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Canada Day

I was pretty much unaware of Canada Day this year.

I grew up in Ottawa and it was always a huge deal there. Just packed. The streets were always too congested to even ride a bike, and I always found it kind of excellent—as if sleepy, happy-to-conform Ottawa were an entirely different city. The anonymity and serendipity that a crowd provides, as well as the unpredictable behaviour of an at least partially drunk mob was entirely thrilling. I always hoped for a massive rainstorm to wash over us like catharsis, releasing us into some sort of Woodstock reverie.

But I doubt it was like that this year. Apart from the obvious imposition of Covid-19, there was also the confusion about whether to celebrate or scold. To wake up in a civilization like this, one built by all the geniuses and monsters who came before us, and to not know whether to celebrate what we became, or beg forgiveness for it. It’s hard to imagine there was a time when people sincerely believed that if you sewed a little Canadian flag on your backpack when you went on your I’ve-been-to-Europe tour, that people would respect and honour you. Those were more innocent times, and although I have no idea if this was actually true or not, it seemed true. As a Canadian I always felt like a good neighbour. Although we may not have been the best, we were rarely the worst, and were always modest, honest and helpful. I just had the sense we were on the right side.

I wonder if anybody feels that anymore?

And last year we had fireworks in the park. Everyone in the community coming together to create something small and beautiful. Something vivid. A lucky point in life. And this year we were just so busy. Rachelle working, me trying to keep Jones occupied throughout the day, and when it hit five o’clock or so the two families who comprise our “bubble” came by with their children, and sparklers were lit in honour of the day I had totally forgotten about.

Each child– kind of socially-distanced from the other–holding a sparkler with a red oven mitt encased hand, the tired parents in the background trying to remember what exactly it was that distinguished this week from the last. The children, of course, were happy. It was a marvel, something slightly dangerous even, and they squealed with delight– but no more so than they would have had if they saw a squirrel eating a nut. And whatever the space was that Canada Day had afforded us, had changed. The national myth, now dislocated, was doing as much to dislodge identity as assert it. The times, they can change for the better and worse at the very same time, and this sentiment of uncertainty hung in the air like a ghost, the crackling of the children’s sparklers fading to a hiss and then nothing at all.

A humid, still morning.

Dreamy and unbelievably quiet. All the tumult, all the brute churnings of the world absent, almost unimaginable in this moment. Just shafts of sunlight falling through the trees into the backyard. Like endless, benevolent spirits. Pillars in a cathedral. Occasionally a bird makes some gentle sound, and then above the fence, a few houses over, Jones spots the water from a sprinkler arcing back and forth, back and forth. Some languid and easy creature, sparkling like candy, waving him over to play. He wants to go and dance within it.

But instead, I throw a handful of shelled nuts into the yard. Branches in the trees begin to rustle, begin to swing. A network of transportation that exists above comes to life. Squirrels running along the hydro wires, launching themselves from one tree to the next, the sound of squirrels scrabbling up fences and down trunks. Suddenly, there must be a dozen of them, maybe more. They come like a nightmare, they come like a dream. They are everywhere around us, and Jones is a raw expression of joy. The squirrels zipping around grabbing nuts, Jones squealing with delight, every once in awhile chasing them with a little net, and then after a few minutes of this, they just vanish– the stillness of the morning abruptly returned. Jones and I smiling at one another, happy. The world quiet and weightless around us.

The other night I saw a video of a few dozen protestors bringing down a statue. All of them pulling the ropes together, all in unison. The statue above them swaying, the crowd getting more and more excited. A catharsis about to be unleashed. And then the statue comes tumbling down, the general upon his horse clanking lifelessly before them. The protestors roar. They all have their reasons. Fireworks and smoke, the cops arriving from the distance, and everybody scatters into the hot, summer night. This, the best, most alive time of their lives. To be in the midst of it, living life in the full, streaming arteries–all your potential unbroken and rising.

Less than a year ago, back in The Before Times, Rachelle and I were lying in bed watching TV.

The HBO show Watchmen was on, and the central plotline involved the Tulsa Massacre of 1921. The most vital, prosperous community in Black America was attacked– via land and air– by angry, resentful whites. An estimated thirty-six blocks of this district was razed, up to 300 Blacks were killed, and another 6,000 interned for days.

Neither Rachlle nor I had ever heard of this.

In fact, I was so astonished by our shared ignorance that I presumed the Tulsa Massacre was a fictional event built to serve the story we were watching, rather than something that actually took place. It was beyond my imagination that we would not have been taught something so central to our history.

