The boob or the bottle, a million miles of parental guilt

January 2nd, 2017 was officially the best day of my life. Our Bean, nearly 5 years in the making, finally arrived. I’ve been lucky, because I’ve never felt more full of love and happiness, and never more truly myself than I have since becoming a mother. I know not all moms feel that way – it’s so normal for women to feel a profound sense of loss for the people they were before, or some form of postpartum depression. We need to talk more about what a normal experience that is. But that’s not what I want to talk about today – I want to talk about my experience learning to feed my beautiful baby.

Coming home from the hospital was a blur I can barely recall. The trauma of labour was still fresh, and our door revolved with family and friends for two solid days, not to mention that sleep was a distant memory kicked off by a sleepless night spent bringing the Bean into the world… and in those days I failed to notice that my supply of breast milk hadn’t increased enough. His weight had dropped the normal amount in the hospital, so it didn’t occur to me that we were anything but on track. By day three my pleasant baby had become cranky, and inconsolable. Thank goodness that was also the day the Public Health Nurse came by. It turned out that Bean had lost 12% of his body weight… he was starving. Even now I tear up when I remember realizing that he’d been going hungry. I know rationally that it wasn’t my fault, but the guilt is pretty overwhelming. Without hesitating the nurse mixed up the formula samples we’d gotten in the mail, and got us on a feeding schedule that rotated 20 minutes of breast feeding, followed by a formula feeding by dad, while I pumped for another 40 minutes. We did this every two and a half hours… so by the time we fed him, cleaned and sanitized everything, there was literally only about 30 minutes for anything else, including sleeping. I don’t know what I would have done if Sean hadn’t been home those first two weeks. After almost a week his weight gain was enough that we were allowed to go to every three hours. We’d also rented an industrial breast pump, so we had cut pumping time down to 20 minutes. So now we had almost 2 hours between feeds! It honestly felt like a huge luxury. At the Bean’s 3 week doctor appointment he was back up to birth weight… a victory that helped lift some of the guilt for those early days. The doctor gave us permission to go up to 4 hours between feeds if he didn’t initiate before that. And then we could breathe again.

It was around that time I started feeling really isolated – I wanted to get out of the house, I wanted to invite people over – but unless I was ok with you seeing my boobs, I wasn’t ok with you being in my house, and frankly, pumping is a whole other level of pride killing humiliation. By the time I got me and the baby ready to go anywhere we might have had an hour if we were lucky… so we didn’t go anywhere, and we barely saw anyone. It was so hard – it had only been a few weeks, but it felt like forever. Sean got home from work one day and I ranted about how much I hated pumping – it wasn’t increasing my supply, I wasn’t pumping enough to build up a store of breast milk, and I was trapped at home hooked up to a machine that made me feel like a milk cow. And that’s when he said the most obvious thing, that hadn’t even occurred to me… stop. Right – I could stop. I could choose to be happy, and to go outside, and to see people, and just to continue feeding my happy, healthy baby in whatever way worked for us. What a crazy idea. So we packed up the rented pump, and returned it. I’m not going to lie and tell you I never felt guilty about that decision – the first time Bean got a cold I wondered if he’d be suffering less if I’d just worked harder to ensure his primary food source was breast milk. But let’s be honest, we all get colds sometimes, not only is it not the end of the world, it will help him develop a healthy immune system.

So, why am I telling you all of this? I’ve experienced a lot of conversation around breast feeding versus formula feeding since becoming a mother. I’ve heard from so many women who were pushed to their wits end to produce more breast milk, sobbing while their babies screamed at their breasts, hooked up to pumps for hours that turned into days and months on end. Their mothers,partners, friends, and medical professionals standing behind them, wagging their fingers and their tongues, telling them “breast is best.”. And if this is your choice, all the more power to you… but if you’re only doing all of this because you feel like you’ll have failed as a mother if you choose to rely on formula in any way shape or form, then my heart goes out to you. The important part is that it is your choice.

Looking back, I had such a great experience. The Public Health Nurse saw a hungry child, and gave me a solution that fed him, without any guilt trips or sanctimony. She agreed with my decision to quit pumping so I could get out more. My husband has supported me in every possible way, from prepping and feeding bottles, to making sure I felt good about my decision to quit pumping. Our friends and relatives have reserved judgment. If they have any, they probably know better than to tell me. The pediatrician didn’t say a word about our feeding plan, other than to support its success. I had people in my life who saw that my happiness and sanity were as important to my baby’s health and happiness, as what we fed him.

