What Colour are You?

It made me uncomfortable to say this, but I say it anyway. I’m too white to be orange. 

Today, May 31^st, is Orange Day, at least in Canada, if you are paying attention. Orange Day was probably suggested by some white person who has no idea of the aboriginal culture in this country, that’s an assumption on my part and I assume it was with the best of intentions. The populous also follow with the best of intentions and in support of the big outrage. But not me, not this girl, not this time. I refuse to be orange today.

What colour were we when the 276 school girls were taken in Nigeria? We were all outraged. Did you know that more than 100 of them are still missing seven years later. I didn’t until I just looked it up. Not our country, not our problem. I can’t do anything about them. I can’t remember if they invoked us to have a colour on our walls or our persons.

What colour were we when the girls’ school was bombed a few weeks ago? We weren’t as outraged. I don’t think that had a colour. It was too small of an atrocity.

Why won’t I wear orange today? Simply because aboriginal people deserve more than orange. They deserve more than a nice totem pole symbol on social media. They deserve to be respected.

So we have to put our colour and our symbolism where our thoughts and best intentions are when we posted it. A mass grave with 215 children. Yes it is outrageous. Yes it is horrible. Yes it is unfathomable. But it didn’t just happen a hundred years ago, or fifty years ago, it is happening today. The same persecution, belligerence, disrespect, and entitlement that put them there still exists. It exists because we let it either by just being orange of Facebook but selfish or indifferent in everything else.

I don’t know how we got the idea that people exist in a hierarchy of betterment. Until we orange that, or green that, or purple that out within ourselves, these 215 children will be the colour of the day.

Remember the Butterbox babies, or the Dionne Quintuplets and Quintland? Most people will have to look them up. Someday the list will include the 215 children they found in a mass grave in BC.

I’m not suggesting the orange FBers are wrong, or ill-intentioned, or anything other than in a state of “What can I do to support?” mode. Good for you and I’m sure if you are friends with any aboriginal person or people, they would appreciate your thoughts or maybe roll their eyes at it.

Why? Because orange is not enough. We have to stop thinking that it is.

Two times I have been confronted with the ugly face of aboriginal lesserness. Each time I didn’t do enough so there is no orange for this girl.

One time I was on a plane and my seat was taken by this little girl who was probably nine or ten. Across the aisle was her Mom, her Dad, and a younger sibling. The little girl was supposed to sit somewhere in the back and she was obviously terrified, reaching for her Mom when she looked up at me from the seat.

I assessed the situation and realized quickly what was happening and I told the Mom and Dad that it was my seat and asked if they could tell me the one that the girl was supposed to sit in because I would simply go there.

The flight attendant came up behind me and asked what was happening. Before I had half the explanation finished that the girl was in my seat, and I needed to know her seat number so I could move, the attendant began to tell off the parents. I put up my hands and said, “Hey, hold on, I’ll move. It is not a problem.” But she didn’t seem satisfied with that and continued to berate the parents, talk about assigned seating. She didn’t see the girl with big round eyes spilling with tears. She saw lesser people. She didn’t see white who would have undoubtedly have gotten different treatment.

I told her again that I didn’t mind moving and it was no problem. I smiled at the parents and they thanked me but the flight attendant didn’t let up. I was mortified but imagine what those poor parents felt. The little girl was crying because she thought she had to move, the lineup was growing behind us, and people were blaming the aboriginals, and it was just an awful scene. I should have done more. That’s on me. I can’t be orange because of that.

The second time I was at the hospital visiting a friend and there was an older gentleman there from Labrador. He was getting ready to go home and his family was there – a woman, a man, and a few teenaged boys who were concerned for him and glad he was going home.

The nurse came in and began asking him all these questions about where he was going, did he drink, was there drinking in the home, how often did he go out, and many more very personal and loud questions in a non-private setting. I was embarrassed to be listening to it let alone to be answering them. I thought this was the new norm and was quite taken aback by the line of questions that the person I was visiting would have to answer.

But no, it was because he was aboriginal. His family had to listen to this. To this day I don’t know if this is the line of questioning that all hospitalized aboriginal people face, or if it was specific to this man because of whatever problem he faced. It was none of my business whether he was an alcoholic or not as the questions suggested, but do white alcoholic people face the same questions when they are discharged? Because I don’t know the answer to this, I can’t be orange today.

