Sunday 31 May 2020

COVID Chronicles Part 5: Wash your hands, don’t be a Racist, and other lost common sense

Well, it’s been a tough week in North America. No - I’m not talking about the benefit concert that a number of African musicians put on to raise funds to help the UK and the US fight COVID (yes, that actually happened!). I’m talking about the recurring and ever-present existence of police brutality and  systemic racism more generally that we can’t seem to get away from.

I’m been following the news stories and posts on social media related to the incidents that took place early last week in the US, and I have been struggling to use my words to express how I’m feeling about it all. How does one articulate the outrage and heartache of a problem so imbedded in our everyday way of life that it is barely reported. How is it so normalized that when the guilty parties are actually held to account for their actions it is almost more shocking than the act that led them to that position in the first place? How have we still not figured out how to all get along and appreciate our differences, respectfully - whether it’s skin pigmentation, sexual preference, religion, geographical origin, culture, etc.?

The two incidents that happened last week in the US have left me dumbfounded. First - how could anyone feel threatened by a birder? This is the least threatening activity ever, aside from maybe napping. But also, how is speaking in a calm and respectful manner justification to call the cops? Second, how did that cop not know the impact the placement of his knee on that man’s neck would have? It’s all so illogical, that infuriating isn’t even the correct word. How are we still here? How is this still our world?

As a white person born and raised in Canada, my privilege has provided with me with a pretty safe existence. Have I experienced hardships? Absolutely. Being a female anywhere in the world comes with countless challenges. Growing up food insecure, also not the greatest situation. But in both of those scenarios, I still have (or had in the case of my experience living with poverty) it easier than an entire proportion of the population. Why? Because we don’t live in an equal society. And quite frankly - it’s bullshit.

As a white person who lived in Africa, there was always a weird juxtaposition at play. On the one hand, I was a minority for the first time in my life. On the other hand, the idolization of what it means to be white is so ingrained into society - globally - that we cannot escape our privilege. People would literally bend over backwards to help me, if I were to ask them to. I’ve also, unfortunately, been witness to countless incidents when the “expertise” of an ill-informed or less experienced white person (sometimes me) was considered higher-value, than that of the local, far more knowledgable expert. It drove me nuts, and ultimately, was a large part of why I inevitably left Africa and returned to Canada.

But we as Westerners also don’t shy away from the unequal playing field in these circumstances. This is noticeably observed in the disparity between living conditions and pay from local employees holding the same posting as an “expat.” I have never held a position that payed a considerably higher wage than my colleagues (in fact, in several cases, I didn’t get paid at all!). And even this is telling of my privilege - that I could afford not to be paid. But I am digressing...

One of the things I find difficult, is in the process of storytelling. By nature, I love to write and to share my experiences and tell the story. But as I developed this part of me, I was also struck with the sense that it was not my place to tell many of the stories I wanted to expose or share. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel they were worthy of being told, it’s that when I look back at so much of history, the stories of hardship, the realities of minorities have all too often been disseminated by white people, in a white voice. And who am I, the most translucent of the Caucasians, to write about or study and attempt to document - accurately - these voices, when these very voices are the ones that should be heard? Why aren’t they being heard without the involvement of someone else’s voice?

This has led me to an internal debate that has yet to find a conclusion - is it more important to have the message heard or have the it delivered by the voice of the message? I could argue both sides. I have, in fact.  But this still doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t get to the root of the issue at hand, or does it?

When I put on my climate change hat, I have - and continue to - experience a rollercoaster of emotions since mid-March when lockdown became the norm. I've felt hopeful that change would happen, given the number of people who have prioritized being outdoors in meaningful ways. I've felt angry that people couldn’t make the link between climate change and COVID. I've felt overwhelmed by fear that I wouldn’t get to hug my loved ones again. And, more than I want to admit, I’ve felt apathy about the world around me. Yet, all of this, every emotion I’ve experienced over the last few months can be applied to the systemic racism that is sadly inherent in our society, but on a much larger scale.

Even when looking at the history of the environmental movement, we (rightfully so) give credit to Rachel Carson for kick starting things. Her work has changed how we look at chemical use in food production and beyond. She has helped to pave the way for meaningful action towards a healthier environment for all living species (not just us humans!) and sparked the creation of Earth Day (which just celebrated its 50th year!). But alongside the outrage that stemmed from her book Silent Spring (1962), was the onset of the Civil Rights Movement. If you think these two incidents are separate, you are terribly mistaken. Environmental justice (which is not focused on justice for the environment, but rather justice for those impacted by the destruction of the environment cause by others) as we know it today, was born at this same point in time. And it’s as much of an issue of systemic racism, as it is about saving the environment. Actually, it’s probably more relevant to the discussion of systemic racism than it is about the environment.

