from city to pasture.

A few weeks ago, I realized I was feeling really politically winded. Apathetic almost. I sat with the feeling for a while, wondering from whence it came. Sure, I tear up at the radio newscasts regularly, fascists are gaining ground everywhere and the prospect of ecological collapse is impending, but let’s be honest, this wasn’t really new.

With the news of Paul Dewar’s prognosis and his launching of Youth Action Now, it hit me. I realized what it was. Ever since I moved out of my parents’ house, I have lived (until recently) in ridings with progressive, can-do, Members of Parliament. When I got back from a study stint in Sweden–a country I had chosen because of its feminist and democratic traditions–I lived in Paul Dewar’s riding. I got to vote for a progressive who got elected. And re-elected. I saw him at events and received prompt responses back when I sent him letters about issues that mattered to me. He agreed with me. Every time. It was empowering to know that I was represented by someone who had strong progressive stances, and by someone who could, would and did make things happen. When I moved to Halifax, my MP was none other than Megan Leslie. And when I moved back to Ottawa for the Parliamentary Internship Programme, I was again represented by Paul Dewar. I even got to work in the same gorgeous spaces and see his integrity and deep care firsthand.

Now I live in a riding represented federally by someone who won’t get back to me when I get in touch looking for help sorting out dental insurance for refugees and whose office’s hands are tied when I call and write about getting very large graffitied swastikas removed from a highway overpass. It hurts my heart. But more than that, their complacency engenders apathy and cynicism in me. It’s sapped a lot of the respect I have for the institutions of our parliamentary democracy.

I think a lot about agency. About what it is that fosters this sense of oneself as being able to create change–the political imagination and roll-up-your-sleeves resourcefulness. Having a Member of Parliament who politically had my back and who, I knew, was in the business of helping constituents, made a world of difference for me. How beautifully formative. It’s had a tremendous impact on my confidence that initiatives that strive for greater equality and justice can–with stick-to-it-iveness and elbow grease–get off the ground and find their champions.

I have so missed living in a riding represented by Paul Dewar. I wish I had taken the time to write to him to let him know.

Reading his words, I recommit to doing my utmost to rekindle my sense of political agency and to shift my focus to community building when politics get me down.

I’ve always loved picture books and libraries, so I did expect to enjoy discovering new books and reading with my kids, but I hadn’t anticipated the extent to which books would become a life line or the extent to which books would become their own storyline in my parenting journey.

First, what I love most about children’s books: they are place savers, they are conversation starters.

As I embarked on the politically intimidating task of raising two race conscious, feminist, and progressive white, blond haired, blue eyed, boy kids in (our homogenous) rural Canada, I remember reading an article on a great website called ‘Raising race conscious children’ (race conscious.org) about the importance for white kids to read picture books with protagonists that do not look like them. It said something along the lines of “you’re going to have a hard time talking about the concept of racism with your kids when they’re 4, 5 or 6 if you don’t name race when they’re 1, 2 and 3.

Two things about that speak to me.

First, we hear a lot about the importance of representation in books. That it’s so important for kids to see themselves reflected in the books they read. For biracial kids to see families that look like theirs, for kids with two moms to see families like theirs, for kids with disabilities to see protagonists that look like them.

And anyone who’s done a diversity audit of their school libraries will probably tell you that there is a huge gap in what the school body looks like and what’s reflected in that schools resources. (see http://www.parentsfordiversity.com)

But what we too often forget is that the kids who DO see themselves reflected most of the time badly need to read books where they can see other realities represented. Too often, everything aligns for them to think that their experiences are universal (that white is universal, that male is universal).

I see this in the random books that end up on our shelves and in our library bags. They’re great books, there’s nothing wrong with them. But if we’re looking to raise a generation of empathetic young people, I believe we need to reinforce the message that all kids can relate to all kids, that is, reading a great book about a black girl protagonist is interesting for black girls like it is for white boys. Children of colour, girl kids have been asked to stretch their imaginations so that stories about white boys are relatable to them. We need to expect and foster the same imagination in our white boys.

The second thing I love about the idea that we talk about skin colour and race to our toddlers to have the foundation to talk about racism with our preschoolers and youth is the reminder that we need to be in it for the long game.

In other words, I want to be able to talk to my teen boys about how to combat rape culture on their campuses in 15 years, so I talk to them about consent a lot right now.

My second top reason for turning to children’s books is that I really believe that it takes a village to raise a child. But when it comes to a number of values that are important to me, I don’t have that village. For example, no one else is telling my gender creative first grader that kids can wear dresses and identify as boys. And that’s a lonely place for both of us to be.

