As I scrolled through my social media feeds on Tuesday, I was immediately filled with a sense of hopefulness at the continuous streams of black squares that flooded my screen. The only posts that seemed to defer from this trend were those continuing the education process, and the plethora of advertisements from companies that seem to think I’m interested in their products, but are actually fairly irrelevant to me. To see so many people taking a pause from their daily postings to focus the energy, globally, on a long-overdue conversation, well that’s something I never expected to see; especially while coinciding with the pandemic.
But recently two places have become frequent overthinking hotspots for my brain - my morning run and the shower. While partaking in both of these activities my mind is in overdrive and I find myself becoming increasingly angry about the things happening in the world today. And on Tuesday, despite the above return of hope, it just as quickly washed away.
I have been struggling with the myriad of social media postings over the last week or so. On the one hand, happy to see a conversation starting; on the other, questioning the intent behind each one. Is it because it’s trendy and could lead to increased likes (after all, this is what matters most in our virtual society!), or is it because there is a real drive to see change? Even my own posts, I’m questioning whether or not I should be posting or if my voice is really needed for this conversation.
So as I scrolled through those feeds filled with black square after black square, I took note of who was following along. And this led to my shower-time breakdown.
I don’t believe the people in my circle that are showing support for this movement are doing so as a form of personal or professional gain. I think there is a genuine care and concern for a better way forward. But there is a certain degree of hypocrisy within it all.
If I may shift to my African experiences for a moment, some of this frustration might become a little more evident. For, you see, every time I return from my latest adventure abroad - whether it’s a quick visit home from the continent or from travels related to work and play - I am greeted with questions and comments that are completely coloured in stereotypes and just plain ignorance. How do you get around? How do they communicate? What do you eat? Sure, these may seem like innocent conversation starters, but when they are met with shock when I respond with on roads with cars; cell phones; or witness disbelief that there are tomatoes in Africa, it hurts and it’s tiring. Or when I so-freely invite people to join me on a future trip, only to be told I don’t want to be surrounded by poverty on my vacation, it makes me realize just how much we are influenced by media on what the realities of life outside our Westernized, privileged bubble look like. I am all for helping the education process, and I understand not everyone has been as fortunate as I am to have travelled to many of the countries I am grateful to have lived or visited. But there comes a point when this just isn’t okay.
I realize that last part will sound like I am passive-aggressively calling some of you out for past conversations, but we have had those discussions face-to-faces and my frustration is not something I have hidden from you. I realize also that some of you are family or those I consider my closest friends. But I’m struggling to reconcile how you can indicate the injustices against Black people in the West are unfair, yet so quickly dismiss the injustices and stereotypes of those from the African continent.
We have grown up believing the messaging from a multi-billion dollar industry of poverty that shows us images of poor, starving Africans that are too malnourished and lacking in energy to swat away the flies that are resting on their faces*, in exchange for high-cost administrative fees that pay for Western jobs more so than helping to achieve the very outcome they are alleging to address. Messages that only perpetuate the reality of a continent held back by Western actions, rather than celebrating its innovation, beauty, and capacity.
I have struggled with living in Canada ever since I first returned from the continent I love so much. I struggle to reconcile these two realities. I struggle to understand how things can be applied to one but not the other. I struggle with the unwillingness to learn and grow from those who have real-lived experiences to share, to reshape how we see other parts of the world that may be different from our own. I struggle with having to question which stories and experiences to share, for fear that despite the hundreds of beautiful, inspiring and positive moments I proudly tell, it’s the infrequent moments of negative experiences that are the only thing people choose to remember. I struggle with showing proof that regardless of our origins, culture, differences, etc., that fundamentally, we are all the same and there is no reason to fear, judge or assume.
I struggle with hope. I struggle with seeing a positive future. I struggle to see the point of trying to make a difference if it is always going to be lost in the misinformation of our world.
I struggle with hope and I am tired.
And yet, my lived reality is one of privilege. I do not live in constant fear that my actions will lead to my demise. I do not live in fear that a misunderstood facial expression, my clothing choices, or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time could lead to a jail sentence or worse. I do not understand how fear can be the basis of how we treat another human being, just as I do not understand what it is like to live a life other than my own.
