If War Was a School Yard

I have never felt comfortable with Remembrance Day. I’ve never wanted to wear a poppy. I’ve always felt awkward at 11:00 on 11/11. 

It’s because I have a particularly unpopular belief that we don’t need to be honouring soldiers; we need to be grieving them. Whether they lived or died, their lives, souls, hearts, and families were (are) changed forever. War is loss. Loss is grief. 

I strongly believe that since the beginning of humans, wars have been acts of cowardice. The patriarch/matriarch sends out their young men (children, in my opinion), to fight and die for them. Calling it honourable, or patriotic, or that they are fighting in the name of freedom, convincing people that dying for their leader, or for their country, is somehow different than being murdered. 

If Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un want to duke it out in a room all by themselves, then that’s their choice. Training young people to fight on their behalf and calling it an army, calling it War, is simply a legal way around calling it murder. 

My strong beliefs on this topic have never made me popular. And in fact make people angry and uncomfortable. Year after year, I am obligated to sit or stand through an assembly honouring the soldiers from WW 1&2, silently observing, remembering, and showing gratitude. That makes ME uncomfortable. 

So this year I decided that if I have to be part of it, then I have the right to express my thoughts on it. 

I want to use the analogy of a school yard to explain how I see war. Because here’s the thing, we are taught in Kindergarten to keep our hands to ourselves, to respect other people and their belongings, to respect personal space, to never retaliate, to listen, to share, and to apologize. Those are agreed upon, socially acceptable rules. 

But what if they weren’t? 

What if War was a school yard? 

Setting the scene ... children are running around laughing and squealing. Playing tag, playing various sports, swinging on swings, climbing on the climbers. There is a lot of excitement and joy. 

Out of nowhere, Joey throws a rock at Ahmed. It hits him in the head and he is momentarily dazed. Julie runs over to her teacher, yelling “Miss, Miss! Joey threw a rock at Ahmed and it hit him in the head!!” 

Meanwhile, Joey’s classmates have gathered around him and are encouraging him. Ahmed’s classmates have helped Ahmed up, checked his wound, and are standing protectively around him. 

The teachers arrive. 

Joey’s teacher instructs her class to stand together and wait. 

Ahmed’s teacher instructs his class to go find as many rocks as they can. 

The 2 teachers approach each other and in quiet tones, discuss the situation. Joey might have thrown the rock, but it was Ahmed’s rock in the first place. Moreover, Joey’s parents and Ahmed’s parents have been throwing rocks at each other for a number of years. In fact, Ahmed’s teacher is convinced that Joey snuck into her classroom to steal the rock and had planned to throw it. The teachers voices are still hushed so no one knows what they are saying. It’s private. It’s confidential. It’s a matter of school security. But the kids can see the frustration and anger growing. They can already tell that the teachers dislike each other. That’s been something kids have known for years. The ongoing hate between these 2 teachers has been well-known throughout the school for over a decade. 

Each teacher returns to their group of students. They don’t tell them what they talked about. Because that is confidential. 

Ahmed’s teacher tells the kids that Joey and his friends will never stop throwing rocks at them unless they fight back. 

Joey’s teacher tells the kids that it was Ahmed’s rock. That Ahmed’s ancestors had even had rocks they threw. And that the only way to stop all the rock throwing is to fight back. 

So the teachers send the kids off to gather as many rocks as they can. They send them out into the yard to throw rocks at each other. They tell them it’s okay because they have PERMISSION this time. That yes we have rules about not hurting people and not retaliating. We have laws and police and government and voting processes and consequences. But that because the teachers have given permission, this period of time doesn’t count. 

So the teachers walk as far away from the kids as they possibly can, without actually leaving the school yard. In fact, they have collected a couple of kids to come stand in front of them because the teachers don’t want to get hit by rocks. 

Then the field breaks into a frenzied blur of screams and wails and flying rocks and blood and children falling to the ground. 

The teachers talk to the children who are guarding them and they send them back and forth with messages, with bandaids, and with more rocks. Some of those kids don’t make it back without bruises and bleeding cuts, if they make it back at all. 

As the fighting continues and there are less and less children still standing (and rock throwing), the teachers talk to each other every once in awhile. Maybe they could come to some sort of agreement. 

When it looks like Ahmed’s classmates are pretty much worn out, or have been knocked out, Ahmed’s teacher tells Joey’s teacher that they give in. 

Joey’s class can have all the rocks. And can have the larger part of the field to play in, as well as all 4 basketball hoops. Joey’s teacher also gets the first cup of coffee in the morning, the better parking spot, first in line at the photocopier, and gets the ONLY comfortable chair the school has. 

