Stop Calling it a Ground Zero Mosque and Start Calling Out Islamophobia

Ordinarily, I try to stay out of the crazy politics of America. I admit that I followed the last election with glee because of that lovable Mama Grizzly train-wreck, Sarah Palin, but for the most part I try to remember that I'm Canadian and there is really absolutely nothing I can do (besides, we have our own dictator-style government to worry about).


But, I do consider an article written by a Canadian, for a Canadian newspaper fair game. Today, Rosi DiManno of the Toronto Star threw in her two cents on the whole hyperbolized "ground zero mosque" quagmire. She believes (like the Harry Reids, Newt Gingrichs and everyone's favourite crank, Glenn Beck) that just because they (that inflammatory, exoticisation of any one not white and middle-class) have the right, doesn't mean it's right. And the earth spins a little faster, fueled by an overwhelming self-righteousness. You see, they are not Islamophobes, nooooooo, they just think Muslims shouldn't rub it in American's faces that they have a right to their religion.


Aside from the obvious, rational, logical and, well, smart reasons that building a Islamic community centre two blocks away from where fringe radicals committed a horrifying act of terrorism isn't a slap in America's collective face (um, I think I actually just listed them anyway), the best part of this article is where DiManno writes off that racist, hateful piece of human garbage, Pastor Jones (the fuckwit who proposed burning Qurans as a measured response to the Cordoba House) as a fringe radical who isn't representative of the rest of America. "If such vast opposition has not always been articulated well and too much attention focused on the most fringe elements of ignorant bigots — especially that ridiculous Florida pastor who threatened to torch the Qur’an — this stubborn swell of resistance can’t be brusquely dismissed as Islamophobia."


Wait a second, so a few (ha!) racists in America who hate Muslims and want to burn their holy book shouldn't be held up as typical, ordinary Americans? Then why the fuck are we judging an entire religion by the actions of a radical minority? Paradox!


It is painfully obvious that Republican politicians are using this polarizing issue for political gain (crazy? I know!) because it is an issue that is not only up for debate (zoning was approved ages ago) but the two politicians who should actually have a say, President Obama and Mayor Bloomberg, have both backed the project. Not to mention that the people who were most affected by 9/11 and who will be most affected by Cordoba House, Manhattanites support the plan by 53%, with a luke warm 31% opposed.


A couple of years ago, my imaginary best friend, Sarah Vowell, was on the Daily Show and basically summed up what has always rubbed me the wrong way about the right-wing's treatment of 9/11: "They wrap themselves in our attack and then they leave and talk about what snobs we are...If the East Coast Is American enough For Al-Qaeda, It should be American enough for them."


Some wack-job dude in Florida, as well as all those Fox news "pundits" should not get to co-opt a non-existent rage on behalf of those liberal elite that they so hate. Same goes for Canadians who beg the whole not to be judged by the actions of a few crazies but condemn millions of people based on the actions of a few... crazies. 

Pa's Life Part One: Riding the Rails

My grandfather, Howard Jamieson, did more with his eighty-three years than most people could accomplish in three lifetimes; he did so much that it actually seems more folk-lore than actually possible, truly the stuff of legends. It really doesn't matter if it is all true or if there are exaggerations here and there because these stories were, are the essence of Pa; they illustrate his personality, his dreams, the life he lived.

Pa was an only child, a late gift to his mother and father; they were an inseparable trio and if his parents, my great-grandparents, had ever promised a higher power that they would shower their child with love and adoration in return for said child then they kept up their end of the bargain until their last days. There was a story told at Pa's funeral last week of his childhood friend getting up early, completing two paper routes, mowing the lawn and getting his hair cut before heading over to call on his friend Howard only to be told by my great-grandma that "little Howdy was still sleeping". Spoiled but not rotten.

Pa got kicked out of two high schools, one of which was the same high school that spit Neil Young out a few years later, Kelvin High School. He then (now the exact details, locations, dates and time lines get a little murky) decided to follow his dreams and head down to America to become a boxer. This dream lasted approximately five minutes into his first match, as a spectator no less. Luckily, Pa was a man of many dreams and so after ditching the boxing he legged it down to the racing track (dogs, I think) and was waiting in line to place his first ever bet when a smooth-talking chap wandered up and told him all about a sure thing and well, now he could go on down and place the bet for Pa. Unfortunately, Pa bought this hook, line and sinker and thus our guy was left penniless in a foreign country. Having no other choice, in order to get home Pa hopped the rails and proceeded to be chased from the US by a state trouper; he was told never to return. 