It's hard – all the supports out there are “breast feeding” supports. The last support group I went to opened with a question about why the moms stuck with breast feeding, and I realized two things: First, I hate this kind of organized conversation – I find it false and awkward and I am lucky to know enough other moms on mat leave to not feel like I need them for social supports. Second, it was hard to hear the moms talk about breast feeding because they knew it was best for their babies, while I sat there knowing my baby was getting most of his food from formula. And even though it wasn’t their intention, in that moment I felt anything but supported. So I don’t think those groups are for me and I wonder why there aren’t feeding support groups, for all of us???

So I’m writing this to tell you that I know it’s hard, no matter how you choose to feed your baby. I know there is a ton of guilt and worry connected to the nourishment of their little bodies no matter how you do it. Are they too small, are they too big, am I forever ruining them somehow? I’m writing to tell you that I support you, and I’m here for you, and I wish you an experience like mine: one that is filled with love and understanding because you are important in all of this. Your happiness matters, your sanity matters. I truly believe that these things are a million times more important to your baby than your choice between boob or bottle. There are a million miles of parental guilt to wade through, probably for the rest of our lives, but whether or not we breast feed or formula feed shouldn't have to be one of those miles.

Tell me this guy isn't healthy and happy... I dare you! ;-)

2016 - a Year in Photos

So, 2016… it’s certainly been a year. So many beloved icons taken too soon, but you don’t need me to recount them here. You know who they are, and some of them probably hit you hard, and some probably didn’t.

Then of course there was the US political circus we all watched unfold. I don’t need to recount the many blunders and jaw dropping moments that we slowly came to see as par for the course. I will say this to those who say, “Well that’s democracy – you don’t get to cry because the other side won.” It’s not that the so called political ‘other side’ won. While I don’t relate to most right wing policy, as I feel it is callous and primarily serves those who need the least, I agree that that’s how democracy works – we all have a voice – and I believe in that. What I will say is this – it’s not about right versus left, it’s about the normalization of fear and hatred. It’s about the terrifying number of people that don’t care if the leader one of the most powerful countries on earth is a self-proclaimed sexual abuser, racist and homophobe. You don’t get to support a man who shits all over human rights, and then tell those of us whose rights are in danger to stop crying about it. I will cry about it, I have cried about it – because even though I’m Canadian, I know that culture is bigger than our borders, and I know that when we overlook things like each other’s basic human rights we are all less safe – that I am even less likely to be protected by the law if I am raped, that it will be that much harder to protect my daughter from an entitled boy who sees her body as his conquest or to teach my son not to be the guy who sees someone else’s daughter that way. And the only thing that gives me hope through all of this is the number of people who have spoken out to say that they know all this is unacceptable – that they don’t want to live in a world where any of this is ‘ok’. At the end of the day I have to hope that that will matter more.

So 2016, the year the world seems to have gone up in flames – or perhaps more accurately, the year that the slow burn became a bonfire… but for me personally it has been a great year. I was reminded of that when I looked back through my photos of 2016… photos that recount as happy a life as any one person can ask for.
Here’s my 2016 in photos – because I’m self-indulgent, and when I’m tempted to fall into the trap of believing the world is shit, these are my reminders that it really isn’t.


Seeing old friends, who I miss dearly

Spending time in Mexico with the fam jam

Getting the BEST NEWS EVER!

Lazy days at the cabin

Hanging in Vietnam and Thailand with two of my faves

Getting spoiled by friends and family

Staying cozy and warm on lovely cold days

Dates with my favorite guy

Getting to know my goofy, wonderful new niece

Thanks 2016, you've been awful, weird and wonderful.

Armed with Will and Determination and Grace Too

Guys, I'm gutted. I know - we're all gutted - this past Saturday certainly proved that. One third of Canadians tuned in to see Gord Downie's swan song. Seeing him waiver, but push on was gut wrenching and inspirational. Seeing him break down during Grace Too, was devastating. It was the moment our collective hearts stopped, and shattered. It was so much - it was everything I wanted it to be - and yet it could not possibly ever have been enough... because I'm just not ready to say goodbye. None of us are.

I wrote this several months ago, before we knew CBC would broadcast that last show in Kingston, and just haven't had the heart to post it. Here goes...

The imminent death of Gord Downie weighs heavy on me. As did so many of us, I cried the morning I heard the news. I cried again when I realized I was going to be overseas for the final tour stop in Winnipeg. I guess I'll just have to be happy knowing I caught the Fully Completely tour a couple years ago.

