A Son is a Son

"A son is a son 'til he takes him a wife, but a daughter's a daughter for all of her life." - Anon

When I was little, my mom would repeat that old rhyme to me over and over.  I think it was her way of finding perfection in the fact that she produced three daughters and no sons.  As the mother of only one child, a son, I've always wanted to believe that the rhyme was silly.  I wouldn't lose Jacob when he married.  He wouldn't ignore me or see his wife as a replacement for me.  We have been joined at the heart for twenty-five years.  Nothing could change that.

Jacob hasn't married yet.  There is no new woman who has stolen him from me but I'm starting to wonder if there is some merit to the old rhyme.  Maybe it's not that a son is a son 'til he takes him a wife, but a son is a son 'til he takes him a condo.  He moved a week and a half ago and he has yet to initiate contact.  No text messages, no calls, no coming home for dinner on the Family Day weekend.  I am hurt and I am sad but I don't know what to do about that.  It's my pain but it's not my play.

Empty Nest

“Give the ones you love wings to fly, roots to come back and reasons to stay.” -The Dalai Lama

If I told you that my back is sore or that my shoulder is aching, would you tell me to just stop feeling the pain?  Of course you wouldn't, so I keep wondering why so many people have been telling me these last couple of weeks to stop feeling what I'm feeling about Jacob moving out.  I'm fairly bright.  I know it was my job to get him to the point where he would fly.  Yes, I gave him roots and yes, I gave him wings.  Yes, I'm happy for him.  Yes, I know it is good for him to be out on his own.  Yes, it is healthy.  And yes, I am SAD.  Telling me to stop being sad does not make me any less sad, it just adds to my burden.  I guess I'm not feeling the correct emotions.  If it makes you feel better, I'll add it to the list of the many things I've failed at but please, if you are one of those people, stop telling me about it.

Yesterday was moving day.  For a month I've been buying everything I think he will need to be comfortable in his new condo.  He got the keys on Tuesday night and reported that though a cleaning crew was supposed to have gone through it, it looked pretty dirty to him.  So on Thursday morning, armed with a couple of hundred dollars worth of cleaning supplies, his Aunt Cath and I headed downtown to rectify the situation.  I really expected that the two of us could clean an empty unit in a couple of hours.  It is so tiny that he is going to need to step outside to change his mind.  But I under-estimated the level of filth.  So after five hours of cleaning, we headed home with a plan to resume Friday morning.  After another full day of cleaning on Friday, we were finally comfortable that even if it wasn't quite where we wanted it to be, it was at least clean enough that he could move in.  While the guys moved his things in yesterday, I cleaned some more.  Tomorrow I will head off to Canadian Tire to buy some replacement pieces for the stove and kitchen fan.  I'm calling uncle on ever being able to get those pieces clean.  And because they are not as clean as they should be, the condo still smells of curry and grease and that just won't do.

Apart from picking up those things and the things he will need to replace what didn't come back from his university life, like knives and cutlery, there is little for me to do now.  My mothering work is done.  Jacob is a grown man.  I will leave it to him now to figure out how our relationship will unfold.  I hope I will still see him often.  I hope he will come home for dinner or call me to meet him for coffee or just text me to say goodnight like he did in his university days.  I'm stepping back and putting the ball in his court. But for now, I'm feeling my feelings, without apology. 

Marching

"They tried to bury us.  They didn't know we were seeds." - Mexican proverb

A CBC reporter asked me on Friday night why at 61, I would be joining the Women's March on Washington: Toronto the next day.   It's a good question.  It was my very first protest march. Why did I finally become mobilized now?  I tried to explain to him that it is probably because I'm 61 that I couldn't sit this one out. 

I've been thinking a lot about history.  I've been thinking about what the world was like in the days that Hitler came to power.  There were many people in Germany and in the world that knew that the hateful rhetoric he spewed was evil and dangerous.  But they stayed silent.  I've heard it said that nice people made the best Nazis.  They didn't make waves.  They didn't stand up for their neighbours.  As long as it wasn't them and their families, it was easier to stay quiet, go along and pretend they didn't know.  We all know how well that worked out.

