Category: Current events

Witness statement

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I’m not quite sure how to write about this. I’m not quite sure I should write about it, even though I’ve actually already written about it, in fact, in pen on damp paper clipped onto a clipboard, provided for me by a police officer. This morning, I gave a witness statement in response to an incident in my neighbourhood in which I became involved by happenstance, but also, I think, by choice.

The happenstance was simply that an incident was occurring at an intersection toward which I happened to be walking, this morning. The choice was to stop, to take time to observe and try to assess what was happening and how I could best engage to prevent escalation and harm. I couldn’t interpret what I was seeing, immediately, but I heard angry shouts; I saw three people, somewhat disconnected from each other, who seemed involved in a charged emotional situation; and I saw at least a dozen kids walking in groups to school. I wanted the kids to be able to pass by the situation without being affected, without being scared or harmed in some way. That was my primary motivation for staying on the scene.

It took a little while for the situation to resolve into any kind of clarity — for me to understand what had happened and what was at stake. I won’t go into detail. An incident had occurred, which had been triggering, and as one of the people involved came toward me, there was a loud verbal confrontation that I feared could become physically violent. That was when I stepped toward the person who was being accused of something, though I didn’t know exactly what at that time, and I said that I would walk along with him. I can’t say it was a decision that was well-received by everyone involved, but I did it anyway and I stuck it out.

My gut said that just being present, just walking with this person, would change the charged emotional noise all around us, and it did, at least enough, I think. Two children were walking toward us on the sidewalk. I told the person I was walking with that I wanted these kids to be safe. He said he understood. I asked him whether he understood that the police had been called, and he said yes. I asked him whether he intended to try to run away, and he said no. I tried to make sure we weren’t walking too quickly. I kept telling the man that I was going to stay with him. I made eye contact. I asked him ordinary questions. Where he lived, what work he did.

When the police arrived, three of us stayed on the scene to give witness statements. I did not need to give a victim statement, because I was not a victim. But there was a victim, at least one, possibly more. The man was moved into the back of the police vehicle. We stood in the drizzle and the cold for nearly an hour, while a police officer took our statements. I’d never been through the process before. Rose was frigid and shaking, barking and pulling on her leash, making it difficult to write down what I’d seen.

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Ultimately, I found myself home again, then driving to Herrles to pick up pumpkins, as I’d promised my youngest I would do this morning. I found myself crying in the car. I was crying for the victim. I was crying for the bystander who was triggered and traumatized by what he’d heard. I was crying for the man who’d decided to do something that could potentially hurt so many others when he came into our neighbourhood this morning, instead of going to work. When I asked him if he had someone to call after this was over, a friend, family, was there anyone he could think of, he said no, he didn’t think so. He was crouched down at that point, and I can see his hand outstretched on the sidewalk, one finger drawing imaginary lines on the wet concrete.

I’ve been teetering atop my emotions all afternoon, feeling more than thinking about the fragility of human beings, about the ways we hurt each other, about how we pretend we’re ok till it’s obvious we’re not. I noticed that each of us who gave witness statements said that we wouldn’t need the assistance of victim services. Afterward, driving, I wondered at that impulse to say, hey, no thanks, this is nothing, I’ve seen this before, I’m not affected. But that can’t be true. I think we all were, because we all are, affected by what we see, experience, do and don’t do, and how we interact with the unexpected that comes toward us.

I’m sitting here thinking about how difficult it is for me to assess the unknown, to pass judgment, to decide who deserves what, to see the world as binary, and the humans in it in absolute terms. I can’t. Fundamentally, I don’t seem equipped to do that. I seem equipped, instead, to want to consider conflict, to understand it, maybe even to engage with it, to try to find a way to drain it of its emotional weather. To de-escalate. To bring everything back down to the ground. Where we’re all just humans and we’re all hurting, to different degrees. And some of us need to be stopped from hurting others. And we’re all holding stones. I want us to set down our stones.

I want for everything to make sense; but it doesn’t.

xo, Carrie

Call and response

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Today, I went to the climate protest in our town square. None of my kids went, and Kevin was working and couldn’t strike, so it was just me. We live nearby, and I walked, noticing people amassing, some with signs, many with children or pushing strollers. By sheer dumb luck, I ended up standing on a concrete riser closer to the front, where I could see some of the speakers. Drumming. Call and response. “What do we want?” “Climate action!” “When do we want it?” “Now!” And then a stripped-down orchestra appeared, led by a conductor, and they began playing Ode to Joy, quietly at first, a single cello, then more instruments joined, and at last, like magic, the choir burst out singing. I was right in the middle of it; I’d seen them filing in with their sheet music.

Goosebumps. I wished my kids had skipped school to experience this, too.

