The Power Of Pain

"Only scarred lives can heal."

This is a quote from the most important sacred book in my life after the Holy Bible.  The book is called "God Calling."  It was put together by two anonymous English women in the early 1930's and their friend, AJ Russell as a result of the two women receiving messages from God.  The messages were edited and compiled into one for each day of the year.  Now, it could be considered a moot point as to whether the messages were indeed divinely inspired and if you are an atheist, and a particularly close-minded one of the ilk of Richard Dawkins (for which reason I would really wonder why you are reading my blog) then you are going to dismiss the very notion as so much theistic poppycock.

Christians tend to be divided about the authenticity of these writings.  The women, also known as the Two Listeners, were respectively an Anglican and a Catholic.  Nothing else is known about them.  They insisted on anonymity, wanting the glory to go to God.  Generally the more fundamentalist, or the more liberal you are, the more likely you are to dismiss these writings.  Which rather suggests that the further left, or the further right you go, you eventually end up on the opposite end of the spectrum.  Those who have a personal experience of God's presence in their lives are generally receptive to these writings.  Here is the link and you can read it online and discern for yourselves, Gentle Reader: https://twolisteners.org/

I have no question as to the authenticity of these writings and I have read selections from this book every day for the last thirty-four years.

Now, there are two reasons why I have picked this title, "The Power Of Pain."  Yesterday, on the radio, I heard an interview with a physician who said that the reason many parents don't want their children to be vaccinated is because they don't want their little darlings to experience pain.  I phoned in a comment to express my dismay with this kind of thinking.  For all her lack of parenting skills in some areas, one thing my mother did teach me was courage.  In the face of any unpleasant experience, such as getting a vaccination, she would encourage me to be brave and I inhaled her encouragement like fresh, bracing clean air.  I have learned from such experiences to accept pain as a fact of life, to face it, endure it and overcome it. 

As well as toughening me this has also taught me compassion and empathy for others.  My own experiences of pain, hurt and trauma have scarred my life, in some ways permanently, but I otherwise would never have learned how to understand, patiently listen and simply be with others in their suffering.  By denying your children a full experience of life, by hovering over them like neurotic helicopters there to shield and forever shelter them from all the hurts and buffets of life you are cheating them and facilitating a lifetime of feeble self-absorbed wankers incapable of compassion, empathy or responsibility.  You are raising a generation of pathetic, spineless weaklings and our world will only suffer because of them, and by extension, because of you and your lousy parenting skills.

This morning, on the bus, I noticed while looking out the window a bundle of blankets and sleeping bags with a human form underneath on the sidewalk at the corner of Granville and West Tenth Avenue, one of Vancouver's most prestigious shopping districts.  There have been homeless men camping out there for years, I suspect the same ones.  They are, of course, casualties of the welfare "reforms" instituted by the BC Liberal government some fourteen years ago, the government that brought wide scale homelessness to British Colombia, the very government that I hope will one day be required to stand before the World Court in the Hague for committing human rights violations, in this case against the rights of the poor.

I noticed various pedestrians this cold morning passing the human bundle.  One man looked, concern etched on his face.  No one else seemed to notice.  Either they didn't see this person, or they simply didn't "see" because really they didn't want to look.  The pain that this poor individual has to live with, for any number of reasons: mental health, addictions, government irresponsibility, community neglect, a life of bad luck, an abusive childhood, is on display for all of us, whether we like it or not and we have to face it and we have to swallow it, even if we choke on it, because this is the pain that we all share in common, it is the pain of our human condition and we have to start sharing in one another's healing since we already share in one another's pain.  It is simply a matter of us pulling our heads out of our asses and accepting that we are all in this together and yes, we are all responsible for one another.  Call this communism, call it socialism, call it anarchy, call it whatever the fuck you want, but I am calling this basic human decency for which we all have a capacity even though we are too afraid of the pain of facing ourselves and one another.

Time to act now because it is beyond too late!

How I Got My Pencil Crayons And Pens

Gentle Reader, I am going to move away from the controversial and the socially relevant and talk about something innocuous, innocent, and rather boring.  That's right, today this blog, Content Under Pressure, goes totally twee.  Your humble scribe has controversy fatigue.