I can’t be orange if I don’t speak up. I can’t be orange if I think I’m better than an aboriginal person, a black person, a green person, a pink person, somebody with tattoos, somebody with purple hair, somebody who lives, loves, or speaks different. The list goes on. The trouble is, I don’t know what I don’t know. If I can’t recognize and speak up for anyone who is facing condemnation for just being who they are, then I don’t deserve to put orange on my Facebook page. That’s just me.

However, I challenge you all to check your blind spot. It would be impossible to walk a mile in everyone else’s shoes, but it is not impossible to get out of our comfort zone, smile, be kind. We can’t change what happened in the past but we can change the outcome and the future, one human being at a time.

Ignorance is not bliss, it is simply ignorance. Let’s radiate kindness. We have no business being intolerant. In fact, we have no business being tolerant. Tolerant suggests we are better. Kindness it is, folks. Kindness it is.

Invincible me...

I marinated in glory, laud, and honour. My Catholic upbringing taught me not to be prideful, but that’s so hard when you are twelve and defending the World Cup of Soccer and you are amazing. Well that might be a bit of an exaggeration on the reach of the event, but I swear it was a big match, so maybe I can downgrade it to the North Harbour Cup and leave it at that, though I was still amazing.

Picture it! A bright sunny day. Little black birds are sitting on the wires waiting for the culmination of three weeks of soccer play to begin in the meadow next to our house. To be ready for the big day, Dad replaced the skeleton of the net with a new crossbar and post bones from the woodpile. He reused the old orange and green trawler net to stop the ball from either going in the gully at the back of the meadow or going across the road and out in the saltwater on the lower side.

Of course, there were fences on either end but with play such as ours, anything was possible. The net held fast for goals. It stopped hard kicked balls from taking that trajectory that could split a paling or a longer on the dried-out fence.

That day was my day. I was keeper on the saltwater side and I could not be scored upon. I kid you not. Scouts for any university or world team would have scooped me up in those few hours of play if there was such a thing as one of them getting lost and ending up in the harbour at that particular time on that particular day. Unfortunately, that star alignment was not for me but, fortunate for my team, I played like it was.

Around ten o’clock the sides were picked and I can’t say I was chosen close to first but I can say I wasn’t picked last. A few ten-year-olds were still waiting in the hopeful bunch when I was named, but I digress. By the end of the day, the other team captain was sorry my name hadn’t been the initial sound through his lips when he selected the first player.

There was no such thing as cleats, or dare I say sneakers, then. Some of us had the canvas shoes with the white rubber soles, and some had short rubbers, work boots, etc. You never knew what your shin would have to bear as the day went on.

I was sent to the goal because I wasn’t much in the way of size nor was I speedy. Generally, the players on the field just scored at every kick so being a goalie was a meaningless though semi courageous position for the lesser on the athletic spectrum, most of the time. But not that day. Ronnie Hellstrom would have been put to shame had we been compared.

About forty youngsters to young adults were halved at the whim of the two strongest among us and all hands played all the time. There were no positions but for the goalie. No out of bounds, no rules, no whistles, just stampedes of young and old following a genuine soccer ball back and forth, bordered by three fences and the house on Linehan’s meadow, with nothing but harmonized self-regulation to keep them honest.

The game began with the toss of a wood chip or a flat rock with an overzealous spit mark on one side. I couldn’t see who won but before too long, I eyed Charlie coming down along the house with the ball and breaking out ahead of the mass. He kicked it off to Albert who had made an “as the crow flies” dart toward the net and he quickly passed it back. I watched them both and my heart was thundering like the 80 feet that were full-on coming at me, with only 38 of them being on my side. Charlie gave a deke which threw off several of the players and continued to bolt down the right side. Albert was breathing down my neck as I stepped out to block Charlie. He passed it across to Albert knowing I had him cornered and Albert had the open net. Like lightning I was. My legs took me and my feet where I hadn’t thought possible. I intercepted the ball and booted it back up the meadow in such a fluid motion that you wouldn’t know but I’d been at it for years. Albert cursed under his breath and took off behind the pack.

Moments later a cheer and nineteen hands went up. Our team scored. As quick as a wink the play continued. Back toward me Harry came, his eyes bulging and his mouth watering to be the first to score for the other team. I made eye contact when he was passing the porch, several of his teammates were screaming “over here, over hear,” but Harry was not an “over here” type player. I knew he wouldn’t pass. He came in and pretended to kick off but I didn’t take the bait. I moved out on him, he booted with the force that equated to his nineteen years. My arm flew out before I knew what was happening and I deflected the ball up over the crossbar. Our side took control and, like blue-tailed flies to dead fish, the ball and the players swarmed away to the other end.