I've also been thinking about the world I grew up in, about the struggles I faced as a smart young woman trying to make my way in business.  I've been thinking about how the Help Wanted ads in the newspaper were categorized as Help Wanted - Men and Help Wanted - Women.  I've been thinking about the hospital where I worked in my 20s.  The jobs as cleaners were divided on gender lines with published pay scales for male cleaners being significantly higher than the pay scale for maids.  I've been thinking about the myriad of times I was asked in job interviews about the number of children I have, even long after it was illegal to ask that question, about my intentions to have more, about my arrangements for Jacob's care.  And I've been thinking about the times I was asked in job interviews, where I was born and what my ethnicity was and whether I was Christian or Muslim.  It was impossible to win by refusing to answer the questions or to point out that they were inappropriate or illegal.  So I just decided that I may as well go in with full disclosure on all points.  If any of who I am was going to be a problem, it was probably better for me to know at the outset or to not end up in a place where those things would rear their ugly heads later.  And I've been thinking about the days of fending off unwanted sexual advances that were far more than passes though in those days we told ourselves they were just that.  Being grabbed and groped, pinned and once even slapped by my boss.

On Friday, Donald Trump became President of the United States in spite of or maybe because for more than a year he has been spewing racist, sexist rhetoric.  He is a self-confessed sex offender, fraud, con-man. anti-Muslim, anti-women, anti-Mexican, anti-immigrant, anti-black, anti-other.  He chose an anti-women, anti-LGBTQ Vice President.  Since his candidacy, we have seen a terrifying rise in hate crimes not just in the U.S. but here in Canada too. 

I don't worry about those things anymore in relation to myself.  I am not afraid.  But this isn't about me.  It's about my cousin Stephanie in Michigan who is the mother to five year old Bella.  I marched for Bella and Stephanie.  I marched for the young women who have become my kids.  I marched for Sara, Katie, Christy, Courtney, Lindsay, Emily, Jenna and Lia.  I marched for the young woman who will someday be my daughter-in-law.  I marched for my grandchildren. 

To stay silent in these times is to be complicit in the same way so many Germans and others were complicit in Hitler's attrocities.  So on Friday night, I prepared my sign and put cushioned insoles in my boots and Saturday morning, along with my sisters Cathy and Marg, one of my kids, Katie and my dear friends Nancy and Aivars and 60,000 other women, men and children in Toronto, I hit the pavement.  At 1 o'clock, the march paused to honour a moment of silence.  Then it was done.  I will never be silent again.

Dear Santa

“A good many things go around in the dark besides Santa Claus.” -  Herbert Hoover

Dear Santa,

I realize I've left it a little late to send in my Christmas list.  The truth is, I've been struggling with getting into the spirit this year.  It took me ages to even come up with a theme for our family Christmas.  In a time when the world seems very dark, I decided our theme this year would be light.  Our Christmas Eve table will be laid out accordingly.

Usually the things I ask for at Christmastime are gifts for someone else.  It actually feels a bit selfish to ask for something for myself this year but I'm going to do it anyway.  Santa, could you please give me my confidence back?

I lost a piece of it when my heart stopped working and I had to have surgery in March.  I lost a bigger piece of it when I realized I had misjudged a client whose bills have gone unpaid for nearly a year.  I lost the rest on November 8 watching the U.S. election results.

I'm trying hard to believe things will work out well but I just can't get there.  I'm concerned about every twitch in my chest, wary about every business encounter, heartsick about the fallout from the election not just in the U.S. but here in Canada too.  Though this is normally my favorite week, I'm struggling to find the joy this year.  Shining my light seems to be doing little to illuminate the darkness.

Santa, I realize I'm asking for a lot and maybe you can't deliver a request like mine.  But if there is anything you can do to help, I'd be really grateful.  I'll keep trying too.  Safe travels on Christmas Eve and Merry, Merry Christmas.