Just the other day while having coffee together, a friend who is a local and well known and highly respected social activist, wanted to know where I got all my art materials for drawing.  He noticed the seemingly hundreds of pencil crayons and coloured ballpoint pins spilling out of the little carrying case that I squirrel out of my goody bag every time I want to sit down to draw.  I told him a little bit.  Now, Gentle Reader, over to you and you get to read the whole story:

It all began with a former artist friend who wanted me to start drawing more, as she believed that would help me as a painter.  I don't mean that she's a former artist, she's a former friend, I would imagine she is still an artist.  I have one of her paintings and she has one of mine.  Our friendship ended when she accused me of feeling sorry for myself when I was distraught one Christmas eight years ago and was reaching out to friends for support.  When she responded that she didn't feel sorry for people who felt sorry for themselves I promptly ended the friendship.  Regrettable, perhaps, but I don't want people in my life who have zero or near  zero empathy.   Still, to this day, I regret ending the friendship, feeling now that a little patience and tactful communication might have gone a long way between us.  I say this after burning bridges with a number of people last year.  Even if they deserved to get kicked out of my life I also have suffered from my own lack of kindness.

My former artist friend was good enough to give me a set of water colour pencils, a set of twenty-four or so in a tin box, Faeber-Castell, which is a very good make, that I carried with me on my second trip to Costa Rica in 2008.  I had a very twee way of using them.  I brought with me a bound hard cover sketchbook (black cover of course, and blank white pages, very old-fashioned) and wrote in it as a journal of my trip, interspersing the writings with colour drawings of exotic birds, some of them Costa Rican, of course.  It turned into a lovely way of attracting people's attention while I was there and starting many interesting conversations in Spanish, while my level was still intermediate.  I can't say I was overjoyed with the quality of my art but I was generally pleased with the potential.

I basically forgot about the pencil crayons for another four years.  I was working with a Colombian client, a lady who spoke only Spanish.  She sometimes took me shopping with her.  In one of the branch London Drugs I noticed packages of coloured ballpoint pens, Staetdler, which like Faeber-Castell is another good German brand, ten different glorious colours in a package of ten for all of six bucks.  I finally bought some and experimented.  I was, as they say, sold.

On a trip to Mexico City I took the pens and pencil crayons (or, water colour pencils) with me, noting how well they work in combination.  Here is a sample, a drawing I recently gave to my Peruvian friend on the occasion of his birthday.


It's actually brighter than that, but it's still pretty good, eh?  I did a whole bunch of coloured drawings in Mexico City that year, 2013, mostly doing abstract renditions of black opals and fire opals.  Then I started doing birds...Again.  Back in Vancouver I bought a package of sixty coloured pencils on sale, the Deserres store brand for ten glorious dollars.  Not great in quality but still not bad.  Those went back with me to Mexico City and the city of Puebla in 2014, where I drew birds, birds and more birds, and had more interesting conversations with friendly strangers, this time in advanced Spanish.

I returned to Vancouver and this time splurged on forty-eight colours of Prismacolor pencil crayons, the Rolls Royce of pencil crayons and sixty much cheaper but almost as good Crayolas.  A friend who has given up on drawing gifted me with a plastic box full of unused, gently used and rather well used pencil crayons, all colours of course.  Some of these I brought with me to Colombia in 2015, where in Bogota, I devoted tonnes of hours to interpreting some of the birds of Colombia in the pages of a sketchbook some friends had given me.  The purpose of this sketchbook was to fulfill several dreams I have had of finding myself in a reading room, antiquarian book store or library opening up old books all of beautiful plates of colorful exotic birds.

Just last January one of my supervisors from work gave me two boxes loaded with quality Faeber-Castell and Prismacolor, mentioning that one of our clients had found them.  The next day, that same client mentioned that he had found them in the garbage while dumpster diving. By this time they were already in my home as I hadn`t been warned of the potential hazard.

Within days, tiny insects began to appear around the new pencil crayons.  I didn`t know at the time that they might be larval bedbugs.  I began waking up with small red welts on my skin, not many, and assumed they might be an allergic reaction to the medication I am on for my thyroid and pituitary.  Having never seen bedbugs before, as well as having quite a capacity for denial, I didn't have a clue what to look for.

I spent March back in Bogota, with a new sketchbook that I began to fill with drawings of birds of Colombia.  I returned to Vancouver  and the first morning I woke in my own bed my left arm was covered with red welts.  Again, I assumed an allergic reaction.  Then the bugs began to appear with more welts.  On my request my building manager checked my unit and found nothing.  More welts and weird looking streaks and spots on my bedding.  After yelling and screaming loud enough they finally did get in an exterminator who took a month and a bloody half to get rid of this modest infestation.  His bad attitude came free of charge.

