What do you believe?

I am a person of strong opinions. That is vastly different from merely being opinionated. For example, I no longer hold strong opinions on ideas on which I am not well informed about. I now take time to assimilate information about an idea and let it sprout into knowledge, As this knowledge blooms, I will generally become more forceful in my beliefs surrounding that idea.

In my lifetime, I have ditched opinions more often than not. I used to believe in God. I used to believe in academia. I used to believe in marriage. I used to believe in democracy. I used to believe in peace. I used to believe in hope. I used to believe in certainty.

I look back on the naivety of my certitudes with a nostalgic fondness now. I clung to them with desperation. It is freeing to not feel the chains of blind faith while trudging through life. I have joy in the new lightness of my being.

Recently I had a discussion with a new neighbour about religion, god and faith. She was getting frustrated and flustered about my atheism. She asked: "Well, what DO you believe in then?"

"I believe in humans. It's all we've got." I replied calmly.

And by her look, I could tell, that she did not share this belief. This makes me sad since I realize that she is not alone in her misanthropy yet ironically must feel quite alone whilst walking amongst her fellow humans.

But, in my humanism, I too am not alone. I have met some astounding people over the last few years that also believe in humans and the power of human connection. This has brought more faith to my life than the three decades of religious indoctrination in my youth. Watching their activities through the magic of technology, inspires and humbles me daily. It literally gives sight to my faith and cushions me with the comfort of knowing others have belief in me and in each other.

The gender badge vs. the gender vadge

Dear Females,

I apologize for travelling along the third wave feminism road.  It was the road called equality and it seemed to logically follow the road my mother and grandmothers fought for. I apologize for calling it equality and erasing liberation from the nomenclature of feminism.

I apologize for believing that in the 21st century women had a right to choose to sell her body. I apologize for thinking porn helped further sexual liberation. I apologize for thinking pro-choice = reproductive justice.

I apologize for thinking that women and men were wired differently and I somehow won the genetic lottery by earning the right to call myself a mathematician and an engineer despite being born female.

The road to my enlightenment was long and twisted and admittedly, privileged.

My privilege came from a mother determined to not award gender badges to her daughters. A mother who allowed me firetrucks and my sister cowboy regalia. A mother who encouraged a love of learning and a love of math. And a father who 'allowed' this freedom and even (gasp) changed our diapers in the late 1960s. A father who 'allowed' my mother to be the primary wage earner and he even cooked our family meals during the week and took us to lessons and medical appointments. There were no gender badges awarded in my family growing up. And when my sister came out as a lesbian in her early twenties in the early 90s, my parents embraced her despite their catholic upbringing and a church determined to erase her reality.And we did not seek to give her the gender badge of butch dyke or femme lesbian. She simply loved women and we accepted that without needing to label her beyond lesbian.

And now my privilege is being slammed because I also have the audacity of having a gender vadge. I am a female that calls herself a woman and I happen to also have a vagina. The fact that my parents tried so hard to eliminate the gender badge from my life - as did other freethinking parents who saw the harms of boxing in their children into prescriptive gendered roles while children - is now considered irrelevant and even dangerous to third wave feminists. Flaunting the fact that I have a vagina and others born with one need liberation is deemed cissexist. Saying that someone born with a vagina is more likely to be penetrated in a violent act whether for money or torture is called sex-phobic. Telling people that I want access to female only space is pronounced transphobic.

The only thing that seems to be relevant today is what gender badge you feel like you have and the quicker you identify your gender then the quicker your "problem" can be solved if you don't have the right body parts to match. The solution ultimately  involves lots of drugs and genital mutilation surgery. But, if caught early enough, the gender badge will be awarded.

My vagina is not gendered, it is female. My brain is not gendered, it is human. My feminism is not gendered, it is about females. My privilege is not gendered it is about socio-economic class and education and race.

Ultimately I am sorry that it took me so long to wake up to our female born reality and what the true liberation of females entails. The road behind is only a couple of centuries old and I fear the road ahead is much steeper than it was before gender badges and gender vadges become priority #1 in First World Feminism.

The penance for my own third-wave feminism fiasco will be that for the remainder of my life I will cry every time I see another female shame another female for anything.

And I'm crying a lot these days.

Sincerely,

A 46 yo womens liberationist.

Howling

Today the wind is gathering momentum outside my saltbox by the sea. It is expected to crest to upwards of 100 km/hr. AGAIN.

It is a metaphor for the myriad of emotions I feel while reading and listening to tales of women's oppression. And as you likely know, it's everywhere.

I met with two women in town for lunch this week. We had all just attended a rally to protest the closure of the Family Violence Intervention Court here in my new home province of Newfoundland. This court, opened by the current government in 2009 was closed last year. The budgetary savings of a mere $500,000 (only 0.02% of the entire provincial budget) was deemed too much to improve and save the lives of women. A province with the highest rates of domestic violence in Canada closed the only program offering real solutions to families facing the horrors of domestic violence. It is beyond shameful and should be criminal.

At our lunch the three of us shared part of our own stories of domestic violence. We agreed it is the shame that weighed heaviest upon us and nearly crushed all of us. And the fact is that domestic violence does crush some of us. Five women in Newfoundland were murdered by their partners in 2012. Five women literally crushed out of existence by five violent men. 

So yes, I'm howling today. And the backdrop of the raging wind is providing a poignant metaphor for the way so many of us women feel whilst desperately battling the shackles of oppression in our town, our province, our nation, and our world.

Dissilient

Dissilient

Bursting apart. 

Bursting open.

I had to travel to two deserts on two continents to achieve this.

The seed has cracked. 

I am wide open.

And the light is shining in.

Alone

When I tell you that I have never felt so alone in my life as I did in the Temple at Burning Man I do so with liquid squishing out of my tear ducts.

I live alone. I've raised a kid on my own. I've owned 3 houses on my own. I showed up to Burning Man, a middle aged woman, on my own and camped, on my own, in the desert. And last year I drove across Canada on my own camping.

