March Walk

When the culverts gulp slush.

When I avoid the noise of screens.

When the chickadees giggle around the feeder.

When cleats steady my feet on sheets of ice.

When winter disintegrates.

When the baby girl cries till the sunshine surprises her.

When it is not pouring buckets.

When the brisk wind wakes our spirits.

When the darkened leaves melt the snow where they lay.

When I have no direction but the gravel road ahead of me.

When the bare trees look feeble.

When I stomp through the prairie muck.

When the maple seed helicopters touch down.

When the skinned coyote carcasses transform into skeletons with furry Ugg boot paws.

When the creek climbs over the cracked bridge.

When the clear sky brings open hopefulness.

When a steady routine stabilizes.

When we walk softly. Together.

©Conni Cartlidge    March 27, 2017

Reassurance

Her first text arrived at 6:47 pm on November 8^th, 2016.

“Hi Mom. We probably have a female president to look forward to.”

To my daughter, I replied, “Do you think so?”

“Yes,” she wrote, “not that I have the ability to predict these things but I think she’s taking it. She’s ahead right now.”

Her confidence in Hillary’s win was heartwarming. I did not feel so certain.

And as the evening progressed, hopelessness set in.

At 12:33 am on November 9^th, I wrote, “ I give up. I’m exhausted and going to bed. Will see what the morning brings.”

Her response: “I’ve already cried twice. I don’t think I can sleep without knowing the outcome….The crowd outside the White House is really freaking me out. Wouldn’t be surprised if it becomes violent before the night is over.”

“I know. It’s all getting crazy. Glad you have not moved to the States….Anyway, I will say good night. I love you lots. Wish you weren’t dealing with this alone.”

“Love you too Mom.”

The next day, she phoned me in tears. “How could so many people vote for a rapist?”

How indeed?

How could I reassure this twenty-seven year old, living far away from home, that things would work out?

That it was not our election.

Not our country.

That her aunt had several strong feminist friends working in the Canadian government. That these women would stand up.

That we could rise up.

How could I tell her it would all be okay?

My life had shown me slobbering middle-aged men molesting teen girls at bus stops. My world included catcalls and invitations to “Sit on my face, baby” from fellow students at college. I knew of doctors admiring young female patients as they undressed for physicals and dentists rubbing their dicks against women as they shoved needles into their palates.  I knew of brothers raping little sisters. Baby girls being whisked away to safe homes, far from their violent fathers. Husbands raping their wives, still healing from childbirth. 

My daughter’s life has already been invaded by online trolls looking to silence her with crude and violent comments. Men telling her on the subway to smile more so she will be prettier. Strangers telling her she is pretty.

And now our lives will include a United States president who laughs about grabbing pussies.

What reassurance can I give my daughter?

And how?

©️Conni Cartlidge

January 5, 2017

Welcome/Farewell

I look right

I say welcome!

To a bruised infant

Named Marc

A newborn family

Wide-eyed parents

Awestruck grandparents

Aunties and uncles

To dote and devote

Their time and arms and kisses

Love

For a remarkable baby

For Marc.

Hello and welcome!

I look left    

I say farewell.

To a glittery being

Named Glamdrew

A bereaved family

Tear-stained parents

Defeated grandparents

Nephews and nieces

To hold and behold

His heart and body and lipsticked smooches

Love

For an indomitable spirit

For Andrew.

Goodbye and farewell. 

  

©️Conni Cartlidge       December 2016

A Week: In Loving Memory of Andrew "Glamdrew" Henderson

It was a week of death.

On Monday, death tried sneaking past my house to hook up with a young woman hiding in her truck, just around the bend in the muddy road. Hidden by amber autumn trees, she waited with the refreshments: a large bottle of iced tea and a pile of pills. It would be a final secret fling.

But as I wandered down my gravel road with my tiny grandson sleeping peacefully in his stroller, the cops came roaring off the highway, straight towards me. And as the flying Vs of Canada geese shouted directions at each other overhead, I pulled over to the shoulder with the baby and the dog to let the police zoom passed.