I think it’s wonderful - truly - to see so many people outraged by recent world events. I think it’s wonderful to see an uprising all over the world to make changes that are generations too late. And I’m proud of those of you who are listening, learning, supporting, etc. But my hope, my ask, is that you apply this same outrage, concern, and desire to see kindness, justice and understanding to the many others who share a similar trait. Pigment.
- the Orange Canadian
*In no way am I attempting to assert that poverty does not exist in Africa. I am, however, trying to highlight that there is more to the continent than what media portrays it to be.
Thursday, 4 June 2020
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?
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
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!).
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
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! |
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
Saturday, 11 April 2020
COVID Chronicles Part 2: A holiday in quarantine
Easter weekend has arrived, and with it a 4-day weekend, a month in isolation, and far too much time to rehash the past.
None of those three things is productive for me.
This weekend represents the beginning of an extremely trying time for me. The idea of being isolated is adding additional fuel to the memory fire. No, I’m not talking about a religious association - I’m talking about grief and loss.
Seven years ago my mom and brother came to Wolfville to pick me up from university for the holiday weekend. My roommate at the time was also joining us. I had just finished a hectic few weeks of school, work, and extracurriculars and was emotionally spent.
It turned out that when they arrived to come get us, my mom dropped a bombshell on me. My gramma was not well, and my mom had known for sometime. There is an entire history here of my mom being hurt by her own family for keeping her out of the know when there were similar struggles. To this day, I still feel a bit confused as to why she did the same thing to me. Though I know her rationale was that she didn’t want me to be upset with all the other things going on, I was so exhausted that it was worse finding out in that moment than it would have been had I known from the get go.
This led to a very inappropriate 28-year-old tantrum. I’ve written about the above situation a number of times in this blog, but most descriptively a few years ago.
This was my last Easter with my gramma AND my mom.
Given all that is going on in the world today, I fully recognize the need to be at home. I understand the importance of not seeing friends or family at this time (in general, not just during a holiday weekend). But, it also places me in a difficult position - needing to keep busy but not being able to.
This weekend would have been a time I would take to the woods for a good hike or spend some quality time with the people I love. And it’s true, this isn’t my first Easter on my own, but it is under the circumstances for which I find myself - doing so not by choice.
It’s no secret that I struggle with the family component of my life. There are a lot of memories that have created an unnecessary, yet real tension. These memories pop up regardless of the global circumstances.
I think what makes this particular weekend more difficult, is that I’m already starting to sink into the vortex of memories past, in general. The time at home has given me more time to overthink and question/relive things from the past. It’s a horrible cycle that is not easy to get away from when you cannot change the things around you. I try my best to stay positive, but I’ve got to be honest, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to do so.
The guilt, regret, anger, grief and heartache from that weekend seven years ago are just as present today as they were following the loss of both of those amazing women.
Sadly, the truth of it all, is that I probably would have opted to stay home and avoid people even if it weren’t legally mandated. But I think this is what makes it so difficult this year. I don’t have any other option than to be at home, alone with my thoughts. And that is never a good place to be...
Weirdly, I had a dream last night that I was looking for my mom. When I woke up, I forgot for a few minutes that she was gone. It was a strange moment, as was the realization of what happened. Grieving never really goes away. And these times are only augmenting that heartache.
So, if you are reading this, and going through that, as well - I want you to know you are not alone. I want you to know I’m sorry you’re having to deal with all of this on top of your regular struggles. And I want you to know that you are stronger than you realize, no matter how hard the days may seem.
-the Orange Canadian
None of those three things is productive for me.
This weekend represents the beginning of an extremely trying time for me. The idea of being isolated is adding additional fuel to the memory fire. No, I’m not talking about a religious association - I’m talking about grief and loss.
Seven years ago my mom and brother came to Wolfville to pick me up from university for the holiday weekend. My roommate at the time was also joining us. I had just finished a hectic few weeks of school, work, and extracurriculars and was emotionally spent.
It turned out that when they arrived to come get us, my mom dropped a bombshell on me. My gramma was not well, and my mom had known for sometime. There is an entire history here of my mom being hurt by her own family for keeping her out of the know when there were similar struggles. To this day, I still feel a bit confused as to why she did the same thing to me. Though I know her rationale was that she didn’t want me to be upset with all the other things going on, I was so exhausted that it was worse finding out in that moment than it would have been had I known from the get go.