So this feeling of being alone, the terrible poignancy of it, struck me sideways. The resonance of it, over two weeks later, had me waking up in tears this morning.

It is a feeling I no longer can run from. It found me in the Temple in the desert and it is not going away. That's what I recognized this morning as I woke and recoiled from the desolation of being faced with that alone feeling first deeply etched into my soul in the Nevada desert.

For alongside that memory of stark barren aloneness is a treasure chest of memories on the Playa that assure me that I am not alone, I am lovable, I am worthy and my life has meaning - my mere existence is a gift in this universe.

My pilgrimage to Burning Man has shed new meaning on old identities: yours, mine and ours. And despite the discomfort, I am willing to continue the exploration. The journey is fascinating!

Pondering on the Playa

She was fully clothed but wearing an object strapped around her hips and it jiggled towards me as I sat on the Playa watching her walk towards me.

I had once briefly worn such an object, years ago, courtesy of my drag-king performing lesbian sister. The sight of it made me leap up and run towards the young woman and grasp this familiar eerie-real-skin-feel toy and exclaim "aren't these great!". Impulsivity is a weakness with me, admittedly.

Her reaction was immediate and intense. 'She' was a she-he. A trans-man. She-he felt violated. Her-his pain was real. I empathetically responded albeit mystified.

In the drag-king lesbian community a flaccid strap-on is a prop worn under clothing in order to provide a bulge. When I wore it I enjoyed a playful small taste of what it would be like to have external sexual organs although without any sexual sensation. The young trans-man I met on the Playa last week felt that this object WAS her-his sexual organs despite the lack of any hard-wired neuro-connectivity.

She-he then admitted she-he was being a douche for walking around exposing her-his real-fake sexual organs.

Witnesses to this interaction were as perplexed as I was. Some of them hugged me as I proceeded to flashback to the terror I felt at the #radfemriseup conference where we received threats from people like her-him.

Later in the week a man dismissed me outright when I queried his statement regarding a two year old being transgendered. I asked him how was it possible that a toddler, years away from sexual reproduction, could feel or act as a gendered human. He literally walked away, frustrated that I could not understand the 'logic' of his claim regarding a two year old 'feeling' misgendered.

These two interactions made me realize how imperative it is to work towards eliminating the ever increasing the gender as a construct entrenchment in modern society. If we don't do so we risk, once again, the subjugating of females to mere objects of  sexual satisfaction or reproductive sows - as is it is still the case throughout much of our world.

Truth is
Beauty

Photo credit to
Trey 
Radcliffe

Obsessive Garlic Disorder

I developed a serious case of this newly identified (to me) syndrome this past weekend.

I attended Mooseman: a precompression Burning Man regional event. Five days of survival camping in the forest of Haliburton. No water. No electricity.

The first 36 hours of the event were like a roller coaster of new experiences - both positive and negative, both personal and interpersonal. The first night I met some truly lovely people around a very large fire held in a large circle of stones. The following day I experienced a few interactions that were less than ideal. My physical challenges were brought home to roost and I considered leaving in case they worsened. The team of onsite Rangers helped mediate what was a challenging and baffling situation for me and I ended up staying due to their support. Two of the 10 Burning Man principles were driven into me throughout the beginning part of my experience at Mooseman:  Radical self-reliance and Radical inclusion.

On the Saturday of the event after I had rested (I was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster and physical demands of survival camping set up!) I ventured back to the sacred circle. I was told that there was garlic braiding down at the main house (the owner of the property) and that it was a lot of fun.  I decided I would rather take a walk through the forest which was set up with four theme camps and I wanted to see what they looked like in their finished state (I saw the skeletons of these camps on a Thursday night walk about).

The effort put into these theme camps is dumbfounding and humbling. One of the camps, Powder Monkeys, had a pirate theme and the decorations and plounges were so creative. This camp also hosted a Baconade on the Sunday morning and everyone who participated in that achieved Peak Bacon. There were two types of bacon, bacon dip, bacon brownies, bacon apple pie, bacon/cheese roll-ups, bacon chocolate chip rice krispies, etc.

On the way into the forest there was a Toga Toll Camp. These lovely people provided a candy tray that they also took throughout the event at times. There was bug spray on offer and other provisions if needed. Did I mention that all Burning Man events operate on a gift economy basis? No money exchanges hands. Every participant is expected to gift what they can and high octane volunteerism is the norm.

I didn't spend as much time as I would've like to at the Big Rig Rockin Robin's Truck Stop Jamboree. They had built a replica of a truck complete with a truck stop diner and a country store that I shoplifted a pocket knife from (I had lost mine). They had some fine trombone jamming happening on Saturday night when I was there.

Lastly there was a Hammock Camp at the end of the forest trail. Peace and tranquility was found in one of the hammocks hanging there :)

On Sunday afternoon after dancing in the forest for a few hours to some wonderful beats I remembered the garlic braiding and wandered down to the main house (past the coffee cafe which served delicious free coffee all weekend long!). Outside of the house was a circle of chairs and instruments of garlic disorder. I stood and asked the three people about what was going on and shared a bit of my food justice passion with them. Doug, the owner of the property, saw a fellow food spirit and he eagerly invited me to sit down and try cleaning some garlic myself. Silvie, another Mooseman attendee, patted a chair and proceeded to show me how to clean the garlic (rub the stalk and bulb with love to remove the dirt, trim the hairy end and brush out the dirt). In the course of learning this new skill, Doug, Silvie, another young man and I got into a wonderful conversation that alternated between philosophy, therapy, camaraderie and hilarity.

After a few minutes of this pleasant learning - interactive engagement Doug became perturbed while I was talking. I wasn't staying on task since I use my hands while I talk. He told Silvie to take me down to the shed to see the enormity of the garlic cleaning task at hand.

Have you ever seen 1700 bulbs of garlic in various stages of 'processing'? Doug had already informed us that it takes 20 passes through human hands to fully process garlic (now you know why most of it comes from China since it is so labour intensive!). So when I rounded the corner into the shed I saw how massive the operation was and how many uncleaned bulbs there were - well, that was when the disorder struck me.