My supervisor, when informed of the bedbugs and their likely origin, batted not an eye.  She said nothing, did nothing, became difficult and emotionally abusive, and eventually I had to ask for her to be replaced.  In the meantime, I have continued with the pencil crayons and pens.  They are no longer contaminated with bugs or their eggs, since getting them treated.

My ex-supervisor has just gone to work somewhere else.  We are still not on speaking terms.  Maybe I have to start being nicer to people.  Or maybe there are going to be consequences to not being a doormat?

I am taking my art materials with me to Costa Rica this March.  I continue drawing every day, often in cafes, sometimes at home, occasionally at work as appropriate.

Bursting Our Little Bubble

But we're always alone, right?  Ha!  Famous last words.  And what better setting for playing this out but on public transit?  I was boarding the bus, a long articulated model, then walked toward the back in search of a seat.  There were passengers lining side seats on both sides of the aisle.  Balancing with my big umbrella and shoulder bag, it was inevitable that I would be knocking into others and I apologized all the way to my seat.  I heard something come loose, turned around, and saw a young man belonging to an unidentifiable visible minority scrambling as his spilled coffee ran down his pants and flowed onto the floor, a double-double from Tim Horton's.  (I never go to Tim Horton's.  Don't ask; don't tell).  I apologized, of course, though I did feel a certain annoyance with this young twenty-something.  It wasn't till I got off the bus that it occurred to me that I could only have knocked over his coffee had it been hanging right over the aisle.  I tried to figure out why it would be hanging over the aisle.  Then the light came on.  The little dumbass was so busy bent over fiddling with his phone in one hand, his coffee in the other that it didn't even occur to him that 1. he was not the only person on the bus that day, and, 2. he was not the only person living on this planet. 

That's right, Gentle Reader, I am blaming the victim.  He should have known better than be so inexcusably stupid and for that reason got exactly what he deserved: Natural Selection 101.  Yes, I feel badly for the part I played, and even more so because it was so beyond my control, making it not harder but easier for me to blame myself.  There is no way that I want to be party to another's dismay, discomfort or suffering.  That said, I am also hoping that I have done an invaluable, if unwitting, favour, to the self-absorbed little dumbass.

We are increasingly living as though nobody else matters.  We segregate ourselves into our little private bubble and we expect it to protect us and carry us along across the day, whether on public transport, in a coffee shop, on the sidewalk, or wherever.  No one exists but me.  It is all about me and my little world: my likes, my interests, my friends, my preferences.  Of the noisome rabble around me only those matter who will help me get what I want.  No one else exists.

Remember the iPhone's precursor, the Blackberry?  Also called Crackberry because it was so addictive and so adapted to self-absorption and short attention spans.  Now, everyone has one of those objectionable little phones.  They don't have to pay attention to their surroundings, nor be polite nor even civil to the stranger next to them.  We live as if no one else really matters.

For this reason I am rather glad that I spilled that little idiot's coffee all over him and on the floor of the bus, not because I wished him harm but so that he would wake up, and knowing that it would take more than Tim Horton's coffee to wake him from his coma.

He got off the bus and got on with what must be a sorry and empty little life.  I suspect that it will take a few, likely quite a few, more rude awakenings like this before he really starts to clue into his surroundings and join the whole force of life that surrounds and inhabits us.  Maybe in another thirty or forty years, when he's my age?

In the meantime, just when he got off the bus, two very scary looking street aboriginals got on.  One cracked open a beer.  I generally get on well with indigenous people, but these guys looked and felt truly frightening.  Likely white-haters and probably for good reason.  I did not much like being on the same bus with someone drinking alcohol at nine something in the morning and I did not feel like having to phone my client to cancel with him from hospital emergency.  I discreetly approached the bus driver, who then went to them, and then shortly they got off the bus and, I suspect, boarded the one right behind us.  When I got off the bus I looked over my shoulder at the bus behind me.  To my relief it did not stop where I got off.

Feeling equal parts coward and hypocrite I walked on to my professional duties and even now still wonder what I should have done differently.

Ship Of Fools

Gentle Reader, it isn't every blog post on this humble forum that is inspired by a travel article I read in the Globe And Mail.  This is about a ship.  Not just any ship but a luxury cruise liner.  And not just any luxury cruise liner.  Check the headline: "Cruising For The 1%"  It's about the new "unabashedly luxurious" Regent Seven Seas Explorer, an obscenely luxurious ocean liner that is yours for around, $5500 per person for ten nights to $135,000 US for twenty-seven days.  The CEO interviewed repeats several times in the article that they refuse to apologize for their excess, that the time for showing off ostentatious wealth has returned.