There is, right now, so much opportunity to change. We can change the way our economy operates. We can change the way we work, travel and play. We can change our education system. We can change the way our healthcare is delivered. We can change almost anything, because at no other point in time in recent history have we needed to rebuild our society almost from scratch to the extent we are seeing right now. And we’ve proven that we can play nice and work together to fight unprecedented things.

Look at the way countries are helping each other to understand this virus and to access testing, supplies, and other forms of aid. Look at the way we are mourning the loss of humans all over the world - not just the ones we know. Look at the increased outrage at how flawed health services are delivered. Look at the growing frustration of parents trying to work, parent and educate full time. Look at how we are seeing neighbours help their neighbours - many of whom had never spoken before. There is a growing momentum to break the status quo. There is also a growing urgency to do it now. And yet, I can’t help but feel, that at the end of the day, the fear of losing a privilege we have done nothing to earn is of higher importance, than the fear of changing nothing at all.

And that is why I continue to struggle to see hope for our future. This is why we have long been doomed as a species. Our priorities are wrong. Maybe they always have been. But I beg you to ask yourself - if not now then, when? When will it be any more convenient than right now to change the way we’ve been doing things? We can no longer be silent. We can no longer accept inaction. If not now... when?

Monday 25 May 2020

COVID Chronicles Part 4: Reflections on a month-long, socially-strong observance, without the social

Yesterday marked the conclusion of Ramadan 2020.

I was so excited when I realized that this year, Eid al-Fitr fell on a Sunday, because after living in my house for 2 years, I was FINALLY going to have a party! But... you can guess how that turned out.

For those of you who aren’t in “the know” about Ramadan, it’s a month of fasting during the final month of the Muslim calendar. From sunrise to sunset, you are not permitted to eat or drink. And when the magical time finally arrives to break your fast for the day, it is usually met with a social event with friends, family and/or neighbours. But this year, things were much, MUCH different.

To back up a bit, a) I’m not a Muslim (I mean... have you SEEN how much I love bacon?) and b) this was not my first time observing Ramadan. My decision to participate, initially, was a mix of curiosity and having previously lived in Muslim communities while in Uganda. My first experience was so impactful, I’ve continued to join my Muslim friends and chosen family all over the world for this month-long journey.

But back to this year...

It never once occurred to me not to participate during a period of isolation. In fact, I was looking forward to the added element of increased routine and structure that was becoming increasingly difficult after weeks of being home-stayed. I knew I would have to cancel that party, but didn’t see any other reason why this year would be different from previous ones, aside from not being able to see people face-to-face.

Well, let me tell you - there wasn’t much that was similar about previous years, that’s for sure. I underestimated the power of social interaction during a month of fasting. Leading up to the start of Ramadan, I was working out with a few friends and family every morning. I also underestimated how much those few minutes of catch up before and after the workout were the much needed boost my mental health needed while being isolated. Sure - I’ve been having daily Zoom calls (sometimes more than one!), so I can see people, but it’s not the same. It get’s old and lonely pretty quickly to break your fast late at night all by yourself.

My willpower was also not as strong this year. I wanted to call it quits more times than I care to admit - but most especially in the final few days. It felt long. I experienced a new level of tired and emotional exhaustion, which, ironically, is not unlike what going without ones basic needs can also feel like. By the mid-way point, I vowed never to do this again.

But then something happened - we were permitted to see one other household! This meant I could see my brother and Beth. And although it meant they weren’t getting up with me at 3AM to workout, it did mean I could be with them on the weekends, including this past one, which fell in line with the end of Ramadan and Eid al-Fitr!

I was thrilled when they told me they would stay up past all of our bedtimes to break the final fast this past Saturday. We made a beautiful steak dinner - BBQed directly on the coals of the charcoal. We shared a few laughs and enjoyed every morsel of our dinner. It was the perfect conclusion to a month of increased isolation and decreased mental health.


Now imagine how much more excited I was when they both agreed to get up the next morning (yesterday) at an ungodly hour of the day to drive to a beach to watch the sunrise!

I had about 45 minutes to myself before they arrived, and I spent that time reflecting on the past month and all the struggles, growth and things that had been occupying my thoughts.

The sunrise was spectacular. It filled my heart with so much comfort and calm. A sense of hope I’d been struggling with off and on returned, and I was overwhelmed with gratitude from yet another year of Ramadan.


In previous years, I had recorded a list of things I was grateful for at each of the prayer times. This year, I made a list of things I wanted to do, achieve or work towards after COVID confinement passes or is at least reduced a bit more. That’s 150 things that I consciously thought about over the course of the month - though, in truth, there were many more ideas, I just didn’t want to write them down outside of being in the moment! And, let me tell you, there was no shortage of things to put on that list, but it’s a start nonetheless.