After spending some time as a door to door salesman in Montreal, Pa returned to Winnipeg and did what few high school bad-asses attempt: he got into med-school and became a plastic surgeon. Oh, and at some point between med-school and Montreal he played a season for the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. 

Next: Funtastic Tales and Richard Harris' Nose

And We Liked It!

Tonight I was hanging with my sister at my grandpa's when he brought out a photocopied article from the National Post (gag) that he thought I might like, "I Remember When Music Wasn't Crappy"; a lament on the so-called decline in music since the 1950's, the main example being Nickleback.

Now, I would like to step on Chad Kroeger's throat as much as the next person but come on, as if they are representative of all modern music but that is what people, especially old people, freaking love; they love trotting out the old back in my day statements that tell us yootes how times used to be simpler, nicer, better. I am so exhausted of hearing that crap; you know what, I'm so glad that I didn't have to walk four miles to school everyday, in a foot of snow, uphill... both ways; and I'm glad that music has evolved past the I love you, please love me, love is so great, don't ever leave me lyrics of days of yore.

I wish for once that a in my day rant really told things how they were: Back in my day, women didn't vote, heck neither did African Americans* or Aboriginals* *; we were small-minded and prejudiced; we had segregation and the H-Bomb and the McCarthy witch-hunts and Vietnam; we helped wreck the earth and basically we fucked over just about every group of people except white dudes! And we liked it! 


* Usually one of these rants would use a slightly more, ahem, offensive term for African Americans.
** Ditto, for Aboriginals.

Sundaes on Saturday

On Wednesday evening I had the privilege of bearing witness to my grandfather's last breath. With my grandmother hugging him, my mother holding his hand he opened his eyes for the last time and smiled at my mum before his six year battle with Louie Body Dementia came to a close. A disease that masqueraded as Parkinson's and Alzheimer's and stole his mobility, his memory but never his humour, his love, his dignity, his bravery.

I have had a video playing through my mind since, a continual stream of images and moments of Pa. There I am jumping into bed between him and Barber (Pa is what I christened him as a wee one, Barber for my grandmother Barbara, shortened compliments of my little brother), careful not to land on my brother, sister and who ever else found themselves congregating in the heart of the home.

Now, he is tickling me and giving me whisker burns -- you know that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where that dude reaches into the guy's chest, pulls out his still-beating heart and kind of shakes it, grinning? That is my Pa to a T. The rattling jewelry (Pa always wore three watches; two on one wrist, one on the other), the maniacal grin, the slightly crazy eyes; it's a similarity that my brother and I laughed about as recently as last week.

Skip ahead to Christmas morning when I was eleven, thoroughly ensconced in my tom-boy phase; the year when I was determined to be the new Huck Finn. I had been asking for a sling-shot and boy, did I get one. Pa gave me a state of the art, army issued sling-shot complete with metal ball-bearings (which were taken away almost immediately). As soon as the snow melted, he was at the cottage, building me a proper target. I was going to be the best damn shot around.

And now, he is serenading us with Russian sounding gibberish songs, and dancing with Barber, taking a break from the dishes.

And baking a cake with green icing five inches thick for my birthday. I remember that even as a sugar-crazy six year old, feeling that a cake that rich could not be good for me.

And suturing up my brother's head, again and again (Dave was, is a bit of a wild daredevil and he could afford to be with a plastic surgeon for a grandfather).

There we are talking and I am telling him that I will be the first woman in baseball's Major Leagues and he is telling me that he will send me to the best baseball camp in the States (never mind that the camp wasn't for girls). And he wasn't just indulging me, a ten year old who was mediocre at best at baseball (I had only played one season but, oh man, was I obsessed with A League of Their Own and Sandlot), he genuinely believed that I would be the first woman in the MLB.

Our tradition was that we used to go for Sundaes on Saturdays at an old ice-cream parlour called Dutch Maid in Winnipeg where we would indulge in Sundaes the size of our heads.

I have a huge collection of shells and stones from beaches across the globe because on every trip Barber and Pa went on he would walk along the shore specially to pick me up a present. There are shells from the Adriatic and stones from the Dead Sea, the Pacific, the Atlantic, every gulf and bay you could name.