I would imagine, now that Trump will soon be inaugurated as President Dump?  Crooked billionaire in the Oval Office?  And that justifies this ghastly obscene spectacle?

The writer of the article, Adam Hammond, pulled it off rather well, indicating that this flaunting of wealth was not his style and mentioned very clearly his preference for humbler, generally accessible fare, as well as reporting that he has enjoyed better espresso in much cheaper cups.  I am also grateful that the Globe and Mail no longer seems quite so gaga about the wealthy and has endorsed in this article a balanced and not especially flattering critique.

What I find troubling is that this article appears to offer a blank cheque for this winner takes all mentality that comes from the crude excesses of accumulated wealth.  I also was intrigued about the brown-skinned waiter in one of the photos.  He was holding a bottle of champagne, his face forced into a rather cryptic half-smile.  This of course begs the question of the floating sweatshop, which is to say, the cruel exploitation and near slave-like working conditions for those who staff luxury liners.

I suppose it to be only too easy to get caught up in heated outrage about the inequality that this article not only indicates, but shamelessly screams out with paper and ink, and of course I am outraged about this.  To imagine the incredible waste of wealth that occurs on these ships.  The tens and hundreds of thousands squandered like so much pocket change by the wealthy, and because that is all it is to them: pocket change.  To think that not only would it be but a small sacrifice for these individuals to pay slightly higher taxes that would adequately feed and house all the poor on earth, but that with their billions, this would be no sacrifice at all.  Rather like me, on my tiny income, donating two dollars at the Safeway check-out to the food bank.

To imagine the people, cosseted by all this unimaginable wealth, lolling in luxury and comfort, their conscience numbed to extinction by their excess.  It is axiomatic that the wealthier we become, the more we think we deserve it, and the less empathy or concern we have for the less fortunate.  I almost feel sorry for these people.  They have lost, have bartered off that most essential quality of the soul that makes us indefatigably human: the capacity for love, justice and compassion.  Knowing what a Faustian bargain they are enjoying absolutely staunches whatever envy I might have towards them.  Even harder is it to have empathy for such monsters, but they of all people are to be pitied.  They have lost their soul and likely are never going to retrieve it. 

Inked Paws

I think it's time to move a little bit further on equal rights.  In the Nineteenth Century slavery was abolished.  Then, in the Twentieth, women got the vote, then blacks, Asians, aboriginals.  Now they are talking about lowering the voting age to sixteen.  That's right, old enough to drive, old enough to fumble around in the back seat, old enough to vote.  (I for one, Gentle Reader, would like to see the driving age raised to thirty.  Likewise the right to vote, especially given that the brain, especially the male human brain is still developing in the twenties.  Some never seem to develop at all)

One major demographic is still being shut out of the polling booth.  I am thinking here of a substantial part of the population.  They are considered family members, though this has not always been the case and for millennia their sole value was in their utility.  It was not even common for them to live and sleep inside the family domicile until the last fifty years or so.  Gentle Reader, I am talking about dogs.  That's right.  Canines. It's time to grant voting rights to dogs.  To man's (sic 'em) best friend.  The time has come, folks.  Dogs give their owners so much unconditional love, no matter how mistreated they are.  Four legged bum sniffing and slobbering masochists they always come back for more.  They know where the kibble is coming from (whoops, sounds a bit more like cats).  These foul smelling, tree and lamp post pissing, poop and garbage eating flea-infested four legged vultures are even more loyal and devoted to their unworthy humans than Edith Bunker is to Archie, for those of you, like me, will not lie about our age and admit that we remember the TV show All In The Family,  Why shouldn't they also have their say in civic affairs?  This could even revolutionize the science behind leash laws and dog parks (okay, most dog owners generally ignore these little details anyway, but for argument's sake, eh?)

