Walking in the Promised Land

Today I weep with joy and honor those who fought this battle for equality with their lives. We are living history my friends. TODAY IS A DAY OF SIGNIFICANCE

"I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."


But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.


We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.


It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.


But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.


The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by a sign stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."¹


I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.


Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.


And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.


I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."


I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.


I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.


I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.


I have a dream today!


I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.


I have a dream today!


I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."²


This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.


With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.


And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:


My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!


And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.


But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:


Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!³" Dr. King



Thank You Dr. King, and every man, woman and child who did their part to change the world. To fight racism. To advocate for my sons. I thank you with all my heart.

Why Obama Matters To Me

Race matters to me. Simply, it has to because it matters to my children and it matters to the world my children live in.

Many years ago when my sons were quite little we made a move that shocked many. We left the church we had been comfortably attending for another. The move precipitated by my son looking around the almost exclusively white church one Sunday morning and whispering none too quietly, "Mommy why don't any brown people love Jesus?" The implication being that HE was definitely not white, and what was HE doing there?

We heard of a church with a black pastor. For that reason, and that reason only, we moved to his church. At that moment I didn't care WHAT he was preaching, what denomination the church was or whether or not anything about it would appeal to me. The pastor was the right color for my sons and what our sons needed to see reflected on Sunday mornings. It was where we needed to be because it was best for our sons. Thankfully, it was also best for us and that church became our home. Our pastor became our family. Just this morning his wife and I fondly dreamed ahead of a joint marriage between any of their 3 daughters and any of our 4 sons.

Boys talking politics at church with friends.

Its not exactly breaking news if you know me in real life or follow my blog that I am an Obama fan.



I have been accused of being a "Stupid Foreigner" and told to mind my own business. I've been accused of falling for the Obama "machine" or being blinded by the media. I have been accused of being not Christian "enough" if I support him. I've been accused of being racist.



I usually reply that I am married to an American citizen. I am mother of two more. Sister-in-law to 4 Americans, Aunt to 6. Friend of many.



My husband's job (and as such the roof over my head) is DIRECTLY tied to the American economy as are many, many jobs in our community. The world is tied to America, even if we hate to admit it.



I have researched the issues and agree with his positions on many, if not most of them. I strongly support his policies. (ok, also VERY strongly disagree with the Republican position on many too, especially the racist hate mongering coming out of many of their offices, if not directly from the leadership themselves, and need I mention the war? the economy? international relations?).



I have read his book. I liked it, thoroughly.



I like the man. I like his ideas. I find him inspiring, interesting and pretty darn cute too.



And the reality is, he is black. To say that's not an issue for me would be a lie. Barack Obama is a BLACK man who has every chance to WIN the Presidency of the United States of America and that simple fact thrills me to my very toes.



Ahead of all else, I am a mother. I am a mother to my sons. Ahead of the church I attend, ahead of the friends I have, ahead of the job I keep, ahead of anything and everything - I am a mother to my sons. And two of those sons happen to be black.



I want my sons to have a President that reflects their face. Their story. I want to be able to look my sons in the eye and say YOU CAN BE ANYTHING. A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G you set your mind to be. Doctor, lawyer, pastor, Prime Minister OR President. You can BE anything.



I want him for every African American senior, and the whites that stood beside them, that faced segregation every day of their childhoods. For those that had to only DREAM of being able to attend the same schools, eat at the same restaurants, given the same chances as their white peers. A black President, in THEIR life time? Unimaginable.



For those that were spit on, hated, hit and feared because of the color of their skin.



For those that heard Dr. Martin Luther King's speech the day it was given and grabbed onto that hope that one day men, men like MY SONS, would be judged for the content of their hearts not the color of their skin.



I imagine what this election means to those who had to put their lives on the line so that I could one day be a mother to my children. So that our family would be accepted by society. So that my children could imagine a future full of hope and prosperity, and see others like themselves living that dream.



I gleefully imagine the shock in every racist heart when they face the reality that the MAJORITY of blacks, whites AND hispanics support Obama for President. I relish the idea that their fear, hatred and ignorance is being challenged.



I support Obama because he represents an unthinkable and an unimaginable dream even a generation ago.