I returned with Silvie and spend the next few hours mastering the art of conversing while cleaning garlic bulbs at a steady rate. I was rewarded with a fine meal from Lynn (Doug's partner) that included potatoes freshly harvested from their garden and the opportunity to braid my very own set of bulbs which I later purchased on my way out of the event.  The ideas, love, inspiration and garlic imbued soulfulness of the experience will last my lifetime. In fact, the whole weekend will. The final of the 10 principles of Burning Man was cemented into my heart that afternoon and sealed with the burning of the Moose effigy that night:

Immediacy

Immediate experience is, in many ways, the most important touchstone of value in our culture. We seek to overcome barriers that stand between us and a recognition of our inner selves, the reality of those around us, participation in society, and contact with a natural world exceeding human powers. No idea can substitute for this experience. (source)

Unbraided but cleaned fruits of our Obsessive Garlic Disorder

Dirty Family Secret

I briefly got to know my then 34 year old uncle when I worked in Ireland in 1986. I was a 19 year old computer science student doing a work term placement overseas (where I instigated & developed the prototype for a very successful automated tax software program, the first of it's kind). Up until that point this particular uncle had been shrouded in mystery and, well, infamy.

In those days, he was labelled retarded. Today, looking at pictures and knowing a lot more of my family history, I recognize that he clearly had what we identify as Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.  So yes, that means that my grandmother drank her way through his pregnancy. I can imagine her now, always with a waterford sherry glass filled on an afternoon and a waterford tumbler with gin and tonic in the evening. She was a champion national golfer and I really need to flush out a wiki page with more information. She has a brief mention here.

In 1952, in a pseudo-upper-middle-class Victorian Cork household, this high functioning level of drinking was perfectly acceptable. In fact, she continued drinking like that until her death in the early 1980s. I had a complicated relationship with her due to the fact that she clearly loved my sister better than me. I wish I had an opportunity to have known her as an adult.

But back to this uncle and his uniqueness. When I spent time with him as a child during brief visits back to Ireland I was astonished and thrilled with his Lego collection.  He was mentally very close to my age so he actually was kind of mean with the Lego. He would only allow me access to a very small portion of his vast collection.  I see now that he was likely retaliating at the limited amount of contact he was allowed with me, his eldest niece. By the time I was 19 we were both allowed free access to each other and I was able to enjoy him 'showing off' his more mature obsessions: taking photographs and stamp collecting. He was a bit of an idiot savant (I see that in hindsight). His cobbled together panoramic pictures were exquisite in their perfection. His thoroughness in documentation of his stamps suggested a commitment to detail that I still admire in others.

But his infamy? Alas, that's where the real story begins. It's one I just recently shared with Daughter and was surprised that I hadn't previously although it really does require a mature mind to understand it.

You see, this uncle was not only a fetal alcohol syndrome victim.  As is common with many FAS children, he was also sexually deviant. However, in the early-mid sixties in Ireland, that was not the label given to him. He was retarded, and, a pervert. So, as a pervert, his contact with my sister and I was severely limited (to the point that when my sister and I spent a summer in Ireland during my early adolescence, he was shipped back to Canada for the entire time).  By the time I was 19 he was very heavily medicated so the situation was 'under control'.

This skeleton in my family's closet cloaked a poisonous veil around sexuality and that was how the topic got raised with Daughter. Narratives around sexuality that are driven by church imposed guidelines are bad enough but when you've got an actual 'pervert' in your family it is quite another matter. I am just beginning to see the effects it had. It has affected my inability to give voice to the difficulties I have faced in my own situation with multiple sclerosis and the effects it has had on my sexuality.

In today's world (in Canada) this uncle would have been identified as FAS fairly early and, ideally, his sexual deviance would have been identified early and given appropriate treatment and support. In early sixties Ireland, his inappropriate advances were responded to with panic and medication and deafening silence. He was isolated from his only nieces and many others. His world was very small. And, at 39 years of age, after over two decades of carcinogenic medication, he was riddled with cancer and died within 6 weeks of first going to the doctor with a pain in his shoulder.

What lessons do I feel my uncle and his sorry tale leave me? Part of me will always feel enormous sorrow for my uncle. A victim of alcoholism and the pharmacological medicalization of his deviances. But, also, I feel his story allows me to start to see the tendrils that skeletons leave scattered throughout a family. His story gives me a deeper understanding of my family's narrative around sexuality. It gives me a personal understanding of my grandmother's plight as a woman blazing new trails in golf clubs in Ireland (and elsewhere) with a sorry state of affairs back home. And, at the heart of it, his story gives me a nugget of courage to start to tell my own tale. Watch for more, in this space.

Womyn Warriors: Seeking to actually liberate women

Exactly one week ago I approached a small group of womyn standing outside Beaver Hall Gallery.  I expected to see hate accusing protesters and was relieved by their absence. I was committed to attending the first ever Toronto Radical Feminist conference and the weekend was going to be my first experience in nearly three decades of face to face discussions and speakers about women's issues such as violence, reproductive justice and human trafficking in a womyn's only setting.  As I sit here writing this I can not comprehend how little I knew last Friday morning about the state of oppression towards women on this planet. It was like I was in a bubble and now it has been burst.

It was a smaller gathering than expected because of the threats of violence faced by the organizer's and the venue. Women get scared. Systemic oppression does that. Rape victims don't want to be triggered. Exited sex workers don't want to be outed. For conference attendees who brought children there was a feeling of enormous guilt about exposing their offspring to possible violence. All of us are still processing this ugly side of our event. Here is a short description by one fellow attendee. Here is another attendee's writeup.

Last fall I met a young man who lived in Yugoslavia during the country's breakup. His family eventually refugeed to Canada. He discussed his childhood back in a land under war. His recollection, as a child, was that of many family members being around and supporting one another. He had siblings and cousins about all the time. They played while the parents pulled together to survive. These are his happy childhood memories and he spoke of this fondly. In his new country families are disjoint: including his own. His story comes back to me as I try and capture the experience I had last weekend. Because that's ultimately how I will remember this gathering. An infant played while the womyn pulled together to work towards liberation.

