Version 1/Version 2

“Sex-trade worker found in trash bag: police”

This was the headline on page four of the local newspaper. This was the description of the tragic discovery of the body of a twenty-five year old pregnant woman in Winnipeg. The article goes on to describe her (again) as a sex-trade worker involved in the drug trade, and that her lifestyle was “very prone to a lot of violent things happening.” At the end of the article, she was finally described as a daughter, mother and sister. Her family plans to hold a vigil for her this weekend. Her name was Carolyn.

So now I wonder…if I turned up dead, what would the paper say about me? There are two possible versions.

Version 1 (page 4)
“Mentally-ill addict found in trash bag: police”

The body of a woman, found in a garbage bag in Winnipeg on the weekend, was identified by police as a mentally-ill addict reported missing several months ago. The body of Conni Cartlidge, 55, had been in the back lane of an apartment building for a long period of time. Police have classified her death as a homicide. The woman was easily identified by her various tattoos and piercings. She was known to host out-of-control parties and to challenge authority whenever possible. She had several children by different fathers. At least two of her children no longer lived with her. It is likely that her risky behaviour led to her death.


Version 2 (front page)
“Loving wife and mother, and enthusiastic college instructor found dead after exhaustive search: police”
The body of Conni Cartlidge was discovered in Winnipeg after an extensive search by police, family and friends. Conni had been missing for several months. Her husband Brent is devastated by her death, but relieved that she has been found. Her three grown children have flown home to support each other and to continue to work to find her killer. Conni loved her family so very much, and enjoyed sharing stories about them with her college students. She was always happy to explain the significance of her special tattoos. She encouraged others to think creatively and critically, and to advocate for themselves. She especially enjoyed hosting large outdoor gatherings at her country home. Conni was indebted to the women of her local AA group for helping her to find sobriety and happiness in her life. Her family and the police are asking anyone with any information to please contact them immediately.

Every missing or murdered woman or child deserves a Version 2.






©Conni Cartlidge, 2012

Chickens & Lions

I stood up in front of my class of Early Childhood Education students holding a cowardly lion doll from The Wizard of Oz. I lectured to them about the importance of courage. I told them they had to be brave enough to advocate for themselves. I told them they had to speak up for those who went unheard. And it struck me that I was a hypocritical chicken who was afraid of everything from woods to water! I realized I had to start following my own advice. So here’s what I did:

• When I was three, I walked off the end of a dock. My dad dove in and saved me. A little shift in my brain led to a life-long fear of deep water. I always said, “Oh, I can’t go swimming. I’m scared of water. I will probably drown.” I said this all my life. Then this summer, my son bought some blow-up rafts to play on in our creek. He urged me to come and try them. He was having so much fun! So I decided to summon up all my bravery and go rafting. I tiptoed in, gingerly holding the side of the raft. Then I wrapped my arms around the edge of it and let my feet float up behind me. And finally, I climbed right into the raft, sat on my knees in it, then sat down on my bum in it, and lastly lay right down on my back in it. The water carried me gently. The trees nodded approvingly. The sun smiled. I lived!

• When I was six, I went on a holiday with my family. Sitting around our campfire in Yellowstone Park, eating my oatmeal for breakfast, I looked up and saw a massive black bear lumbering towards me on his hind legs, heading straight for my bowl of cereal. I tossed my porridge, scrambled after my sisters and trembled in the tent until my mom chased the animal away. Another brain connection led me to an overwhelming fear of bears. I avoided woods and hiking, knowing deep down inside me that there were massive bears lurking behind every tree just waiting to maul me. But this past August, my husband and I took a trip to Vancouver Island. Our bed & breakfast looked right out on to the ocean. Pacific trails surrounded us. I read the warning signs: ”On these trails, you may encounter wolves, cougars and bears.” As I tried to find my inner boldness, I headed down the path. I was awestruck by the crashing waves, the windblown trees, the delicate hanging moss. I sat on a bench where the open ocean laughed and welcomed me to its shores. It was breathtaking. Any bears in the area chose to avoid my fellow tourists and me. I survived!

• When I was ten, I loved to dance. My sisters and I would play our 45 rpm records in the living room and we would do the jerk and the pony and the monkey. If we played “Sugar Shack”, mom would join us. My sisters and I giggled because we knew she couldn’t dance as groovily as us. But something shifted once again in my brain when some frightening experiences left me intimidated and fearful. My carefree boppy days of childhood were lost during my teens, and I could only dance with the shaky support of alcohol. And when I finally broke free of that addiction, I found all my inhibitions again. I stopped dancing. I said, “I can’t dance in front of people. I will look foolish. Everyone will stare at me.” But I was a bridesmaid this year at a fun and loving wedding. The ceremony was outside on a clear summer day and the reception was held in a converted barn. Rock & roll played inside and bluegrass could be heard outside in the parking lot. Guests milled around with cool drinks. Children laughingly chased each other through the prairie grass. It was a relaxed, easy-going event that loosened up everyone. I sat on my chair, watching people dancing to the live band. I guess I was gazing very intently at everyone. A friend grabbed my hands and pulled me up onto the floor and said, “C’mon…you know you want to!” and she was right. I did want to. I danced and laughed and danced some more. I was not embarrassed or self-conscious. And nobody criticized me. Everyone was having too much fun to even notice. I was fearless!

So at the end of this year, I can finally hold up that cowardly lion, and like him, know that I am full of courage. I can try new experiences. I can speak up. I can take chances. I am not a chicken.

Wishing you a year of small risks and bold adventures!

Peace. Love. Always.

December 2011

Attention local newspaper editor... activists are active!