We've lost some great musical icons this year - and while I understand that the losses of David Bowie and Prince are profound, both men having altered the landscape of modern music - neither of their deaths felt as personally devastating for me as the news that Canada would lose the man who tapped into and sang its soul. No other band has created so many memories for me.


- 1993ish -
I don't love the Hip. 100th Meridian has hit the airwaves, and I am deeply entrenched in Seattle grunge - right down to my plaid shirts and Doc Martens. It doesn't help that my parents think they are pretty 'Hip' (haha). I just think they are 'Tragic' (oh boy - sorry, I'm done now).

A year or two later Day for Night comes out, and my best friend has decided 'Scared' is her song with her latest boyfriend. When they break up she plays it so much I am bound to end up either loving or hating it. Luckily I fall in love.


- 1997 -

I've moved to small town Southern Ontario. 'Ahead by a Century' is out and I remember laying on Katherine's bed, her, Laura and me, signing along to it, and feeling like I finally had friends in this new place.


- 1998 -

I've been back to Winnipeg for a visit - and though Ontario has carved out a beautiful place in my heart - I've just had a great time with friends who've known me my whole life. Winnipeg is still home. My brother picks me up at the Pearson International Airport, and as I get in the car I hear the loone's cry - the soundtrack of a youth spent at our family cabin in Nestor Falls - and the first lines humm from the radio "Sundown in the Paris of the Prairies..." and I cry because Gord is singing my home like he loves it as much as I do. In my mind I can see the patchwork quilt that are the prairies from miles in the air, out a plane window... and I say goodbye again.


- 1998 -

"You said you didn't give a fuck about hockey and I never saw someone say that before" and I laughed because I grew up in the hockiest of hockey families (ok, we weren't the Gretzky's or anything, but still). The boys all played and everyone speculated about their chances of making the NHL. None of them ever did. The line from Wheat Kings about walls lined with pictures of our parents' prime-minister has always reminded me of frosty Saturday mornings at the rink. The smell of an arena, and I'm sure I'm not alone in this, is the smell of childhood winters. So that line - the whole idea that you could not give a fuck about hockey - is strangely liberating to me.


- 1999 -

I'm going to Queen's University, living in Kingston, home to the Tragically Hip. A place where sightings of them are rare but not unheard of. I'm working at Blockbuster Video, and have made friends with my coworker John - who grew up in Kingston, practically breathing the Hip. He learned to play guitar because they were his heroes. He dreamed of meeting any of them and finally getting to tell his idols what their music meant to him. So one day he comes into work and tells me the story of it finally happening that morning on his way to work. Rob Baker's parents live down the street from John's house - he walked by at least once a day hoping he might make a sighting. And then, that morning, it finally happened - there he was, sitting on his parents' porch, strumming the chords of Grace Too. John swallowed hard, made his way up the sidewalk, thinking of all the great things he is going to say - he opens his mouth, and out fall the words "Hey man... that's Grace Too." Rob looked up and simply said "Yup.". John stumbled back down the sidewalk thinking to himself 'Hey man, that's Grace Too???? HE FUCKING KNOWS IT IS GRACE TOO... HE FUCKING WROTE THE SONG.' He was devastated. He'd wasted his shot.

I often wonder if he ever got another one.


- 1999 -

I drive to Bobcaygeon for a party one warm summer night - and sometime around 2 or 3 in the morning, I'm sitting by the bonfire, drunk and happy, as I stare up at the sky - and the constellations reveal themselves one star at a time.


- 2003 -

Driving late at night in Tania's car, 'Buella' is her name. On our way to Kenora to pick up her brother Joel. Our favorite mix CD in the player - The 'Blue Album'(because the CD it is burnt onto is... blue.). We play Fiddler's Green over and over and over and over again. It is perfect.

- 2007 -

Sean and I are in India. We are in a small town in the foothills of the Himalayas, McLeod Ganj, where the Dalai Lama and his followers have made their home. We meet Neil, from Scotland, who plays drums in a band. He tells us his band plays a cover of a song by a Canadian band, but he's never heard the original - do we know it? It's called 'New Orleans is Sinking'. Not only do we know it, but I can play it for him right then and there on my iPod. And as the song finishes Neil looks at me and says "That guys voice is fucking awful!" I tell him 'that guy' is a national treasure. He seems skeptical.