Love

Jackie

The Weekend After

"There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in." - Leonard Cohen

Like the world, I'm broken.  I'd like to say I am surprised by the U.S. election results but I can't.  I've known since I visited upstate New York that this is how it would turn out.  I saw the faces of those in the small towns I walked through who eyed me with suspicion, though never when I walked with my lily white husband.  I tried to tell myself I was imagining the looks, that the pick-up truck that nearly ran me over as I crossed with the green light on the main street of Watkins Glen and the driver who then jumped out of his truck to scream at me and only left when an older couple walked up beside me, had nothing to do with my worst imaginings, but I'm too old to bother denying my gut.  The towns are white, small and not particularly prosperous.  They are filled with Christian churches - no synagogues, no temples, no mosques.  And though I don't think people knew quite what they were looking at when they looked at me, they did see me as an "other".

Their lawns were littered with Trump/Pence signs and Mr. Trump's message was clear.  The signs that said Make America Great Again were written in code.  The message was really Make America Hate Again.  Make America Straight Again.  Make America White Again. And the people listened.  At one point I thought the scandals of Mr. Trump's sexually predatory behavior may put a stop to his victory.  After all, surely even white supremacists couldn't vote for a man who boasted about sexually assaulting women.  Even they have mothers, sisters, wives and daughters.  No woman could vote for that. But the scandal had soon passed.  Trump surrogates were soon pushing for the discussion to be moved from sexual assault to the real issues - incredulous as it made me feel that a presidential wannabe with a history of sexually assaulting women wasn't deemed to be a real issue.  It hurt.  You would be hard pressed to find a woman of a certain age who hasn't been sexually assaulted by the likes of a Donald Trump.  We've been grabbed and groped, spoken of in filthy terms and far, far worse.  We were trained to just put up and shut up like it was nothing.  But it's not nothing.  It is frightening, humiliating and scarring.  We pray that our daughters never have to deal with that.  We trust that our sons will never treat women that way and will stand up for us and for their sisters and wives and daughters.  Apparently not. 

I was twelve years old in 1967 - the year of the race riots in the U.S.  We stood on the Canadian side of the Detroit River and watched as Detroit burned, just a few short miles from where my American family lived.  We were afraid for them.  They are no longer there but they aren't far away.  I am afraid for them still, though they are very white people.  I am afraid for my family in Ohio who share my Middle-Eastern looks.  I'm afraid for my friends of colour.  I'm afraid for members of  LGBTQ communities.  I'm afraid for Muslims and other non-Christians.  I'm afraid. I want to say, it's going to be okay, but it's not.

So, as I did on the weekend before the election, I am making a plan for the weekend after the election.  I will not, cannot watch the news.  I've been putting the newspaper in the recycling bin without opening it.  I'm devoting myself and my time to acts of love.  This weekend I will finish the child's chair I'm painting for a friend's new granddaughter.  I will be stitching quilted hearts to leave in public places for strangers to find and take home.  Tomorrow I will be packing gift boxes to be distributed to needy children by the Toronto Star's Santa Claus Fund.

It is Remembrance Day in Canada.  At 11 o'clock this morning we will observe two minutes of silence to honour the brave men and women who served our country in times of war, defended our freedom, protected other citizens of the world and stood and still stand as peacekeepers.  I am proud to be Canadian, perhaps now more than ever.  Lest we forget.

The Weekend Before

“The poll that matters is the one that happens on Election Day.” -  Heather Wilson

I'm trying to plan a strategy this morning to take me through the weekend before the U.S. election while retaining some small measure of sanity and minimizing the panic attacks that have plagued me in the middle of the night this past week since the FBI director made his big play to end Hillary's election hopes.  The first thing I know I need to do is stay away from CNN.  But resisting the pull to just turn it on for a few moments while I'm crafting or listen to it on my satellite radio while in my car is easier said than done.  I'm watching the train wreck and though I don't actually want to see it, I can't seem to pull my eyes away.