This led to a very inappropriate 28-year-old tantrum. I’ve written about the above situation a number of times in this blog, but most descriptively a few years ago.
This was my last Easter with my gramma AND my mom.
Given all that is going on in the world today, I fully recognize the need to be at home. I understand the importance of not seeing friends or family at this time (in general, not just during a holiday weekend). But, it also places me in a difficult position - needing to keep busy but not being able to.
This weekend would have been a time I would take to the woods for a good hike or spend some quality time with the people I love. And it’s true, this isn’t my first Easter on my own, but it is under the circumstances for which I find myself - doing so not by choice.
It’s no secret that I struggle with the family component of my life. There are a lot of memories that have created an unnecessary, yet real tension. These memories pop up regardless of the global circumstances.
I think what makes this particular weekend more difficult, is that I’m already starting to sink into the vortex of memories past, in general. The time at home has given me more time to overthink and question/relive things from the past. It’s a horrible cycle that is not easy to get away from when you cannot change the things around you. I try my best to stay positive, but I’ve got to be honest, it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to do so.
The guilt, regret, anger, grief and heartache from that weekend seven years ago are just as present today as they were following the loss of both of those amazing women.
Sadly, the truth of it all, is that I probably would have opted to stay home and avoid people even if it weren’t legally mandated. But I think this is what makes it so difficult this year. I don’t have any other option than to be at home, alone with my thoughts. And that is never a good place to be...
Weirdly, I had a dream last night that I was looking for my mom. When I woke up, I forgot for a few minutes that she was gone. It was a strange moment, as was the realization of what happened. Grieving never really goes away. And these times are only augmenting that heartache.
So, if you are reading this, and going through that, as well - I want you to know you are not alone. I want you to know I’m sorry you’re having to deal with all of this on top of your regular struggles. And I want you to know that you are stronger than you realize, no matter how hard the days may seem.
-the Orange Canadian
Tuesday, 31 March 2020
COVID Chronicles Part 1: Two weeks in
Today marks Day 14.
Two weeks ago, I spent the morning at my brother's working and doing some laundry (my dryer died months ago and I haven't bothered to replace it!). We listened to Council and ate pirogies drenched in sesame oil. And when my laundry had dried, we hugged each other and went our separate ways.
In the last two weeks I’ve encountered two other people in real life. Interestingly, all three of these events took place on Tuesdays.
Last week, we had a heavy, wet snowstorm that dropped 7 more centimetres than forecasted (for a total of 10). My neighbour kindly came over with her snowblower and made a big enough dent that I could get out, if I wanted or needed to. I didn’t.
Today, my friend dropped off a refill for Gertie. She knocked on the door and left the package on my doorstep. But I opened the door in time to have a quick chat from about 2 safe distances apart (about 10 feet, probably).
Aside from those two encounters, I’ve had plenty of chats online and over the phone with colleagues, friends and family. I workout every morning with my brother and his partner, and my friend and her partner. We do so, again, using an online video call platform. I’ve left my house once (this past Sunday for a quick drive), but didn’t see anyone. I see people walking by my house everyday, and an uncomfortable amount of cars on the road while I walk Gertie at ungodly hours of the morning and night.
If you’ve followed my journey over the past number of years, you will know I have struggled with depression and anxiety. Over the last year or so, I’ve been good, though. I’ve established a good routine that involves healthy eating, fitness, a great job and plenty of rewarding volunteer activities. But when I was told I would now be working from home and not to come into the office, my immediate thought was oh, this is not going to be good.
Week 1 went by pretty quickly. It was easy to stay home, because I had plenty of snacks and stuck to my routine, aside from physically going to work. Instead, I switch my PJ bottoms, drank an extra cup of coffee and tried my hardest to focus. But I will be honest, most of that week was a blur. I know I accomplished quite a bit, work-wise, yet I don’t really recall much.
Week 2 started with a clean outlook. The sun was shining on Monday morning, and I was ready to plow through the workload I planned to accomplish. I had a number of conference calls and webinars scheduled throughout the week, as well. In other words, I was busy. The snacks were running out, though, and my fitness schedule more than doubled what I would regularly do. Somehow, I lost 5lbs, despite eating 20 of the 32 donuts I made during the week!
