A great edition loaded with content from Six Nations, Brantford & Brant.
In these pages:
-Learn how Brantford might have been the birthplace of Canadian Multiculturalism
- Hear from a writer on the joys and not-so-joyous parts about being with child.
- Learn more about Brantford Pride 2013 and the week that was
- Read part 2 of the Creation Story
and so much more.
Also featured in this edition is an editorial into our foray into podcasting. Hear the Brant Advocate Podcast on iTunes and on the front page of www.BrantAdvocate.com.
A great edition loaded with content from Six Nations, Brantford & Brant.
In these pages:
-Learn how Brantford might have been the birthplace of Canadian Multiculturalism
- Hear from a writer on the joys and not-so-joyous parts about being with child.
- Learn more about Brantford Pride 2013 and the week that was
- Read part 2 of the Creation Story
and so much more.
Also featured in this edition is an editorial into our foray into podcasting. Hear the Brant Advocate Podcast on iTunes and on the front page of www.BrantAdvocate.com.
A great edition loaded with content from Six Nations, Brantford & Brant.
In these pages:
-Learn how Brantford might have been the birthplace of Canadian Multiculturalism
- Hear from a writer on the joys and not-so-joyous parts about being with child.
- Learn more about Brantford Pride 2013 and the week that was
- Read part 2 of the Creation Story
and so much more.
Also featured in this edition is an editorial into our foray into podcasting. Hear the Brant Advocate Podcast on iTunes and on the front page of www.BrantAdvocate.com.
Chicken simmered in an authentic homemade curry sauce served with basmati rice or naan AUTHENTIC CHICKEN VINDALOO $15.99 Chicken preserved in vinegar, chili peppers & stewed with garlic and mixed with potatoes served with basmati rice or naan AUTHENTIC BUTTER CHICKEN $14.99 Chicken marinated in creamy tomato based Indian sauce served with basmati rice or naan 519. 304.8229 | www.hawkandbell.ca | DELIVERY TAKE OUT CATERING 75 DALHOUSIE STREET, HARMONY SQUARE. HAWK BELL & P U B L I C H O U S E HARMONY GRILL Photography by Paul Smith, Photohouse Studio. www.photohouse.ca July 2013 Free BrantAdvocate.com Local Content Locally Owned Locally Produced July 2013 Free BrantAdvocate.com Local Content Locally Owned Locally Produced Immigration, Eagle Place and the Boston Bruins. by Phil Gillies Walking Together. Story by Lorrie Gallant / Photos by Paul Smith The Truth About Growing a Fetus. by Laura Hill What always makes me Smile? by Zig Misiak Delicate Strength: Life for Women after Residential Schooling. by Layla Bozich The Difficulty of Rest. by Dave Carrol No More: Engaging Young Men and Boys to Prevent Violence Against Women. by Diana Boal The pain of residential school has passed through many generations and the healing comes slowly. As these youth walked together with residential school survivors, they were inspired by their courage and gained a new appreciation of their own freedom to speak their language, celebrate their culture and enjoy life. ~ Lorrie Gallant, Walking Together. July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 2 Im listening to a podcast right now. Its the BBCs Film Review Show with Mark Kermode and Simon Mayo--one of my favourites. This past April it was downloaded 2.4 million times. Think about that. 2.4 million people took the time to download two people, and the odd guest, sitting around talking about movies. The show has good production values (it sounds nice), and the hosts have this witty back and forth relation- ship, not unlike a relaxed, British Siskel and Ebert mixed in with some of the bickering of an old married couple. They call it wittertainment, and it works. 2.4 million downloads reminds me that living in the digital age isnt just about email, Facebook and Twitter. There is a whole DIY digital world waiting out there. Its one that I think is the right fit for Brantford too. I love podcasts and have been an avid listener for years. Podcasts are great for when youre on a long drive or taking a walk, and they are especially great at making mundane tasks like cleaning whiz by. Theres some- thing so personal about it too. A good podcast gives you the same feeling as sitting at a cafe and overhearing the most interesting conversation two tables over. The difference is that with a podcast theres no guilt or worry youll be caught snooping. In March of 2010, during my run for Brant MP, I did my first podcast, sort of. It was a mini-cast using a pro- gram called Audioboo. It was a neat little app on my phone that I could use to make five minute podcasts. Later, someone could download them off of iTunes and hear that little interview, or more often than not I would tuck it in my breast-pocket when I was doing a speech or a debate and could then share that later with those who couldnt make it to an event. Recording live music or quick interviews with local people was fun. Syd Bolton and Sean Allen have also created some pretty fun Audioboos over the last few years that are worth a listen. In June of 2010, Kevin Smith recorded his Stocky Night In Canada Two Smodcast at the Sanderson Cen- tre. I couldnt be at the show but I got to hear it, and I think I also got to hear some of my friends screaming in the audience. It was the first time I had heard a big podcast come out of Brantford. Id been listening to podcasts for so long, but I just never thought of it as something that could be connected with Brantford and the surrounding area until I heard that podcast and re- alized there would be people all over the world down- loading this thing, hearing stories about our region. I know that night inspired Robert Lavigne too. He and I have discussed it, and he wrote a wonderful piece about his experience at that show in our May, 2012 edi- tion of The Brant Advocate. In its shortest form he came to Brantford to see this Kevin Smith Podcast being recorded, and never really left. Robert is also a lover of podcasts and he hosts what is in my opinion the best podcast in the region: The Social Business Hangout. Hes got a world-wide audience, and most of his guests are from this area because this community has something to contribute to almost any conversation. As of this article, Ive been able to find 83 episodes of the Social Business Hangout and they are a blast to lis- ten to. Ive often wondered how it is that there arent 50 pod- casts out there sharing the stories of Brantford and area in a community saturated with so many papers, radio stations and other media. The Brant Advocate is proud to have dipped its toe into the podcast wading pool. After a bit of a rocky start back in December of 2011, weve found some consis- tency and since this past May have been able to get audio content out to you more regularly. And, you have been listening! Weve been very happy with our stats and growth on iTunes, and on our BrantAdvocate.com homepage where people seem to enjoy catching these episodes. So far weve been able to provide exclusive musical tracks (send us local music and wed be happy to share it), catch the reaction of local people to big events and give folks more insight into the stories weve published and the writers who write them. Weve even had people reading stories for the podcast, and are looking for more who would like to contribute in this way. When we launched our little not-a-newspaper nearly two years ago, one of our taglines was, A Voice For The Stories of Brant. The Brant Advocate podcast is a step towards making that tagline quite literal. Its a step toward a multi-media expansion of The Brant Ad- vocate beyond the print edition and into podcasts, dig- ital apps and beyond. Just wait until our next announcement in August! Brantford is in your Pocket by Marc Laferriere, Twitter: @MarcLaferriere Immigration, Eagle Place and the Boston Bruins by Phil Gillies, Twitter: @PhilGillies My family moved to Brantford from England when I was seven years old. I knew a bit about Canada even then--we had come over to stay in Cambridge when I was four. But, we came back from the U.K. to live in Brantford after my father got a job at the old Westing- house plant on Greenwich Street. It was the cold winter of 1961, when we first moved into a short-term rental on Brant Ave, across from the Ross Macdonald School. The CNR tracks were about seventy- feet behind my bedroom. Every time a train went by it sounded like it was coming right through the house! You could wear blue and white in Eagle Place, but not orange and black. Several months later we moved to our new permanent home on Cayuga Street. We moved into Eagle Place be- cause several of my parents new friends lived there; Scottish people who went to Alexandra Presbyterian Church. We started going to that church and found a very welcoming community there. Most of the congregation back then was Scottish, and I was about 12 before I re- alized you could sing a hymn without a Scottish brogue! All things brrrright and beauuuutiful... Im an Angli- can now, but Ill never forget the kindness and generosity of those Scottish Presbyterians. Which brings me to my first day of school. Like most new immigrants, we didnt have a lot of money. People from the church very kindly gave my mother a box of hand-me-down clothing for my brother Richard and I. We particularly needed winter clothing because our Eng- lish wardrobe was not suited for the temperatures of a Canadian winter. As we rummaged through the box to find the best stuff, I was particularly taken with a black and orange toque; black with an orange stripe through the headband, to be exact. It was warm and smart look- ing. Perfect, I thought, as I dressed for the first day of school, proudly putting on my new toque. And off we went to school. Everything started off pretty well. A warm reception at Princess Elizabeth School from our principal Mr. Axford (father of my lifelong friend Doug Axford). My big brother went off to his classroom, and I went off to mine. As I went down the hallway (ever notice how big school hallways look when youre a child, and how small they appear when youre an adult) I noticed I was attracting a lot of pretty hostile stares. Hmm, I thought. I guess they dont like new kids around here. This could be a little rough. I dont remember much about the first few lessons, but Ill never forget the morning recess. As we all filed out into the schoolyard, I was surrounded by a sizeable group of boys. Why are you wearing that hat? I replied with an English accent. To keep my head warm, and I like it. It was not well-received. In fact, I got the snot beaten out of me and returned to class with a bloody nose. I had never heard of the Boston Bruins. I learned a few things very quickly. One: I was wearing a Boston Bruins toque. Two: Boston Bruins uniforms are black and orange. Three: Eagle Place was Toronto Maple Leafs territory. Four: Maple Leafs gear is blue and white. Five: You could wear blue and white in Eagle Place, but not orange and black. I never wore the toque again. Pity, because I really liked it. Of everything I learned in grade three at Princess Eliza- beth, this is the lesson that sticks with me 50 years later. But, once I got past the hat thing, my brother and I made plenty of friends pretty quickly and made the neighbour- hood our own. We spent a lot of the remaining winter tobogganing and sledding down the hill in Tutela Park. There was no barrier in those days to stop you from flying past the bottom of the hill right out onto Erie Ave, which we sometimes did! I dont remember any colli- sions on the road, but there were some close calls. And, as the warmer weather set in there were backyard sleep- outs in friends backyards, hot dog roasts and Saturday hikes along the river. I stepped on a big snake once-- theres all kinds of wildlife along the Grand! I was too young then to extend my adventures up the hill to down- town. That came a few years later. Ill tell you all about it next time! 90 Morton Ave East Brantford 519.757.1800 www.handcraftedwood.ca SHOW US YOUR STUFF!! We here at the Brant Advocate have had the distinct honour of publishing some amazing content in our time; stories that range from the intimate, to the hilarious to the heartfelt. We're constantly amazed by the beauty and diversity citizens choose to fill our pages with, however there's one article missing... yours. We're constantly on the lookout for unique perspectives, interesting ideas, witty rants and colourful recounts. Speak a foreign language? We'd be happy to publish an article in your native tongue. Do you have an interesting hobby or job? Why not write an educational piece and help us all learn a little? Is there an issue you're an expert on? Present an argument for us to think about. We're always in search of something different. If you're interested in contributing, please email us at contact@brantadvocate.com. We can't wait to see your stuff!! July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 3 YOUR ONTARIO PC CANDIDATE FOR BRANT VISION YOUR ONTARIO PC CANDIDATE FOR BRANT VISIONEXPERIENCE Authorized by the CFO for the Brant PC Association. While reading the Brantford newspapers from a century ago Wayne Hunter, a local historian, ran across the story of the apprehension of a group of roughly one hundred Turkish foundry workers regarded as enemy aliens. Great Britain had just declared War on the Ottoman Em- pire, and on a cold, dark night in November 1914, these men were forced out of their boarding houses and put into wagons by the City Police. After a night in the Jail, they were marched to the newly built armoury and held for a few days. They were then marched at bayonet point to the newly built Train Station and shipped to Toronto. The Stanley Barracks were full of earlier in- ternees, and the Turks were sent on to Fort Henry in Kingston. Early in the spring of 1915, the Turks were sent to Kapuskasing to build the concentration camp, inside of which they were to be interned. After a year and a half of incarceration, these men were paroled to work at industrial plants in Southern Ontario. Wartime contracts had lifted the economic depression that had hit at the beginning of the War and workers were once again in short supply. However, very few ended up back in Brantford, possibly due to a deliberate policy of scattering these men into different cities. In the late 1920s, Turkey went out of its way to repatriate its foreign colonies, sending ships to North America to bring its citizens home. Roughly 80 per cent of these men accepted the offer. The first Turkish communities became a forgotten memory, and the modern Turkish communities date their inception to the post World War Two era. It appears as though we have discovered one of, if not the earliest Muslim communities in Canada. In 2009, while I was studying this incident, I crossed paths with the Canadian First World War Internment Recognition Fund through Lubomyr Luciuk at the Royal Military College. The Fund was, coincidentally, just open to requests; I was encouraged to apply and was awarded a grant to research the internment of the Turks. The First World War Internment has always been obscure. Eight thousand people had been held as enemy aliens, six thousand of them Ukrainians, and near the bottom of the list, two hundred Turks. When I started asking questions about Brantfords Turks at the Fund, I generated a lot of excitement. Nobody there knew where any of the Turkish internees had come from until I inquired. After the