So the teacher’s blow their whistles and go inside, while the children are left to help each other up, or call for ambulances, and go back to class. 

The teachers are cranky. Especially Ahmed’s teacher. Joey’s teacher feels a bit smug, to be honest. 

The children, on the other hand, are defeated and in pain. Both sides. Nobody won. There is blood everywhere. Broken bones. And a deep, deep hatred for the other class has developed. 

For the rest of the school year, there is tension and sadness among the students. Children have flash-backs. They live in fear. Ahmed’s class plays in the smaller part of the field that has the swing set. And Joey’s class plays in the larger part with the basketball court. They also have piles and piles of rocks. 

Those rocks are terrifying. 

They evoke memories of the pain. The anger. The hatred. 

And the children are never told about the parking spot, the coffee pot, the photocopier line, the comfortable chair, or anything else the teachers declared as confidential and a matter of school security. The children never really knew what they were fighting about. Or fighting for. They only know they were defending their classmates, their teacher, and their class’s way of life. 

3 generations later, nothing has changed. The school yard is divided the same. The rocks sit there as a reminder. The teachers have come and gone, but take over from the last teacher. Maybe changing their stance slightly. 

And one day, Suzie decides she wants a goddamn rock and is fed up with not having access to basketball. With generations of hurt and fear and anger leading the charge, she crosses the boundary line and takes a rock. Chanel sees her and tells on her. But Devon has already called out for his classmates who are gathering more rocks. 

The children only know what they have been taught. What they have been indoctrinated to believe. They listen to their teachers. The teachers are their leaders. The ones in authority. The ones with power. The teachers make the decisions and instruct the students on whether or not to throw rocks. 

Suzie throws the rock at Chanel. 

Unfortunately for Suzie, she wasn’t told to throw the rock. She didn’t have permission. So Suzie ends up in the principal’s office and gets kicked out of school. 

In the end, there is no resolution. 

War never has a resolution. 

People die. People are maimed. People suffer from PTSD. People lose their homes, their families. No one wins. 

The leaders who send their soldiers off to murder each other are not the ones who have to carry out those murders or the ones who have to live with the emotions and memories of war. 

My complicated feelings about Remembrance Day don’t mean I am dishonouring the people sent to fight on behalf of leaders who never learned to share the toys in the sandbox. It means that I am grieving the loss of the life they had. I am grieving for all the people not in the armies who were and are affected by war. I am grieving for the generational trauma and for the depth and breadth of hate, fear, sadness, anger, and loss. 

My choice to turn down a poppy pin is not a sign of disrespect. It is a sign of deep respect for all those affected by wars, in all places, in all times. My absence of a poppy is a sign of my deeply rooted belief in pacifism. 

May you have peace

May you be safe

May you have comfort 

May you love yourself as you are

Be kind, to yourself too

Meaningless and quantifiable

It is not about the “reality of the number on the scale” or the “reality of the image in the mirror”, it is about the significance we place on appearance, the significance we place on weight and the words used to describe it. 

It is the meaning we attach to those words. The number on the scale could be described as a “quantifiable fact”, but it is also meaningless without societal judgement attached to it.    

Your worth is not defined by the number on the scale. 

Be kind, to yourself too. 

      

Weight does not determine health

Content Warning: explicit Eating Disorder symptoms, the use of numbers and weight-related discussion. 

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Eating Disorders are not a diet. They are not a phase. They are not vanity. An Eating Disorder is a psychiatric illness. It has the highest mortality rate of any other mental illness. 

Did you know that the only thing you can tell about a person by looking at their size, is their size? 

Weight does not determine health. There are many health-risks that can be exacerbated when a body is under or over a certain weight. You don’t know what that certain weight is for each person. 

Due to media stereotypes and the false representation of Eating Disorders as an emaciated young white girl, hundreds of thousands of people do not seek treatment for their Eating Disorder. 

One of these women has an Eating Disorder. The rest do not. One of these women is severely malnourished. She goes days without eating, and then her body functions slow down in order to conserve energy. Her brain turns off all logic because if she does not eat, she will die. So food becomes a means of survival. Because she has an Eating Disorder, her fear of food makes her start slowly and then that part of her brain takes over. She eats all the food she can find in her house until she is over-full. The shame of having eaten more than “normal”* becomes overbearing and that mean inner critic voice in her head says terrible things. So she ends up purging, getting rid of everything she just put into herself. 

*Her “normal” amount of food might be 1/4 cup of cereal, and having 2 cups of cereal may be a “binge” in her mind. When you have an Eating Disorder, all sense of normality is warped. 