“I wonder what’s happening,” I said to myself. “I guess it’s nothing dangerous because the cop just waved at me as he went by. But let’s take you home, just in case,” I reassured my napping babe. We turned and headed west as two more police cars and a truck flew past us. I stepped up my pace and as I turned into my driveway, my husband and son were headed out to see what all the commotion was about.

They returned ten minutes later, not really knowing if it was a drug bust or perhaps a stolen vehicle. But the tattooed girl was taken away by the police, her iced tea left unopened.  We were all surprised her vehicle was deserted in the mucky ruts. The mystery was solved that evening when two distraught, exhausted parents came to retrieve the truck. They explained to us that their daughter planned to commit suicide. She had tried before. The secret tracking device they installed saved her life. And she was sent to the hospital for help.

So on Monday, death was stood up.

 I remembered my first exposure to suicide. I was five when Marilyn Monroe died. She committed the crime of taking her own life. My child’s mind clearly reasoned that she chose to die, so how was it criminal? Had she lived, would she be charged and put in jail? Was that better?

“She just wanted to go,” I thought to myself.

It made perfect sense to me.

Until thirty years later, when my uncle shot himself in the throat. And his granddaughter hung herself in the basement. And my friend’s son intentionally completed his meeting with death, too. I thought of the four little girls in a Saskatchewan First Nations community who voluntarily died. Such a loss. Such a waste. Such a crime.

Thankfully suicide has been decriminalized in Canada. But does a ten year old understand her actions? Did my family members? Did Marilyn? Should we intervene? Or are there some obstacles that just can’t be overcome?  Is that what the twenty-year-old in the truck felt? Is death ever a positive partner or always a bad date?

On Wednesday, death got lucky and met my high school friend.

I sat at her funeral, listening to her son sing a favourite song for her. It was a quiet, acoustic performance of Leonard Cohen’s “Alleluia”. Everyone cried. She had been very sick and her boy sat with her in the hospital till death cut in. I knew the feeling of waiting, remembering back to my grandmother and I sitting patiently together till her last exhale. Vibrations filled the room as her energy dissipated and transformed into the air and out to our universe. Sad but comforting.

Sometimes death is an expected guest.

On Friday, death got to be popular. A living funeral, hosted by my daughter’s friend, Andrew Henderson, covered death in gold glitter and champagne. Andrew has known for some time that his cancer is terminal, so he has been living with death lurking around. Why not invite death to the party? As Sia and Rihanna songs got people up dancing, others shared secrets with him that he could “take to the grave”.

“ I love you,” I whispered to him. “We all love you. We always have.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

He has shown me that life can be fabulous. And that living is always finished with dying.

A one-night stand we can all count on.

It was a week of life.

October 25, 2016

 Post Script: Andrew Henderson died this morning. I thank him for including me in his life and his death.

October 26, 2016

©️Conni Cartlidge

Trolls

I thought I knew trolls.

With my Scandinavian heritage, I grew up playing with funny little troll dolls. They were originally created by Danish baker and woodworker, Thomas Dam. He carved the first troll out of wood as a gift for his children. The little dolls grew quickly in popularity and in the early sixties, Mr. Dam bought a factory where the small creatures were made of rubber and plastic. I had a whole collection of Dam’s Good Luck Trolls. I loved when my Danish cousins gifted me with new ones. They were so ugly they were cute, with their round bellies and wide noses. Some wore clothes and others were naked. Hair was usually bright and fuzzy. Their androgyny allowed them to be any character I chose in my imaginative play. While some Scandinavian folklore saw trolls as repulsive creatures that occasionally ate children, goats and Christians, Dam’s trolls were ambassadors for Denmark.

I loved them.

Trolls under bridges were discovered in Norwegian stories. A favourite book in my childhood was The Three Billy Goats Gruff. My dad read this story to me with great expression in his voice; a squeak for the tiniest goat, a moderate tone for the middle-sized goat, and a roar for the biggest billy goat, unmatched by the possessive troll’s angry threats of gobbling up trespassers. I listened in awe. The fight was face to face, troll versus goat. And in the end, the goats worked together to outsmart the troll. Bravo!