In my mind he is walking up to my grandmother, after disappearing for several hours, with a bouquet of wild flowers, saying "beauty for beauty".

And more recently, at Christmas, seeing him get out of his wheelchair and sprint down the hall because he "felt like exercise". This when a couple steps drained him to exhaustion.

The last time he recognized me was when I visited in April. He looked at my sister and I when Barber told him who we were and he said "oh! But they've gotten so big!"

There are steps at our family cottage, his cottage, on one of the decks that he built specially for me. I was three; the steps are only fit for a toddler yet they end a couple feet short of the ground (actually, a rock-hill that rolls into the water) and so are completely unfit for a toddler.

But that was the way he was, he went full gusto into everything he ever did but always did so with a sense of humour and whimsy. Not everything made sense -- at one point he put huge castor wheels on to all the furniture at the lake and so all the furniture was elevated by a foot -- but he went for it anyway and if nothing else, we his loving, adoring family have a plethora of amazing stories to tell.

It is surreal to imagine the rest of my life without my Pa. He has touched my life so profoundly, shaped so much of who I am that the pain seems as though it will never dull. My tongue doesn't seem to be able to form the word Barber without following it up with and Pa.

Being able to be with him at the end, able to help wash him and wrap him in his and Barber's favourite quilt, able to hold him and kiss him goodbye was the greatest gift I could ever have asked for. And that was all made possible by Barber.

Barber, the love of his life, his wife of fifty years and mother of his four children, kept him in their home. She cared for him when it seemed impossible. She was with him everyday for the past six years, never away for more than a couple hours; there was never the option of him not sleeping in her arms every night. I feel richer in my life for having witnessed their love.

Ah, I am a blubbering mess -- time to go curl up beside my mum -- but there is more to come... So many stories, so many memories and Pa was larger than life, he deserves more than one measly post!




Next post: Riding the Rails, Funtastic Tales and Richard Harris' Nose.

Goddamned Right, It's a Beautiful Day

Today was the first day that I felt grateful to be alive. Fucked up, I know. I don't know why it has taken me so long to feel like I dodged a bullet; I have had plenty of good times since my suicide attempt; lots of pints with friends, the best gig of my life (Flaming Lips, OMG!!!), going to the beach, exploring my city, parties, amazing food, amazing company; but for whatever reason, I kind of took it for granted, kind of even resented that I survived.

Thinking about that day, the overdoes day, is pretty hard both physically (I was a little, ahem, drugged out so it's pretty hazy) and emotionally (for fairly obvious reasons). It's hard to fully accept what happened; what led me to the biggest fuck you, but I know I wasn't myself, I know now that I was in an abusive friendship and that helped spur me along. I know I was angry; I know I was in the deepest possible despair.

Shit, I was so frustrated, still am, with my life. My life, that I have always valued and grabbed ahold of the happiness no matter how small, where that for so long wasn't enough. I don't understand what it is that makes me undateable; or what spurred on a friend to treat me like I was lower than dirt, that I had nothing to contribute to the world. I don't know why my dad brought me up to fear him or why I am here, in Toronto, my home, and not a priority to anyone within a thousand mile radius. This shit sucks. I wish I was successful. I wish I had money. I wish there was someone who wasn't related to me who was thinking about me right now.

Waa-fucking-waa. I am healthy. I am intelligent and I am pretty. I am going to school to learn Latin and Greek and how to dig up bones and why Anna Karenina is relevent. I have amazing tits. I have best friends scattered over the globe and places to stay in Edinburgh and Tirana and Copenhagen. I live in a beautiful city where I can get shwarma until four am and where I have seen some of my most favourite bands ever. I not only get along with my family, both extended and immediate, but I really really like (most of) them. There is an adorable dog who loves to stick her tongue in my mouth. I live in a world where Arrested Development exists and Deadwood and Firefly and It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. I live in an age where I, a white woman, can be almost as good as a white man (I wish all woman, all people of colour were as fortunate as I am, but right now I'm trying to be grateful for anything I have -- and I plan on fighting until we are all equal). I am glad I learned to read and that I have access to the greatest books of all time. I am so happy that my biggest physical impediment is being a little overweight, something that is completely within my ability to change. I have friends that love me and whom I love. I have friends that when I text them to come for a beer, they show up. I throw fucking awesome parties and I can blow minds with my cooking. I can make people laugh and I, in turn, can laugh with people.