Just like in previous years, I gained a better understanding of who I am and who I am not. I grew a bit more. I became increasingly grateful for the things and folks in my life. I contemplated worst case scenarios and either decided they weren’t worth it, or have since chosen to be bold and proceed!

A lot has changed since Ramadan 2019. I have changed since Ramadan 2019. I am stronger, braver and in someways a little more understanding. But I think I’ve also become a little more guarded, grumpy and concerned about the insignificant impact I am likely to have in/on the world. I am surrounded, quite possibly, by some of the most incredible people - who challenge me to be better every single day; who listen when I need to vacate the anxiety, insecurity or anger that exists from time-to-time. I am surrounded by a beautiful landscape of ocean and agriculture (two of my favourite things!). I am healthy. I have a roof over my head, and can afford beyond simply meeting my basic needs. Despite how dark some days can seem, I am getting better at recognizing that they will pass. Even the days that are dreadfully long and uninspiring. And I am, once again, reminded that I am no closer to perfection than I was in years before.

How fortunate does all that that make me?

-the Orange Canadian

Tuesday 19 May 2020

COVID Chronicles Part 3: Breaking points, bubbles and the grieving process

It’s been a little over a month since my last post and update. It has mostly remained the same, aside from a few tragic events. But, for me, personally, the day in and out has remained relatively the same - get up, workout, eat, take Gertie for a walk, work, eat, go to bed. It’s a pretty mundane existence, if I may say so myself - but a safe and healthy one!

But things changed last Wednesday. I woke up to snow falling violently to the ground. Sure, it was beautiful, but it was the middle of May - not cool! This led to a bit of a mental breaking point for me. In a single moment, I didn’t know if we’d gone back in time or forward. Had I just dreamt the last 9 weeks, or was it actually December, and my concept of time has been dramatically lost?

Thankfully (sort of) neither of those scenarios were true. No time travel had occurred, but it didn’t ease the frustration of having to deal with snow this late into the year. And in confronting that, a lot of despair, uncontrollable tears, and even some time in the fetal position questioning all of my life choices had taken place.

Soon into the afternoon, the sun was bright and shining, the snow had melted, and life had mostly restored to this newfound routine.

I know many have been struggling in this process of isolation. I have been too. But overall, I’ve been okay with my circumstances, because I’m mostly happy to be on my own. It does get lonely, though, particularly when people around me complain about looking forward to seeing other people, when I, a single human living solo, sees NO ONE.

Last Wednesday was probably the most hopeless I have felt in the 9 weeks of isolation, so far. The recent tragedies that took place in and/or related to my province were sad, but I am able to distance myself from them for a number of reasons. But snow in May, fears of “the return to normal” and feeling like I would never see anyone again all hit me like one massive emotional brick. I know that things will ease up, and I will be around groups of loved ones again. I also know how hard it can be to remain rational when you’re alone with your thoughts 24/7.

But then Friday happened, and our illustrious Premier and Chief Medical Officer announced an easement in the Provincial restrictions - the introduction of Bubbles. These bubbles are a co-mingling of two households, with a specific directive that it be immediate family. I don’t know who dictates what “immediate family consists of” but I seriously considered choosing one of my chosen family pods!

To my surprise, my brother was on board to bubble with me, and, on Saturday evening I got to hug him for the first time in 60 days. It felt so good to interact with someone other than myself and to get a few hugs in. We went for a beautiful nature walk and then had a much needed BBQ (his partner also gave me a haircut!).

Beautiful views on a lovely summer-like evening hike in Wolfville, Nova Scotia!
It was amazing how normal that visit felt. It was like no time had passed and that I hadn’t been sequestered to my house for 2 months. I returned home feeling light in heart and mind (not so much body - I stuffed a lot of food in my mouth!).

But that brings me to tomorrow - the 7-year Death Day. Usually I take the day off, but this year, I was too late requesting the time and a few work obligations were scheduled. If it had been any other year, I would have been upset by this change in routine. This year, however, everyday is the same, so who knows if tomorrow actually is May 20th!


I imagine it will still be a difficult day. I imagine I will continue to have moments of tears following the recount of memories with that beautiful soul.

Nothing is the same anymore - and truly, I’m not sure it should be. I don’t mean this from the perspective of how I handle my loss, but in the grand scheme of things. We live in a mighty dysfunctional world. It doesn’t work. There appear to be pockets of hope, when reading and seeing families taking time to slow down and connect again. When I see that items like flour and yeast are unavailable - because people are starting to cook for themselves again! When people are more excited to get back to their favourite park, than they are to peruse a shop in the mall. There is hope that we can make a positive way forward, instead of going backwards, when the pandemic has passed. There is hope. There has to be. Otherwise, what are we isolating for?

- the Orange Canadian