Second World War, the Canadian government destroyed the records of both the First and Second World War internments. The press release to an- nounce the first round of grants was picked up on by a graduate student in Ankara, Turkey. She wrote me that her research was on a Turkish community in Peabody, Massachusetts that seems to have been related to Brant- fords Turks. It was a research marriage made in heaven. Through her, I was able to circulate a tentative list of some of the names of the interned, and an identification was made of the ethnic and religious affiliation of these men. Since then, armed with a nearly complete listing of the internees, a list has been generated of roughly a hundred men with Kurdish names whose internment identification numbers were sequential. These men just have to be Brantfords Turks. The ethnic and sectarian determinations, consequently, have been made even stronger. This information opened up a backstory for the workers. That was quite exciting. In the mid 1890s, Har r y Co c k - shutt was on a world tour selling his familys plows to an interna- tional market. While in Istambul [as it was spelled then] he visited with a family of missionaries from Woodstock, Ontario. They were involved with a community of Armenian workers, said to be sojourners: single men who lived in boarding houses and who sent their wages home to their villages in the Anatolian Mountains. Mr. Cockshutt in- vited some of these men to Brantford, where they could find good-paying jobs in the Citys foundries. By the time of the Fifth Census, 1911, Brantford had the high- est percentage of foreign [non-English speaking] resi- dents in all of Canada, almost all sojourners from a variety of countries. Brantford was then the Armenian capital of Canada. Along with the Armenians, who were Christians, was a smattering of Muslims who were their neighbours in Anatolia. These were Kurdish people, members of a heretical sect known as Alevis. The Alevis believed in astrology, herbalism and re-incarnation. Their women took an active role in their religious serv- ices and didnt cover their heads. And, they had a close relationship with the Armenians, sometimes acting as godparents to each others children. It was said that the distance between Alevis and Armenians is not more thick than the membrane of an onion. These men cer- tainly traveled the same routes as the Armenians and, once in Brantford, lived in boarding houses with Ar- menian landlords. This arrangement seems to have held until the start of the Great War. When War was declared, all European contracts were canceled and Brantfords factories laid off many of their employees. Also, the mail service between North America and Europe stopped running. Consequently, the foreign workers were not only without incomes, but they were not able to communicate their plight to the folks at home and were not able to access t he money they had sent overseas. Some of these men were literally starving in their boarding houses. The consensus of the factory owners seems to have been that if these men were to be interned, they would have a roof over their heads and food to eat. The problem was, that internment was re- served for men who presented a risk to Canada, and was not supposed to be imposed on those who were merely unemployed. Someone, we dont know who, solved this problem by circulating an anonymous letter to the Chief of Police and the Mayor, that the Turks were planning to blow up the nearly completed new Post Office. The construction company hired guards to protect the build- ing, and the Turkish community was rounded up. Brant- ford citizens slept well in their beds. Early in the spring of 1915, the Turks were sent to Kapuskasing to build the concentration camp, inside of which they were to be interned. The physical evidence of the existence of the Turkish colony in Brantford also came from an old newspaper clipping. In 1912, a young man died as the result of an industrial accident. He was buried in Section J of the Mount Hope Cemetery, also known as The Turkish Lot. His funeral was well covered by the local papers. As the first Muslim burial in town, it was quite a cu- riosity. Earlier in 1912, three men from the Turkish colony managed to purchase this Lot and it appears that the men could buy the right to be buried there if something were to happen to them. There are now six- teen burials in the Lot, including, apparently, two cou- ples. Twelve of the burials occurred between 1912 and 1918, and the couples were interred in 1939, and 1941/1963. Recently, this story, after years of quiet, has come back to life with a vengeance. The Canadian corre- spondent of a Turkish news agency contacted me. We met at the Cemetery with a group of Brant- ford folks with an interest in the episode, and con- tacts were made. Not long after, we were invited to breakfast with the Turkish Consul-General of Toronto. After another tour of the Cemetery, we met with Mayor Friel and an arrangement was made to restore the Lot, install a stone with the names of the interred, and to interpret the story with a plaque. This is tentatively scheduled for completion before early Au- gust 2013, in time for a proposed visit to Brantford by the Turkish Ambassador to Canada. Also, plans are underway to make a Canadian/Turkish video co-production of this early Turkish emigration to North America, including the Ontario and Massachu- setts colonies and the First World War Internment. The current Turkish community in Canada has no memory of the fact that there was an early Muslim presence here before the Great War. The Turkish Society of Canada has met with a group in Brantford and is very interested in interpreting this story with us. Some of these men were literally starving in their boarding houses. It certainly appears as though we have discovered one of, if not the, earliest Muslim communities in Canada. There were definitely solitary Syrian peddlers on the prairies around the turn of the century, and a smattering of other Ottoman citizens in various centres, but Brant- ford seems to have had a true colony here around 1908, when emigration from the Ottoman Empire was first loosened up. Also, we havent found any evidence of a Muslim burial ground that predates Brantfords Turkish Lot. In many ways, Brantford could claim to have in- vented multiculturalism, although no one seems to have made this assertion before. The Turkish Lot: The Birth & Death of an Early Muslim Community in Brantford by Bill Darfler, email: wmdarfler@gmail.com IH kANI A0VOCAI WO0L0 LlK IO CONGkAI0LAI ALL IH PAkIlClPANI5 lN IHl5 YAk'5 MN lN HL5 WALK IO 50PPOkI NOVA VlIA. IHANK5 IO YO0 OVk $26,000 WA5 kAl50lll July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 4 The Truth About Growing A Fetus by Laura Hill, Facebook: Laura Hill Right now, if you were to walk into my house you would think that I was re-enacting some kind of Western shootout with myself because the only way to comfortably walk is with my legs bowed like a rhinestone cowboy, while grip- ping my vagina in pain. I look insane. Yesterday at work, I noticed some pain occurring in my pelvic region, but I chose to ignore it because Im shy and Im not about to start declaring that my pubic bone hurts at the very public desk that I work at. By the time I got home it was worse, and after dinner I called my mother in a frenzy because I couldnt walk. She calmed me down, which was nice, but that ended the minute I got off the phone with her. By the end of the night I couldnt roll over or even adjust my legs without wincing. It was a real treat. Fast forward to today, and I had to summon my caring and sweet partner home for a few minutes so he could witness what I can only presume was a really attractive and en- dearing meltdown. We called my midwife and she ex- plained to me what was going on, which is basically this: my pelvic bone has separated too far and if I dont stop trying to do all the things, it will get worse and I might end up in bed for the rest of the summer. I am writing about this because no one ever told me that this could happen during pregnancy. No one told me a lot of things, and Ive had to navigate through a ton of sur- prises while trying to remain relatively tight-lipped about them because I dont want to sound like an ungrateful jackass. I am blessed with this baby, and even though I was experiencing a ton of pain last night one of the things I mentioned to my partner was that despite all the discom- forts, I will miss the times when my baby was so close to me that I could feel her fluttering from within me. I am a nest, and she is my tiny blue bird, chirping and whittling away the hours with sighs and hiccups. This part is beau- tiful, the most beautiful, and there isnt a moment of it that I would wish away from my life. The thing that I have a problem with is there seems to be an air of shame around the less beautiful aspects of preg- nancy. There are common things that we know about the morning sickness, the weight gain. But there are other things. Stuff like your pubic bone separating too much and hurting so bad you cant walk. Stuff like your hips giving out while youre walking down a flight of stairs, out of nowhere and without warning. Stuff like not being able to breathe after climbing a single flight of stairs. Stuff like that. And stuff thats probably way worse that I havent experienced. There isnt a problem with experiencing dis- comfort for the sake of your little unborn baby. What is problematic to me is the lack of discussion around the re- alness of pregnancy. Why arent we normalizing the parts that arent cute or beautiful? Why arent we sharing more? Sometimes I feel like women can get caught up in a little macho-ism of our own when it comes to pregnancy, child- birth and our children. It does not help other women or yourself to cast a facade of being Super Pregnant Lady, or Super Mom. To only ever share the victories and not the defeats. Brokenness is beautiful. Being vulnerable is what makes us human and relatable. It is in the sharing of our less-than-wonderful moments that we learn from one an- other. This is why I choose to openly share the unbeautiful real- ity of my Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction. Its uncomfort- able to discuss the negatives at times because it feels like complaining, and no one wants to be that guy. Im sharing this not to complain, but to say that I made an error that is easily avoidable. Over the past few weeks I was up at 5 a.m. hanging clothes on the line, making breakfasts for my still-sleeping partner, getting out and tilling/weeding/planting the garden, going off to work where I stand on my feet 95 per cent of the time, coming home and cooking dinner, and on my days off of work I was mass cleaning my home. It made me feel good be- cause I felt like I was proving something to myself, some- thing about selflessness and a good work ethic. My back was very sore throughout these activities, and I didnt lis- ten to my body when it told me to stop. I tried to master it. Now I am writing this article in bed, in a lot of pain, and feeling like a bit of a loser. I tried to be Super Pregnant Lady, and I failed. And this is because absolutely no one can be Super Pregnant Lady. If anyone claims they are, then I would urge you to get your photo taken with that person because she is a mythological creature that should be documented, like Bigfoot. There is nothing wrong with trying to do a good job, but trying to be perfect is a farce. Our imperfections are what make us real, and trying to snuff them out will only result in discomfort, whether its physical like mine, or emo- tional. So, although pregnancy is a blessing and can be power- fully beautiful, it also has its ugly bits and theyre just as real and important as anything else. This is mostly a re- minder to myself, but also to anyone reading this who might be struggling with the same thing. Its okay to acci- dentally eat chocolate cake for second lunch and ugly cry once in awhile. Lets admit that more often. This Feels Like Home by Andrew Macklin, Twitter: @AMacklin Getting to travel the globe is a luxury that few people are ever fortunate enough to do. Many people save up for major holidays, one every handful of years, in order to see the sights in a foreign land, lie on a beach on a faraway island or see an event that many watch in awe on televi- sion. This is something I had rarely enjoyed until last year. Prior to taking my current job, I could count the number of air- ports I had been to on a single hand. I had flown, as a teenager, over to the British Isles to take part in one of BCIs rugby tours. I had also been to a wedding in New- foundland several years ago. But, before this job, that was the extent of my travel. And as much as I longed to see lands far away, I had never had much of a chance to spend money on travel. Since taking this job last March, travel has become a reg- ular occurrence. In the last 15 months or so, I have found myself in six provinces, three states in the U.S. and two European countries. Where I had previously seen the in- side of a grand total of four airports, I have seen over 20 since taking this new position. Yes, travel has become a luxury that a new job has certainly afforded me. And for that, I feel incredibly fortunate. As I write this, it is the morning of June 10, and I am sit- ting in Stockholm Arlanda airport waiting for a flight to Helsinki, Finland before coming back to Canada. I came to Sweden six days ago to cover a trade show in Jonkop- ing, and gave myself an extra day and a half to tour Stock- holm. "You see, the excitement of travelling is a wonderful distraction and can provide the opportunity to see places that few you know may ever see. But it is only that, a distraction." A few minutes ago, the woman at the Starbucks counter complimented me on the big smile I had on my face and she asked why I was smiling so much? Im going home to Canada, I said, and I am very happy to be heading home. It seems strange to say in some ways. Twenty-four hours ago, I was wandering the streets of Stockholm marveling at the incredible architecture of buildings that have been standing hundreds of years longer than anything in Canada. I was admiring the remnants of the great Vasa ship, which sunk near Stockholm in the 1620s and is now preserved in its own national museum. The day before that, I had stood with thousands of people outside of the royal palace, catching a glimpse of the new royal couple. The royal wedding was taking place, and part of the city had shut down as people lined the streets to watch their princess proudly go by with her new hus- band. It was a site reminiscent of a major parade on a na- tional holiday, and yet, that had passed a few days earlier with little to no pomp and circumstance. This royal wed- ding was the national celebration, despite the presence of many others, like myself, from countries around the world. But, when the sights had been seen and it was time to turn in after a long few days of working and sightseeing, I be- came quite anxious to come home. You see, the excitement of travelling is a wonderful dis- traction and can provide the opportunity to see places that few you know may ever see. But it is only that, a distrac- tion. All of the rudimentary things that get done on a trip like this take on a sometimes uncomfortable flavor. Sure, I sat on patios and had drinks, but it wasnt with my usual crew of friends that make going for drinks