Just.
Couldn’t.
Happen.

And as you very likely know, I’m white.

But I’m not one of those whites.
I’m not a racist.
Nope…

I’m not one of those Deplorables we all sneered at on social media. And I imagined the type of “white” I inhabited was very different from the type of “white” all the bad people inhabited. I was an obvious ally, I thought.

It’s always amazing to me how white people can use the expression “white person” or “ white privilege” in a way that always seems to exempt them from the group they’re referring to. The continual references seem equal parts contrition and gratitude, but it is also a signal of need. A desire for approval, to be reassured that this symbolic gesture of self-awareness was sufficient. But it wasn’t self-awareness, it was more like a nervous tic or autistic spasm, and like all who are born into white privilege, we lived both comfortably and uncomfortably within it.

Anyway, my ignorance of The Tulsa Massacre, and my astonishment at my ignorance, is probably a really good example of systemic racism. Invisible and unknown. Marked by absence more than presence. Path lines that just vanish or were never allowed to start. And me, and by extension the majority community, having no fucking idea.

Anyway, I think I could go on a long time trying to work this out, but suffice it to say, this is a starting point. And as has been said before, I am learning more as the statues come down than when I lived in their midst.

Hulk Eating

HULK OPENS UP ABOUT HIS EATING

Hulk like to eat, it true, but only rumour that Hulk eat enemy. Hulk never do that. Hulk smash, but Hulk never eat what smash. Bad manners. Hulk have better manners than puny humans give him credit for. Hulk never wear hat at dining room table! Was total photoshop job! Fake news always lying about Hulk! Hulk so want to to smash fake news!!

Sorry. Hulk no mean to smash chair. Hulk people will look after expense.

Back to subject. Hulk eat a lot. A lot a lot. Hulk like to eat chicken, meat, fish, pasta, candy, yogurt, pop, some trees, nuts, cheese, hotdogs, many different type of cereal. Hulk had cereal named after him. It true. It just knock-off of Lucky Charms, but taste ok and Hulk favourite green not green of spinach, but green of money. Hulk not ashamed. Hulk no sell-out, just good business sense.

Favourites? Hulk favourite cereal Sugar Crisp. Favourite chocolate bar Toblerone. What? Hulk surprise you? Think Hulk dumb?! Hulk not dumb!! Hulk more sophisticated than you know!! Toblerone remind Hulk of mountains. Mountains of delicious honey, almonds and chocolate. Thanos once took Toblerone from Hulk. Hulk got so mad smash Thanos!! But Hulk know Thanos not the problem. Hulk know he have problem. Hulk anger comes from somewhere. Hulk no understand, but no matter how much Hulk eat, still big hole inside Hulk.

Tuesday morning and Rachelle is sitting out in the backyard working on her laptop.

From the table she’s sitting at, she keeps an eye on Jones splashing about in an inflatable pool a few feet away. And the sunlight is rendering everything so vivid.

The water Jones is churning, the shadow of the leaves whirling over the patio stones, the colour of my wife’s hair.

And then somebody in a neighbouring yard lets out an explosive sneeze. Startled, Jones bolts up from the water. Like an otter. His body slick and perfect in the sun. Quickly reassured, he dives back under the surface and starts waving his arms about in an effort to create as many bubbles as possible. He is so proud of this. All these bubbles flowing up around him, mysterious creatures summoned by this wild and tiny God. And after demonstrating his new powers, he smiles at me, “These bubbles, they are magic, daddy. Look at them!”

And I do, and I am Jones’ age, falling off an inflatable swan and sinking into the deep end of a motel pool. Bubbles streaming away from me as the refracted world of light above grew odder and more distant, and then a muffled splash as my father jumped into the water. Holding me with one arm, he swam me up until we broke through the surface into the light– gasping as if newly born, everything around us wet, glowing and beautiful.

Jones has been watching scenes from Raiders of the Lost Ark recently.

He has turned off all the lights in the room so that it better approximates a jungle temple. It is late in the afternoon and the blinds in the bedroom are drawn, but still, light glows from around their perimeter, diffusing into the room like a liquid.

And Jones, wearing a broad brimmed hat, is crouched over a small, green cube. It’s the Ark of the Covenant, this cube. He’s being very deliberate as he studies it, and then very delicately he picks it up, quickly replacing it with the AC remote. But it doesn’t work! He hasn’t counterbalanced the weight properly and the trap is launched! Arrows are shooting out of walls! He starts to run, waving the belt from his mother’s housecoat like a whip, as a giant boulder rolls after him! It’s a grim situation, so he makes a desperate leap toward the bed. He claws at the sheets like they’re vines, but they keep giving way! He’s slipping into danger! “Dad!” he calls out, “Dad, help me!” And I, in the role of Indiana Jones’ father, reach over and pull him to safety.