- 2014?ish -

Gord Downie plays Folk Fest solo - and as I swing in a hammock, a breeze gently cools my skin, and our national treasure sings to me. After the show is done, and most of the people are gone, I walk through the area behind the stage, just as Gord comes out. "Great show. Your music means the world to me." I tell him. He smiles shyly and says thanks and before carrying on. I feel grateful, especially now, that I got to tell him that. I think of John...

- 2015 -

Sean is at the cabin with some friends. Much to my dismay Sean has never been a Hip fan. They play the Hip and Tom Petty non-stop all weekend - and by the end, much like I did with 'Scared' - he's come around.


- 2016 -

Your tragic loss will be mourned by a nation Gord. You've left us with an anthology of who we are as a collective, and somehow still created beautiful, intimate moments with so many of us.
I just hope that we can meet your passing, armed with will and determination and grace too - just as you taught us.

The End of One Road, Just the Begining of Another

I’ve been seeing a lot of people recently opening up and sharing their experiences with infertility lately. And it’s comforting to know that people are opening up more and more about their experiences and building communities of support. Even when those people are strangers it’s comforting to know that your experience is shared. The thing that is sometimes hardest, is that once you find your community, once you figure out who is going through this with you, you slowly but surely lose your people – and it’s the best when you lose them because it means that the thing they’ve been hoping for has happened, that they are going to be parents and you truly are happy for them – and it’s the worst when you lose them, because you want so badly what they got.

For Sean and I it’s been nearly 4 years of trying – 4 years of doctor’s appointments, drugs, surgery, tears, acupuncture, herbal supplements, prenatal vitamins, tracking temperatures, ovulation tests, scheduled sex (super romantic, in case you were wondering), periods that start 2 hours after you finally break down and take that pregnancy test when you are already days late… and of course more tears.

And then, earlier this year I gave up – I was done. I was ready to give up my dream of being a parent, and move on with my life. We’d go on nice holidays and eat nice dinners out… it wasn’t the life I’d hoped for, but we don’t always get what we hope for. The emotional investment in our never ending battle with infertility was more than I could give of myself anymore. I could finally accept that I’d need to find happiness elsewhere. But Sean wasn’t there yet – so I kept going through the motions, for him, but my heart wasn’t in it anymore. We signed up to start IVF this fall, and we agreed to do one round before we called it a day and moved on with our lives.

And then two months ago everything changed… the stick finally showed the faintest line indicating a positive pregnancy test. I came downstairs sobbing so hard I couldn’t even tell Sean why – I just held it out and he stared at it in disbelief. And we both cried, and hugged, and laughed.

We’re due at Christmas this year. Best. Christmas. Present. EVER.

If there’s one thing I’ve realized since finding out I was pregnant, it’s that even though I’m finally no longer struggling with infertility, in my heart I will never forget what it was like to be there. So if you are still going through it, I know that even though you are happy for me, you’re also hurting – and I get it. I SO get it. I always will. Know that my heart is with you, hoping that one way or another you will move past this someday.

Bye for now...

I wanted to write a little follow up to my last post. Overall, I'm doing better - thanks to all of you who sent your love and support in a myriad of different ways. It meant the world. Truly.

A week and a half ago I took a trip down memory lane, back to the town where I finished high school. I only spent two and half years of my life there - but I made some of the best friends I can imagine having. Despite total neglect of our friendships, Laura and Katherine will be friends for life - of that I have no doubt. I picked Laura up from work on Saturday, and despite not having spoken to each other outside Facebook in roughly 12 years, it was as if no time had passed. We did a tour of our little town - featuring the 2 screen movie theater (where I worked once upon a time), the library, the high school and the only Chinese restaurant in town... you know, the old haunts. We stayed up till 2 in the morning, drinking wine and catching up. All in all it was a great weekend, and I'm so glad I took the time to revisit that part of my life.


The thing is, even though I'm doing better, I'm still feeling pretty off - I don't know what else to call it. I've lost my bearings a little bit. And if I'm being really honest, 3 years of trying to have kids without any success is definitely having an impact - a much larger one than I've admitted to myself until recently.