Though I always felt a little sorry for the troll as he floated away down the river.

Now there is a new kind of troll in this millennium. The Urban Dictionary defines an Internet troll as “one who posts a deliberately provocative message to a newsgroup or message board with the intention of causing maximum disruption or argument.” These trolls recently attacked Leslie Jones. She stars in the newly released Ghostbusters movie and is well known for her work on Saturday Night Live. She is bold and loud and hilarious. And she was silenced on Twitter by horrific racist, misogynistic comments posted by these so-called provocateurs. She withdrew from her account until their accounts were disabled. In her words, “hate speech and freedom of speech – two different things.” (https://www.yahoo.com/movies/ghostbusters-star-leslie-jones-talks-1477533518135350.html?soc_src=mail&soc_trk=ma)

Leslie’s experience hit hard for me.

Because my own daughter has been a victim of these anonymous trolls.

They hide behind cartoon images and silly fake names. They attacked her when she posted a three minute video about feminism.

It was a video I encouraged her to make.

A contest was being held online asking people to submit a clip defining  “the new F word – feminism” and explaining what it meant to them. Gloria Steinem was involved. It sounded exciting! My daughter submitted her light-hearted video and I made one too. We had different perspectives and it was fun to compare notes. But she warned me, “Mom, keep your Youtube settings private. Don’t let the trolls see it.”  I followed her advice and received only warm comments from supportive friends. But she posted hers publicly.

And the hate began.

I was horrified.

“You are ugly.”

“Actually, I think you’re quite pretty.”

“No, you are ugly.”

“ I want to cum all over you.”

“Men have rights too.”

“You are ugly.”

And as the discussion of her appearance and her “fuckability” continued, I thought I would die.

She eventually disabled the comments. But the trolls found other videos she made over the years and continued the attacks there. One went so far as to download her feminism video, edit it with his own words and repost it on Youtube. “Don’t watch it, Mom,” she cautioned. “It will be too much for you.”

My heart broke.

I contacted Gloria Steinem’s office. They apologized and explained that Gloria received this kind of hate every day.

And so I know a new kind of troll. This troll is cowardly, hiding not under bridges, but behind the anonymity of the Internet. This troll can devastate even those as brash as Leslie Jones or as brave as my daughter. They do not promote healthy conversation or lively discussion. They incite hurt and hate.

I thought I knew trolls.

Now I wish I didn’t.

©️Conni Cartlidge    July 2016

Laundry

I do not enjoy housework. I do love laundry.

It was a privilege bestowed on me at the age of three. Mom led me down the wooden stairs to our basement, past the potato bin filled with creepy spider-leg-like growths sprouting from the spuds, and into the corner where the white wringer washer stood.

“I need your help,” she stated. “I will pass the washed clothes through the rolling wringers and you can catch them on the other side. But be careful! Don’t let your fingers get caught!”

I concentrated as hard as I could, grasping every article of clothing with a preschooler’s determined precision, and passing each back to Mom for a second round.

“Thanks for helping me with the laundry,” she stated.

I beamed.

At age five, ironing was allowed. Shaking distilled water from the turquoise blue Tupperware container, I dampened Dad’s clean hankies and ironed with care. The steam rose as I pressed each one flat, then folded it in half, pressed again, and then a final fold, with steam rising. The red polka-dot rectangle was perfect every time.

“Don’t burn your fingers,” warned Mom. And I never did. At least I never admitted to it because I was so eager to graduate to tea towels and pillowcases.

When I was eight, I was tall enough to hang the freshly washed laundry on the clothesline in the back yard. Mom instructed me to hang shirts by their tails, and to share clothespins between underwear pairs. There were a limited number of the spring-loaded pins in the bucket. “Don’t run out,” Mom directed, “we need to dry everything completely. The dryer doesn’t make the clothes smell as nice as the fresh air does.”  Every time I climbed into my cool crisp bed, I knew what she meant. The prairie wind permeated the cotton sheets.