So many different fantasies being realized at once.

And then, both happy, both catching our breath, we sit there in the strange light of the room as if living within a jewel.

Covid Risk Chart


The list, below, looking at the risk of Covid-19 and other factors, assigns a score for activities from 1 to 10, with a 10 being the riskiest and a 1 being the least risky. The score is an average of scores given by the health experts, rounded to the nearest whole number.

Risk Level 1

Playing tennis
Getting take-out
Looking in the mirror

Risk Level 2

Getting fuel
Going for a bike ride with others
Taking a bath
Attending Ayahuasca ceremony and purging with strangers for a weekend

Risk Level 3

Camping
5G
Getting groceries
Feeding squirrels in your backyard

Risk Level 4

Doctor’s waiting room
Walking in a busy downtown city
Taking Hydroxychloroquine
Not taking Hydroxychloroquine
Communicating with the sky visitors

Risk Level 5

Malls
Airplanes
Starting a Murder Hornet farm
Dinner parties at houses
Encounter with clean-looking sex worker

Risk Level 6

Eating chicken thighs
Pontoon Boat Rides
Going to the movies
Wearing a surgical mask
Going to casino

Risk Level 7

Going on social media
Public pool
Zoom meeting

Risk Level 8

Churches
Stitching a conscious and angry shark who you accidentally wounded while slicing bread
Gyms
Sports stadiums

Risk Level 9

Bars
Buffets
Attending massive protest rally
Not attending massive protest rally


Blackout Tuesday played-out like a full-on anxiety attack for whites.

Nobody seemed to know if they were posting the image correctly or not, and few of us had any black friends we felt secure enough to ask, so soon enough sincere white people were scolding other, equally sincere white people, about proper rule compliance and how to be the best ally. In short order a chaotic neurosis—of the type only social media seems capable of generating– had encircled us. It was so predictable it was almost funny, but it wasn’t funny. It was paralyzing.

Everybody scared of doing something wrong.

It sometimes feels very difficult– particularly if you feel that the enemy looks like you–to know how to help. Everybody is already so furious, and a misstep isn’t just easy, it’s inevitable. It can feel like the right thing to do is simply remove yourself from the discourse.

I will be quiet.
Let others speak.
Let others act.

But what the hell does that actually mean?

How can we not act?

People we know and love are in pain.

Of that we can be as certain as the wind.

And this ignored pain, so easy to keep at an abstract distance, is felt so deeply that those outside of its radioactive fallout can only imagine what it might be like. How ever-present and dangerous and demoralizingly predictable this racism is. It must be heavy and all encompassing, a kind of humidity that lives even in the lungs. And this, for generation after generation after generation. And people, always the people who just don’t even see it. Sweet Jesus, it must be infuriating.

And so I am learning that we simply cannot “opt out” of the pain of others. Pain is the enemy in the here and now, and we have to do as much as we can within each day, to eliminate it. I am sure that this will be harder than I can possibly imagine, but it lies in front of me, in front of all of us, and it is in that direction from which our better angels call.

In the middle of the night a huge limb from a tree in front of our apartment fell.

It landed in the narrow, two foot distance between our parked car and the neighbours. Just missing both. As if a message lain there by design. In the morning, we stood outside marvelling at this blind, improbable luck. Makes one consider providence. What that might actually mean. It’s amazing how much of our lives happen beyond our knowing– each life composed of near misses that speed by while we, in the dark, sleep.

But I wasn’t troubled, standing there in the sun. It was early enough in the morning that the air was still light, still unexpectedly pure, and it felt like the day when everything turned green. Jones was jumping about amidst the curious mathematics of ants, and Rachelle in her housecoat, like some idea of the angelic, was gathering in the wounded fledgling that had been cast from the nest when the branch suddenly fractured from the tree the night before.

Everything so innocent.

And then two old friends, both who happened to be out for a morning walk, chanced by. All of us, after all the years, arriving at this point and place in time, as if agreed upon at a drunken dinner party years earlier. And it had been years. So very many of them it seemed. We all carried different weights now, you could see that, but we didn’t bother to talk about them. We were just relieved to see one another, I think, and we chatted as if nothing was different, even though absolutely everything was different. A strange, beautiful space in the day, not one of us imaging the fox laying in wait for night, and then coming softly to take the wounded bird we had hoped to restore.