that much more enjoyable. And going for walks are always good ex- ercise, but it didnt have the familiar bent of holding on to a dog leash or the hand of a loved one. And going to sleep is a less relaxing experience when the pillows and mattress just dont have the same feel as the ones in the loft back home. There are also the more materialistic disadvantages, like the limited wardrobe, the over-inflated beer prices, the lack of a car and the handful of other creature comforts that make home, well, home. There are so many things to enjoy about travel. Travelling makes the rat race go away for hours, days or weeks at a time. But, it also lacks those few important things that each of us hold close, the things that make home the place that we want to return to. So, enjoy the marvels of travelling when the privilege af- fords you that ability. But never forget that home is where you belong. We are lucky to live in a country like Canada, in a province like Ontario and, for me, a town like Paris where the comforts of home are waiting for my safe and happy arrival. And if you have forgotten what those things are, those things that make you happy to come home, per- haps its time for you to scrape some pennies together and take a trip. Home will always be those things, and people, you miss most. What always makes me Smile? by Zig Misiak, Facebook: Zig Misiak What makes you feel really good when you see it? What belongs to every single person, without any exceptions, that lives in Brantford? What is something that we often take for granted, yet it expresses one of the best parts of us and our city? Brantford Parks and Recreation, thats the answer. Every summer I come across the teams wearing their or- ange and yellow vests, heads down, moving ever so metic- ulously over their assignments in our parks and our gardens; and I smile. Even my kids make comments about the beauty that they create and maintain. Many decades ago we had one of the most beautiful and artsy cities in the country. Well, we have spiraled down- wards somewhat, but one thing that I believe has never, or hardly at all, wavered is our commitment to our leisure areas. They belong to all of us. The Grand River is the spine of our community. Its the life-blood sustaining us and everything in it, above it and around it. Just think of that for a moment. We are so for- tunate to have this great river as a part of us, and we as a part of it. Up and down its length all the communities have an obligation to care for it. So goes the river, so we all go. There are those that choose to plunder, disfigure and de- stroy the little beauty that we have and then there are those like the Grand River Environmental Group that volunteer their time to pick up garbage dropped by others. These people are caring citizens. Entire families feel a sense of obligation. These are citizens of our city. Oh, actually those that choose to throw garbage are also citizens, arent they? So, what makes the difference between the two? Parks and Recreation are paid for what they do. Many people are paid for what they do, obviously. But to do it so well and above average is not just a job, but a commit- ment of pride and love for where we all live. Leading by good example, and punishing those that sim- ply dont care and have given up on us, is the formula for a city in its rebirth. Ive lived here for over 63 years. Its my home and I will die here. Therefore, I want to ac- knowledge those that make my city and your city a good place to live. Those that care for us now and our chil- dren. Respect to those that make Brantford a good place. We have made mistakes. Our council has made mistakes. Ive lived here for over 63 years. Its my home and I will die here. Look at those beautiful little gardens as food for the soul. Whatever state of mind you are in, whatever income bracket you belong to and whatever age you are--whether you like Brantford or not--I challenge you. The challenge is for you to walk by a park, or into one, and absorb the visual beauty and the perfume of nature. Sit there for a while. Just focus on everything thats around you. You will feel a sense of relief from this crazy world. Actually, its not an escape but a step in the right direction of how Mother Earth intended us to feel and be. Take a moment and send a note to our Parks and Recre- ation people. Say hi and thanks to our gardeners, and Carpe Diem (look it up). Oh yes, hold those accountable that are ruining our backyards by either helping them re- connect, or make them fix what they destroy. After all, they were happy, joy loving kids once upon a time. July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 5 YOGA Tuesday mornings, July 2nd to August 20th, 7:15 - 8:15am. OPEN CHESS Tuesdays & Thursdays, July 2nd to August 29th,12:00pm - 2:30pm. Tournament Dates: July 28, August 25 presented by Brantford Chess Club TUNES IN THE PARK Harmony Square each Friday from July 5th through August 30th at 12:00pm - 1:00pm CANADIAN RAPTORS CONSERVANCY Brantford Public Library Saturday July 6th 2:00pm -2:45pm CHILDRENS PROGRAMMING Mondays, July 8th to August 26th, 12noon, presented by Harmony School DANCE LESSONS Wednesdays, July 3rd to August 28th, 6pm, presented by Academy Of Dance MUSIC IN THE SQUARE Friday nights, July & August, 7:30 - 9:30pm TELEPHONE CITY CAR SHOW Sunday, July 21st, 9:00AM-4:00PM Downtown Brantford & Harmony Square ELVIS IN THE SQUARE Friday, July 12th, Elvis vendors & tribute artists! MOVIES IN THE SQUARE Thursday nights, July & August, at dusk ZUMBA Tuesday nights, July 4th to August 27th, at 7:00pm AND Wednesdays, June 5th to July 31st, 12:00pm. Dont forget your running shoes! presented by Thinsations VICTORIA PARK HERITAGE WALK Brantford Museum August 3rd at 10:30am Twitter: downtownbrantfd Facebook: DowntownBrantford Good things come in small packages... but so does dynamite, chuckles my great grandmother. At approximately four feet and eleven inches tall, I figure no one would know better than her. Recently having celebrated her 104th birthday, shes had a rattling effect on many lives, in a ton of different decades. Her actions though, always start humbly. From crocheting tiny joy bags for others in the community, to collecting something as unassumingly compact as a pop can tab, Lola Rutter can make even the mundane remarkable. And, although it might seem a force of duty to idolize anyone whos breezed past a century of life, my great grandmothers admirers arent drawn to her because of the number of years shes managed to live, but more importantly what shes done with them. I never bit off more than I could chew, Lola says, grasping me with her slight hands. Her daughter, my Great Aunt Sandra, shakes her head in the background. Even now, it seems as though my great grandmother is always busy doing something: Needle work, writing letters or tending to the people around her. In the past, her days were consumed with working for the local church, organizing events and caring for her nine children. They confess that she was indefinitely in search of ways to further any and every cause she stumbled across, and not in a hardline, ultra-serious way either. Lola has always been a giggler, laughing at jokes that many of us dont even know are there. Theres a vivaciousness she brings to everything. She experienced prohibition, the great depression, two World Wars and the release of Michael Jacksons Thriller. She saw hairstyles change, clothes transform and landscapes morph into what might have been considered futuristic, sci-fi dream worlds in her youth. In fact, as we sit for tea, my great grandmother bursts into spontaneous laughter, and once again its infec- tious. Many times Ive been seated by her side, and found myself laughing for no discernable reason. Today it happens again. Im reminded that she smiles, come rain or shine. No matter the job, Ive been plainly informed, shes al- ways been this way. Even my uncle Michael, who lived with her for a number of years in his youth, re- calls with total wonderment that in all the time he resided in her house, he never heard her complain-- never heard her say one nasty remark about anyone. Today shes wearing a beautiful dress, her hair is done up in tight blond curls and her walker, lovingly named Jane, is off to one side. Sometimes she gets in the way, Lola chuckles. The things shes seen throughout her life seem unfathomable to me. She was born shortly after the death of Queen Victoria, into a coun- try only 37 years of age--that country being Canada. She experienced prohibition, the great depression, two World Wars and the release of Michael Jacksons Thriller. She saw hairstyles change, clothes transform and landscapes morph into what might have been con- sidered futuristic, sci-fi dream worlds in her youth. Growing up in St. Williams she made friends with car- avan dwelling gypsies, and tells stories of the rubber man, who lived in ditches and could contort his body in circus like shows. Some of her experiences are as close to mystical as I could ever imagine, and yet, none of these events describe or define her. Here are the things I know she loves: Her family, the city of Brantford and Jesus Christ. The only exception to this sacred trinity is pop can tabs, and the more the better. Of course, it isnt the physical pop can tab shes enamoured with (although looking at the bags and boxes of them around her apartment, one might think otherwise), no its what they can do for others. For decades, shes been collecting and donating them to charitable causes, an action thats led to thousands of dollars (recently $2,400) being donated to the Ronald McDonald House, and more will go to Camp Bucko-- instituted for severely burned children--the charity she will be raising money for until September. Her son, Stan--as part of the You Did It, club--and many other family members and friends have caught the fever too, regularly adding to her collection. Its a hobby thats caused her to be dubbed the Pop Tab Queen in some of the towns she grew up near, St. Williams and Port Rowan for example. For her 100th birthday thats the one and only gift she requested; mounds and mounds of pop can tabs. Hords of people showed up at the hall and formed an orderly line to greet her. She hugged them, recalled a short story or two and quickly amassed a heaping pile of pop can tabs. Grin- ning from ear to ear, it was exactly what shed wanted. This was the real riddle. This was the real mystery. Why would a woman of so many accomplishments only want to talk about pop can tabs? Stories like this not only fascinate me, but they also perplex me. Why someone would dedicate over twenty years of their life to collecting pop can tabs for the less fortunate can certainly be attributed to dedi- cation. Asking for nothing but pop can tabs for ones 100th birthday, now thats kindness. Impressing upon me, in an interview about her life, the grave impor- tance of carrying on the project, well what exactly does that say about a person? Sitting at that kitchen table, I press again and again. What was it like raising nine children? Tell me about the olden days in St. Williams? How did you like or- ganizing for the local church? Each and every time the subject turns back to pop can tabs--those shiny devils. Theyre environmentally friendly, she tells me, talk- ing about the number of people who pick up cans off the street because of her. Asking about past friends and family, she brings up Mr. and Mrs. Renwick, mention- ing how Mr. Renwicks passing had ushered her into a more active role. She had been bringing him her pop can tabs for years--deriving her initial passion for the project from his heart for philanthropy in this unique way--and was delighted that his wife continued his tra- dition. Even now, beside her sitting on the floor, is a ten gallon jug filled to the brim with pop can tabs. She keeps looking over at them lovingly. This was the real riddle. This was the real mystery. Why would a woman of so many accomplishments only want to talk about pop can tabs? The answer, of course, was hard won and difficult to swallow. My great grandmother, it seems, has always known how to serve. Her time raising her children was done, and so she could move on. The olden days in St. Williams had passed, so they bore no need to speak on about. Even her days organizing the church were long over and therefore moot. Her pop can tabs though, and also the charities she donated to, well they are still in need of help and probably will be long into the future. At 104 she sees that time is a luxury only God can give. Until the city takes up her cause, she knows that her service here isnt over. My great grandmother has always been a selfless woman. Lola Rutter is funny, and kind and some might even say godly. Before we leave, each and every visit, she comments that if she doesnt see us around on the earth in the next little bit, shell see us in heaven. She means it with all the sincerity and reas- surance in her body. Her life is one thats been well spent, taking care of others. Today, as I walk down my street picking up old cans and cranking off their tabs, making that signature click, I think about her and how in some small way shes taught me to serve. I can only hope that through this article a bit of her magic has shone through, and that you too are inspired. How to Serve by Leisha Senko, Twitter: @LeishaSenko July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 6 Delicate Strength: Life for women after Residential Schooling by Layla Bozich, Twitter: @laylabozich In order to accurately depict the travesties students in Brantford's residential school faced, journalist Layla Bozich had the privlege of speaking with those at the Woodland Cultural Center. The Advocate, and Layla, would once again like to thank Woodland for giving so much to this publication. The Mohawk Institute was open for 140 years. Fear, hopelessness, pain, hatred and hunger are etched into the walls of the residential school located on Mohawk Street in Brantford, Ontario. But to the eye of an outsider, all that remains are giant oatmeal vats, peeling ceiling paint and rust stains from old bathroom fixtures lining the walls. During the Mohawk Institutes operation, which ended in 1970, young Indigenous girls were transformed into obedient, domestic women. They were slaves to the clothes that they sewed and the food that they cooked. Their breasts were bound and they were shamed when they began menstruating. In the rare book section of the library in the Woodland Cultural Centre, formerly the Mohawk Institute, rests a sewing table with the names of the girls who worked on it written on its underside in white chalk. The girls heads were shaved for speaking their tradi- tional language and in some cases of punishment, a girl would kneel in front of the schools minister, her head between his knees, and he would pull down her pants and whip her. Children on their deathbeds were sent home to die so that the school could refrain from being seen for what it really was: a place of silent genocide. The Mohawk Institute, aptly referred to as the Mush Hole, gained its infamous nickname from the quality of porridge it would feed its students. Most of the oatmeal was rotten and, despite what the teachers said, it was not made fresh that morning. The residential school system thrived on a culture of fear. Students were told that they would see the devil standing behind them if they looked in the mirror. But, the devil was the least of their worries.