I support Obama because he has given me hope for my sons. That their world will not be full of hatred and racism based on fear of differences rather than the ties of sameness that bind us.



I support Obama.



I'd vote if I could. I can't but many of YOU can. Go. Vote.



Yes we can.



YES WE CAN. YES WE CAN. YES WE CAN.

Pictures to Show Future Potential Wives

Son #1 and Son #3

Six Months of SAD

For the last five years we have had a battle in our home. Its a fight with an invisible enemy. An enemy that sneaks in with the fading heat of summer and tries to rob me of a son. That tries to rob my son of his life. Of his smile, his joy, his energy and his family.

Our enemy snuck in slowly. We didn't notice we were at war at first.

A child too tired to trick-or-treat? A little guy not excited for Christmas and Santa's arrival? Is he sick? Something going on at school? What are we doing wrong?

Now we recognize when we are under attack, because like clockwork every fall a thief arrives embodied in the heart and soul of our child.

The first sign is the dark circles under his eyes. Then the weepiness follows shortly. Lethargy arrives thereafter. And if we are unawares or unprepared or just too busy to notice, suicidal thoughts sneak their way into our lives.

"Mommy, did you think alot about dying when you were my age?"

"Mommy, do you ever think it would just be easier to be dead?"

Questions that stop the heart of a mother. Questions that force you to face the reality that your child, your beautiful, amazing, perfect in every way child is facing a battle they cannot win alone. Questions that force you out of denial and into action to save your child from themselves.

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a chemical reaction in your body that causes depression when you do not have enough exposure to sunlight. It affects many people to various degrees. It affects our son to an extreme degree. He is two different people depending on the season.

There is the summer child. Blond hair lightened to almost glowing white, twinkling eyes and an easy smile. A healthy glow that belies the battle we know is soon to follow September.

There is the winter child. Dark circles, a smile that never reaches from his mouth to his eyes. Tears always under the surface. A sadness the belies the joy we know spring will bring to his soul.

We live in winter country. When time change arrives next week, the sun will slip behind the hills at 4:30pm not to be seen again until 7 or 8 the next morning. And we lose another piece of our son.

I do not often share the exact labels, diagnosis or battles we deal with in our family but fighting SAD is a battle many don't even know they face. Special lights offer an almost unbelievable relief for those with this condition. Vitamins support our son by offering him what our weak Canadian winter son doesn't. Counselling helped him address those suicidal thoughts and gave him the internal power to deal with stressors that were triggering him continually to think that life wasn't worth living.

We count the days until we have our son in his wholeness of spirit, joy and energy back. We wait for March to spring our boys out of the prison of snow, clouds and cold weather and send them back into the yard to absorb the life and warmth of the sun.

Depression is real. SAD is real. It's real in a 5 year old. It's real in a 35 year old. It's real in our family.

F. Scott
Fitzgerald

"In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day
after day."

Days Of Significance - Today is One

Today is significant.

I reminded myself of that repeatedly today.

When Eric threw a fit before saying good morning. When we realized the milk had gone bad. When kids at school forgot to do their homework, despite the three day weekend. When the science experiment didn't work as expected. When the boys all gagged on the dinner I cooked. When I had been to the rink for 3 separate ice times by 5:30pm.

Today is significant.

Today a neighbour buried her husband killed in an accident last week. I don't know her, but she and her 4 young children aren't far from my mind. Today is significant.

Today a woman I have never met but know of is taking her last breathe. Robbed by cancer, she leaves behind two children and a traumatized husband unprepared for the road ahead. Today is significant.

Today someone lost a loved one. Today a baby was born. Today some grieves. Today someone rejoices. Today is the best day of someone's life. Today is the worst day of someone's life. Today someone became a victor. Today someone became a victim. Today someone beat addiction. Today someone became an addict. All today. Because today is significant.

Today I hugged my sons. Today I snuggled my husband. Today I talked to a friend. Today I made a choice I am proud of. Today I could work. Today I was healthy. Today I had enough food to eat. Today I was loved. That, and so much infinitely more. All of that, ALL OF THAT, I fit into TODAY.

TODAY is significant.

I never want to be so busy that I forget I want tomorrow to be significant too.