Now she is feeling shame that she ate, shame that she threw up. She thinks that she doesn’t deserve to nourish herself. She is not worthy of food because of her size. 

Her blood tests are constantly a concern. She is extremely malnourished and deficient in almost every vitamin and mineral the doctors are testing for. The doctor is confused about the results, and it doesn’t occur to them that it could be an Eating Disorder because of her size. 

One of these women is praised for her size. Another is shamed for hers. Neither will seek treatment because the one who is praised can’t be sick, otherwise why would she get so much positive attention about her body. Another one can’t be sick because that’s not what a malnourished person looks like. 

One of these women has become so sick that she is now purging everyday. She sneaks to the bathroom at work after her snack of yogurt and blueberries, and throws it up. She does the same thing after her salad at lunch time. She doesn’t bother eating dinner if no one is around to notice. 

Eating Disorders are a psychiatric illness in which there are no medications take to change your brain. Treatment requires physical, emotional, and mental intervention. Changing long-ingrained thought patterns and growing new neuropathways is just as important as stopping the cycle of symptoms. 

One of these women is really sick. One of these women is slowly killing herself. You can’t tell who has an Eating Disorder by looking at them. 

Everyone has a story that you don’t know. 

Your job is to refrain from judgement of other people’s bodies.  And of other people’s lives. Refrain from commenting on bodies. Whether it is praise or shame, you don’t know what affect you will have with your words - even when those words are well intentioned. 

One of these women has an Eating Disorder. And without help, she is going to die. 

If you or someone you know are struggling with an Eating Disorder, please seek support. Here are a few websites that can help you find what you need. 

USA: https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/ 

Canada: http://www.nedic.ca/

Toronto: https://sheenasplace.org/

*All images are property of Fox Tales Art

**All images are available for sale with profits going to www.sheenasplace.org 

Email foxtaleskira@gmail.com

An Open Letter to Sheraton Cadwell Orchestras Management

(Update: their website is gone and some board members resigned. It appears the agency has devolved)

An Open Letter to Sheraton Cadwell Orchestras Management, 

I recently read an article citing your email requiring your singers to fit a certain BMI standard. My name is Kira McCarthy and I am an advocate for Eating Disorder Awareness and Body Politics. I have spent the last few years of my life putting myself into the public spotlight to bring awareness to my main message, which is: Your Body. Your Business. 

I grew up surrounded by messages that said being thin and able-bodied equaled success. Thinness was equated with self-control, self-discipline, desirability, and praise. 

We live in a world where mainstream assumptions and stereotypes tell us that  “othered bodies” are incapable, ugly, unhealthy, and ultimately, unlovable. 

The truth is, your body is your own and no one else’s. Your body is worthy and deserves love, period. 

In your email to your staff you wrote: 

“Although almost all of our vocalists are fit and slim – the way our boutique orchestra would like our front line performing artists to be … two of our featured singers were not. We hope that they would, as such, refrain from using tight-fitting dresses and use loose (less physically-revealing, less physically-accentuating) dresses instead.”

You specifically called out 2 singers and told your company that they were fat. You shamed them. Worse, you shamed them publicly. You shamed their bodies and the way they choose to dress those bodies. 

You also wrote:

"As per our highly selective casting requirements for vocal artists taking on a prominent leading role on stage, only singers who are physically fit and slim (or at the very least, those who know how to dress strategically/suitably in order to not bring attention to their temporary physical/dietary indulgences) would be showcased with our boutique orchestras.”

That entire paragraph is offensive, elitist, discriminatory, and makes multiple assumptions about bodies. Specifically, having already stated that 2 of your singers are what you consider to be overweight, you go on to blame their size on "dietary indulgences", suggesting that if they did not "indulge" in foods that you do not approve of, their bodies would magically meet with your approval. 

There have been many studies to counteract the term "obesity epidemic". These studies show that there is often no correlation between weight and health. (And even when there is, that is still no one else's business). 

I teach elementary school and it saddens me to the core that yet another generation of children is growing up to believe that your body determines your worth. I envision a world where all people are valued for who they are, and what they contribute, not by what they look like. I teach my students to challenge social constructions of “proper” and “worthy” bodies in a world that so often demonizes, pathologizes, and “others” those who aren’t thin, white, and able-bodied. 

If my grade seven students can be inclusive of all bodies, then so can you. 

Kira McCarthy

Dwelling

You won't always like what you hear. And you can choose to respond, to ignore, to rage, to cry ... and only you get to decide how long to dwell on it.

Hugs

Sometimes a hug says all the things you can't find the words for. 