You can only be told that youre a worthless piece of
garbage so long before you start to believe it. Robyn Bourgeois, a Lubicon woman and a professor at Laurier Brantford, is well versed in the hardships associated with being an Indigenous woman in todays society. As a crisis line worker during her undergraduate degree, Bourgeois was warned that men are more prone to sui- cide, and if they threaten to kill themselves, they most likely mean it. If women call, she was told, they are just seeking attention. But when residential schools were teaching young In- digenous girls that they are the living embodiment of sin, suicide was a very real consideration when they left. Women dealing with the pain of survival and ongoing self-doubt are prone to slipping into addiction, violent relationships and prostitution, says Bourgeois. Without support readily available for the women who survived residential school, it was easy for them to feel worthless. After being extensively abused physically, sexually and mentally, young girls began to believe it was their own fault and did not want to talk about it due to shame, says Bourgeois. But without closure, the shame and guilt began to affect women mentally and emotionally, and some turned to substance abuse. Students were told that they would see the devil standing behind them if they looked in the mirror. But the devil was the least of their worries. Some Indigenous women believed the residential school system was the open door to a white persons education, filled with knowledge inaccessible to those who did not attend, says Bourgeois. Yet these children lost everything that defined them: their language, their dress, and their beliefs. Those who attended the Mohawk Institute were forced to study Anglican religion at the Mohawk Chapel. Bourgeois recalls the story of her grandfather who at- tended residential school and was taught to be ashamed of his Native heritage. He lay on his deathbed with a Roman Catholic cross above him, having a Catholic mass, yet the brain cancer he suffered from forced him to exclusively speak Cree. Fiona Cook, the research and policy officer of the Native Womens Association of Canada, led a study of the con- nection between Indigenous girls and women serving time in jail to the inter-generational impacts of residen- tial schools. Cook wanted these girls and women to be given a voice and she says many of them were in the child welfare system or had a family member attend a residential school. For Cook, looking for an alternative to incarceration is important. Federal statistics indicate that 44 per cent of girls in youth custody are Aboriginal and 34 per cent of women in prison are Aboriginal. Cook says investing in better intervention and educational programs are neces- sary for these women and girls to live outside of jail. Most Indigenous communities are matrilineal, but in res- idential school the children suffered from the colonial mentality of the time that men were superior--a very dif- ferent view than their own. In some cases, boys were re- warded as property heads upon completion of residential school and girls were encouraged to marry, leading to a life of violence and devaluation due to the subservient role placed on girls in residential school. There was a huge impact [on] women [when they] were no longer looked to as tradition carriers and teachers, says Cook. Yet for Sherlene Bomberry, a Cayuga woman and resi- dential school survivor, safety is the first word that comes to mind when thinking about her time spent at the Mohawk Institute beginning in 1966. She was only ten at the time, but her mothers abusive boyfriends led Bomberry to find comfort at the residential school. Bomberry was not aware of any abuse happening during her time at the Mohawk Institute, likely due to the wean- ing out of harsh punishment as the school drew nearer to closing. Bomberry viewed her trips to the Mohawk Chapel as an adventure because her family did not own a car, so it was difficult for her to go anywhere. Children on their deathbeds were sent home to die so that the school could refrain from being seen for what it really was: a place of silent genocide. After her experience at residential school, Bomberry lost her Native status when she married an Irish man, who had no respect for her heritage. When she divorced she began visiting Jan Longboats Earth Healing Herb Gar- dens and Retreat Centre on Seneca Road at Six Nations of the Grand River to begin healing from her experience at residential school, which left her with a sense of shame and guilt because her family was so separated. She started going back to the reserve and also visited Pine Tree Native Centre of Brant. Wherever my spirit needed understanding was where I was, she says.
Bomberry realized that it was up to her to break the cycle
of violence that she had experienced as a child. Her mother, now in her early 80s, has just relearned how to hug and express her love. During her own healing process, Bomberry frequented a shelter on her reserve called Ganhkwsr, which means Love Among Us in the Cayuga language. The shelter focuses on holistic healing and has an understanding of residential schools and the oppression they caused, which helped Bomberry through her recovery. She now works there full-time as a shelter counsellor and offers casual support at Native Horizons Treatment Centre. Cook says there is no time frame on healing for residen- tial school survivors. She has heard that survivors have wished their counsellor was someone local from a simi- lar cultural background who can connect to Indigenous women on a personal level. She says some addiction pro- grams require women to leave their hometown and travel to a distant treatment centre where the recovery program is short, which is not realistic. There also needs to be more preventative treatment for the transmission of vio- lence among intergenerational survivors, who have the potential to fall prey to predators that could traffic them. Bourgeois recommends that survivors receive individual care and support while addressing the colonialism and racism women who were in residential schools have suf- fered. More awareness among the public, positive coping methods and better addiction responses should also be utilized. The best resolution will ultimately come when we are able to be self-determining sovereign nations because so much of the pain that we continue to deal with is bound up in that ongoing colonial relationship, says Bour- geois. The Mohawk Institute, whose basement air is heavy with dust and sadness, now stands as a constant reminder of the forward movement of Indigenous people. The Wood- land Cultural Centre has proudly taken over the building since its establishment in 1972, where a museum, lan- guage and education departments and a library offer knowledge to those who have suffered from, and those who want to learn about residential school. Though the women who survived the residential school experience were impacted physically, sexually, emotionally and psy- chologically, they remain strong and resilient with the help of healing centres around the country. Through the tears and pain these women have endured, it is now their time to take these experiences and build a better future for the women of their families. Woodland Cultural Centre, formerly The Mohawk Institute Residential School, c.1972 Photographs taken beneath the sewing table in the library at Woodland Cultural Centre. Names, dates and inscriptions written in chalk over many decades by residential school students. July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 7 Walking Together by Lorrie Gallant, Facebook: Lorrie Gallant In the language of the Six Nations of the Grand River Territory Ongwe- heonweh means first, original or natural people. We have fought battles that were not our own, we have suffered sickness and diseases that were put on us, and despite the effort of others to take away our culture and language--attempts to assimilate us--we are still here! We are survivors. Walking Together, is the name of a project that brought 26 students from the Aboriginal Beliefs, Values and Aspirations class and the Expressing Aboriginal Cultures Art class of Hagersville Secondary School together with former students of residential school. This intergenerational commu- nity arts project was intended to remind the youth of an important part of our First Nations history. To help these First Nations youth be empathetic to the survivors of residential schools, they needed to understand what the survivors endured. The Project began with a presentation on the history of residential schools. Students participated in workshops on information gathering, in- terviewing and how to use digital photography to tell a story. Then, we left the classroom to visit the Woodland Cultural Centre, the former Mohawk Institute, for a tour. This tour was special because they were guided through the residential school by former residential school students. With cameras, notepads and sketchbooks in hand, the students walked side by side with survivors and listened to the stories of each space of the building where they stood. They heard a story of a child waiting by the window for hours, wondering why his mother was not coming to get him. Those hours turned into years, and she never came. Survivors became transparent and shared sad stories of always being hungry, lonely and crying many tears. We ended the day with a question and answer period, where the students discovered that pain and sadness didnt end when the survivors got to go home. They took it with them, and have spent their whole lives carrying this heartbreaking legacy. The students then returned to the classroom with new insight into what the survivors had suffered, what some of their own grandparents had gone through and how it still affects our community today. They began to learn the art of mixed media and were given a creative place to put what they had come to know, as seen through the eyes of the survivors. The 24 inch by 36 inch white canvas lay before each student, waiting to reveal this new knowledge. Hearing about residential school was one thing, but spending a day with a survivor of the school made it real. Re- alizing that these things had happened to some of their own family, to people of this community--innocent little children who had done nothing wrong--gave these students the images and words for their canvas. The pain of residential school has passed through many generations and the healing comes slowly. As these youth walked together with residential school survivors, they were inspired by their courage and gained a new appreciation of their own freedom to speak their language, celebrate their culture and enjoy life. Woodland Cultural Centre has become a reminder of that painful past, and at the same time celebrates a beautiful, culturally rich way of life. Im so thankful that the Six Nations Community Development Trust Fund is aware of how the residential school has affected our community. Im grate- ful to the First Nation artists whove helped give the students a voice to those that needed to be heard, honoured the survivors and remembered those little children that never made it home, and Hagersville secondary school who trusted us with their students. These students respectfully walked with the survivors, and cared about the message their art would communicate. Most importantly, we need to say Nia:wen to the survivors for being so honest, and willing to open wounds of painful memories to help the students understand and appreciate their cultural freedom, hav- ing the strength of spirit to let something shine through all the brokenness and bring to light the pain and loss that came to them, but was never asked for. Thats my definition of a survivor. We can now celebrate their cultural inheritance. Photography by Paul Smith, Photohouse Studio. www.photohouse.ca July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 8 THE ROLE OF THE GOVERNMENT IN INSURANCE REFORM As usual when the question of a possible election arises the cost of automobile insurance in the Province of Ontario is in the news. Whenever automobile insurance is discussed the most important thing is for everyone to remember that insur- ance law is first and foremost consumer protection law. This means that the government is supposed to make sure that the Insurance Act serves the interests of the consumers - i.e. peo- ple who pay the cost of insurance premiums and expect their insurers to look after them when they are injured in motor vehicle collisions. Theoretically the role of the government is to balance the in- terests of the insurers against the interests of consumers. The government uses regulations to attempt to implement this bal- ance and the regulations are enforced by independent dispute resolution mechanisms - either through the Financial Services Commission of Ontario (largely funded by the Insurance companies) or through the courts (funded by the tax payers). The Financial Services Commission of Ontario was intended to provide a faster, cheaper alternative to the courts in an ef- fort to ensure that claimants could resolve disputes with their insurer's rapidly in order to facilitate timely access to treat- ment and maximize full recovery from injuries sustained. Due to backlogs and internal inconsistencies on how to in- terpret their governing legislation FSCO has become less ef- fective over time. Claimants have had to turn to the courts to seek direction and in certain cases Charter protections which are not available at FSCO. While regulations provide protection to consumers imple- menting regulations costs money. The more regulations that there are the more expensive and unwieldy the system be- comes and the less able it is to serve claimants and the inter- ests it has been designed to protect. The foundation for the current system is a series of forms which are unduly compli- cated and not user friendly. Similarly the dispute resolution process accessible through FSCO is heavily paper reliant and processing applications for mediation is time consuming re- sulting in significant delay in the scheduling of mediation dates. FSCO has also interpreted their governing legislation