Adoption Diary: A Life Altered

After experiencing the roller coaster of reunion with my sister, I suddenly found myself experience a whole other side of the adoption picture - The abandoned. The starving. The dying. Baby, after baby, after baby.

I came from a globally minded family, or so I thought. We had sponsored a child through World Vision my entire life. My parents sat us down to watch those Saturday morning "starving child" specials on tv. The high school I attended supported a school in Haiti. We did hot dog sales to raise funds. We made dresses in Home Ec that were sent to children. It made me feel I was doing something. At 16, it felt like I was doing enough. My life was pretty easy. Private school. A beautiful home. Good friends.

And then I went. Flew to the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere. Young, incredibly naive and completely unprepared for what I would see. Port Au Prince with its crowds, heat and constant beggars was shock enough. Hordes of malnourished children. Piles of garbage. Crowded orphanages. It was, I thought, as bad as life could ever get. What I didn't realize is that they were the lucky Haitians.

We left the city and drove several hours. We got out in a small town simply trying to survive in the midst of being decimated by AIDS. 50% of all adults were HIV positive. There were orphaned children everywhere being taken in by neighbours, friends, grandparents, and churches. Disabled children dragged their broken bodies through the dirt. We were shown the morgue. Young people lain on whitewashed slabs. Mothers, Fathers, Children. Body after body. Again, I thought that must be as bad as life could ever get as I struggled to absorb it all.

Then we left the village. No roads, just a foot path. Tired, old and emaciated donkeys carried our young, healthy, teenage bodies up a mountain. A mountain where a village had been found. A village of the starving. The living dead. We were supposed to be bringing them hope. A few boxes of seeds. Assorted medical supplies. Toys.

You might think you understand what it means to hold a child that is dying. You might think you understand what it feels like to look into the eyes of a child dying from a preventable cause. But until you have lived that; Felt it in your very soul, you cannot begin to understand.

When you realize that I, as a teenager with a stethoscope and box full of deworming medication was the best medical care, the ONLY medical care, this village would ever see maybe you can fathom the enormity of the experience.

6 year olds the primary care givers of 3 younger siblings because their mother had died in childbirth. All near death. All severely emotionally disabled from lack of affection, lack of attention, lack of hope. Pregnant women so anemic that death was inevitable once they went into labour. Starving mothers and fathers. Children so near death you know your touch might be the last. Mothers explaining that they had given birth 9 times but only two of their children had lived to a year of age.

It was a week that you cannot fathom. A week that changed my life. A week that the simple act of putting it into words has kept this post locked up because I fear I cannot do it justice.

It is here I saw the need. The desperate, absolute need of children. Heart breaking, desperate, overwhelming need. Need that can't be solved with rhetoric or policy. Need that even money couldn't find a solution too. The need was simply there. Desperate, dying children. Alone. With no one, nothing and absolutely no hope.

On our last day, the lucky children, if you could ever say that, had parents that begged us to take them. I would be holding one child and a mother would rip it from my arms and press her own baby into my arms. As the translator shared her appeal. "This one is cuter, take it please, take my baby to Canada". Then another, then another, then another. Cuter or younger or a boy or a girl. All mothers desperate to save their child in any way they could. Even by sending them half way around the world with a stranger. A child stranger at that.

We left. A group of 16 and 17 year olds completely silent. Tear streaked faces. The nurse we were working with before the trip had STRONGLY advised us not to "get attached" not to hold the babies or the toddlers left motherless. As we left she said something that I didn't completely understand at the time but do today.

"It's worse for them now. Those kids know what they are missing. Before they didn't know what a hug felt like, now they will miss it."

We silently progressed down the mountain on our donkeys. Spread out. Each needing our own space, deep, deep in thought. I passed a hut. Small, mud bricks with a tree branch roof. Suddenly a woman ran out screaming.

With great force she threw something at me.

Instinctively I reached out and grabbed it as it flew by. I realized it wasn't an it. It wasn't a something. It was a someone.

A beautiful, gorgeous, precious baby boy wrapped in a rag.

He was also a starving, dying baby boy.

And as I held him, his weeping mother hit my donkey so it would run off with me carrying her baby in my arms.

