, I don't know him. Take it with a grain of salt if you must. It's really just his word at this point.).
"Let these people go!" All of them? Because, quite frankly, I don't think the criminals should be let out - and let's make no mistake - the police caught people who were seriously breaking the law and / or had intent to.
"The police were within the law to do what they did." I think this is up to lawyers to decide - and only once they have all the information (which they don't) - can they do that. However, our confusion as to what is legal illustrates how blurry the difference is between our laws and rights (the Charter of Rights and the Criminal Code have a few things that seem to disagree with each other) and how uninformed we are about the law in general. It sounds as though, in general, much of the police action was performed legally (even if it was a bit of a stretch of the code) but that there likely were instances where peoples' rights were not adhered to. Regardless of what us armchair lawyers say, it's absolutely necessary that complaints are dealt with seriously ... and perhaps another look at the law is needed to spell things out more clearly and firmly.
"There should be a public inquiry." Let's do it. And not simply so that we can hang the police out to dry, but also so that they can finally release information on the other side of the story - the legitimate threats, their own videos of what happened on the line, and footage from within the detention centre. Everyone has been free to upload their videos, tell their stories, forward articles around - the police have not. They have one spokesperson who is standing by the decisions but has committed to look into any allegations. Like anyone else, I want bad cops exposed. But I also want good cops and police work applauded. If an inquiry can do both, I'm all for it.
"Police Chief Bill Blair needs to resign." I'd rather get a full picture of the facts before demanding his head. While I know he's ultimately accountable for his police force, I must admit that I feel sort of bad for the guy. He didn't ask for the G20 to land on his front step. He had to deal with a huge job, using police officers he didn't know, and a situation that was changing every minute. The people booing at him outside The 519 sort of broke my heart, as I also remember all the strides he's made between the police and the gay community over the years (that, and I just hate when people boo each other. It's just a thing for me).
"This is all Harper's fault." Yes, it is. Remember that when it's election time.
My name is Jen and I look like that picture at all times. I enjoy appetizers as entrees, fountains choreographed to music and television shows intended for teenage girls. Oh - and I really dislike it when people spell it "Jenn"; it's practically a phobia.
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Need words? I'm a Toronto-based freelance writer who injects great ones into blogs, websites, magazines, ads and more. So many services, one lovely Jen (with one 'n').
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