in a fashion that is inconsistent with consumer protection, i.e. interpreting the 60 days in a fashion that effectively removed any protection for consumers in terms of the length of time between the filing of a mediation application and the sched- uling of a mediation, and refusing to address disputes about the applicability of the Minor Injury Guideline. At a recent breakfast I had occasion to hear Jeff Yurek, MPP for Elgin Middlesex address the issue of insurance reform. He noted that in moving forward with reform, questions had be to be asked about the role of FSCO and whether regula- tions were hindering progress and competition in the industry. He noted that questions needed to be asked about whether the Minor Injury Guideline was serving consumers effec- tively. Consideration had to be to be given as to how to bal- ance what you need if you are injured in an accident against what you pay for insurance. For insurance to be a good prod- uct in Ontario it's not reasonable to expect that it will be cheap or free. In terms of insurance reform there are many options that could be considered. Optional additional coverages are avail- able now to customers that allow them to upgrade their cov- erages without changing the base price of insurance. There are two difficulties to this approach. First the additional cov- erages are not being marketed to consumers and consumers are largely unaware they could have purchased additional coverages until they are in an accident. Further the availabil- ity of additional optional coverages could lead to tiered ben- efits and the question would remain in terms of consumer protection what is the minimum amount of benefits that would be an acceptable amount to provide to consumers who pay insurance premiums in the event they are injured in a col- lision. This is of course a question of public policy insomuch as access to insurance benefits and defrays costs to the public purse. The other pressing issue is if and how the Minor Injury Guideline be improved upon so that it will properly serve persons who have suffered minor injuries and has the flexi- bility to ensure that it is not compromising access to treatment by unfairly minimizing injuries. Lisa Morell Kelly Morell Kelly Personal Injury Law 515 Park Road North Brantford, Ontario N3R 7K8 (519) 720-0110 This whole stay at home mom thing is a whole other book. Because I feel that I have become the most epic housewife, save for the wife and house parts, I have given myself a new title: Professional Apt-ma. What is an Apt-ma, you ask? An apartment mama, of course. Note the play on "apt." Clever, eh? As an Apt-ma, my life is basically the opposite of my recent student life... or is it? Well, let's see. Old goals: conquer the world, be good at most things, contribute to society and for the love of peanuts develop some sense of how to make nice clothing choices. Current goals: conquer the world, be good at most things, con- tribute to society and for the love of acorns develop some sense of how to make nice clothing choices. Well, will you look at that! So, I figure that conquering the world, becoming good at more things and contributing to society all occur in stages. You can't just take over the world with a YeeHaw or a RaRa. (Gosh, I love rhymes). If you're smart like a Stormborn, well the girl one at least, you'll increase your awesomeness as you go. Marry into princesshood in a horse tribe, make friends with slaves, get people to swear their lives over to you, and man, when you throw a few mini dragons into the mix, you're ready to go head-to-head with some bigger thugs. Game of Thrones is an awesome show, be tee dubs, unless you don't like gore, violence, magic or smutty stuff for your screen entertainment. You're welcome, HBO. I accept donations, for future reference. So, since maternity leave tradition dictates that I can't blow thousands on further upgrading my education, spend 98 per cent of my days donating my time to extracurricular volun- teerism or go gallivanting across under-appreciated continents, in my apartment I stay for the most part. If you have seen my Instagram, you know without a doubt that I think my kid is THE greatest. I'm not writing about him today. This one is about me, me, me. Once Riley popped his little head out, I began my first task: adding to my media knowledge repertoire. Compared to the average Canadian 20-something, I know virtually nothing in this area. So, I watched entire series after entire series. New stuff, too. Unfortunately, I still never seem to catch people's media references. Next, out of necessity more than anything else, I began to de- velop a number of strange skills, all of which developed from being the primary caregiver to a medium, fussy infant. First off, I have overcome my fear of childbirth. Rock on! Yeah, that's right. I shoved a kid out. This makes me badass. The rest of the items don't come even close to that level of awe- some, but they are all getting shout outs. Since Riley, I can now: Talk Fast. With 18,345,234.3 things on my mind, when some- one gives me conversational attention, out it all comes. Verbal diarrhoea is a real thing. Do ambidextrous stuff. When you have to switch baby hold- ing duty from arm to arm, well, you don't have a choice but to get better at using your... not dominant? What's the word? Baby brain. Well, for me it's my left. I had the crappiest left hand co- ordination ever. Now, it's far less useless. Score. Name all the accessible routes. Strollering means no more of my as-the-crow flies shortcuts that I loved so much. Stupid stairs/curbs/fences/rivers. Give a SOLID stink eye. Drive too close to me and my baby, you might get lucky and even get the wtf arm gesture. Yeah, I'm that girl now. Drown out unwanted advice. And for goodness sake, don't tell new moms/pregos your awful labour stories, and just in general completely leave out the sick baby stuff. New moms don't like it. We might never. I'm so sorry for your heartache, but us first-timers are paranoid enough. If it was your child, thats one thing. If it wasnt, please just dont. Do at home stuff. Yo. I care about regular cleaning more than I did before. I still hate sweeping/mopping/Windexing and all that jazz, but I'm over my hate of washing dishes and taking out the garbage. One step at a time I guess? X off to do list items. Like baking. Like, last night, I baked cinnamon buns from scratch, and they were delightful! Cream cheese icing just made it. So delectable. There are lots of things I can do for the community from home, too! I've come to help dozens of people finish or revise their resumes, for example. Perhaps this can become an official business once my leave is over! I serve on committees, write articles, attend church events and spend time with people I haven't had time for in ages. Now there are still some things on my to do list, of course. Aside from how to coordinate smokin/pretty outfits, I need to figure out how to walk. Please, tell me someone else has experienced this post baby dilemma. I don't remember how I used to move my legs. My swagger is messed, inconsistent and awkward... Gah! Some days I've got a Meredith Grey saunter, and other times I catch myself trying to pull off some kind of Baywatch embar- rassing-ness. Then, other times, my hips just don't line up and my left goes further than my right, and I walk all facing side- ways. Four months post-birthin' and I still haven't figured it out. Additionally, I've overcome my fear of wardrobe malfunctions. Who knew that nursing would mean chronic bra issues, cock- eyed shirts and even the occasional public leakage? Glorious stuff, I tell ya, but it has made me stronger. If youre asking me, which Id say you are if youre still read- ing what I have to say at this point, Im nailing the whole con- quering the world thing. This is my season of being an Apt-ma, and by golly, I'm gonna nail it! One step at a time. Oh, To Be An Apt-Ma by Becca Vandekemp, Twitter: @beccavdk Youre young. You cant make mistakes. He meant it in the life is full of risks, so take some because its going to be okay sort of way. He was my favorite--everyones favorite really--university pro- fessor. He was young, single and soulfully wise. I always walked the line between being halfway in love with him and thoroughly intimidated. I will forever be grateful for the things he taught me: To dream, to honor, to work with excellence and to love my neighbor as myself. Oh, and to not be afraid of mis- takes. I used to be paralyzed every time I needed to make a major decision. I so wanted to make the right one. It was truly terri- ble. Youre young; you cant make mistakes. This has gone round and round my head through the years. Its an entirely comforting thought except on those days when I wake up with a black pit in the bottom of my stomach, know- ing I have made an irrevocable decision for the worse. To be honest, I wish we could all have a deck of I take it back cards we could play at any given moment and erase the last few hours or even day. I would like a double deck, please and thank you. It seems like every week I do or say something that should have stayed un-done or un-said. #oops #willieverlearn? Id like to imagine that if Im a mess, Im a beautiful mess. But, I see this pipe dream for what it truly is. I always thought I would be a kooky old lady. Id wear purple, write poetry and host backyard tea parties at midnight. Id dance in the moonlight, travel the world, speak my mind and campaign for all the social justice issues I could find. Id have a front porch where Id wave at everyone, wear big hats and play rock music. If I make all my mistakes, huge and small, in this decade then by the time Im a grandmother I can be sedate. I can drink my tea each afternoon at 4 p.m. and take up crocheting. I figured I could take all my stored-up risks after I was 70, when I finally stopped caring. Id be rogue--a tart extraordi- naire--and not look back. Hello world, nice to meet you. But should I re-think my plan? I get so tired of being a messy human. If I make all my mistakes, huge and small, in this decade then by the time Im a grandmother I can be sedate. I can drink my tea each afternoon at 4 p.m. and take up crocheting. Who needs wildness and risks anyway? Who needs a world of changers and those who dare to be dif- ferent, who think outside the box and ask the hard questions? If we stay in our boxes and play it safe then we dont have to worry about getting hurt. I always thought perfection would be boring but who knows, perhaps there is something to the simplicity of sameness, of safeness, of never having the mind-blinding sorrow of regrets. I can walk a straight line as well as anyone, mind my manners and close my mouth. I can stop taking risks, dreaming and dar- ing. There is too much space for tears and bruises along the way anyway. Aquiet world, an unruffled existence. Oh the possibilities! My heart leaps at the thought, but then I pause. My heart stills and I know I must be true to myself. So I think I will take life as it comes, fully embrace the journey and learn from my mistakes as I go, even when it is most painful. It will inevitably be mucky, but it is the only real way I can see. So, I will wear my heart on my sleeve. I really cant help it. Ill let the world see me as I truly am, a broken being and oh- so-beautifully saved by grace. All About Mistakes by Layne Beckner Grime, Facebook: Layne Beckner Grime The best laid plans, they say. Nothing could be further from the truth as my career in fashion took an interesting, but re- warding turn. Growing up in Toronto I had dreamt of a career in fashion all of my life. I wanted to work for a fashion mag- azine and travel the world, sitting in the front row at all the shows. I was thrilled to be accepted to Ryerson and begin my three year fashion program. I loved it! It was everything I had dreamt of, and I began to see my future unfold. The program included a variety of courses: advertising, design, graphic arts, public relations, marketing and promotions. So many career possibilities were exciting. I took my portfolio to the fashion magazines in Toronto and was rejected because I did not have a journalism degree. Broken hearted I had to move on. So began a string of interesting positions in sales, public rela- tions and consulting. Little did I realize this was the beginning of my training for--as I call it--my calling. It was during this time that I met my husband, a Brantford boy who loved Toronto but still missed his hometown. Jim was asked to come home and work for some friends. So, we packed up and I cried and cried. I settled in and began domestic life. We had children, a house, a dog and a garden, the whole nine yards. However, it was not enough. So, I began my endless volunteer jobs. I canvassed, taught art in the public school, supervised school trips and ran junior golf at our course. I went back to work sell- ing advertising in Brant. It was later while volunteering for the Alzheimer Society of Brants golf tournament that I saw an opportunity for a new career. I would spend time surrounded by both Alzheimer and Dementia clients, and would be reminded of why I go to work everyday. I began to volunteer for the organization and learned about the need to build awareness and raise funds for programs and ed- ucation in Brant. My parents moved to Brantford and things seemed to be falling into place. I accepted a position with the Alzheimer Society of Niagara as the Foundation Director, but when a position became available in Brant I jumped at the chance to work in my own community. Finally, everything seemed to be moving in the right direction. Then, sitting at my desk one afternoon came the call about my mothers illness. It meant my Dad would have to be moved to the John Noble Home. My Dad, who had always been my biggest fan, my role model and my soul mate. His life was about to change signif- icantly. Now what? I loved my job and loved my parents! I knew my Dad would want me to continue my work, give back, raise funds and build awareness about Alzheimer and Demen- tia. It was suddenly announced we were moving the Alzheimer office to the John Noble Home. What? Dad and I were going to be right next door. It also meant that I would spend time