And I turned. And I threw that baby back. Back into the arms of his mother and she collapsed to the ground. Yes, back to his family of origin. Yes, back to his home culture, language and place of birth. But also back to certain death.

My life suddenly became more complicated. At home I faced those questions that maybe some never face. Why am I so blessed? Why, through a twist of fate, was I born to a family in Canada while an equally precious child is born into dire poverty in Haiti.

It is on that trip that I lost all sense of "us and them". My world perspective shattered and then expanded globally. Those children I held weren't any different than my newly found niece and nephews. Than my adored baby cousin. Their eyes were a different color, our skin looked different but we were the SAME.

And I became aware of a world where children died alone. Where babies never were held. A world where brothers and sisters were separated out of necessity. A world where mothers were so desperate for their child to live they were willing to beg another to take them.

Haiti changed my life. It will always hold a place in my heart. We continued to send money to that village for a long, long time. Many, if not most, of the children we met that January in 1991 died.

40,000 children died today from starvation and preventable starvation related illness. 40,000 more children will die tomorrow. Each as precious as the child you love most in the world. Each with as much hope. As much potential. Each with a mother who bore them in love. Not to die an agonizing death before ever experiencing life.

Within a year I would be immersed in a culture where there exists very few orphans, and again I saw another side of story of children without families of birth.

An Interesting Discipline Dilema

My son, my oldest son? He has been "sneaking out". Grabbing his coat and backback and making a run for it as soon as my back is turned.

I can hear the sighs and groans now. The support. The ideas for disciplining him. Hockey time? Youth events? Wii privileges? Gone. Gone. Gone.

Except? Things aren't quite that easy.

Our dilemma ... my dear son has been leaving the house in the mornings right after I leave for work. Earlier than he is supposed to be leaving. Not by much, but still against the boundaries we had set up so that Son #3 wouldn't be left at home alone.

Where is he going, this sneaky son of mine?

SCHOOL. Yes, school.

The idea of disciplining a child for going to school EARLY? I suppose there are bigger parenting issues in the world.

Still, he looked as guilty as sin when I returned home unexpectedly this morning and found him sprinting down the sidewalk a block from the house a good 10 minutes before he is supposed to leave. ( NOTE: SERIOUSLY when someone makes a nylon that doesn't run within 15 feet of my front door I will enjoy wearing skirts. Until them, I will resent dress code with a passion!)

He THINKS he is in trouble. I made it seem like we would be "chatting" when I got home from work tonight.

Is it bad that I am laughing at him behind his back?

Pay Back: The Hockey Gods Must Be Crazy

You know, as a woman of faith, although admittedly someone a bit gun shy about being overtly public about it due to my strongly Pentecostal Upbringing (aka Charastmatic-Church-Induced-Traumatic-Childhood), I will tell you that sometimes God does something that makes me laugh. Out Loud. Today God is shutting me up but good.

To occupy some time, I let Caden put three tickets into draw basket today during our 14 hour marathon at the rink.

We sold thousands of tickets. Thousands.

And I won. A new Wii Fit is waiting for me back at the rink (where I will be again in a mere 9.5 hours). Very, very, very happy boys.

In hockey update news. Son #2 whose tournament I am slaving away at? He has lost every game. But did manage a "thank-you for helping out mom" this morning. At 5:10 AM.

Son #3 who is attending a tournament in Vernon? Lost every game. By a total score now of 30 - ZERO. Yeah. Not so fun for them either. Spent some time on the phone with him doing some long distance mama-hugs and tear wiping. Yes, he's a goalie. 30 to zero. Yeah. Not fun.

Son #1 won his game today. Deservedly so too. And he got son #4 out of his gear for me and was generally only slightly teenagerish for most of the day.

Son #4 had his first scrimmage and spent the entire time skating around trying to show me his very wiggly tooth through the glass while managing to avoid touching the puck EVEN ONCE.

And get this ... Shel was hanging around the hotel wearing shorts. A STRANGER came up to him and said "heh do you know Allan ***?".

"Yes I do" said Shel.

"I've heard about your knee" said stranger, while grimacing at the gruesome scar. As I said, they are now sharing a rye and coke and comparing dirt biking stories. Men. I knew one day those legs would get him somewhere, someday.