There is so much to give me hope, to make my life worth living and for whatever reason, it has taken me five months to see that. It doesn't mean that tomorrow I will see rainbows or the next day or the next. Tomorrow something might happen and I might look to my wrists longingly but right now, this moment, while I sit at my local with a delicious, cold pint I want to live.

Goodnight, Sweet Prince(ess)

I remember watching Anne of Green Gables as a wee lass and being absolutely enthralled by the friendship between Anne and her best pal, Diana. Anne even had a name for their closeness: bosom friends.

"A bosom friend--an intimate friend, you know--a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul. I've dreamed of meeting her all my life. I never really supposed I would, but so many of my loveliest dreams have come true all at once that perhaps this one will too. Do you think it's possible?"

I dreamt of finding that friend, my own kindred spirit. I had many a best friend growing up but somehow none of those friendships withstood the test of time. There was Cheryl, who considered me her number one as long as no one cooler came along (yes, shockingly, I was never the coolest kid in school); then Ashley, queen of the backhanded compliment ("you'd be so pretty if you let me do your makeup"); the Australian exchange student, Amy; Michaela, to whom I was always her third best friend; Laurel and Deanne, twins, moved away; my first roommate, Lisa, who went all single white female on my ass; and my darling Crystal, who still makes me laugh harder than anyone but is thousands of kilometers away and two kids ahead of me.

Then I met Rebekah, GB, and oh my god, she is my soul twin. I have a sister (an amazing, hilarious, smart, beautiful and wickedly talented sister) so when I say GB is more sister than friend I know of what I speak. We have been joined at the hip for four years: working together, living together, playing together, vacationing together... you get the idea... and now my love, my sister from a different mister, has, just today, moved to Albania. My heart is broken.

GB is one the funniest, smartest, most interesting, most knowledgeable, sweetest, kindest people I've ever met. She also has the best stories I've ever heard and not only does she know how to tell them but even better, she knows when to tell them. She usually will wait until late at night when I am a little, ahem, fevered before launching into yet another lil gem. One half of our other half (our other quarter?), Derek, calls her an onion -- no matter how long or how well you know her there is always another layer to be pulled back.

A few of my favourite layers:

• When she worked at a fashion house in Bucharest under the designer, Jenie.
• The time she lost the toilet paper and her underwear down the outhouse hole in Tanzania.
• Seeing her lost love bird in the mouth of a neighourhood cat.
• Listening and singing along to the Carpenters every morning.
• Working as a clown... for payment in ice cream.

And of course, I have favourite GB moments of my own:

• Furiously hucking Timbits from a speeding car because by day four of driving her patience was wearing VERY thin.
• Singing Shoop, word for word, at every party. 
• Falling asleep on my aunt and uncle's couch and Pique slipping her the tongue. Every time.
• Showing up to work at 7.30 am without having her coffee, wearing her dress backwards. And inside out.
•  Hearing her quiet and meek, "occupied", in a rest-stop bathroom when a woman barged into her stall.
• The fashion show where she pulled a Faye Wray and was carried off by a dude in a gorilla suit. 
• Falling asleep while baking cookies. They did not turn out.

 We have had some pretty good times, ourselves:

• Late night wings and nachos with a Norwegian metal band where the apex of conversation was regarding real-estate in Oslo.
• Learning Ice Cube's You Can Do It together just in case...
• Slumlord/Norman Bates-esque landlords, the Seoks.
• Our mystery guest party when swamp-thing had an impromptu flash-dance in our bathroom. 
• Making our very own saline solution for my contacts from table salt and tap water (I once told that story to a man I was dating and he leaned over, kissed me, and said that at least I was pretty -- shocker of shockers, it didn't work out).

All silliness aside, GB is my bosom friend for reasons other than her incredible storytelling abilities or our constant hi-jinks. She knows me, she loves me, she is there for me one hundred percent no matter what. I am alive because of her. 