But make no mistakes about it: we were terrrorized. Anyone dismissive of that reality for a group of a couple of dozen women is oppressing my reality. You were not there.  You did not live through what we experienced.  And while we were terrorized we managed to listen to many speakers from all across Turtle Island tell us about the state of oppression towards women:  in this country and around the world.  The facts are frightening. From toxic/rape/porn culture that leads to youth suicide to human sex trafficking that the pornstitution is behind. Aboriginal women and the Pickton house of horrors. The centuries long ongoing process of eroding womyn's reproductive justice. History lessons that revealed the true sources of any societal change that has occurred in the last few hundred years. And finally, actionable items that will help mobilize a few more womyn that are actually interested in liberating women rather than mere empowerment.

In the course of our baptism into radical feminism we forged bonds through personal stories and sharing of insights. And I had many tears. Tears of rage when hearing of a mother dropping off her own daughter and grandchild to a homeless shelter because the mother's boyfriend was inconvenienced by the baby. Tears of horror when hearing of torture survivors struggling to communicate their story with drawings: they can not talk of it. Tears that were triggered when I saw, for the first time,  how thoroughly patriarchy had brainwashed me into the liberal feminist narrative and how damaging that might have been for newly adult Daughter. Tears for the direct violence I experienced in my own life yet did not clearly recognize until last weekend. Tears of gratitude that a group of womyn continually risk their safety so that womyn like myself can learn more.

Yes I cried a lot. And if you are not crying about the continuing state of oppression of women in our world then I really think we can no longer be friends.  There is a war on women. I've chosen to work towards liberation.

Nigerian dwarf goats: also discussed at RadFemRiseUp
(to be explained later)

Letter to the Editor of The Toronto Star re: RadFemRiseUp

I am posting this on my blog. I will be writing more about this conference in the next wee while. Watch this space. It is officially out of dormancy :)

------ Dear Toronto Star,

Re: Toronto activists protest "transphobic" conference (Saturday July 6, 2013)

The organizers of the Radical Feminists gathering, RadFemRiseUp, held last weekend in Toronto, received threats of violence on the Friday night from transactivists who had managed to find out our secret location. These threats led to police presence at our newly disclosed location as well as at the park where transactivists held their own protest. This park was merely 200 meters from the new location. When police questioned the transactivists on their choice of location, they stated they lived near there. More details about this are available here:  http://bit.ly/RadFemInfiltrated. RadFemRiseUp attendees would like to thank the Metro Toronto Police for their support during what was a very disturbing time.

However, despite the severe disruption and fear experienced by all conference attendees, the event proceeded with only minor changes to the scheduling.

Labelling anybody with the term "transphobic" without providing concrete evidence clearly reveals your papers bias and sympathies. To the best of my knowledge there has been no violence or hatred directed, ever, towards trans by Radical Feminists. Maya Shlayen has never said that Rachel Ivey has damaged our reputation, and by misrepresenting Shlayen's words, you are unfairly diminishing the public perception of Radical Feminism.

In addition: by reporting, falsely, that Radical Feminism is under the auspices of Deep Green Resistance, you again reveal your papers bias and your reporters utter lack of knowledge about Feminism. If anything, the fledgling Deep Green Resistance organization arose out of Radical Feminist principles: not the other way around.

Radical Feminists are 'stuck' in second wave Feminism because we recognize that the work there is not finished. In 2013, women are quite far from being liberated. The fact that Senator Nancy Ruth spoke this week about how Toby’s law forbids females from gathering in female only spaces  is indicative of exactly how far we are from being liberated.

Gender stereotypes have worsened in my lifetime (I'm 46) and that is quite damaging to both males and females. The 'furor' surrounding baby Storm a couple of years ago is just one example of this sad reality. Claiming 'scientific validity' for genderism has been debunked by the work of scientists like Dr. Cordelia Fine.

Post-modern feminists continue to push terms like 'empowerment' when women still have precious little power despite 100+ years of Feminism. Radical Feminists continue the important and liberating work started by previous generations of feminists. We are actively seeking methods to liberate women, girls and boys from male violence, torture, and oppressive reproductive regimes around the world. True liberation for women occurs only when there is legislative and reproductive justice for women everywhere on this planet.

Sincerely,

Orla Hegarty B. Math.,  M.A.Sc.

RadFemRiseUp Attendee

Nishiyuu and the Colonialization of Feminism

As I write this, over 200 indigineous youth are arriving in our nation's capital after walking 1600 km since January 16th. The emotions I am feeling remind me strongly of those that were stirred in my adolescence when Terry Fox and the Marathon of Hope went through my hometown of Brampton in 1980.

There is something distinctly Canadian, to me, about these epic treks. I engaged in my own personal version last September on my HarvestTrek2012 tour from Vancouver to St. John's on the Trans Canada Highway.  I felt so fortunate to join history as someone who was able to take in this country, from coast to coast, in a way that few have done.  In a short space of time I was able to move from the fresh raw mountains of Canada's Rockies over to the gentle older slopes of Newfoundland. I was able to do this fairly cheaply by using a drive away service that pays you nominal costs and you get the privilege of having someone else's car. I feel quite fortunate that the conditions in my life were ripe to avail of a cross country trek in a little sports car (with an epic stereo).

This summer my plans include seeing more of this fine country by getting to Labrador. I want my Canadian explorations to be expanded vertically now that I have seen the country along the East-West highway that mimics the historical Trans Canada Railway.  I quite enjoyed seeing the rail cars beside me as I drove along this summer.  I didn't like them so much when I woke up in the middle of the night to their horn blasts (one of the perils of guerilla camping along the TCH, fyi).

The reflections I have been making since my own personal cross Canada trek are still quite muddled and today I feel a responsibility to share some of them. Specifically the ones centred around my personal passion regarding wanting to leave the world a better place rather than just the bare minimum of leaving no trace (or leaving the world a worse place). This is what the Nishiyuu walkers are doing. They are leading by example so in my small tiny way I am hoping to pay it forward with these reflections.