Be kind

To yourself too

Mirror

What do you see when you look in the mirror? Can you see your joy, love, talent, kindness, and the contributions you make in this world? 

The Day I Went Invisible

When my dog woke me up, growling and impatient to go out, I was sleepy and lazy. I grabbed the first clothing I could reach. I put on "boy" clothes: a pair of baggy cargo shorts, and a long, loose T-Shirt. 

Due to my many nervous-system-related fibromyalgia symptoms, most clothing hurts me. It hurts the skin on my upper arms and lower thighs. Though there is no tension, anything touching my shoulders feels like it's pulling on my muscles and digging into me. Because of that, I have only worn short sundresses with spaghetti straps since about mid-May. 

This morning, I put on the "boy clothes" and my baseball cap, because I didn't have time for a shower - according to the insistent growling - and took the dog for a walk. 

We walked the same route, passed the same construction site, passed the same workers, just like every day. We passed strangers who couldn't help but smile at how happy the dog looks, just like every day. 

Only this time it was different. 

I was invisible. 

Everyday, I walk towards the local school and pass neighbours who smile at me and say hello to me and to the dog. Today, despite my smile, they walked right by me like I wasn't there. I didn't really give it a thought at the time. I was still groggy and not up for small talk anyway. 

As several strangers passed us on the street, I started to notice a trend. As usual, the infectious apparent joy of my dog caused strangers to smile when they saw her. Many times strangers will say "what a happy dog!" or "such a nice dog!" 

Today, the dog got smiles. 

I got nothing. 

About 4 people walked by, smiled at the dog, but made no eye contact with me. One guy smiled so big he was beaming, but averted his eyes when his caught mine. 

I started to notice my invisibility. 

It was when I walked through the construction site that my virtual non-existence became apparent. I walk through there several times a day. And even though the workers must recognize me by now, they always look me up and down, stopping briefly at my breasts, then making eye contact and smiling. Sometimes they say hello, but usually it's just the up and down appraisal followed by a smile, or a nod.

Today? 

Nothing. 

I walked through and watched them glance and me and turn back to what they were doing. 

Today I didn't exist. 

I've never felt comfortable with the once-over appraisal. I don't enjoy it. I find it objectifying, sexualizing, and rude. And, it's been my life since I developed breasts at age 10. It's part of my daily existence and something that I hardly think about anymore. 

It is something that just IS. 

I am a cis woman with large breasts and I get noticed, and appraised, daily. The appraisal ends with a smile or a nod, and I'm on my way. I am under the belief that rest of my body does not meet societal standards of beauty, or sexuality. So I get a free-pass to not get "hit on", or "cat called". Obversely, numerous times I have been fat shamed or called derogatory names having to do with weight. 

Both outcomes are uncomfortable. 

Both outcomes make me self-conscious of my body. 

At times it feels like I am naked. The gaze of others and the feeling of judgement can make me want to go home and hide. Or wear a parka. Winter can be a much safer season for body-conscious people. There are so many layers to hide under. 

For me, in all seasons, getting dressed in the morning can be torturous. What can I wear that is comfortable on my skin, that won't make my nerves go haywire, that isn't too tight, that doesn't have too much cleavage, that is socially acceptable while meeting all the criteria of not causing me self-conscious discomfort, or the sensation of physical pain? 

My solution? 

Hooks of sundresses, organized by levels of comfort. A quick internal scan of my body, after stretching and moving around, determines a level 1, 2, or 3 dress. 

The fact that my dresses are pretty is an added bonus to finding something that is only mildly painful to wear. 

On this morning's walk, my lack of femininity in my clothing made me invisible. The dresses, the shorts, and the T-shirt happen to be from the same store. One outfit relegates me to potential sexual object, and the other to near invisibility. 

Maybe Shakespeare was right when he said "apparel oft proclaims the man." Apparently, my clothing defines the worth of my level of objectification.  

It makes me wonder if my eyes unconsciously do the up and down appraisal of others. Do I stop and stare at certain body parts, making the person uncomfortable? Do I avert my eyes and make people feel invisible? 

Growing up in a large city has made eye contact and smiles unusual. I have always made a conscious effort to make eye contact with everyone I pass on the street. It's my way of trying to illicit feelings of belonging. Being seen, in a non-objectifying way, offers a sense of community. 

It was a strange feeling to be invisible. It's something I have strived for. And now that I have experienced it, it felt like a sort of rejection. I felt disconnected and like I didn't belong. 

It certainly made me think about how my eyes and facial expressions can affect others. 

Be kind,

To yourself too

xoxo