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One speaker asked us to turn to someone else and say why we’d come. I turned to the woman behind me and introduced myself, and she introduced her son. I admired his handmade sign, covered in scribbles (he was 2 years old, at most). But I didn’t say why I’d come, nor did I ask her why she’d come.

At one point, the crowd start chanting something that I interpreted as HOPE. After calling this out for awhile, I realized everyone else was saying VOTE.

Oops.

Well, it was hope that got me out the door and into the crowd. At least, I think that’s what it was. I wonder whether recognizing and responding to the climate crisis is a matter of viewing everything through a different lens. There are so many things we’re blind to, until we learn to see differently (racism, misogyny, poverty, and the list goes on and on). We don’t know what we don’t know, in so many ways, and so often we don’t understand until we’ve experienced something up close, either personally, or in some other immersive way (side note: stories are powerful like this). My kids, yes the same ones who didn’t go to the protest, are seeing the world differently: my son, who can vote this fall, says he’s most interested in climate policies because the other stuff seems insignificant by comparison (jobs, the economy, taxes).

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This one sign said: STOP LIVING IN YOUR FANTASY.

That got me. It is a form of fantasy to imagine we can keep living the way we’re living, especially here in Canada, where we consume far more than our fair share of pretty much everything. I didn’t make a sign, but I was thinking: WAKE UP!

I was also thinking: WHAT ARE YOU WILLING TO SACRIFICE?

But that’s more of a question for myself, a personal question. What happens after a protest? I feel overwhelmed and swamped with partial and seemingly insignificant choices — cooking vegetarian/vegan (which we often do), refilling plastic containers at the bulk store (ditto), walking more, driving less (but soccer fields are so far away!). Maybe I want to know that whatever I’m sacrificing will actually be consequential, rather than merely delusional. Rather than another form of fantasy. I want a road map. I want direction.

Also, I want leaders who do something. But what? What would I be willing to sacrifice?

xo, Carrie

What helps?

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I tried to write a post titled “Things that make me mad: an abbreviated list,” but the truth is that the things that make me mad also make me sad and frustrated and at-a-loss and despondent and infuriated and outraged and disgusted and sometimes, very occasionally, hopeless.

Also, the list is really really long. Mostly it relates to news stories, which I access via a variety of sources (CBC Radio; The Globe and Mail; The New York Times; The New Yorker; satirical news commentary on YouTube; Twitter; and all of the rabbit holes down which a person can disappear when visiting social media). I’m starting to wonder whether this constant source of outrage-fuel is useful; and if so, what’s it good for? I want to stay informed, but I also want to direct my outrage toward solutions, or at the very least prevent my outrage from spiralling into feelings of hopelessness and despair. How many more of my rants does Kevin need to hear on Space Force, Basic Income, Buck-A-Beer, climate change, and gun laws? Just to name a few subjects on which I have strong opinions.

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What can a person do?

My solution, such as it is, is to throw myself into projects that connect me to other people. My solution is engagement on a manageable (read: small) scale. My engagement is not necessarily directly related to the rant-inducing daily stream of really-bad-decisions made by rich-white-men-who-seem-uniquely-unqualified-to-be-in-power. ARGH. The injustice makes my brain boil. Where was I?

Engagement. Small scale.

Ah. Here’s the problem: The news can be a distraction. Outrage is a form of emotion that, let’s confess, feels really good — it stokes righteous flaming emotion deep down in the primitive part of my brain. And that’s problematic. It distracts from real life, which is right here waiting for me, in my house, in my neighbourhood, in my community.

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What helps?

It helps to sit down and work on a story, for no other reason than the story wants to exist. It helps to spend my evenings outside on a soccer field coaching young teens in their development as a team and as individuals. It helps to make plans for my fall and winter courses, dreaming up ways to deliver concepts that will inspire and challenge. It helps to read fiction and poetry. It helps to meditate. It helps to ride my bike whenever and wherever possible. It helps to walk the dog, to eat supper with the kids, to clean the house, to visit far-flung family, to spend an afternoon at the beach. It helps to finish what I start.

Why? Because even small scale acts of kindness and connection and attention are effective ways to fight against that which outrages me — ways to put into action my beliefs.

It helps, too, to dream big, to make plans for future projects that are beyond the scope of my current experience, to make connections with other people who work in the arts, to apply for grants, send out stories, throw bottles into the sea. Make space for more opportunities to unfold. Here’s a fun thing to try: write a letter to yourself, addressing yourself like you would a dear friend. What advice would you give yourself? Can you name all the things about yourself that you like, that give you strength and courage? What questions would a good friend ask you? (I did this at the beginning of June, and reading over my “Dear Carrie” letter now, I recognize that it has helped shape my summer in positive ways.)

What helps you?

xo, Carrie