This focus of my 'leave the world a better place' passion allows me flexibility of interests yet also has driven me to reexamine some things that I thought were personally sorted, long ago. One of the items under cross examination at the moment is feminism. Not if I am one (I am). But what that means, for me personally, and with respect to how I wish to leave the world a better place.

I am a woman. I am well educated in a field where few women are (math, engineering) and yet I feel like a novice to the subject of feminism. To be fair, a lot of that was by choice. After Daughter was born and I realized that the wholesale outsourcing of child rearing didn't match my value system, I no longer found any support in the feminist circles I was familiar with. This timed perfectly with the rise of the internet. Fortunately? Not for me.

In the early 2000s the loudest voices online were feminists telling me that I should be climbing that career ladder. They had fought for my right to do that. They had fought for the right for me to go to university and study math and engineering.  In fact, when one very well known Canadian feminist voiced her disregard for my thoughts on  her blog (when I was at my neediest) I turned all of the online feminists off and in real life conversations started to use the 'f word' as a phrase when discussions of feminism came up to soften my commitment on the issue. I was wounded. As a single mother I was exhausted. In isolation and in desperation I had reached out online to engage in discourse about what a young feminist single mother might want instead of climbing the career ladder (and how society could help support choices for all mothers and all families) and I was completely shut down. Part of me is still wounded by that action over a decade later.

But last summer's trek galvanized me into an awareness that makes me see that I have to go back and reexamine feminism. As the mother of a new adult daughter. As a human being. I am compelled and yet I enter cautiously. I recently waded into an online discussion of sex work/prostitution and was rebuffed, again. I was told that I wasn't a real feminist if I didn't have an opinion. This reminded me of that blog interaction. But I'm stronger now and wiser. I see the power of these misunderstandings and flare ups to educate and illuminate. And, tellingly, I was supported by others in the thread.  Differences allow variety. Variety is not the spice of life but biodiversity and evolutionary theory show us it is unequivocally the essence of it. All voices need to be heard. Not just the ones at the 'top'.

Feminism isn't owned by white woman who've climbed corporate ladders. Just like Canada isn't owned by white men answering to corporate mining interests.

As a feminist and as a Canadian, I am Idle No More.

Getting comfortable in the box

Six years ago this past February I was put into yet another box.  I had been put into many boxes before that time and will continue to be.  Boxes help people sort you out.  It's a thing.  Because of my early traumatic experiences with being put into boxes (broken home then broken marriage) I think I am averse to them and try to limit my own boxing of people.

It's actually kind of amazing when you manage not to do this 'boxing' or pre-judging of people. Humans are surprising. Including myself.

The box I was thrown into happened at a major turning point in the life of the modern day human in the so-called developed world.  It happened a couple of months before my 40th birthday.

This pre-40th birthday box is something I struggle with. I've blogged here about it and in fact this box is responsible for me reactivating this blog.  The box is labelled Multiple Sclerosis and it is still just as uncomfortable as it was six years ago when I was first thrown into it.

When I first received the diagnosis I reached out to the society for people with this disease. I found out that their purpose was to streamline the delivery of the medications. I was put in touch with friends of friends that had MS. All of them were on an assortment of medications that I had also started to accumulate:  various muscle relaxants and painkillers. One young man was on sixteen different types of pills with half of them prescribed to counteract the effects of the other half.

This scared me into rustling around the academic journals I had access to where I learned that the pharmacy industry invented the term 'disease modifying medication' in order to be able to sell a whole new line of very expensive drugs that, when tested on rats, showed that they might stop progression.  The notion of what exactly progression is was also quite spurious in the medical literature.  Astoundingly, lesion damage and progression was fully acknowledged to be an area that was not understood, at all. One series of articles identified that the placebo effect was remarkably high in nearly each and every study of MS 'treatments'.

So, I climbed out of the box that my doctors were putting me in and climbed into a new box. Yes, I have MS but no, I am not doing it your way.  I follow a very rigid diet that has substantial amounts of research that makes sense to me. My lesions went down, my neuro was impressed. That's enough for me.

Except, when it's not. This week has been a painful reminder that I need to take care of some of the realities this box contains for me. I spend much of the time forgetting that I'm in this box. I feel very fortunate in that. But it's always there and my acceptance of this is taking a very long time coming. I am loath to spend time discussing this box and now see that perhaps this is not the healthiest approach. It's time to perhaps decorate this box and get comfortable and reach out to others in a similar box. It's not going away.

Parenting: The young adult years, Take I

Daughter is home for reading week. Unlike the holiday break, this visit has no sense of frenzy. It is like the old days. Except. It's. Not.

I've always felt that I've been about one or two steps emotionally ahead of her. This is to say that yes, I'm an emotional misfit and most parents I've observed seem to have a lot more maturity than I've ever felt.

This feeling was driven home last night and in fact I am now suspicious that Daughter's emotional maturity is starting to catch up and even surpass mine. 

During last night's rather heavy dinner conversation I found myself unable to offer anything resembling answers to her questions. I hit the 'parenting wall'. I suggested that she try to nurture the type of relationship with her father in which she could ask him these same questions for I had no idea what to say.  All I could do was listen and then offer the physical support of a long hug that seemed to acknowledge my failure to provide adequate guidance as well as provide the soul soothing comfort of physical closeness that used to be so central to our relationship. Our physical need for one another seems to have been misplaced during her teen years, as is healthy and normal.

Daughter, at 18, is now an adult. And she is facing adult concerns. As a fellow adult that also is her mother I think the most mature thing for me to do is step back from my parenting pulpit and remind her that sometimes all we can do for our fellow man is offer a hug that reminds us that we are - fortunately - not alone facing life's trials and tribulations.

Inside, I am swirling with chaotic protective emotions that are screaming to protect her. Demanding me (and my inner annoying maternal perfectionist) to seek out answers that will better my vacant "I don't know what to say" responses from last night. I have to squelch the urge to email or text her father and make demands on him that will fall on dead ears (history is a brilliant teacher).