sur- rounded by both Alzheimer and Dementia clients, and would be reminded of why I go to work everyday. So often we lose our mission and vision, but I am constantly reminded of why I have chosen this path. Or did I choose this path? I sat in my office the other day and it suddenly dawned on me that all of my education, training and connections are now being used for the greater good. I need to build awareness and support for Alzheimer and Dementia in Brant. If I have a bad day I walk across the courtyard and visit my Dad. He just says, you are what you are thinking about. I think I have found My Calling. The best laid plan. My Calling by Angee Turnbull, Facebook: Angee Turnbull July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 9 Strong Modern Leadership Strong Mod Twitter: @alexfelsky www.facebook.com/brantndpalex b r a n t a l e x . c a Brantford Paris Burford St. George whynotyouthcentres.com 519.759.2221 Why Not City Missions / Youth Centres has been actively reaching the at-risk youth, the disadvantaged and the homeless population since 2002. Founded by Charlie and Sue Kopczyk, the Mission is still providing food and clothing for those in need. 101-96 Nelson St. Brantford, ON N3T 2N1 Phone 519-759-0361 Fax 519-759-6439 TTY 519-759-4953 dlevac.mpp.co@liberal.ola.org www.davelevac.on.ca Dave Levac, MPP Brant. If you want to learn rock, pop or classical we have the right program for you. Beginners are welcome. Call today to begin your musical journey. I love Brantford. I love serving my city. But, the other day a friend said to me, hey, we should hang out, and I offered him an open one hour timeslot after my kids go to bed three weeks from now. It was a bit shocking. And I think I--along with many of us who work very hard for the things we care about--have a lesson to learn, because I simply dont do rest well. And thats not a good thing. I am not a doctor. Although, in an ill-fated and short lived radio gag, I did once refer to myself as The Dr. of Love on Christian radio. That was until a "dear sister in the Lord" rebuked me for misrepresenting my savior by misleadingly posing as someone who actually earned a title when I was simply an arrogant, young, smart-mouth sending the sheep astray through deception. Darn close to a direct quote. Such a precious saint. Life can be... exhausting. I'm also not a psychologist, nor a sociologist. As a fairly all-in person, I can find myself not that aware or concerned with healthy cultural norms saying, "screw it all. I'm packing up the family, growing a huge beard and we're moving into the wilder- ness to live like hermits on a lake without human interaction, ever again. But, Im realizing that its a healthy thing for us to think about saying, about 14 per cent of the time. That's about once a week. Any more than 14 per cent? We'd get caught up in wonderland. We likely wouldn't get anything done. Even worse, we might indulge ourselves in actually doing it. Any less than 14 per cent? We'd be sucked into a never-ending vortex of concrete, capitalism, crassness and craziness. Our brains would scramble enough to still never get anything done. Even worse, we might indulge ourselves in actually forgetting that the work world that we see around us is it. Definitions of evacuation include the "discharge of waste mate- rials" and "leaving a place in an orderly fashion." And every now and again, I think that's a good thing. I think it's a good thing to remember that working this hard here isn't our final destination (or doom) in perpetuity! Imagine that? I LIKE working. I LOVE seeing Brantford transformed, by God into good. But, it does get tiring. And, we are designed to vigorously till the soil in our city. But as a Christian, I dont believe this is our forever home, and not taking a break to breathe and get long-range perspective can pollute our thinking, drain our energy and even undercut the quality of our work. Your, "screw it all, I'm packing up the family, growing a huge beard and we're moving into the wilderness to live like hermits on a lake without human interaction, ever again," would likely look differently than mine. Yours might be, I just want to drink tea in sweat pants and read Jane Austin novels all day," or, I just want to get on my motorcycle and drive all day. But, we know in our hearts that if we did that forever, wed rot. But find- ing rest in removal once a week is refreshing. Christians call this The Sabbath. It's God's plan of a day of rest once a week. 14 per cent of your time. It's the commandment I like the least, because I struggle with rest. I don't like taking it and I don't know how to DO it when I do! Complete abandon- ment and hermit living is where my wonky mind gets to without a healthy discipline of rest. I'd actually hate it. We're not designed to live as a recluse. What we really need are regular, healthy, short-term mental evacuations and then a reinvigorated reentry into our task. When we don't do it well it affects: Body. Bad sleep and physical vulnerability. Soul. Alertness, general awareness and freshness of the mind. Spirit. The vibrancy and acuteness of ours dreams, and our ability to use not just our natural eyes to them. 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24 says, "May God himself, the God who makes everything holy and whole, make you holy and whole, put you together--spirit, soul, and body--and keep you fit for the coming of our Master, Jesus Christ. The One who called you is completely dependable. If he said it, hell do it!" City Leaders, let me encourage you today. We have to CHOOSE to rest. Put your iPhone down and stop taking emails every day. Not every day can be work. We cant spend life in a permanent mental vacation, but there are perils of never getting out for a breath of fresh air too. Honestly, I don't much like the habitual ramifications that might come from delving into The Sabbath because I know I have changes to make, but I do like the prom- ised results. The Difficulty of Rest by Dave Carrol, Twitter: @davecarrol It was the kind of weather that must have inspired Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day. I could barely keep my balance as I carried my display out of the Laurier Building and ventured onto Market Street. My curls were blowing in my face. I mustered all my energy to look composed as I made my way to my car. Push- ing my curls out of my face, I noticed a man sitting on a bench beside the library watching me struggle with my display box. I only noticed him because he spoke to me. He said, Your work weighs more than my life I looked down at my box and back at him, and asked him to repeat himself. Pointing to the box he said, your work weighs more than my life. I carried my box over to him and sat down on it. Does you hair do that on its own? I laughed because my hair does not belong to me. It has always had a life of its own. My lions mane on humid days, beautiful ringlets when I have nowhere to go and limp waves when I want a raging sea. Oh yes, these are natural. They live and breathe on their own, and the wind is really messing with them today He smiled at my embarrassment and then began reciting a Ten- nyson poem about finding beauty in what is wild. I was mesmer- ized. The poetry reading did not stop there. He went on, reciting Lord Byron and Wordsworth. He told me all about the life of John Clare and how he wrote his poems while institutionalized, which lead to a story about his own life. The onset of his mental health issues began while he was in uni- versity, leading to his eventual homelessness; being labelled with a mental health diagnosis. For an hour we sat together, and he shared stories and poems. It was difficult but the conversation had to come to a close. I needed to go back to the Sexual Assault Centre but he wanted me to know before I left that we should all live by the teachings of Jesus: love one another and look out for each other. I am not sure why I felt compelled to share that story. It was not a life defining moment. I was already doing anti-poverty and community work. Perhaps its for that reason I needed to get it out of me. Maybe its because I have been thinking alot lately about how busy, clouded and full our lives have become, leaving little time to experience sponta- neous beauty. Alot of us are really good at scheduling however frequent or rare holidays, but I think the opportunities for random appreciation of beauty have become endangered, eroding the richness of our lives. We have more, but I think we feel less. It makes me sad. I try to take time to literally smell the flowers, but its a struggle when I have three jobs. I try to practise mindfulness. When I walk my dog I listen to the songbirds and try to identify them by their song. My mind eventually pulls to the eternal to do list running in my mind. I think that story, from all those years ago, resurfaces in my mind whenever I am feeling pressured. I love my job. I love my Taylor the Turtle. I do not like the eco- nomics of this society that necessitates me having three jobs. I re- sent the push I feel to move towards more financially sound employment, and to finally use my professional credentials and education. It breaks my heart. I am thankful that I have the education and the experiences to move myself within the labour market, but I am bitter that my cur- rent work is not valued more in this society. I made a promise to myself in university that I would use my privilege as a tool to cre- ate social change. What I did not fully comprehend at that time is that capitalism is a powerful force--insurance, fuel and what seems like an endless black hole. I live pretty simply in a cottage. My only real indulgence is travel. As much as I revere Che and Ghandi, I am not willing to be a martyr, which then leaves me feeling guilty for not fully utilizing my skill set. I am not prepared to sell out either. I try to find a balance between true self and the real world self. I am a driven person with goals and aspirations, some of which are materialistic, but I am also someone who is lead by feelings and energy. The other day I finished reading a fictionalized account of the roundup of Jewish children by the French police on behalf of the Nazis in 1942. The book was jarring. It took me back to when I went to school in Poland for a summer and lived only a five minute drive from Majdanek, a Nazi death camp from 1941-44. It completely freaked me out to think that thousands of people came to their death on the same rail line that I traveled on during the weekend to go to Warszawa or Gdansk. It rattled me even more to think about what if scenarios. What if my family did not leave when they did? Would I be here or would the possibility of me have been extinguished by the Nazis? On my way to school I had to walk through the Stare Miasto, right past the castle where the Nazis tortured hundreds of people. Every day I was forced to recognize lost opportunity, the drive of hatred, and in contrast the power of human resilience. The Stare Miasto is only sixty-years-old but looks five hundred because after the Nazis levelled it the Poles rebuilt it in the immediate post war years to look exactly the same. This was not only an act of defi- ance, but also one of beauty in opposition to years of death and occupation. My life before Poland was working multiple jobs at once, being heavily involved in the labour and womens movements and going to university full time. I was constantly thinking, moving and just occupied in all my senses. These old memories etched in to the buildings and streets forced me to reevaluate my life and my pri- orities. I stopped wearing a watch. I promised myself to do what I could to travel. I promised myself to remember that any act of kindness has power and to not become overwhelmed by the im- mensity of issues in the world. Breathe in the summer flowers. Feel the earth between your toes. Listen to the conversations of the birds. Watch the clouds and find the stories within them. Taste all the amazing fruits of the summer. That is everyones summer homework which only takes moments of each day and will you leave you open to invitations to sit and listen to beauty, to smile, to share or to be silent. If I have learned anything in 35 years, it is that everything always comes back to turtles. Slow down. Take time for yourself. Be gen- tle but resilient. Work hard. Swim, sunbathe. Hang out in the sun with friends. Be a Turtle. Be A Turtle by Carrie Sinkowski Most people have heard about domestic violence. However, domestic violence is only a part of an overarching violence to- wards women and girls: Physical, sexual and psychological vi- olence that occurs in the family, including battering, sexual abuse of female children in the household, dowry-related violence, marital rape, female genital mutilation and other traditional prac- tices harmful to women, non-spousal violence and violence re- lated to exploitation; Physical, sexual and psychological violence that occurs within the general community, including rape, sexual abuse, sexual harassment and intimidation at work, in educa- tional institutions and elsewhere; trafficking in women, and forced prostitution; Physical, sexual and psychological violence perpetrated or condoned by the State, wherever it occurs. I think people dont like to look at, or think about violence against women and girls because its uncomfortable to acknowl- edge that our nice western society is actually not so nice for half the population, simply because theyre not men. Its about power and privilege, not brains and ability. When I tell people what I do and a discussion ensues, invariably I hear: why does- nt she just leave him? or, she must have done something, or, well, its none of my business. I cant think of anything that is further from the truth. Let me be clear: interpersonal violence doesnt always involve a man abusing a woman. It happens in same-sex couples, it hap- pens when an adult child abuses an aging parent and it also hap- pens when a woman abuses her male partner. However, an overwhelming number of cases involve a man abusing a woman. Furthermore, both the extent of injuries suffered and the occurrence of homicide are also much greater with the fe- male partner being the