Books are authoritative. Their messages are published and real. Finding books that reinforce progressive messages that my kids don’t hear in their day to day, messages that a lot of the time contradict what they hear, gives weight to the lessons I’m trying to teach them.

My third reason for turning to children’s books: they help me talk about issues I don’t know how to talk about.

I read Morris Micklewhite and the Tangerine Dress with my kids—a book where a boy child who wears a beloved tangerine dress is excluded from games and friendships—because I want to talk about bullying and gender identity but don’t know how to bring it up without sounding like a nosy, frightened mom.

I love reading about Florence Mills in ‘Harlem’s Little Blackbird’ or about Viola Desmond or Rosa Parks because I’m not sure how to talk to my kids about where segregation comes from and how it shapes, limits and annexes lives.

One of my favourite finds when it comes to giving me tools to talk about a big issue is When We Were Alone.

This book was written by David A. Robertson, illustrated by one of my favourite illustrators Julie Flett and published by Highwater Press. To my great joy it was translated into French by Les Éditions des Plaines in 2017 and titled Quand on était seuls.

What I really appreciate about this book is that it’s in a vivid, resilient, strong present day where a grandmother explains parts of a past that are extremely relatable to children.

Young children can easily empathize with the examples brought up in this book: of not being able to wear your hair the way you want, not being able to wear the clothes you feel good in, not being able to be with your parents, your siblings. Kids GET that. They FEEL that.

This book also highlights that you don’t need to tell the whole story right away, that a 5-6 year old doesn’t need to learn the traumatic details of residential schools to start learning about the history of residential schools. But they do need to be exposed to this part of our history. And when the topic gets revisited, as they grow, we add layers. Much like we do when we teach math or languages. We don’t start with algebra or complex verb conjugation. You need a foundation and you need to build on it over time. The long game.

Books like When We Were Alone set us up to be able to start having these conversations. My hope is also that by being willing and eager to broach difficult topics with the children in our lives, they will be willing and able to do the same with us.

As a closing word, I’d like to share 3 reminders that I repeat to myself often. With kids and equity/justice issues, be explicit. Kids pick up on all of the unspoken and condoned unfairnesses in the world. They pick up on the biases, on the prejudice. They need to hear their grown-ups counter these before they take them as fact. And I’ve found that in explaining things to my kids, I need to remember to keep it really simple.

Second, I think a lot of adults worry about the questions kids will ask when we read books about big issues. Truth is their questions are usually fairly simple. They’re not looking for a history lesson. In the parent and teacher guide and accompanying video to When We Were Alone, a grade 1 teacher who reads this book with her kids says the bulk of the questions she gets are along the lines of “could the kids bring their stuffies?” or “could they call their parents?” A ‘No they couldn’t’ is enough. And to the big “why” questions (i.e. “but why would they take the kids from their families, maman?”), it’s a good opportunity to be really straightforward. My 6 year old doesn’t want to listen to me explaining the history of colonialism but he does want me to answer truthfully. Why? “because the European settlers who came here, thought they were better than the Indigenous people and taking kids from communities is the fastest way to lose languages and celebrations (cultures). Because it hurts people so so much to be separated from the people they love.” I might add that I can’t imagine how sad and unhealthy our town would be if all the kids were taken away. I tell them that they’re safe and that we need to learn about this together to make sure that all kids are safe.

Lastly, when it comes to giving hard, necessary conversations a go with kids: blunder on! We learn by trying and by making mistakes.

I brought a milk crate of books for people to peruse after the panel. Here’s a list of what I brought. It contains some of our favourites, the ones we own. (The all time favourites are marked with a * )

I savoured my time out of traffic, out of my (great but still a car) yaris, out of the bustle and the anxious rushing. Savoured drinking coffee out of beloved ceramic instead of metal to-go mugs.

I seeded more broccoli trays, some more squash pods, and the flower seeds I never seem to get to. I’ve willed myself to believe that it’s not too late. I may be wrong.

I took in the garden and grounds that I’ve had such high hopes for but have felt heavy about abandoning these past months.

I used birthday funds this year (merci pépé et maman!) to buy a fair amount of trees for around the house–our home yard is quite wide open, which has made me realize just how much I love trees. I feared a number of them hadn’t made it given the lack of watering and, let’s say it, care. But they’ve all grown substantial foliage save for three. I so appreciate the resilience of nature.

My half of the garden isn’t as barren as I’d been fearing either (so I stopped my frantic calls to all of the garden centres, confident that the year’s brassica harvest will see us through). Given our competitive natures (and our strong desire for excellent yields), P and I decided to have a vegetable garden contest whereby we each have 3 sections and we compete for victory–we’ve together established desired yields for each section as well as general principles for extra points (such as successive planting, rotations, cover cropping, frugality, etc.) It feels good knowing I can still win.