I was told recently by a wise man with more than four decades of parenting experience that conversations with my young adult child would start to get very interesting.  What I didn't realize when he said that was that the interesting bit was not necessarily just on the surface but would hit me in a place inside that until last night, I didn't know existed.

Impossibly Single

I write this blog from the second floor of a bus looking out onto the bleak salt stained tarmac and the barren trees that typify a typical mid-winter day here in Southern Ontario. I just spied an old stone mill beside a river. I think we just passed Port Hope.

Being single is something I've written about before on this blog. Happily. People generally don't know what to make of the person who is single despite the fact that science is disproving the notion of everlasting love and there are record numbers of single person headed households in Canada (lone dweller households now surpass married couples!) there remains a stigma associated with the act of being single. And there are financial discriminations too.

Not too long ago I met up with someone who condescendingly said to me at her engagement outing 10 years ago: "Don't worry Orla, you'll find someone." I remember this vividly. I can almost feel the touch of her hand on my arm as she said it. That was possibly the first time I connected how patronizing society was to someone who is single. At that point in time I had over 7 years experience as a single mom, Daughter would've been 8. So many thoughts came crashing through my head at that time and now, a decade later, I am sifting through them.

Culturally, the expectation is if you have a child then it is best if there are two parents. Somewhere along the road of moral progress the notion of "it takes a community to raise a child" was lost. So this young newly engaged woman probably had her biological clock ticking and was proud to share her hope that I too would find a replacement father figure for my child and perhaps let some of his sperm get into my womb to gift him with one of his own procreation. Biological clocks are funny like that. In our modern age they seem to presume that once you're educated and employed the next task is to breed.

Also, to be fair, a decade ago her patronizing sentiments mirrored exactly what my own expectation was for my life at that point in time. I was then 35 and was dating extensively hoping to still find The One so that I could breed again. The funny thing was that every single guy who dared mention the "M" word (as in marriage) got quickly removed from the dating card line up.

And now, with my newly minted middle aged wisdom, I see myself as a person that might have a philanderer gene and I have no desire for long term monogamy. I hate cleaning my own knickers let alone a partners. And I'm wise enough to realize that the gift of choice vis-a-vis being single is afforded only to those of us able to be financially independent. We have come a long way baby. Or some of us have. I consider myself quite fortunate.

In Newfoundland they have a curious expression that captures what I and possibly many other singles strive for: a comfort. Essentially it is a fuck buddy with very few strings attached. As someone who has had fuck buddies I like the term much better but there was precious little comfort in the ones I had while my clock loudly clanged.

And one final thing. When I saw that now 30 something woman with her two small children recently I asked after her husband. Divorced. I admit to a sweet moment of revenge "karma" followed by the sincere hope that she finds the support and comfort she, like us all, need.

Have you ever fallen in love on the internet?

Articles like this question to Dr. Phil essentially belittle the concept of falling in love on the internet. We are such a shame based culture, even though we have become secular. I know a number of married people that met their partners online in the 1990s.  Back then they had to hide how they found their partners. Today (in the states), about 1 in 5 relationships begin online and although it is becoming more prevalent I would suggest the shame factor is still there.

I have had experience in this department myself.  The falling in love bit, not the finding a partner bit.  And just like when it has happened to me in person, I had that moment of surprise when my heart and mind connected for that magical feeling I associate with love.  That falling feeling of euphoria.  I remember it distinctly with Daughter (thx birth hormones) and a few other (in person) lovers in my life.  But the feeling of falling in love whilst sitting, alone, in front of your computer is equally compelling and even more mysterious because there is no one to touch and when you feel that feeling the first thing you want to do is touch in order to cement the connection, right?

But in the current era falling in love over the internet is unrequitted in that there is no touch available (not until the transporter thing gets a little further along..which it is lol).  Let me detail my own story, in brief:

I was sitting in front of my computer in early 2007. A new message came in from some random stranger I had been communicating with furiously for months. This was not on a dating site. This was on one of the first successful communities built online that didn't focus on any particular interest or subject. This was social media before there was social media. Users chose who to follow and what interests to stumble through (you followed anyone you wanted). Yes, people used it for dating. In that fledgling community I made it clear early on that I was not looking for dates.

By 2007 I was already exhausted with online dating efforts (as a late 20s-early 30s woman dating online in the late 90s and early 00s there was a lot of interest so it took bucket loads of time to sift through results...which were paltry, at best, but fun occasionally too - by 2003 I found the whole effort disheartening and still feel much the same). The message I had received that night was so thoughtful and sweet and had been preceded by many many many similar such messages from the same user. I read the message and cupid struck. It was not a romantic message. I did not know how to react to the feeling. It was pleasurable, yes, but baffling. Some random dude in another country had managed to (unintentionally) shoot an arrow into my heart and I didn't know how to deal with it. I felt the same as the moment I realized I had my first serious crush in Grade 8. Awkward. I probably blushed like I did constantly back then and still do on occasion.

At that time (or subsequently) I didn't confess my feeling. Nor have I with the other two internet 'strangers' I met on that site and had similar moments where cupid's arrow struck.  I am pretty sure there was a similar spark in each case. If my travels ever land me in their vicinity I will definitely be trying to arrange a face to face meeting. It won't be to try and recapture past feelings but because the spark I felt back then was genuine and based on a deep level of attraction to an intellect and a persona that seemed to care. I don't think their in person behaviour will differ. I am connected to all of them on other social media accounts now and love the occasional interaction we have. They are like a stable of past crushes that remind me of the type of people I'm capable of connecting deeply with. I suspect a lot of interactions like my own happened on that site. The men I interacted with were not looking for dating interactions with me and that's possibly why I felt safe enough in that online space to be real with them (and they with me perhaps).  In the flurry of electronic bytes sent between us over a period of a few years, real relationships were formed even though I have yet to meet them offline and perhaps never will.

The internet, she be magic in more ways than one.