Both weekends I’ve found hard. It’s where I notice the heaviness of the current situation more than other times. It’s when my brain goes into overdrive and risk of entering a very dark place is high. I try to keep busy and stay focused. I’ve actually been keeping up my work schedule, as much as possible, so that the routine remains in place. But it’s still a challenge. It’s hard being on my own...
And then Week 3 rolled around. I woke up Monday morning and my brain was in a fog. My body ached. I felt sad. I felt overwhelmed and helpless. My training has been in an action-based, helping-hand capacity, not to sit at home and hope for the best. I still rolled out of bed and worked out. I still did all the things I normally would, but I was definitely not present.
Tuesday (today) it was more of the same. Though my body hurt much less and I slept through the night, my brain was absent. I could barely focus on the exercise and standing up at the same time. It’s a weird thing to describe. I had a good work day and was productive, but I just felt off for most of it.
And then I heard the welcomed sound of a knock on the door. It was my friend making the drop. And to see her, and the reaction that followed caught me completely off guard. I was so overcome with emotion and overwhelmed by how long it had been already (and how grim the outlook for this period ending was), when she left, I burst into tears. I sobbed, uncontrollably, for a good 30 minutes. And it was an ugly, hyperventilating sob. Like high school girl just got dumped, teen movie cry.
I’ve felt like I’ve been holding things together pretty well. I’m fortunate that all my friends and family scattered all over the world are so far unaffected by this virus. Well, at least in terms of health. But I am constantly reminded of how privileged I am. Not just because I’m healthy, but because I (so far) remain employed. I can afford to stay home, because I can afford groceries that will sustain me longer than I would typically shop. I have clean water. I have heat and electricity and internet. I’m still connected to the world around me, but there’s an odd sense of being disconnected. I cannot explain it.
Yet despite all of this, I am not filled with anxiety related to the virus, itself. I still see it in practical, scientific terms from my perspective of climate change. I continue to remain accepting of the fact that I will likely loose people I love in the coming months. And while, yes, it will be sad to experience that loss of life, when looking at the greater good, I’m not swayed on my belief that we need to lessen the number of people on this planet. I am focused on this fact, which helps me to stay calm and rational. The numbers do not scare me. They do not incite fear or panic. They just make wonder, how much longer am I going to be stuck here?
Two weeks ago, I spent the morning at my brother's working and doing some laundry (my dryer died months ago and I haven't bothered to replace it!). We listened to Council and ate pirogies drenched in sesame oil. And when my laundry had dried, we hugged each other and went our separate ways.
In the last two weeks I’ve encountered two other people in real life. Interestingly, all three of these events took place on Tuesdays.
Last week, we had a heavy, wet snowstorm that dropped 7 more centimetres than forecasted (for a total of 10). My neighbour kindly came over with her snowblower and made a big enough dent that I could get out, if I wanted or needed to. I didn’t.
Today, my friend dropped off a refill for Gertie. She knocked on the door and left the package on my doorstep. But I opened the door in time to have a quick chat from about 2 safe distances apart (about 10 feet, probably).
Aside from those two encounters, I’ve had plenty of chats online and over the phone with colleagues, friends and family. I workout every morning with my brother and his partner, and my friend and her partner. We do so, again, using an online video call platform. I’ve left my house once (this past Sunday for a quick drive), but didn’t see anyone. I see people walking by my house everyday, and an uncomfortable amount of cars on the road while I walk Gertie at ungodly hours of the morning and night.
If you’ve followed my journey over the past number of years, you will know I have struggled with depression and anxiety. Over the last year or so, I’ve been good, though. I’ve established a good routine that involves healthy eating, fitness, a great job and plenty of rewarding volunteer activities. But when I was told I would now be working from home and not to come into the office, my immediate thought was oh, this is not going to be good.
Week 1 went by pretty quickly. It was easy to stay home, because I had plenty of snacks and stuck to my routine, aside from physically going to work. Instead, I switch my PJ bottoms, drank an extra cup of coffee and tried my hardest to focus. But I will be honest, most of that week was a blur. I know I accomplished quite a bit, work-wise, yet I don’t really recall much.