victim. I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about the hor- rible things people who say they love each other can do to one another. Im not a social worker, Im a project man- ager and I can honestly say that I was one of those people who thought that this kind of vi- olence was s o me t h i n g that happened s ome whe r e else, to someone else--that it wasnt any of my business. Instead I have seen that it happens everywhere and can and does happen to anyone. In fact, it happens so frequently that we as a society dont really pay attention to it at all. And thats a BIG problem, but its not a problem we are unable to solve. Here in Brantford and Brant County, we are incredibly fortunate to have so many agencies and individuals whose purpose is to end violence against women and girls, and to help those affected by family and gender based violence. Its not just the people who work at the agencies either, but also great private individuals who understand that violence against women and girls is the com- munitys business. My name is Diana Boal, and I was hired five years ago to work for these agencies collectively under the umbrella of the B.R.A.V.E. Committee Brants Response Against Vi- olence Everywhere. The knowledge and expertise around the B.R.A.V.E. table is extensive and impressive, yet still this terrible problem ex- ists, and the most frightening factor is that dating violence against girls and young women from 16-24 years of age have the fastest rising re- ported occurrence of interper- sonal violence. With this is mind, B.R.A.V.E applied for and was given a grant from the office of Status of Women Canada in order to engage young men and boys in ending violence against women. I firmly believe that this is the best approach because society (community) does very lit- tle to engage men and youth in ending the problem. Too many men and boys feel like theyre always being blamed and not being asked to help solve the problem. Its not men against women; it is men and women against violence. Its a community that is saying NO MORE. No More by Diana Boal, Facebook: Diana Boal July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 10 At the beginning of time, when people came to be on earth, there was a world high above where we now stand. This land was so high that it was not visible from the earth. It is not known how long the Skyworld was there, nor how it got there. It has always been accepted that the Skyworld always was. Perhaps this is the start of how the Haudenosaunee showed respect for the teachings of the ancestors. Trusting perhaps mixed with some wonder but with no question, has been a long tradition. In the Skyworld, there stood a tree that grew at the very center of this celestial world. On this tree grew every fruit. The sky people were given permission to eat freely from the tree. They were also warned not bring harm to this tree, which was a great source of nurturance for the people. They were also warned that they were not to touch the roots in case it would cause harm to the tree. In the Skyworld lived a young chief and his wife. The chiefs wife was pregnant and as with many expectant women she began to have strange cravings. She had cravings for certain kinds of plants, and certain kinds of meats. She sometimes insisted on very specific blends of plants for seasonings or teas. She often sent her hus- band on many journeys to help fulfill her cravings. Her husband was a humble person. He was rather kind and gentle, and easily taken advantage of, especially by her. He would go without argument or question, and try with much difficulty to please his wife. His wife, on the other hand, was kinda grouchy. One day she had a new craving, a very unique and inex- plicable craving. She approached him with some hesi- tation, but in the end she had no problem asking him as he always did what she asked. You see, she craved a drink made from the roots of the great tree. She asked him some questions: Do you love me? Will you always love me? Do you think cravings are natural when carrying a child, your child? Would you still love me if I asked to go for another journey? Her husband, who loved her dearly, listened as she ex- plained her dilemma. She told him of her nausea, and how their unborn child was kicking, probably with the same craving. The husband quietly held much uncer- tainty in his heart. But, she sent her husband anyway, to retrieve the roots in order to make the drink that she craved. The husband was very concerned about her odd request. He knew that they were not to touch anything on the tree except for the fruit that it would bear. He walked with much hesitation. He considered all of the consequences that such actions could have for him, his wife, their un- born child and the people. He walked toward the tree, but become increasingly despondent regarding his wifes request. Sadly, he decided that he could not fulfill her request, however he continued to walk. It is not known for sure if he continued to walk to the tree, or if he wandered to another path. His existence would forever remain un- known. The woman waited a long time for her husband to return. She waited so long that she became impatient. She paced the lodge complaining that he wasnt back yet. She con- tinued to pace and complain. How could he take so long, even though I am carrying his child? After what seemed like a very long time her impatience caused her to go looking for her husband. She searched all over the Skyworld for him. After searching for him for a very long time she finally decided to go to the great tree to retrieve the roots for herself. She arrived at the tree. She decided that although her husband was supposed to go for the roots, he didnt re- turn, therefore she would have to make the drink herself. She approached the tree and examined the area. Which would best suit her needs? Her pregnant state caused her to use much care when bending to gather the roots for her drink. She knelt beside the tree digging for the roots, which she desired. She dug with her hands, but in order to reach the trees roots she had to pick some smaller plants, which were in her way. She held on to the small plants with one hand and continued to dig with the other. As she leaned over she heard a sound. Unsure of what she heard, she bent over further. As her curiosity grew, she leaned in even further. It seemed to be the same sound that water makes when running, like a river. Throughout time storytellers have varied in what next happened. Some expressed that from her curiosity she leaned too far over and simply fell. Others say her hus- band, out of anger, snuck up on her and pushed her through a hole under where she was digging. Still other variations of the story say that another family member or another type of natural force, perhaps a wind, caused her fall. It may have been an accident, or it may have been an act of frustration from a family member, possi- bly even her husband, but within the next moment she found herself passing through a hole at the base of the great tree. Skywoman quickly tried to keep her balance and pull herself back up through the hole. As she struggled to find her grip she was only able to pull more of the plants that grew around the base of the tree. She continued to fall, now completely through the hole. She fell deeper into the blackness of outer space. She continued to fall deeper into the blackness and fell deeper, and fell deeper, and fell deeperand felland fell and fell... She continued to fall further and further from the Sky- world. The blackness of outer space ever so slowly began to be farther and farther behind her as she contin- ued to gently tumble far, far off in the distance. The sky was no longer complete emptiness. Something was start- ing to appear. She was heading to something closer, and closer and even closer. Skywoman tumbled, and tum- bled and tumbled toward a place that we now know as earth. She was very afraid; she didnt know what was about to happen. She finally caught her breath enough and began to yell for help. HEEEELP, HEEEELP, HEEEELP! An ongoing series to promote peace through story sharing by Elizabeth Doxtater A Pride Filled Weekend In the lead up to Brantford Pride I found myself feeling stressed out and at wits end! As a committee member, there was so much work to be done and so little time. The countdown was on, and the clock was winning. In times like that its not difficult to lose sight of what you are doing and why it is important. I had lost sight, however, only briefly. My eight-year-old stepdaughter wrote a poem called Pride is As I read, tears snuck from the corners of my eyes. Pride is family. Pride is love. Pride is about being yourself. Pride is loving who you want, no matter what gender. Pride is unique. I cried because Pride is all of those things, and even though I had temporarily forgotten, she knew exactly why Pride is important. At the flag raising, I stood with my children and wondered if they understood why something as simple as raising a rainbow flag at City Hall is so emotional for so many. I suspected that they didnt, because they are not familiar with a world where they and their family are not accepted. They have not been privy to the learned behaviors that have plagued our society with sex- ual orientation/gender discrimination. They are growing up in an environment where more than ever before, acceptance is taught; where even though their family is unique or different, it is not wrong. I asked them why they thought the flag raising was important and my twelve-year-old daughter responded, because some people dont respect people who are gay or lesbian, and raising the flag feels good because it shows that some people are re- spectful and caring. I feel that it is good for people to participate in Pride even if they are not LGBTQ because that means you are respectful of people who have differences or who may not be the same as you. On Saturday morning there was a non-denominational service at Heritage United Church. The service was inspiring and emo- tion packed. One community member that attended the service said, "I was raised Anglican, but my child knows more about Santa than she knows about the Christmas story. I am just not prepared to risk taking her into an environment where she gets the message that there is something wrong with her family. It was very emotional for me to take communion today; it was one of maybe half a dozen times since I came out in my teens. I kept waiting for the lightning bolt to take out the Minister! She went on to say, "sometimes it feels as though my life is divided into two parts, my childhood which included faith and a strong Chris- tian tradition and my adult life which began when I came out. The Pride Service was like going home and finding out that the relatives who told you, you were going to hell when you were a kid, had set the table for you. Brantford Pride has such a strong sense of community; the walk was small but cheerful. The festivities at Mohawk Park were family oriented, and it was moving to take a step back and really see the kind of community that we are building, to watch chil- dren dancing to live music and to see some new faces mixed in with familiar ones. Pride Committee member Tara Buchanan said, I was touched by the talent and enthusiasm of people who participated in mak- ing the, What does Pride Mean to You 2013 Quilt. It is the be- ginning of a beautiful tradition for Brantfords LGBTQ community. As I participated in the pride filled weekend, I understood its im- portance as feeling good to be a part of a community growing acceptance. It felt wonderful to be standing in a crowd of family, friends and allies and even more so to be a part of a community with a visible and vibrant presence within Brantford. This is cause for celebration and exactly why Pride is so important! If the rainbow flag flying at City Hall, the church service, or the walk to Mohawk Park, filled with supportive horns honking helped even one LGBTQ person feel visible and not isolated and alone than we as a community were successful in paving the road toward equality. by Christine Wildman, Facebook: Christine Wildman July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate Page 11 St. Marys CBM held a public meeting on May, 8 at the Burford Arena about the proposed installation of their gravel pit on Bishopsgate road at the fifth Con- cession just outside of Burford (ten minutes west of Brantford). This meeting in particular had to do with the natural environment. The slideshow they displayed will be online for the public to view (if you Google St. Marys Olszowka, you will be able to navigate from there). The slideshow was fairly detailed and gave informa- tion that seemed fairly insignificant, indicating mainly that St. Marys cared about the environment and noted the species that inhabit the area. Wetlands in the pro- posed site are designated Provincially significant. There was not much concern about the presentation it- self. When the speakers opened the room for citizens to voice their concerns, the meeting heated up a few degrees. Issues Raised A concerned citizen respectfully voiced that the pond construction would throw off natural deer pathways, and this could cause their path to be rerouted onto the 403, which would have catastrophic consequences for everyone involved. Glenn Harrington of CBM was not concerned though, claiming that deer regularly cross their pits. The citizen raising concern didnt appear satisfied with the response. Another question was whether these researchers did surveys of species at a specific time of the season--or year--to yield certain results. Melanie Horton of CBM ultimately dismissed the notion. Carolyn Innes, who is a graduate at the University of Guelph in Epidemiology, raised question as to whether agricultural land after the pits existence would ever be restored to a quality equal to what they were before the pit? Concern arose that once the area is turned into a gravel pit that itll never be farmland again. Innes question evolved to if any farmer would even want to farm on this restored land. Though they didnt name any, St. Marys claims there are pits that were agricul- tural areas that have been restored to agricultural land. However, they