Scored!

This continued for about thirty minutes before the just kicking and scoring mentality changed to more strategic plays for the other team. I was flailing, kicking, jumping, and all but doing backflips and always in the path of the ball. It was like I had a sixth sense. Me and the ball were in tune with each other, connected somehow. My teammates began to congratulate me. Never in the history of North Harbour soccer had one been so great. We broke for lunch and the score was 32 to zero. I was invincible and smiling from ear to ear as I bit down on the jam sandwich. The other team had changed goalies at least eight times but my team would not hear of taking me out.

Around one o’clock the forty were back in the yard and rearing to go. Mom joined the other side shortly after play started. Bravery was bursting in my belly as player after player tried their luck. Mom came thundering toward me one time and kicked the ball, I stopped it and she clapped me on the back for the effort. I don’t know how many times some of the bigger players tried to bowl me over but I stood my ground and gave some vicious shin kicks to keep them back. Mom gave a scattered “boys” growl when it became blatant some of them could not take my skills as a part of the game. I don’t know how I didn’t break my toes but pain meant nothing.

Some parents came by and watched with Dad from the sawhorse and cheered us all on. The teams changed up because of the unfairness of the score and, really, I simply went to the other side. Now my team was trying to score on me but it was to no avail. I was unbeatable. I knew I was. There had never been the like before and I doubt there will ever be again.

By the time four o’clock came, everyone gave up the game for the day. I had not let in one single goal. Since the teams had changed, nobody knew who won because they stopped counting. Everyone had a good game, but mine was awesome.

Glory, laud, and honour, you marinate well but you do nothing for sore muscles that won’t let you out of bed for two days. Thankfully, my grin muscles weren’t affected. True story (names have been changed to protect the lesser players :)!

Do you remember when you were invincible?

 

The Time John Denver Saved Me…

 I can’t recall the first time there was music around me because it seems to be a thing that was always present, like chickens in the yard, or the horse in the stable, or a crowd in the bed. Music was a norm growing up. Francis was six years older than me and had a guitar in his teens. He practiced and sang on the bed in his room and we could hear him from anywhere in the house and sometimes when we played outside. Larry sang himself to sleep every night as he rocked back and forth in the bed. Eddy had a record player and George Jones and Tammy Wynette were belting out tunes all the time.

When Mom’s cousins Thomas and Catherine Dalton came over to the house, Mom or Dad would wake Barry who was only six or seven at the time so he could sing for them. Mom was a singer too then, she had a lovely voice. Gatherings at the house always included song.

To my chagrin, I was not gifted with the vocal talent, and it has always been a regret that I wasn’t good at it. But it never stopped me from singing in a crowd nor when I was by myself. As young teenagers, my friends and I walked the harbour and sang to the top of our lungs on the nights when our voices carried on the calm molasses ocean.

There is something about God of all Power, Amazing Grace, and How Great Thou Art sang in church, especially at a funeral where tears can be traded for loud voices which makes things just seem to be better. It takes the sting out of sadness, at least for me. Like shouting out the words of a song is akin to hitting something bad with your voice and hugging something good.

Alas, there is no song that has ever in my lifetime brought me more peace than John Denver’s Some Days are Diamonds. I had this record on a 45 and if 45s could be tortured by being played, then this one spent time in a prison camp.

It was a year and two months after the fire that had devastated us and I was thrown into college simply because of my age. I was seventeen.

College was excruciating and I don’t think that is even a powerful enough word to describe what it did to me. Back in the 80s, the left side of the College of Trades and Technology was for girls – hairstylists, secretaries of all flavours (legal, medical, and administrative), nursing assistant, etc., and the right side was for boys – mechanics, bricklayers, and engineers – specifically civil, power, mechanical, and electronic engineers. 

I was going to be a civil engineer because that’s what Francis was when he died. That’s what Mom and Dad wanted me to be. I would never do anything to hurt them more than they already hurt so I went along. I figured surviving the fire the year before was as hard as things could get.

But I underestimated hard and it wasn’t finished with me. You see I turned right every morning at top of the marble steps at the college and into a male’s world. So every day I was pushed and jostled and stopped and tripped and laughed at on the first corridor. But then at the end of that long corridor, I had to go through another more civilized course, the bricklayers and mechanics being more primitive in this case. The engineers were more sophisticated in their habits and did things like covering me with pencil lead. Here I was maligned by teachers and students because I was a woman trying to get into a man’s world. I hope the men who turned left into the “woman’s world” were not treated as unfairly.