Moving out of your comfort zone.

After years of being the exception I thought I knew how to survive in the dark dangerous zone of unfamiliarity.  I was part of the brave new world where women were equal to men. I had obtained an honours mathematics and computer science degree from the prestigious University of Waterloo.  I had obtained a master's degree in engineering and was pursuing a doctorate degree in the same subject area.

The first inkling of a flaw in my internal logic with respect to gender came while I was pregnant for the second time (I miscarried my first).  I vividly remember being in the women's bathroom of my engineering graduate school department and looking myself in the mirror and saying to myself:  "Wow, being a woman sucks."

The precipitous 'event' which was less an event but more of an all encompassing new way of life for me at that time was being nauseous 24/7. It was horrible. Horrible enough to wish I wasn't a woman. It seemed grossly unfair to me that biology had dictated not only labour (of which I was mortally afraid and as it turned out, with good reason) but also this feeling of wanting to throw up, constantly.  Morning sickness became a cruel euphemism ridiculing my constant state of gagging. I wonder if Princess Kate had this same realization.

Upon reflection I see that this nausea was perhaps a biological reminder that by becoming a parent, you move so far out of your comfort zone that a warm up sure doesn't hurt. Science doesn't seem to support this idea but how could it?  How could this idea even be tested?

Yet, if you ask any parent if they believe having children moved them out of their comfort zone I believe you would get 100% concurrence on this sentiment as well as an addendum:  "Most rewarding thing I've ever done."

So, forgetting the science, ask yourself what is making you uncomfortable, right now?  Could it be something that if you persevere it will end up rewarding you?

I'm grappling with these questions even as I type these words.  Some of the reading I've been doing about the art and practice of writing suggests that if you are painfully extracting words from deep within, you have found your voice. I am all too familiar with this notion yet constantly reject practicing (i.e. like maintaining this blog). 

Me: An Original Nerd/Geek Fashionista

This picture needs no accompanying words with respect to the title of this blog.  But, for posterity, I will accompany it, below the (most awesome pic ever of me) with thoughts and ruminations of the last sixty days of my life.  Yes, it's been awhile.

I was 11 and I wore those shorts out.
I outgrew the tshirt (my dad's old rugby team).

In the past two months I think I've had the opposite of writer's block: Writer's bounty.  I have so many ideas I don't know where to start. It's like a waterfall being forced to trickle into a tiny tube.

And then there is this other major life change I'm facing which is how I came upon this classic picture of me.  I'm clearing out my house.  It's the ocean for me this summer. In writing even that short sentence the thought of fresh sea air makes me salivate (not joking).  I am desperate for it.

So, to recap, briefly, the last two months:

1. I have a curious affliction I'm calling writer's bounty.
2. I had some lovely quality holiday time with daughter and out of town friends.
3. I have been to many Toronto museums (I've discovered the free pass system).
4. I am implementing a weekly internet free day and live life as though it hadn't been invented yet (Tuesdays). 
5. I did my first ever spoken word performance (see here for evidence!).
6. I have enrolled in a course called "Getting Paid in the Knowledge Economy" and am very much looking forward to it.
7. I have been feeding the birds in my front yard feeder regularly. This brings an inner joy that must mean that I'm getting old or wise (or simple?). It brings to mind an expression that a dear friend shared with me over the holidays:  "And this too."  

And, back to the picture.  Even at eleven I preferred comfort.  I remember the softness of that cotton t shirt   And those shorts fit perfectly and at the time I felt were quite fashionable (go ahead, laugh, but unless you were 11 in 1978 then shut up lol).

Well, that was awkward. Not.

"We had lunch at Timmies."

I looked down to the voice that was directed, quite obviously, but not rudely, towards me.

In the hilarity and confusion of the preceding moments I hadn't realized that this little person had managed to weasle his way closer to me.

On the other side of me Daughter was holding a green tinged wrap.  The kind they call a spinach wrap. The kind that people actually believe counts as a serving of vegetables.

We were at an event that had tables of food and Daughter was wolfing down a very late breakfast/lunch since she had chosen to not eat before we left the house at noon. She had remarked that she was starving and I had also said that it was no wonder since she had chosen to skip breakfast.

I had just made a comment to her and the group around her that I wanted a picture of her with the green tinged wrap with another stringy bit of green limp lettuce flopping out of it.  And I had said that I wanted the wrap hanging out of her nose.  I felt that the effect would be marvelous when contrasted with her crisp black graduation gown and hard covered cap with the orange tassle dangling from the left side.

This comment had all of us laughing at the image of her with the green  wrap dangling out of her nose as the perfect accouterment to the dangling orangle tassle  - aided greatly by Daughter acting out the motion of placing said wrap close to her nose. And then this little person's voice piped up directly below me in order to to tell me, not the group, where he had had lunch.

I guess it was a big deal for him. Coming down to the big city to see his half sister graduate. The half sister that he worshipped and had since birth (the feeling being mutual).  He got to take the afternoon off of school and go to lunch alone with his own mom and their shared dad since his other full blooded sister couldn't come due to a conflicting track and field competition.  And the three of them had went to Timmie's for lunch.  The whole day had likely taken on a magical quality for him and perhaps, as at another graduation ceremony over four years prior, this young child had felt the need to share something with me, the other mother. The one that wasn't his mother. The one that mothers his idolized sister.

The difference between this graduation for Daughter and the last is that the ensuing four years has brought a maturity to me that cannot be erased. Four years ago, at Daughter's grade eight graduation, I had a friend accompany me. I could not face it alone. By it I mean the reality of the anger and rage that XHusband projects onto me.  The rage that he shared with Daughter via nastily barbed words about my failings as a mother - both in his home with his 'new' family and at family gatherings with his extended family. So at that graduation, when the same little voice approached me, I was moved to engage with Daughter's half brother by asking him some questions and conversing directly with him. An olive branch, as it were.