Then Adam died - and like I said last time, his presence was not part of my life in the present - so it's not that I'm missing him... but he's the 2nd friend from that time in my life, who was murdered in a random act of violence in the last 6 years. And I'm having trouble believing in the things I have always believed in. I know terrible things happen in the world all the time, but I've been pretty sheltered from that knowledge in any kind of tangible way. I've always believed that we can impact change in the world - I believe in doing things that are bigger than ourselves, that we may never see the impact of... I believe in taking care of the environment even though I might not be around to see the end result, I believe in feminism because I want all of our kids to grow up in a world where their gender has no impact on their ability to live their lives however they want, I believe in the company I work for because I know that creating an economy that is accessible to us all is the only way to truly begin to address financial inequity. But lately I'm having trouble seeing the point, feeling the passion, believing that the end result is worth all the hard work. I'm going through the motions, and it's exhausting.

Here's where I'm going with all of this - I need to make some changes to take care of myself more. And one of those changes is to get off Facebook and social media for a while - because while there is a lot of good news on Facebook, the overwhelming majority of information I'm taking in there is negative. I need to just let the world be the world for a little while, without taking it all in.

So call, or text, or even get me through messenger... but I won't be checking in here for a while. If I don't see you in the real world, I'll be back, when I feel strong enough to take on the world again.

The world feels greyer as they go from it...

It hasn’t been a very good week. It’s actually hard for me to say that. So many well-meaning people have asked some variation of “How’s it going?” throughout the week, and while I normally don’t stop to think much on how little that phrase really truly means, when it’s not going well that question can be so loaded. How do you know which people actually want to know, and which ones are just asking because that’s the polite way in which we interact with our acquaintances?

Every time someone asks me that right now I imagine the looks on their faces if I gave them the real answer. “Not very well actually. I got my period last week – and every month for the three years before that despite my best efforts to get pregnant. And some months that’s fine, and I’m ok and I move on… and some months it is bitter, and angry and tear soaked. This month is was not fine. And just as I was starting to feel a little less heartbroken about that, I woke up last Saturday to find out that a friend from high school was shot and killed by an angry kid who brought a gun to the school where he was teaching. And everything feels sad and tear soaked again.” While I know that some people would be horrified, frozen on the spot, totally uncomfortable if I dumped all that on them, others would probably genuinely want to know that all of that is going on. I know that there are those of you out there who would lend me your ears and your shoulders… but the thing is that I just don’t really want to be comforted, and I really don’t want to talk about it. So I’ve held all that in, pretty much all week now. It’s amazing how good I am at faking a smile and responding with “I’m good. You?” We’re probably all a little too good at faking being ok when we’re not really ok.

The truth, or at least part of the truth, is that I really don’t want anyone to tell me that they are sorry for my loss. Because I didn’t really lose anything – I lost a guy who I ate lunch with at the same table every day for roughly two and half years, who was at probably almost every social gathering I went to in the years I lived in Uxbridge – almost 20 years ago. I lost a guy I interacted with every once in a while on Facebook. But I do know what the world lost when Adam died – they lost a guy, despite those nearly 20 years since the last time I saw him, whose smile I can still remember, because he was nearly always smiling. Who was always making people laugh… I don’t remember any particular stories about him, but when I think of him the first thing that comes to mind is laughter.

The years I lived in Uxbridge were some of the happiest of my life – not because I look back on high school as some romantic period I am forever wishing to go back to. They were just really lovely days filled with friends, silliness, and innocence. I helped friends make movies, and was the stage manager for some local theatre, I went to church for about the only time in my whole life. Where I’d been just barely scraping by at school in Winnipeg, I was a straight A student, who made the honour role in Ontario. Maybe I’m looking back on it through rose coloured glasses (I probably am, but so what?) – it was all pretty happy and drama free, and when I think of those days I feel safe, happy and cared for.

Adam is the second friend from those days that someone chose to take from the world far too soon. It breaks my heart to know that they aren’t out there living their big, beautiful lives – because I could be ok with the fact that time and distance had separated me from most of my friends from back then, knowing that they were out there. The world feels a little greyer as they go from it…

To those of you who keenly feel the emptiness where their presence used to be, I am so truly sorry for your loss.

Accomodation, Equity and Inclusiveness - the Obligations of Being Canadian

I’m getting really tired of hearing white Canadians say things like “Why do we do so much to accommodate immigrants?” or “If you move here you should adopt our culture, and leave yours where you came from” or my personal favourite “Why don’t these people learn to speak English?” – like learning a new language is just a switch you flip! Do you people even hear yourselves? DO YOU??? Did you fall asleep every single day in high school history? Do you know anything about how your family got here? Where they came from? Because I may not know you, or your heritage, or anything about you – but I can tell you one thing with absolute certainty – if you are of any descent other than indigenous, you are descended from IMMIGRANTS.