Week 2 started with a clean outlook. The sun was shining on Monday morning, and I was ready to plow through the workload I planned to accomplish. I had a number of conference calls and webinars scheduled throughout the week, as well. In other words, I was busy. The snacks were running out, though, and my fitness schedule more than doubled what I would regularly do. Somehow, I lost 5lbs, despite eating 20 of the 32 donuts I made during the week!
Both weekends I’ve found hard. It’s where I notice the heaviness of the current situation more than other times. It’s when my brain goes into overdrive and risk of entering a very dark place is high. I try to keep busy and stay focused. I’ve actually been keeping up my work schedule, as much as possible, so that the routine remains in place. But it’s still a challenge. It’s hard being on my own...
And then Week 3 rolled around. I woke up Monday morning and my brain was in a fog. My body ached. I felt sad. I felt overwhelmed and helpless. My training has been in an action-based, helping-hand capacity, not to sit at home and hope for the best. I still rolled out of bed and worked out. I still did all the things I normally would, but I was definitely not present.
Tuesday (today) it was more of the same. Though my body hurt much less and I slept through the night, my brain was absent. I could barely focus on the exercise and standing up at the same time. It’s a weird thing to describe. I had a good work day and was productive, but I just felt off for most of it.
And then I heard the welcomed sound of a knock on the door. It was my friend making the drop. And to see her, and the reaction that followed caught me completely off guard. I was so overcome with emotion and overwhelmed by how long it had been already (and how grim the outlook for this period ending was), when she left, I burst into tears. I sobbed, uncontrollably, for a good 30 minutes. And it was an ugly, hyperventilating sob. Like high school girl just got dumped, teen movie cry.
I’ve felt like I’ve been holding things together pretty well. I’m fortunate that all my friends and family scattered all over the world are so far unaffected by this virus. Well, at least in terms of health. But I am constantly reminded of how privileged I am. Not just because I’m healthy, but because I (so far) remain employed. I can afford to stay home, because I can afford groceries that will sustain me longer than I would typically shop. I have clean water. I have heat and electricity and internet. I’m still connected to the world around me, but there’s an odd sense of being disconnected. I cannot explain it.
Yet despite all of this, I am not filled with anxiety related to the virus, itself. I still see it in practical, scientific terms from my perspective of climate change. I continue to remain accepting of the fact that I will likely loose people I love in the coming months. And while, yes, it will be sad to experience that loss of life, when looking at the greater good, I’m not swayed on my belief that we need to lessen the number of people on this planet. I am focused on this fact, which helps me to stay calm and rational. The numbers do not scare me. They do not incite fear or panic. They just make wonder, how much longer am I going to be stuck here?
Sunday, 15 March 2020
The Triple Threat: Pandemic, climate change and privilege
It’s 4AM. I’m wide awake and overthinking. Again. The world seems somewhat quieter - the hustle and bustle of the weekend is somehow hushed with the events happening around the planet. It feels somber.
On March 11th, the World Health Organization declared a pandemic. Since this occured, I’ve had numerous conversations with an equal number of people. They get heated very quickly, and it’s generally unpleasant. People I once was able to have calm, rational debates with are now giving me the silent treatment, or giving me prescriptions for how I should live my life based on their personal assumption I couldn’t have concluded these things on my own.
It’s exhausting, to say the least - not to mention demeaning.
I’m continually reminded that we are living in “a new world.” But the reality is, this threat has always been present in our modern world of air travel and globalization. Countries have seen health-related events take the lives of thousands in the past, and we will surely see this again in years to come. The struggle I am having internally, however, is in relation to two very present realities of the world we live in - climate change and privilege.
We have known for many years (decades even!) that one of the impacts of climate change is health. Mental health is increasingly becoming a part of the conversation and we, in the field of climate change, are already struggling with how we can help to mitigate this very real outcome of what’s on the horizon. We also talk a lot about other health factors, such as the rise in disease. In fact, the CDC lists a number of vector borne diseases that are augmented by changing climates - one of which is the plague. I believe, what we are seeing today, is only the beginning of globalized health crises as it relates to climate change.
And yet, no one is talking about it. At least not in this context.
When Australia was on fire, the link between that specific reality and climate change was so obvious. No one talked about it. They sent thoughts and prayers and then went about their day.