It shouldn't be difficult to set up.  Since dogs are unable to read or write (please check my future posts for my recommendations for literacy programs for canines) we would have to keep things basic and simple and geared to their, admittedly, low level of intelligence (the dogs, I mean, though this is often also an already given about their human owners).  I was thinking that every candidate for political office donate an unwashed item of clothing, maybe a t shirt or socks or underwear (I do hope you're not having your dinner right now, Gentle Reader), or perhaps take swabs from their, shall I say, secret parts, and distribute them in vials to all the polling booths in the land.  Right now, I cannot shake my sense of gratitude that Stephen Harper is finally out of the political scene.  As indifferent as I am about dogs I just would not want to wish having to subject a poor dumb canine to having to sniff our ex-prime minister's unwashed ginch, much less have to look at that famous full frontal full body nude portrait that was painted of him some four or five years ago.  Sorry, Gentle Reader, this cannot be unread, and you are going to be stuck with that image in your mind till you go to bed tonight.  And, no, I am not providing you with a link for you to feast your eyes on Steve-o's manhood.  That, you are going to have to look for on your own.  I, and this blog, do have standards, you know.

Back to the dogs, or perhaps this blog has already gone to them.  Each voting dog would be given a sample of the pheromones of each candidate to sniff.  If puppy growls, they don't get his vote.  If puppy wags his tail and whimpers endearingly, then simply ink his paw and place it on the appropriate spot on the ballot form.  Easy-Peasy. 

Given that most dog owners appear to be conservatives, this little amendment in our voting policy could do a lot to boost the sagging fortunes of the Conservative Party in the polls.  And given the ridiculous extremes that many Canadians go to in order to flaunt how much they adore their little doggies, especially as they step over the homeless beggars sleeping on the sidewalk downstairs from their luxury condos, this little advance in canine rights could be just the next right thing to do.  In a future blog I will explore some of the possibilities around making it lawful for dogs to pay income tax.

In the meantime, here is a shoutout to the idiot whose black lab tried to take a lunge at me just after taking a dump today.  It is all well and good that you are keeping your miserable cur on a tight leash and also took care to verbally correct him for his behaviour.  However, I did not hear an apology coming from your lips.  As I already advised you, dude, do something to train your animal!

Let It Snow

We are having our first major dump of snow in years.  It is rather nice, despite the cold, despite the traffic problems, despite the way everyone goes into major drama queen mode in this city over one little inch of snow.  Okay, now it's more than that, details, details.  Vancouver is a city of whiners. 

Monday, when the first dump hit us, I had to wait almost an hour for my bus to work in the morning, then when almost an hour had passed I realized that I was going to have to cancel with my first client of the day.  Then I listened as a café owner bitterly complained about how awful the snow was and he was so emphatic and upset about it that I basically humoured him.  I didn't want him spitting in my Americano.

The buses were barely functioning.  A driver was kind enough to pick me up after I'd angrily left the stop following another lengthy wait and flipping him the bird as he was driving past me.  Of course I immediately apologized for the gesture, telling him it was meant not for him but for Translink.  He exhorted me that it's really the weather that's at fault.  Of course I didn't argue.  I just said, you're absolutely right.

When I got off the bus a lady passed me with a huge radiant smile on her face and she announced, almost sang, that she loved the snow.  I couldn't help but agree with her, since who could possibly want to argue with such a vivid and naked manifestation of joy?

Then we had three cold crystalline days of unabashed sunshine and blue skies.  Despite the cold air it was just too beautiful to want to stay indoors.  Meanwhile I was fighting with the idiots who are building the condo tower in my backyard.  It is going to completely block my view of the sky.  They have a fetish for blinding halogen lights that shine into my apartment and hurt my eyes and I have warned the project manager that if they don't start shutting it off then I am going to name her in my next blogpost.

Never piss off a blogger, Gentle Reader.  Never!

I also informed her that it was I who called the cops on the building site when I noticed their crane moving material after eight pm.  For now they are cooperating.    I have also solicited the support of my building managers (here's a shout-out for you Candela managers and MTR manager!)       

In one of my worksites I have sent an email to the manager to inform her that there might be something a little bit, er, tacky? about announcing to me in front of coworkers that I seem awfully quiet today.  Especially when I'm already upset for being shunned by my coworkers (and her, by extension).  No word, so far, on whether I'm fired.

Today, as the second dump of snow beautified my city and transformed everything into a white and shining wonder I was rudely spoken to by a coworker and struggled not only to maintain my composure but de-escalate her (she was the nurse in charge, I am the peer support worker and she was trying to use my lack of status as an excuse for venting her bile on me.)  On the way home, instead of feeling sorry for myself in the snow, I gave a dollar coin to a beggar, and then a Filipina woman gave him some more money.  On the Canada Line Skytrain I offered a lady near my age (sixty), my seat, then the young Filipina woman next to me not only offered her her seat but wouldn't take no for an answer so the lady had to accept.  Meanwhile a group of four or five very young dumbass middle class or upper middle class males were swearing rather loudly behind me and mocking a passenger with developmental challenges for the childlike sounds he was making.  I called the young dumbasses on their behaviour (I am, as I said, sixty years old), and no one on that train had the cojones to do anything about those sad wastes of DNA.  They became verbally abusive towards me and I told them as I got off the train that they ought to be ashamed of themselves.