But this time, when the little voice offered up it's morsel all I could think was "I am not your mother little boy. I am so grateful that my child was not raised in a house of hatred.  I am sorry that your parents have not allowed you and your half sister, my daughter, to have a joint relationship with me and that they have portrayed me to be something evil. Because I see that you, little boy, recognize me for what I am: The mother of someone you love dearly and because of your love for her you want to reach out to me because you know that you and I share this worship factor. We both worship Daughter and for that I am delighted.  But I am not your mother and I have nothing to give you right now."

Of course, I didn't say any of this.  I merely looked into the innocent eyes and said "That's nice" and continued to focus my attention on the object of my worship.  Daughter was looking resplendent and glorious in her gown and cap and gobbling down a green tinged wrap while sharing an awkward moment with her two estranged parents, step mom and half brother.  These moments have come few and far between in her life. Her continuing giggles attested to the inherent discomfort of the situation and she was relieved when her father mumbled something about getting on the road to return home.  Their backs were swallowed up by bodies in the hectic gymnasium as they found their way back to their mini van and their small city life in Kitchener.

One of the best parts of worshipping Daughter is getting to be a voyeur on her social life and I spent the next half hour soaking up the shrieks and shrills of her gang reuniting.  Daughter's high school graduation made me feel more like a grown up than I ever have.  And I mean that in a very positive way.

And now, she can vote.

In a curious alignment of the stars in the universe (and on this planet) today's date in 1994 had Johnny Depp on the cover of People magazine.  I missed that cover.  I was busily delivering what was going to be my own personal star that day. That morning, to be more precise.

My daughter was delivered at 11:50 a.m. on October 3.  Eighteen years ago today.

My daughter. My only. My star.

On that date those magical two words rolled off my tongue like the most exquisitely composed orchestral score for the very first time. My daughter.

We didn't know her gender and I had determined, through anything but scientific means, that I was carrying a boy. I can be stubborn like that, even still.  So when her little wee clearly female crotch came out of me and I saw it in the mirror they thoughtfully had placed in order to see the results of my 39 hours and 20 minutes of labour (yes, it was vaginal and yes I begged to be cut open but my family doctor thoughtfully refused even though I really really begged).  I almost didn't get to see that little crotch hanging half out of me and half still inside since I wasn't exactly in the mood for pensive mirror reflections (refer to previously detailed length of labour as to the explanation for the mood I was in).  It was my family doctor who was also my delivering physician, who demanded me to look. Again, I thank her for that thoughtful command.

The miracle of birth and the astonishment about my daughter's crotch simultaneously collided in my head and I was literally transformed from awkward pregnant blob into a full blown mother of a daughter in that instant. It was likely also the instant that the post-birth hormones were released since I've never felt that sort of high before or since. And the high sustained itself for days despite my exhaustion.  I can feel an echo of it even today by concentrating on that instant.

I've rattled and prattled about Daughter here before. Yes, she is in university now. Yes I've had a few struggles as a single mom and all that.

But there are a few things I've neglected to mention and on the occasion of her 18th birthday I think it's about time I came out with a few things about her.  First of all, she is awesome (and smart and funny and all those things you expect a mother to say about her child but in this case it's 100% true).  And second of all, she seems to have a fan girl crush on Johnny Depp. And since I just found out that he was on the cover of the world's most respected gossip rag (arguably) the day she was born I guess I'm gonna have to excuse her nearly lifelong attraction to this actor despite my (often stated) misgivings about the age difference. So I'll just come right out and say it directly to her:  "You can have him sweetie...I'll move out the way now....consider it your first birthday present as an adult :)"

"Next":  Command performance of 1st year birthday cake eating complete.
No more disgusting chocolate frosted cake. Where's the vanilla ice cream?

Default World

I am midway through my drive across Canada (from Vancouver, BC to St. John's, NL). I have taken a day to regroup and write. I have only one week left on the journey and have had no time to write or read.  I have been driving and having power visits and brief social interactions to do with my concurrent LettuceConnect.ca Harvest Trek 2012 venture.

I have been away from home for over two weeks and returning to it last night was strange. It doesn't feel like home now. Daughter is firmly ensconced in university so she is not here. There are no animals to greet me.  My Toronto residence seems to have taken on a temporary quality. And I don't mind. I did enjoy my comfy bed last night and will again tonight before leaving for the east coast of my journey early tomorrow morning.  But beds are quite mobile and after camping in the open for three nights in the Rockies and on the Prairies I am pleased with how easily I coped with a nomadic type of existence, even if it was only for a very short time. Being a nomad suits me and although I'd had inklings of this part of my character before the trip I now see how solidly it is part of me. It has bloomed, as it were.

I find this lack of personal emotional engagement to my return to Toronto quite interesting and might just be the most important take away from my trek across Canada. I have little vested in Toronto anymore since friendships cross many borders nowadays. I own just a tiny bit of property. My return to the city was also met by my respiratory system with a permanently slightly congested nasal system. That is another strongly received signal. Perhaps my already compromised state of health might fare better in a location not covered by a thick layer of car exhaust fumes.

In my journey so far I've also had ample time to contemplate life, the universe, and everything (well beyond the factors of 6 and 7 or 42 for you non-mathematician types). I have also faced the reality that my reality is self made. This may sound like a rather obvious thing to some of you more grown up types but I've known for a long while that I'm emotionally less developed than most of my peers.

I have learned that each and every day gives me the prospect (or blank slate) of shaping my reality and this is really quite an astonishing discovery to me.

I am still getting used to the idea and yet a part of me has reawakened too. This feeling of a blank slate is like the resurgence of a long ago feeling.  A feeling that was sparked by certain teachers, books and my parents when I was a child.  Heroes like Terry Fox running through my hometown in my youth also helped stoke that feeling.  My re-visitation of his memorial on Terry Fox Day solidified the reawakening.

In the copious amounts of tears that I shed while at and after visiting his memorial I was left with the certainty that reality is something each and everyone of us shape.  And I am hopeful that I am ready, willing, and able to rise to the occasion.

I cried with new found admiration for this young man
at his stunning memorial overlooking Lake Superior.
Terry Fox is a perennial hero.