What I’m looking forward to most though is spending slow time with these two humans. Spending eleven hours a day away from this home and my family took a toll–on connections and patience and a sense of knowing where these kids are at.

So while this isn’t exactly how I thought this great off-farm adventure would go, I’m at peace and full of gladness for where I’m at.

I’ve been working off farm for three weeks now. It’s been a good shift for me. The hour-long commute was getting heavy, but I then discovered the joy of the audiobook. Having completed one for every week of work thus far, I’m looking forward to the months ahead. To shift the kid to adult book ratio to my read list.

While it’s hard to be away from the kids, the artefacts that they leave behind at the end of the day–the miscellaneous duplo and lego constructions, the bits of written letters and words, the mountains of minuscule paper clippings, the 300+ puzzle pieces, that is: every single kids puzzle we own completed on the living room floor — are evermore heartwarming.

The real family bonus though is that, since starting this job, I’ve started overhearing the kids speaking dutch together. I was so hoping that more home time with P. would make dutch more of a langue d’usage for them. And it has.

Also, P. has taught himself to play dozens of kids’ songs on our new piano, which means that our youngest, who already broke into song at least a dozen times a day, now does so even more. The cuteness is almost unbearable.

And in this empowering, emboldening yet existentially exhausting #MeToo moment, where women are seizing this groundswell of a moment, are speaking up and denouncing and holding their parties to account as every second day it seems a new member of parliament resigns because allegations of sexual assault or harrassment come to light,

I get to work alongside committed and seasoned feminist activists. It’s so very good for the soul.

Realising that a change of pace and a feeling of bread-winning would do wonders for my confidence, I started looking for work. The exercise was fascinating. It gave me a lot of energy. And while writing cover letters is never very pleasant there’s something about taking the time to imagine your life in many different configurations, and in being forced to talk up your trajectory and skills, that made me feel more solid and resilient despite some blows.

I found a job working four days a week with a very feminist team. I’m really looking forward to it (and also really hoping that this change won’t be too much of a weight on my supportive partner, who’ll be full-time farming on top of doing more of the daycare+school pick ups and school bus coordinating).

I received words that cut really deep before the holidays and I’ve had an embarrassingly hard time trying to shake them. They encompassed the whole and the whole ordeal sowed such deep doubt. It’s been a lot of trying to find my way out of a rabbit hole, wondering if someone else can be righter about me and my experiences than I am. There have been strong moments of Of course not. but the doubt and anxiety linger.

After witnessing a messy kind of e-exchange a few months earlier, I had committed to not penning long cathartic emails when human interactions get strained and challenging. I’m so grateful for the lesson. I’ve tried to make non-violent communication and compassionate patience more of a practice since having kids (and since being faced with the very real and surprising challenges of existing as a hetero- nuclear family in a rural/frugal/farm setting). The practice isn’t perfect. Neither is my communication. But in an effort to let go of the funk, I am recommitting to it for 2018.

I’m committing to more quiet reflection and to more movement.

To more sharing of the joy that is.

Committing too to continuing the reflection on what it means to try to grow your assertiveness as someone who’s been conditioned to ‘be nice’ at all cost; what it means to set clear boundaries and to take up space in relationships where it’s hard, where it’s unwelcome and challenged.

Committing to work on fostering less needlessly critical ways of being. To limit its intake and out-take both from within and from out.

I’m going to let the women pals who support me and teach me kindness, self-compassion and steadfastness know just how much I fucking love them.

Take time to be truly and utterly wow-ed by my eldest who is (entre autres) WRITING WORDS. Tout seul! Beautifully and phonetically. And by my youngest who is such a delightful ray of sunshine that I tear up daily thinking about how unbearably fast he’s growing.

Am going to savour closeness, this life I’m/we’re building, and the wide-variety of challenges we choose to face everyday.

Our town’s school is organizing a fundraiser to fix up its school yards. They’re in high need of love and newness. (This and other fundraisers are to supplement the $25,000 that the Ministère de l’Éducation has committed.)

I’ve been thinking about the jobs I’ve had. The jobs I’ve quit. And I’ve been thinking about this killer line in Old Man Luedecke’s I Quit my Job,

all my friends work their dreams with their hands.

and truly this is the promised land.

…don’t let them take the joy that you make.

on your own.

I picked up 10 kilos of honey this week from a strong woman pal who started (professional) beekeeping. It’s beautiful stuff. And I know it wasn’t and isn’t easy. There are no buts about it. Not even a local, food sovereignty, feel good, wholesome « but. » Pretty glorious to make my kids honey tea from this stuff though. Between that and learning that an artist pal (another awe inspiring woman) is starting an artful leather goods business, it’s been a week of good reminders.