When I took thirty-eight too many Tylenols, I wrote two notes: one to my mum and one to Rebekah. And when she got home from work and I was still upright I couldn't bear the thought of frightening her by allowing her to find that note so I told her what I had done and without drama, without hesitation she dragged me outside and got us a cab to the hospital. She held my hand, she rubbed my back while I cried and she told me not to apologize. I don't know if she ever cries over what I have put her through; I can't imagine if our roles were reversed and I had to see the scars on her wrists or the dullness in her eyes; but my strength lies in her ability to put on a calm face. She's so good that when she says, after hearing the exact same hour-long cry for the hundred-billionth time, that just spending time with me is worth it, I believe her.

I could not have pulled through without her constant support: a shoulder to cry on, a sounding board, someone to just tell me it will all be ok.

She has stood by me when I've made mistakes, bad judgement calls and rather catastrophic decisions. Even when I made the same mistake over and over and over and even when those mistakes affected her deeply, she understood and loved me.

She has read every word I have ever written. She has gone out just for Advil and gatorade dozens of times when I've been incapacitated by migraines. She sat in a hospital for four hours last summer when I face-planted off my bike. She has made me a part of her family and herself a part of mine. We speak the same language, often finishing each other's sandwiches, I mean sentences. We have shared our deepest, darkest thoughts and she even listens when I tell her about the dream I had last night.

We are all lucky if we know unconditional love from one or two people, usually our parents and significant others, but how many of us experience that wholly unselfish and unadulterated adoration from a friend?

I am a better person for knowing Rebekah.

Hot damn, I love her and I miss her already, with every fiber of my being.

Read This

GB has written a beautiful piece on Facebook:

"I have reported from war zones in Bosnia, Serbia, Lebanon, and Israel.

But last night's confrontation between peaceful demonstrators and riot squad police was the scariest situation I've ever been in, in almost 30 years of reporting."

-Steve Paiken, the morning after

The most recent account I've heard says that nearly 500 people were arrested yesterday- and another 50 early this morning. I wonder how many more were arrested during the police raids that awoke innocent people at gunpoint and took them away in the middle of the night before the protests on saturday. I wonder how many of these demonstrators were actually responsible for the vandalism that we saw take place yesterday, and how many were peacefully defending their right to free speech. On second thought, I don't wonder that at all - I feel a bad joke in here somewhere- how many black bloc protesters does it take to set a cop car on fire? Not 500, I know that much. And judging by the amateur videos that were taken as people walked up Yonge street, it was a relatively small group of people actually responsible for the so-called path of destruction. The media makes it seem like our city was held hostage yesterday by roaming gangs of thugs, and people watching the images of burning cop cars over and over again from the safety of their homes can say that the police did their jobs, and are justified in the measures taken, because nobody was hurt. (well, except for those peacefully demonstrating who were shot at with rubber bullets and hit over the head with batons and trampled by horse-mounted officers and tasered...) Most of us woke up this morning and had our coffee and turned on the match or whatever. Our daily routines have not been disrupted (unless we planned on getting that coffee from Tim Horton's or Starbucks...) We still have hot water, electricity, phone, Internet and cable tv. We can carry on living our lives in the comforts of a wealthy first-world nation. Our windows were not smashed in by "hooligans". Morning joggers skip over the broken glass in the streets and tell the police officers they're doing a great job as they pass by. The billion dollar price tag on security spending is justified because "it could have been a lot worse." Really? Could it have been worse? I'm looking forward to hearing more first-hand reports of those who were there, and I humbly admit to witnessing the events unfold in real time through Twitter, Facebook and YouTube. But I didn't stay home for fear of what the protesters might do. I stayed home because I did not, and do not trust that the police officers who are supposedly protecting our city will not use unnecessary and even brutal force in order to "maintain the peace." I don't believe the security measures taken yesterday prevented things from getting worse. The police stood back and allowed the small group of people responsible for the property damage to go crazy for the cameras, for the people watching at home. We saw those cars burning for an awful long time, we saw those poor, defenseless American Apparel mannequins get torn apart limb from limb. My heart does go out to independent business owners who had to deal with the aftermath, but then, I'm sure they will find compensation from their insurance companies or the gov't for their trouble. The authorities use language to dehumanize the protesters, calling them "thugs" and "terrorists" They herd peaceful demonstrators into enclosed spaces with no opportunity to escape and then arrest them one by one. They search bystanders and use intimidation tactics to prevent people from gathering lawfully in designated "free speech zones." And then they congratulate themselves for a job well done.

But then, I'm sure the physical violence used against peaceful demonstrators in order to save inanimate objects from further harm was justified. I feel safer, don't you?