Apparently, I'm not the only Canadian who is obsessed by this election.  Even Canadian news reports are broadcasting poll results and campaign rallies in an endless loop.  I can't go anywhere without hearing everyone around me talking about the election.  If these candidates were here, Tuesday would be far greater than an election - it would be coronation day for Hillary Clinton.  Perhaps it is our distance that gives us this perspective.  I feel like an observer watching the 21st century version of Hitler's rise to power and we know how well that turned out for the world.

Luckily, we are having a warm November week - warm enough that I think I can paint outside this afternoon.  I have four child's chairs and a lovely telephone table that are taking up space in my den while they await refinishing.  Tonight I think I may take out my DVD of The Sound of Music and play it in an endless loop while singing "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens" at the top of my lungs (only old people will understand this reference).  I bought ten pounds of beets to pickle so that should occupy a few hours of my time tomorrow. 

Three more days, then we'll see.  God willing, on Wednesday, I won't have to be planning my strategy to get through the next four years.

Already Great

An Open Letter to Our American Neighbours

As I am a Canadian you may not feel that I have a right to weigh in on the U.S. elections. It’s not my country, and I don’t get a vote. But my recent travels in upstate New York inspired me to speak anyway, much as I would if a dear friend of mine was trying to choose between two marriage proposals and I could see the danger she was in of making the terrible choice to marry an abuser.

The snake oil salesman, otherwise known as Donald Trump chose “Make America Great Again” as his campaign slogan. I saw it on the lawns and in the yards of many homes in the poorest rural areas we travelled through. Impoverished communities of white Americans living in trailers and tract homes with rusted car frames and heaps of junk in their yards were covered with Trump/Pence signs. In those communities, I saw no Clinton/Kaine signs. The only mention of Hillary was in a spray painted sign on the lawn of a junkyard that said “Vote for Trump. Hillary sucks”. Somehow this group of people bought into the notion that a billionaire, narcissist who hasn’t paid federal income tax in a couple of decades, who claims to be a philanthropist without any supporting evidence, whose business interests were the direct recipients of his unregistered charitable foundation monies, who is a liar, a misogynist and a racist, is going to improve their fortunes and make America great again. And that is where my problem begins.

I’ve travelled extensively through the U.S. I grew up in a border town. I spent most of a decade working in an executive position with an American bank. I’ve vacationed there hundreds of times. I have many friends and very dear family who live south of the 49th parallel. The U.S. is a beautiful country; from the rolling hills of upstate New York to the mountains of Colorado; from the beaches of Miami to the vineyards of Napa Valley. Boston, Chicago, New York City, Washington, D.C., Miami, Colorado Springs, Dallas, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle are just some of the wonderful cities I’ve been privileged to visit. The American people are warm and welcoming and most of them are very, very lucky because through a cosmic accident, and not through any action of their own, they were born in the United States.

At the risk of sounding preachy, I do have a few suggestions about what might make things greater. I’m not suggesting that we in Canada have figured it all out. God knows we have cracks in our own foundations. And for me, it’s more about individual action than it is about the collective. It’s hard to fix everything but if we could each focus on making things greater in our own little corners, we may have a prayer of influencing the greater good. So here goes:

Try reaching out to someone who doesn’t look like you or doesn’t pray like you. I saw few people of colour during my recent travels and no mixed groups socializing. Every small community that we visited had multiple Christian churches but I didn’t see a single temple, mosque or synagogue and yet they certainly must exist. The only way I know of breaking down barriers is to come to know one another as individuals. It is in these interactions that we learn that there is more that unites us than there is that divides us.

If you have more than you need, share. There is much wealth in the country and much poverty. Everyone would benefit from sharing the wealth a little. Sharing feels as good for the giver as it does for the recipient.

Remember your roots. Reread that poem on the inner wall of the Statue of Liberty.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Unless you are one of the indigenous people, it wasn’t so long ago that your ancestors came from someplace else. Choose love over fear. Try to remember that God didn’t draw the lines around the countries but made the world for all of us to share.

My dear friends, you have a wonderful country. It is diverse, beautiful, abundant and free. Please don’t listen to the rhetoric of a self-serving bully who is trying to convince you otherwise. America doesn’t need to be made great again. America is already great.