Over the last week, I’ve become increasingly more frustrated at how quickly people are becoming enraged over the rise of COVID-19 (and by all means, people should be calling on their governments to take action and taking logical precautions themselves!), but not that of an equally present and arguably more devastating threat - climate change. Imagine if the outrage for the latter matched that of the former. Maybe we’d be in a better position. But the reality is, things are bound to get much, much worse in the next several years and by then it will be too late.
I am frequently asked how I stay “so optimistic” working in this field. But in truth, I’m not overly optimistic about our ability to cope with the pending implications of inaction related to the climate crisis before us, and this pandemic is further proof of why.
The current reality was (and still is) a perfect opportunity to showcase how incredible we are as a species. We have the chance to truly work together - globally - on preventing or at least reducing the impacts of something horrific. And, in fairness, I think on a political level, this is happening and I am pleasantly surprised by this course of action. But at the individual level, I am disheartened by what I’m experiencing. Store shelves emptied of basic essentials, black market sales of said essentials at exuberant prices, and threatening and unpleasant messages from peers to family and friends travelling abroad. This is not what I expect of my fellow humans. This is not normal behaviour, nor is it acceptable. And it is the foundation that has put me in an uncomfortable situation when discussing the pandemic with those around me.
And this brings me to the second piece - privilege.
When news of the initial cases of COVID-19 began to break in January, it was barely a news item. People shrugged, made some comment about China, and then carried on with whatever they were doing. In North America, China is pretty far away. As is Australia. So the whole “us vs. them” “here vs. there” psychology is at play. If we can’t see it, it doesn’t exist, right?
The problem with climate change, and now the emergence of this virus, is that the most vulnerable people in both cases, the ones already dealing with the realities of either scenario, are typically not white. They’re also not your neighbour. Yet.
My time in East Africa, in particular, placed me face-to-face with climate change every single day. It wasn’t super obvious at first, but eventually it was the only thing I could see. The shift happened so quickly that it felt like everything changed overnight. Rains were failing, crops were struggling, markets weren’t selling “in season” products, prices were higher, etc. But convincing those at home of this reality in relation to climate change was just as much of a harsh reality. Most would give that pity face and tell me I was doing great work “over there.” Yet the truth of the matter is, I wasn’t. The problem was far bigger than anything I could contribute to. And it is from here that my internal turmoil is founded.
Seeing people buy van loads of toilet paper, hand sanitizer, etc., is mind boggling. It hurts my heart immensely. It hurts in the same way it does when I talk about putting together a 72-hour disaster preparedness kit. The rich - those with an additional privilege - can afford to do this with ease. But this is not the case for everyone, or even most. Our privilege shows now more than ever. And it’s disgusting.
The reality is, this virus is surely to account for many lives lost. And what I’m about to say now, I recognize fully, will be unpopular and is also uncharacteristic of my general view on humanity, but it’s a scientific rationalization that I have been working through over the last few years. A massive loss of life, though troubling, is actually positive in terms of climate change. Less people on the planet means a reduced burden on resources. Allow me to say that again - a reduction in human lives will benefit our ability to lessen the impacts of climate change. But, unfortunately, like we’re seeing now, and like with almost everything in the world, the outcome will be disproportionate. It won’t be an even mix of “us vs. them.” It will be the world’s most vulnerable. The geographically disadvantaged. The sick. The elderly. The poor.
The least affected will be the “us.” Westerners, usually white, have the greatest ability to adapt and cope with whatever we are about to face. They have the financial means to do so, but they also have institutions and specific systems in place to ensure they aren’t immediately impacted. And even if trouble does find them, in many cases, they can buy their way out of it. This isn’t new. It’s been happening for as long as human beings have existed.
So, while you’re stockpiling for the apocalypse, think about how your actions are directly (or even indirectly) affecting others. Be grateful for the systems we have in place, here in Canada, that offer us certain assurances, at least for the immediate future. Be grateful for the water we easily have access to in a split second, that enables us to not only drink, but keep our hands and surroundings clean. Be grateful to have access to food (though this is surely to become challenging in the weeks and months ahead for food banks offering respite for those not as fortunate). Be grateful for the healthcare we are afforded simply by being born in this country.
The time to get angry has arrived. But we need to address this in a logical manner. We need to take a breath, remain calm, and act together to find workable solutions for as many as possible. We have reached a crossroads where we have a choice between community, compassion and making effective change, OR we can continue as usual.
I know which one I choose. Do you?
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