I dozed and dreamed of tranquil days.

When I turned sixteen, it was time to get a summer job. My first choice was the laundry at the Selkirk Mental Health Centre. In my assigned white uniform dress, I worked beside women that had made this job their career. They taught me how to press sheets in the massive rollers, and, like Mom, cautioned me to watch my fingers. I learned how to fold linens with precise teamwork. And if a few items came through still soiled, we tossed them back to the men to rewash. On Monday mornings, the weekend’s pile of dirty clothes, collected from the residents of the hospital, reeked of body waste and stale cigarettes. But by the end of the day, the stench was replaced with steamy freshness and we all knew we had done a good job for the residents of that intimidating institution. I spent three stifling sweaty summers there.

I loved it.

At twenty-six, I became a mom. I lived in a low rent townhouse in Henrico County, Virginia. Each home had a washing machine in the kitchen, and the complex provided rows and rows of communal clotheslines. With limited funds and a hippie’s perspective on natural birth and parenting, I chose cloth diapers for my baby. As he stained the white muslin mustard yellow, I worried that I might not be able to properly clean his wraps, but the cheap kitchen washer and the blazing Virginia sun bleached every diaper back to perfection.

I was the best mom ever.

And now I stand at the clothesline strung between two oak trees in my yard. I hang up my first grandchild’s diapers. They are fitted, colourful creations. No clumsy pins or stiff plastic pants are needed. These one-piece bottoms snap to fit any size baby. They are adorable. They are his. I handle them with care.

What a lucky grandmother I am.

I don’t care for housework.

But doing the laundry for others…is love.

©Conni Cartlidge    July 2016

Love Won

We sat around the kitchen table, discussing our strategies for marching in the Steinbach Pride Parade.  My friends and I had neon pink poster boards and multi-coloured markers, ready to create slogans that expressed our anger and frustration with the local politicians and school division of the southern Manitoba region. The public representatives were avoiding and denouncing the rights of the LGBTTQ* children and adults in their community. Our initial ideas were snarky and sarcastic. With online death threats being hurled at one of my friends, we were not feeling particularly kind.

As we talked, the horrific Orlando shootings were on my mind. But it was the individual personal experiences that moved me to reconsider my approach to the people of Steinbach.

Storming Steinbach!

I remembered the one boy in my high school in the 1970s that was teased daily for being a “fag”…the common slur of the times. He always seemed to be crying. I was aware but naïve. I shrugged my shoulders and walked away.

I thought about the sociology research paper I wrote in 1979 at the University of Winnipeg. It was a study of the effects of same-sex parents on children’s development. There was little information in the library stacks. No internet yet. I studied legal custody cases trying to find answers. In the end, my research uncovered no negative effects unless the parents were addicted or abusive: common findings for all families.

With utmost sadness, I recalled one trans teen’s victimization at the hands of school bullies, challenging each other to kick their classmate in the crotch every day for one hundred days. Just for fun.

When I took ally training with the Rainbow Resource Centre at the college I worked at, I learned that the institution was historically considered an unsafe space for LGBTTQ* students and I felt a little sick.

My petite daughter shared with me that, living in Toronto, she walks closely with her seven-foot tall drag queen friend, to offer support and protection from cruel harassment.

I considered the parents in Steinbach who only wanted their child to be respected by teachers and classmates. This family eventually left town. I wonder what that does to a child.

Steinbach rainbows.

And I am shocked by the hatred aimed at the friend sitting with me at my dining room table…a person full of life and humour and compassion for others. But he is gay. He is a target.

Messages.

So how did we face Steinbach Pride?

Without nasty slogans.

Without fear.

The online haters did not show their faces in real time with real people.

Glitter!

I walked for some people I love. I don’t want them to be hurt anymore.

We marched in solidarity with the families of Steinbach who choose to care.

The conservative streets were overflowing with rainbows and welcomes.

With glitter and applause.

Love won.

Love won.

©Conni Cartlidge                        July 2016