If you are of Western European descent, there is a good chance that your ancestors came here, and did a heck of a lot more than just expect to be accommodated – I’m descended from the Red River Settlers, and while there is a lot to be proud of there - the existence of Manitoba as it stands today, founded by people who struggled to build a prosperous future in one of the most difficult (populated) climates on earth - it is equally important to acknowledge that while my ancestors sometimes partnered and worked with indigenous peoples, we were also part of the history of atrocities that happened to them in this Province. I can’t go back and fix the past – but I certainly can recognize what happened in the past, and work to make my Canada a more equitable one for all people.

I’ve noticed this “old stock Canadian” shit popping up more and more lately, and it takes everything in me not to pick fights with strangers on social media… because I don’t have the energy. As it is, I recently confronted something like this that came up in my Facebook feed from a “friend” from high school. She promptly deleted me – which is fine, she really just beat me to the punch, but clearly my confronting it did nothing to change her perspective.

How does it hurt you to be inclusive?

If a Christmas concert is now called a Holiday concert so that the Muslim, Jewish, Atheist, etc., etc. kids feel included, who did that hurt, and how did it hurt them? Did it ruin your Christmas? Did it stop you from celebrating with your family and friends? Did it make the experience of watching your child get up and sing any less of a great parenting moment?

If you had to annunciate your coffee order, or even repeat it, to the Tim’s employee who struggled with English, this morning… how exactly did that make your day worse? Because let me tell you from experience, it is a whole lot harder to be the person who struggles to communicate in a new country, than to be the person who once or twice a week has to work to ensure communication.

This morning I saw people complaining about an article where a Canadian University had installed sinks where Muslim students could wash their feet, in keeping with tenants of their religion. How did this hurt anyone? You might make assumptions that the University funded this to the detriment of some other program – but something tells me that the people spouting off on social media did nothing to understand where the money came from, or how prosperous that particular school might be.

I worked at Assiniboine Credit Union’s Member Communication Centre when we rolled out our Islamic Mortgage – a product that allows Muslim’s to own their own homes, and still follow the tenants of their religion. The hateful calls from across the country as we made National news for our unique product broke my heart. Who did this product hurt? No one. It only serves to help create equity – and yet people indulged in their ignorance without any real understanding of what the product was.

Here’s what I want to know… How can you have been the beneficiary of this country’s generous immigration policies (or, like my family, have come here before any such thing existed), come here and built a prosperous future, in a relatively safe country, where you had access to opportunities and health care and a million other amazing things about being Canadian – how can you have been the beneficiary of all this, and then stand up and say “Oh no, that was for me and my family – it’s not for yours.”?

If you read my blog regularly, you know that I spent a year living in Japan. As the years go by, many things about that year fade, and I become less and less that person I was all those years ago – but one thing stays with me (and I believe it always will): I remember how hard it was to be a new immigrant in a place where I didn’t speak the language, or read the alphabet, or understand the culture. I was lucky as hell, because I had someone to arrange an apartment for me, and go with me to set up my bank account and act as a translator – so at least in those initial days I wasn’t left totally to my own devices, as many new immigrants are. But after those initial days were over, I was on my own – left to memorize the characters for stops on my train line, so that I could get around without being able to read. I got lost frequently going into Tokyo, at least at first. I learned to use one ATM because I memorized the buttons a friend had shown me to push, so that I could withdraw cash – which led to an interesting evening, when that ATM was out of order and I didn’t have any money. I struggled to learn the language, so different from English or French – which was exhausting – so when I was with people who spoke English fluently I slipped into the easy comfort of rambling in my mother-tongue.

I am also lucky that the Japanese are ridiculously tolerant of the many faux pas outsiders to their culture make – and even if they may have felt offended or annoyed, they always displayed an infinite amount of patience, and understanding of the fact that I didn’t know any better.

I remember all of those things, and then I try to imagine how much infinitely more difficult it must be to do those things without enough money, in a place where your skills and education aren’t acknowledged, with a baby and a toddler depending on you. So I strive to be as patient and understanding as the Japanese were for me. I feel no animosity for “accommodations” that allow someone new to this country to participate in their religion, speak their language, celebrate their culture alongside mine.

Canada has been made up of immigrants for as long as it has been known as Canada – we have all contributed to what this country is today, in both heroic and horrific ways. I just wish that for the people out there who think we have to protect what we have by being exclusive rather than inclusive, that I could find the words to remind you that this country once accommodated you when you were something different.