I understand that with under one inch of snow all private schools in this city have been closed.  The public schools are still open.  I would imagine that their rich mommies and daddies don't want their little boobums to slip on their way from the family limousine to the school building and bruise their delicate little heinies.  I suspect that those young male losers mocking the fellow with developmental disabilities probably attend one of those schools.  I remember once hearing about a rugby match between one of the elite private schools and a local public high school  The public school won the game and the private school elite morons, in reply, chanted "That's alright, that's okay.  You're going to work for us one day."

When I arrived in my building I saw an older Filipina tenant give a gift to another tenant, who has multiple disabilities and challenges and also happens, unfortunately, to have always hated my guts.  She very warmly thanked our Filipina neighbour who joined me on the elevator and sweetly and warmly wished me a Merry Christmas.

This is a shout-out to Filipina women.  Ladies, You Rock!

And I don't want to forget one moment that really brightened this day for me.  I had just left my building, on my way to the local Mexican café for a coffee and some time to work on a drawing.  There was a big man walking past, focussed on his phone, and his little three or four year old boy walking in front of him.  I had my big umbrella with me, smiled at the man and said that it's doing double duty as a walking stick.  He smiled and agreed I might need it walking in the snow and wished me a safe walk.  Then his little boy looked up at me and just smiled with his entire being and I said hi to the little guy and mentioned that the snow is great, eh?  His daddy also smiled and I was happy to see him paying attention again to his little son.

Petition Failure

Gentle Reader, remember that petition I was circulating and nagging you to extinction about?  I started it about a month ago.  It was about asking the Prime Minister to make housing an essential human right.  I tried to send it everywhere, post it everywhere, I even began contacting all the Anglican Church parishes in Canada.  After sending emails to some three hundred churches, and not one single signature, it began to occur to me that no one would be interested in signing.  So, thirty-seven signatures later I've packed up shop and only hope that someone with better connections can pick up the torch from where I left it.  I feel disappointed, yes, but at least I have learned something of how selfish and callous a lot of Canadians really are about the homeless, especially Anglicans whom I consider to be the most selfish Christians on earth.

I am still going to make the issue known, of course, through this blog.  Neither am I above sending this post to all the selfish people, notably Anglicans, who couldn't be bothered because they really don't care, which is why I left that denomination.  One of them actually wrote back to say that I might get more signatures on the petition if I said shelter instead of housing.  I promptly wrote back to inform him that the word shelter conjures visions of a cramped room with rubber mats strewn on the floor.  If that's all the government was obligated to do then that's all they would have to offer.  But this fellow is from an older and privileged generation (yes, he is a straight white male, and one who lives very comfortably).  Instead of signing the petition he just said he'd think about it.  After that he had the colossal gall to send me that lying hagiography about President Elect Dump as a justification for supporting his presidency.  I have already blogged about that.  From a Christian?  Well, not really a Christian, but an Anglican, and a very typical one, all pious handwringing and sympathetic noises and token volunteer work, but still likely to blame the most vulnerable for their plight while going off to his choir practice.

One of the biggest obstacles to social justice in this country lies in the smug self-righteous indifference of too many Canadians.  Ironically, the hardest to convince are often those who came to this country as refugees and immigrants.  But they also have had all kinds of extra supports and encouragement that Canadian society denies its very own.  It's as though we are telling them, very judgmentally, that having been born and raised in this privileged land of opportunity and you still haven't been able to make it, then you deserve to rot and perish in the gutter somewhere.  It is a way of kicking someone who is already down and just leaving them to die.

I want to believe that Canadians are better people than that.  I don't have a lot of evidence and I am waiting to be proven wrong.

In the meantime, we are in the middle of a housing crisis that keeps on worsening.  More Canadians who a few years ago would never have dreamed of being in need are now having to choose between paying for food or rent or medications.  Our governments offer token responses but basically are doing nothing.  We have to start taking things into our own hands, but it looks like a lot of us are going to have to get very uncomfortable first and this is likely to happen pretty darn soon.