If they only knew I was a frightened little girl without a family or home and was still struggling to grieve for that which I couldn’t believe was lost. Every single day after school every bit of me was clenched around my bones. Like a piece of clothing that didn’t feed out through the ringers on the washer but wound round and round the rubber until the washer seized. That was me. Every single day.

How did John Denver ease that? God love him for putting out Some Days are Diamonds. At night when my roommates were in bed, I lay on the moss green nylon piled carpet, my forehead to the red record player beside me, my cheek itching and scratching on the floor, and I’d lift the needle to the beginning. Curled in a fetal position, the bass pulsing through the cool plastic of the player in through my head was lulling and cooing and comforting. I’d sing along in my mind as I silently wept away the overflow of hard into the tentacles of the carpet. Drained, rendered and the coil unwound, tension released to something bearable, I’d stumble into bed to be reset into a new day.

Some nights I played the song ten times or more and some nights it was only three or four depending on how I’d weathered the day. But there was no going to bed without John Denver sang to me. He spoke to me, to my soul. His voice was a badly needed hug.

Some days are diamonds, some days are stones, sometimes the hard times won’t leave me alone. John Denver knew me. He certainly did. He wrote those words for me and helped me get through that first year of college. Even when I hear that song today, I’m conditioned to cry. I wish everyone had a John Denver to make their hard times easier.

Picking Out My Super Power

 I was asked a question today about a superpower. If I could choose any superpower ever invented or one I could just make up at that moment, what would it be?

My first thought went to granting wishes. I mulled that over for a moment and thought, no, not super enough. I can already grant wishes. I have that power.

Sometimes it is in the form of a monetary donation to get something somebody needs badly or that would make their life easier, like a Hippocamp so that Lyndon can go hiking with his mom. Or maybe it is giving somebody a few dollars as a hand up. It could be by being part of a birthday flash mob, I bet that’s somebody’s wish. Or taking somebody to a place they’d never been.

I recall one time walking out to The Tickles from Harricott. There was a crowd of us, including Marg and Dot. I remember quite clearly Dot remarking that she’d been to California and New York and other places but The Tickles were right next door and she hadn’t been there. So going somewhere like The Tickles could be somebody’s wish and I could grant that.

I could have a stronger superpower than granting wishes that’s for sure.

So then I thought about having the ability to heal. That would be something. But, when I thought about that for a few moments, I realized, darn, I already have that. I can heal people. Listening to a lonely man who has no family around and keeping him company, that’s healing. Letting a friend vent when they are having a particularly bad day, that’s healing. Not judging somebody when they want to relieve a burden, that’s healing.

Laughing frustration away with a friend. Just laughing, for no other reason than to laugh. Bringing a lightheartedness with me, being the first on the dance floor when everyone else would have waited for four more songs before making the move but will happily follow you because you went first. Dancing and enjoying oneself is healing, making it happen quicker, that’s a superpower.

I can dance, I can sing if I was cornered (not very good but I’d make a noise), and I can laugh, and I can make time for somebody and I can lend an ear. Surely healing wasn’t a big enough superpower.

So, I chewed on that for just a moment before I thought of the greatest superpower of all, I would be like Jesus. Now that would be something. Walking on water would be a challenge but I don’t need that part of it. I can swim well enough and there is always a boat. Turning water into wine, neat thing to do, but I could buy wine or go make it out to Daphne’s so I could do without that. Besides, I’m not that into wine.

Being kind and compassionate would be the greatest superpower, like Jesus. I can do that. I’m sure I could look for ways to be kinder and more compassionate, it’s not that hard. It really isn’t. I remember walking by a donut shop and this young man was huddled by the door. It was cold out. I offered him a coffee. He said, "I'd prefer a latte." So, I laughed to myself at the boldness and bought him the .... yes, the latte. I offered so why not? If he was homeless and cold, the latte might have given him hope for something better. If he was pulling the wool over my eyes, it cost me a latte. No big deal.

Then I realized that I’m just full of superpowers. I’m super enough.

The world has given us the ability to cross over the land and the water and the air, to soar into the sky, to make anything we put our minds to, but wish-granting, healing, kindness, and compassion, that’s something we do. Look out world. Superpowers are in the house! Show off your superpower today.

Who needs to walk through walls or leap buildings in a single bound when you can make such a difference just be being kind.