My eldest’s school is running a number of fundraisers to upgrade its school yards. We went over there, he and I, during a pd day to take some photos to make a really compelling fundraising pitch for our friends and fam (I had envisioned him making sad faces on the busted swing sets, but he wasn’t really into it). There’s something about the vintage rusty metal park infrastructure and the miscellaneous cement paints that really took my breath away. (Much like the efforts of solid community folks in our village wanting to make a difference). Regardless, if you want a really awesome deal on some toothbrushes, get in touch.

One of the perks of having kids is hands down getting to read oodles of kids books. The combined joy of relatively short reads, simple word play, pleasant repetition, and colourful illustrations, make this genre one of my faves. With less traditional books you also get the bonus of a conversation starter, of a place saver. To talk about race and poverty and residential schools and transphobia and all of the rest.

I got really lucky with these kids of mine, they happen to both really love books too and are happy to spend hours being read to.

Niko Draws a Feeling. Written by Bob Raczka, Illustrated by Simone Shin.

This book is such a gem. A young child is misunderstood for drawing feelings instead of things. He draws an even bigger feeling, which is later understood by a new neighbour friend. It’s totally endearing, beautifully illustrated, and if you’ve ever felt like an oddball, this one will make you smile.

The story of a young girl going around her neighbourhood asking people about their « something beautiful » after talking about the courtyard of her building, which is littered with trash, broken glass and aggressive graffiti. It’s the story of a kid who wants to make her environment her own, who’s surrounded by beauty, and who’s asking the right questions. The illustrations are gorgeous. The text is powerful.

This is the book I give to all of the new babies. It’s perfect. It was also my youngest’s fave for a time, so we know it by heart and recite it. Other collaborations of Van Camp and Flett that we love (but that I keep giving away): ‘My Heart Fills with Happiness’ and ‘We Sang You Home.’ If you want to introduce elements of Indigenous culture to kids, these books are sweet intros.

Clive and His Babies. Written and illustrated by Jessica Spanyol.

A board book filled with kids of different races and boys who take care of their dolls. Those things shouldn’t be noteworthy but they are, so this is a good book to gently challenge stereotypes, already so painfully present in board books.

A sweet read. « Peace is everyone having a home. » « Peace is reading all different kinds of books. » « Peace is having enough pizza in the world for everyone. » Le livre de la paix, en français, et tout aussi adorable.

When We Were Alone. Written by David A. Robertson, Illustrated by Julie Flett.

I don’t know how to do this one justice. What I first loved about it was that it dealt with the challenging issue of residential schools through a conversation between a grandmother and a grand-daughter. The curiosity of the child and the power and strength of the grandmother are palpable. It makes the injustices and the hardships so relatable for young kids who have never had to think about not being able to speak their language, to have their hair long, to wear colours. It’s very gentle and my 5 year old enjoys the book (despite the fact that maman always tears up). I wish I could buy cases of this book and make sure that every school library in this country has a few copies.

I wrote to the author not long ago and he told me a french translation would soon be released by Les Éditions des plaines. Une bonne nouvelle.

The Big Book of Families. Written by Mary Hoffman, illustrated by Ros Asquith.

Some people have sisters, some people live in apartments, some children live with their grandma and grandpa. Some families celebrate this or that, some go on vacations. A solid book that shows that there are so many ways that people can live, and love, and transport themselves.

Joy. Written by Joyce Carol Thomas, Illustrated by Pamela Johnson.

Another favourite board book. This book is a poem, through the seasons, of a parent telling a child the many ways that she/he is her joy. A great read-aloud book.

Sex is a Funny Word. Written by Cory Silverberg, illustrated by Fiona Smyth.

The sequel to « What Makes a Baby » (actually!) and the book you wish you had had when you were 7 or 10 or 12. It’s a pretty solid read when you’re in your thirties too. It makes me really happy that books like this exist.

Amazing Grace. Written by Mary Hoffman, Illustrated by Caroline Binch.

Grace loves stories and dress-up and make-believe. When her class puts on the play Peter Pan and she raises her hand to play the lead role, she’s told (by class-mates) she can’t be Peter Pan first because she’s a girl, second because she’s black. She proves them wrong. Gorgeous illustrations.

Thanks to Octopus Books for ordering all of our English language books. Merci à leslibraires.ca pour la possibilité de commander en ligne de libraires indépendants. And mostly, to the Ottawa Public Library for having non-resident library memberships–for $50 a year, we borrow as many books as we want. So grateful.