This letter was sent to Marc Zienkiewicz, the managing editor of Interlake Publishing. It was in response to his November 17th editorial in the Selkirk Journal. (selkirkjournal.com) I doubt he'll publish it so I decided I should take charge and post it here:

Marc,
I am thankful there are activists who question our society. Many are educated and thoughtful. Some are not, but they want to get involved anyway. I think they see hungry children and addicted adults and mental illness and family violence. They see hurt. I think they also see obese teenagers and electronic baby toys and extravagant homes with three car garages. They see inequality and waste. Canada is an amazing country for many people, but for others, it is filled with discrimination and intolerance. Activists want to take action to change this.

Activists are far from lazy. Some grow guerilla gardens in empty city lots. They share the food. Some teach people how to fix their own bikes, so they can get themselves around. Others live and work cooperatively, not competitively, so everyone wins. Some activists create and perform music to express their frustrations. And some choose to occupy public spaces to make a statement.

Taking time to hear different perspectives benefits us all.

I have heard yours, in your unsettling November 17th editorial, “Good riddance, you lazy hippies” and now you have heard mine. Like you, I could go on all day, but I will stop before I sink to the level of self-righteous name-calling.

Peace.

Satisfied

I made three people.
My babies.
Soft giggling butterflies in my belly.
Then hiccupping kicks and stretching rolls.
Moaning and sighing and laughing.
Another dimension of vibration as each entered this world.
And they never left me.
On me. Attached to me. Nursing and sleeping and gazing.
We didn’t care about anything else.
They were never cut. They were fed as soon as they were hungry. They were not left alone in the dark.
I made these choices. I made these three people.
These three are perfect to me.
Now that they are grown, I see their fight, their courage, their gentleness. I watch their actions, listen to their words, feel their music.
I have changed the world by making them.
When I feel despondent. Melancholy. Obsolete.
I take a moment and remember.
I made three people.
I am satisfied.




©Conni Cartlidge, 2011

The Club

She joined the club. I didn’t want her to.
But she joined the club.
Sucked in by the relief of the next hit. The release of another drink. The black oblivion. The freedom of nothingness.

At half my age, she could have been my daughter.
With her fears and addictions, she could have been mine.

She will not know the ecstasy of a new baby’s messy birth. She will not feel the comfort of supper waiting for her at the end of a busy day. She will not reflect on good times with lifelong friends.

She will be stuck at twenty seven. A member of the club.
A lost artist who carried too much pain.
To join the club, she had to leave.

I didn’t want her to.

(Written for Amy, August 2011)





©Conni Cartlidge, 2011

Decluttering

I’m trying to declutter. I’m trying to get rid of old stuff. I’m trying to organize my life. The reality shows make it look so simple. Make three piles – 1) keep 2) sell 3) toss. Put each piece of clutter in the appropriate pile. Put the keep stuff away neatly. Have a garage sale and sell what you can. Throw out everything else. Sounds simple enough. So I get started. I haul out boxes from closets and get to work.

Empty envelopes. Toss.
Old report cards. Keep.
Collectible tin. Sell
Broken bracelet. Toss.
Grandfather’s belt buckle. Keep.
Picture frame. Sell.

Teenage boy’s obituary…..

Tassel from graduation cap…..

Umbilical cord clamp…..

Alice Cooper concert balloon….

Baby brush with flattened bristles….

Great-Grandma’s stained, heart-shaped pillow….


I slow down.

I stall.

When are things just things? When do things become more?

In what pile do I put my sadness? How do I sort out my pride and excitement? Where do I put my rock & roll frenzy? How do I categorize tenderness? When do I say good-bye?

My life is cluttered. I think it’s supposed to be.

©Conni Cartlidge, 2011

Blizzards

(Originally written to my Dad for his 70th birthday, September 1998)

March ’66…who could forget the amazing storm that was every child’s dream! We were snowed in for days, at least until you cleared enough snow to open the back door. Then we were let loose to burrow through miles of drifts, like little prairie dogs with hidden tunnels and rooms. We could climb a mountain so high we could almost touch the roof of 413. The ’64 Dodge was a buried treasure hidden somewhere in an icy grave. What an experience! What an adventure! I guess it was you, Dad, who finally found the car and driveway, and a way to work, but I was not concerned with those details of grown-up life because I was a kid having a ball in the snow!

November ’86…another spectacular storm hits the prairies, but much has changed in twenty years and my reaction is one of entrapment, exhaustion and desperation. I could not get to work, the snow had obliterated the parking lot of my townhouse in Charleswood, three year old Ari was asking question after question after question about snow, weather, plows, and every other related topic, and I was trying to cope with it all as a newly separated, single parent. I felt like I was in a nightmare. I phoned you in tears.

Blizzards were no longer fun to me. There was no exciting adventure to be found in trying to struggle to the corner store for milk and bread. Ari loved the drifts, once I forced the back door open just wide enough for him to squeeze through, but I just wanted to go home to Selkirk. So, as the plows were just beginning to open up a few major thoroughfares in Winnipeg, you somehow managed to make your way all the way out to Shelmerdine Drive to rescue Ari and me, and take us home to Sutherland Avenue. I was comforted on the couch with a blanket and hot chocolate and Ari was given the task of helping his Poppa shovel the driveway.

Ari probably has fun memories of the blizzard of ’86…playing in the huge drifts, helping to shovel the driveway, and sleeping over at Mormor and Poppa’s house. What I remember is that I have a Dad who comes when I need him, regardless of the obstacles.

You’re also pretty good at shoveling snow!



©Conni Cartlidge, 2011