Quarantine: Week 12

I don't have many photos to share in this post.

Ginny celebrating the first day of Pride Month

we bought some adhesive sheets for the puzzle
we finished so that we'll be able to frame it

once the adhesive sheets were applied to the back of the puzzle,
all we had to do was trim the excess off - very simple

We were finally allowed to enter the school building, so I packed up my office this week and frankly, I was glad to do so. Things had felt so unfinished for me since leaving school on March 13 and I am relieved to have a small sense of closure now. I don't have any cabinets, closets, or counters in my office, so I brought everything home, but the upside of having a very small office space is that I can't keep much at school. The downside is that my dining room will house all of the bins, bags, and baskets for the summer. It was weird to go into my office and immediately see the hats and mittens I keep near the door for Kiss and Ride duty when the temperature outside was well over 90 degrees. It really hit home that it was winter the last time I was there. Given the circumstances, we are allowed to keep things up on the walls and bulletin boards over the summer, so I turned my calendar to August before leaving for the day. I guess time will tell if we'll actually be back in the building in two months.

Other than going to school, it's been a pretty sad, dark week and I've been doing a lot of thinking and reflecting and listening.

Ginny's been a little more subdued than normal (and that's saying something, because she's never been a playful energetic dog, even when she was very young) because I think she could sense my sadness. She stayed close to me as usual, but was willing to let me hold her for longer periods of time (as a general rule, she is not a cuddler) and as she's done so often in her life, provided me amazing comfort and companionship.

I know I usually keep this blog a happy, lighthearted place. I love writing about our dogs and our travels and random things going on in life. But I'm going to get real about things that might make some people uncomfortable.

When I moved to the U.S. in 1995, I had many people – in both countries – ask me what the differences were between Canada and the U.S. The reality is that SO many things are similar. Having traveled to some places where things are very different, I can honestly say that Canada and the U.S. are much more alike than they are different.

However, I gave the same answer to the question whether a Canadian or an American asked me: "There is a lot more racism in the U.S."

That is exactly what I said. Every single time.

The response from Canadians was, "Really?" in a surprised tone reserved for when you don't understand something.

The response from Americans was, "Really?" in a doubtful tone reserved for when whatever you've just heard cannot possibly be true.

Let me tell you: it was, and is, the truth.

The racism was, and is, palpable.

Twenty-five years after moving here, I would adjust that answer somewhat and say that there is more overt, blatant racism in the U.S. because I'm older, and a little wiser, and Canada has its own issues, but I'm not getting into that here.

Some of you might think, "What does this privileged white girl know about racism?"

And to some extent, you would be absolutely correct.

But I'd like to remind you that I come from a mixed family. My dad adopted me and he is Chinese. I couldn't possibly estimate the number of times I've had to tell people, he's my dad, not my step-dad, not my mom's husband, not a family friend…MY DAD. Period. Full stop.

My two brothers are half Caucasian and half Chinese. For their entire lives, I've felt the judgment. When we traveled, when we went out to dinner, when we were at sporting events...it was always there. The quizzical looks, the comments, the questions. There are times I feel it to this day.

Admittedly, we definitely had an advantage over other mixed-race families, because my dad being a doctor afforded us some buffer from what others surely experienced. I often wonder how things would have been different for us if he weren't a doctor. I wonder what subtle, passive aggressive prejudices my dad and brothers have endured that I know nothing about. What I do know are the looks my mom got when she had all three of us with her and the questions about whose children she was "watching" while gesturing to my brothers. I know that those looks and those questions triggered a deep-seated defensiveness in me to want to protect my brothers at all costs that remains to this day even though they are both married, educated, successful individuals. I doubt that feeling of needing to step between them and any threat will ever subside.

So while I cannot begin to fully understand the experiences of those who've lived under constant threat of harm, and I will never pretend otherwise, I do understand a small piece of the anger, frustration, and fear.

I love this country. I'm incredibly proud to be a citizen, but the responsibility that accompanies such a title is that I must call out injustice. I must be willing to face the ugly, awful truths that are uncomfortable and hurtful and disgusting. I want the country I live in to own its mistakes and work ardently to create a space where racism is no longer tolerated.

Do better, America.

Happy Tails to you…