lacked the evidence and data to support this statement. They said they can bring pictures to the next meeting, which has been a common response to citizens concerns. They do bring pictures to each meeting, but obviously, they only bring ones that back-up their point and make the pits look like a positive experience. No word as to if they actually have brought pictures to answer citi- zens questions from past meetings. This could be making a mountain out of a molehill, but perhaps the citizens against the pit should record their questions when St. Marys claims that they will bring pictures to the next meeting to ensure that they actually do answer the important questions. When legitimate concerns were raised, the represen- tatives said that they will gladly answer questions until you are satisfied. However, the overall sentiment from the meeting was: Express your concern and theyre willing to make changes to the plans specifics but even if there is widespread disdain for the pits instal- lation, theres no chance theyre going to take the whole plan off the table. So, in conclusion, to para- phrase, it seemed like they were saying: Complain enough and we may change the plan, but we wont scrap it. However, the issue is not finished. This pit is still in its early stages of creation, so many believe the issue can still be beat. There will be more meetings coming in the near future, so stay tuned. They may get testy as well. As a side note, this article focused on the concrete issues--no pun intended--and tried to stay away from the testi- ness. So this article may not be the best indicator of the emotions flaring in the room. You may have to come experience a meeting to gauge the testiness, and you just may get caught up in the polarizing issue of a gravel pit. I was born in the Brantford General Hospital at 8:30 a.m on October 27, 1949. I lived in that fair town until 15 when we moved to Aurora to be closer to my dads job. When that didnt work out we moved to Newmarket, Ontario. I met my daughters father, we married and had her at Newmarket Hospital. Father held out his arms and said, give me my baby. His Stevie Stephanie, was the light of his life. I lost him to cancer when she was three. After 18 months I moved back to Brantford, just Miranda and myself. Things had changed, but only a little. I went to school in Hamilton and learned to be a key punch operator. For those who dont know what that is, we punched holes in cards that told a computer what to do. I returned to raise my daughter who is the centre of my being. She is beautiful, intelligent and a hard worker who is always there for me no matter what she has to do for herself. In 1989 my mother passed away and again the kind people of Brantford came to support me. The funeral was done tastefully, but she is buried in St. Thomas with my father as was her wish. I did many jobs in Brantford including GWG making jeans, watching as time passed and things changed. The Eaton Centre once sat where the old market is, but not for many years, taking the place of a parking lot left from tear- ing down the old City Hall structure. The library moved from its original home, which is now a campus for Sir Wilfrid Laurier, to the modern building on Colborne Street where I spent many happy hours. I went to college twice, first time at Brantfords Mohawk college along with my daughter and loved it. Her father and I finally divorced and I lived alone. My daughter had her own life and I moved on. Downtown Brantford deteriorated as the malls took over. It was sad to see. When the university came, the downtown came alive again full of young people. Again there were changes. Harmony Square has been the best of these. After so many years I met the man of my dreams. He didn't smoke or drink, had young children and is the sweetest most gentle man I have ever known. I moved to Paris to be with him. We were married Feb- ruary 14, 2004 (yes, Valentines Day) at St. James An- glican Church in Paris where we lived. Father Bob Schroeder did the ceremony. My uncle John, the only one left of my fathers family, gave me away. My daughter and my husbands best friends wife made the wedding perfect. Thank you Mandy and Rose. I had my own business helping children with ADD, ADHD and Dyslexia. My husband and I wrote three books on the subject, and then the place where he worked closed down. He had to get another job, and it was in Guelph. That is a long drive twice a day. We moved to Cambridge to be close to his job. It only lasted six months. As I have become more and more handicapped we began looking for an alternative that would fit my challenges. He drives a school bus. This means that he can work in any town that has a school, literally. And now I am coming home. Many things have changed. Colborne Street is differ- ent, better but different. All the beautiful flower beds are just coming out. Yes, I am handicapped and Brantford reaches out to embrace me. We will like it in Smokey Hollow, which is a seniors community. I will be able to swim, have a social life, play darts (well I will try and everyone needs to stand behind me) join the knitting club, the ladies club, the country club, the Euchre club and many more. There will be Tai Chi and exercises geared to my chal- lenges. We will have our own house, but the grounds are cared for. We dont cut grass or shovel snow. They even have a fire department. The people are all friendly and community minded. Everyone cares for everyone else, like when I was young. Home is truly where the heart is and mine is there. Only a couple of weeks and we will make the last move of our lives, hopefully. Brantford, here I come. Another Public Gravel Meeting Gets Testy by Jesse Ferguson, Facebook: Jesse Ferguson Coming Home by Lynne Joseph ***Dedicated to all those who have lost a loved one to cancer.*** It was a long trek for Gilbert, but he couldnt miss this event. He smiled when he saw Becky standing guard at the back gate, making sure no one snuck in without paying, but shed let him in--she always did. Why Gilbert, you old son of a gun! Becky laughed. Its bin too long; where ya bin hidin? Dont git aroun much anymore, Gilbert smiled. Got real bad arthritis in my joints. Becky gave Gilbert a gigantic hug. Git in here need a drink? Water will do fer now. Becky fetched him some water. I got a few things to look after, so Ill catch ya later. Some of the old gang should be along shortly. Gilbert was thankful they hadnt arrived yet. He felt weird this year, couldnt figure why. He found an empty picnic table and sat down. The crowd began to trickle in. A band was tuning up for their first session. Becky studied her old friend. He had aged. His hair and beard were snow white, except for a red stripe down the middle of his beard. Some might mistake it for red hair--she knew better--Gilbert chewed tobacco. She smiled as she noticed the length of his braid. Thirty years ago he swore hed never cut it off. Becky wondered if he was bald under the bandana that he al- ways wore. He was wearing glasses this year--a funny little round pair--which made him look like a possum. Becky noticed the torn black jeans, greasy work boots and the picture of a wolf on his shirt. Wolf Man was his nickname, back in the day. Becky shuddered. She had a strange feeling something terrible was about to happen. Gilbert lit a cigarette. Smoke curled around his head. He felt the tightness in his chest and began coughing. Damn cigarettes, he cursed as he coughed up a whopping gob of sputum. He gazed around, making sure no one was looking, and then spit under the table. The band was playing some 50s rock and roll. They were old boys, like him. He glanced over to the en- trance and noticed his buddy Roy heading toward him. Hey old man! Roy shouted. I aint hard of hearing; dont have to yell, Gilbert laughed. How ya doin? Deaf, Roy was still shouting. And cant afford hearin aids. Gettin old sucks, doesnt it? Gilbert stated. Ill be 70 next month, if I makes it. Ya dont say, Roy lit a cigarette. Gilbert got a faraway look in his eyes. Had a decent life, done what I wanted, when I wanted faithful friends, good times The two friends began to reminisce about their biker days. Finally, the announcement Gilbert had been waiting for came over the loudspeakers. Anyone with pledges for getting their head shaved for cancer, please register up here. Our barbers will begin at 4 oclock sharp. Thats my cue. Gilbert got up from the table, shuf- fled to the registration table, dug into his pocket, pulled out his last months disability cheque, and handed it to the girl. Dont have a pledge sheet Miss, kin ya make me up one? Im not sure if we can take this cheque sir; Ill have to verify it with Becky. Its okay, Becky knows all about this. Gilbert didnt want to draw unnecessary attention to what he was about to do. The girl filled out his registration and put the cheque into a box. Have a seat over there, Gilbert. Next please. Becky could not believe what she was seeing on the stage. Her old friend was taking off his bandana. Bald as a bald eagle he was. Everyone was gathering around to watch the main event. One of the musicians grabbed the microphone. First up is Gilbert. Look at this pony- tail folks--all the way to his waist--how many years did it take you to grow that Gilbert? Too many, Gilbert whispered huskily. Well, folks, anyone want to sweeten the pot a little before Gilbert gets shaved? People began throwing coins and bills into Gilberts box. He smiled as he recognized several old bikers dropping in some large bills. It would be a good day. The young hairdresser revved up her barber shears. One cut and she waved the pony tail in the air. The crowd cheered! More money was dropped in the box! No one noticed the tears trickle from Gilberts eyes. No one noticed Becky wipe her face with an old hanky she had pulled out of her apron pocket. No one saw the embroidery in its corner: To Becky, my true love, from your Wolf Man 1956. Gilbert slipped quietly away before Becky could reach him. She had a feeling shed never see him again. Later that night, as she counted the proceeds, she came across his cheque. The tally for the money in Gilberts box was $1, 657. 25. She turned his cheque over Well, Becky, my love, this is it the old Harley awaits me Ill keep the back seat warm for you take as long as you like. Love, your Wolf Man. Beckys tears flowed shamelessly onto the words, smearing the message into an illegible swirl of ink. Gilbert by Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour, website: http://marymcushniemansour.ca/ It all seems to be a normal Date Night Friday, the kids are having a sleep over with their grandparents, the dinner and movie venue are selected. All that needs to be done are some housekeeping items at the office. Thats when the call is received Your father has had a heart attack! Shock, denial, panic, silence You are making decisions quickly but the easiest one is to grab some overnight clothes and jump in the car and hit the highway. The fear of not knowing fully whats going on shoots through your body every minute. An inadvertent call to his cell phone ends in relief as a nurse picks up and confirms the heart attack and that hes going through surgery to remove the blockage. Relief that hes in the best hands possible slows the car down to normal highway speeds and 3 hours later you arrive at the hospital. You dont care about the parking rate or even where you will eat or sleep the night. Your main focus is making sure your father is going to be ok. Its a rather emotional thing seeing your hero lying on a hospital bed with enough wires and tubes hanging out of him to power a city block. Even though the surgery was a success, the blockage was removed, the long recovery process begins. I call it a Simple Heart Attack because for all intents and purposes, the survival rate for heart attack victims is in the 90% range if the problem is caught early enough. Youre through surgery in less than 2 hours and in many cases are sent home next day. This isnt so if youre out of town and need to be kept for observation and cleared before travelling. You start adding up the cost of the weekend; Hotel room for 3 nights, 3 days worth of parking and 3 days of dining. The tally just for the weekend is around $2,000. What about the recovery period and the cost of the medications and treatments not covered by OHIP? How about the month of recommended time off work? Where does this money come from? Savings? Credit? These expenses can escalate very quickly into the tens of thousands of dollars all for a now Not So Simple heart attack. In 1983, Critical illness insurance was created by a South African surgeon named Dr Marius Barnard. Dr Barnard was finding that the cost of recovery was actually causing more stresses in his patients than the surgeries he preformed. His patients were taking longer to get better and in some cases dying as they were forced to return to work before their bodies had fully recovered. Critical Illness insurance provides a lump sum of money should you suffer from one of the covered conditions. Most companies have 20+ covered illnesses but the reality is that 84% of benefits are paid for Heart Attack, Stroke, Cancer & Coronary Bypass Surgery. What would a lump sum of money provide in the event of a Simple heart attack? You dont need me to answer this for you. Instead I challenge you to think of someone you know who has suffered a Critical Illness. Think of how their financial situation was affected and ask yourself, would $25,000 of Critical Illness Insurance have changed their financial situation? Would it change mine? We feel very strongly that savings and goal planning are areas where professional advice is a necessity. If you wish to talk about your financial goals and how Critical Illness Insurance can help secure them please give us a call, were here to help. Alford & Associates is a family owned and operated financial practice in Brantford. For over 25 years we have helped our clients secure their financial goals. First and foremost we help you secure your greatest asset Your Family. ALFORD & ASSOCIATES INC. Insurance & Investment Advisors 254 Brant Ave., Brantford, ON N3T 3J5 Fx: 519.751.0522 www.alfordandassociates.ca 519.751.0901