Author: Lauren

Why both childhood vaccines AND informed consent should be mandatory

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is-your-child-vaccinated-vaccination-prevents-smallpox-chicago-department-of-healthVaccines save lives, and protect hundreds of millions of people from the suffering caused by debilitating, often deadly, and very preventable illnesses like polio, smallpox, and measles. Vaccinating your child is not only the right thing to do for THEIR health and safety, it also protects vulnerable members of society (very young infants, immune-compromised individuals, etc.) through herd immunity. You would not be allowed to play Russian Roulette with your child, nor hand them a loaded weapon and send them to school, so you likewise should not be allowed to be so cavalier when it comes to serious and deadly viruses.

In short, I believe that protecting children and society from preventable illness through the use childhood of vaccinations should be mandatory for Canadian families.

So why do I think signed informed consent for the vaccinations administered at schools should be mandatory as well?

When I first began to consider the idea of mandatory vaccinations for children I was surprised to find that while I did not believe in parents using the health and welfare of their child as a test of the strength of their ideology/religion/pseudo-science based health fears, I was very uncomfortable with the idea of schools or other public bodies vaccinating children without at least having parents sign something saying they understand what’s going to be happening.

I know that underlying this discomfort is my ever-present and mostly unfounded general anxiety about “slippery slopes”–if power is taken from parents in this medical matter, will parents still be able to have a say in other medical issues that affect their child? We all know parents who have had a sick child, refused to accept the original diagnosis/proposed treatment given to them by a first doctor, agitated for a second opinion, and turned about to be right. In a medical system staffed by well-meaning but chronically overworked healthcare professionals, a parent’s right to fully understand (and, if necessary, question) their child’s diagnosis and proposed treatment may be the child’s best bet for a positive outcome. All this being said, as one of my friends pointed out over dinner the other night, there is a big difference between mandating safe, effective, and scientifically-backed childhood vaccinations, and just letting doctors run willy-nilly over the rights of child patients and their parents. “Slippery slope” fears are usually just that–fears.

My real reason for believing that parental consent should still be required prior to vaccinating a child is simply that kids are generally not in a very good position to advocate for themselves, or to inform health professionals about their medical history. Though I don’t agree with this BC family’s reasons for wanting to decline a diphtheria vaccine for their 14-year-old daughter, the fact that “mature minor consent” is considered enough to vaccinate a child in school is a bit troubling, simply because not all “mature minors” are aware of adverse vaccine reactions in their history (or at the very least, may require a special vaccine made using a different compound), and those who are aware of issues may not know how to declare them.

It’s not that I don’t trust 14-year-olds to be competent participants in their medical care per se, it’s that the conditions under which a 14-year-old may take the initiative to go to their doctor to privately discuss a health issue, and the rush-rush and very public conditions under which I remember being pulled from class in junior high for my tetanus booster are very different. If, as the young girl in the article claimed, the nurse did not even ask about any history of adverse reactions before administering the vaccine, how can any kind of informed consent be claimed? If the adults in control of the situation (i.e. the schools and nurses) do not take the time to ask the required questions about medical history/conditions and give young people a safe and confidential place to answer them, there are few 14-year-olds who would feel comfortable putting on the brakes and declaring concerns (and most of our laws surrounding appropriate conduct and use of positions of trust and authority when it comes to minors seem to recognize this).

But why does it matter? you may ask. Vaccines are perfectly safe and completely necessary. That is absolutely true. And yet, there are still a lot of parents (like the ones in the CBC article, and the anti-vaxxers I sometimes see protesting downtown, or misinformed celebrity parents like Jenny McCarthy or Kristen Cavallari) who, for whatever reason, are NOT comfortable with vaccinating their children. Though their beliefs and concerns are (in my and science’s opinion) crazy, even dangerous, the fact is that these parents and their views do exist. Pulling their 14-year-old out of class and vaccinating them without prior notification or taking adequate steps to ensure informed mature minor consent only serves to fuel the paranoia that vaccines are some kind of “conspiracy” by Big Pharma and the government to poison kids or control their minds or do god knows what else to them.

So what to do? How about sending a form home with students prior to vaccinations, explaining what viruses the vaccine is for, what the dangers of these viruses would be WITHOUT vaccination, listing the ingredients of the vaccine, and explaining that the levels of mercury, etc. contained in the compound are normal and safe? Then, the form can ask if there are any medical conditions medical staff need to know about or that may require the child to receive a vaccine with a different compound (for example, one that doesn’t use egg if the child has an allergy, etc.). If “mature minor” consent is to be used, the child can be given these forms instead and, now that they have been fully informed in a low-pressure situation, can sign for themselves.

We shouldn’t have to defend a safe medical tool that has saved billions of lives, but for some reason we do. And because we do, we may as well be proactive in our approach, making sure accurate information about the safety and efficacy of vaccines is in the hands of parents and kids before fear-mongering misinformation has a chance to spread.

 

Of Recipes and Women, Family and Food

/ Lauren / 2 Comments
Me and TC (from the inside cover of "Favourite Recipes"). Illustration by Claire Robertson.

Me and TC (from the inside cover of “Favourite Recipes”). Illustration by Claire Robertson.

Of the many wonderful and much-appreciated gifts that I received at my recent bridal shower, I think one of my favourites is a book of recipes collected by my soon-to-be mother in law. She canvassed family and friends from both my side and TC’s to compile the fairly hefty tome, which bears the title “Favourite Recipes”. It is now on my kitchen shelf (I had to do some readjusting to make room) with a little blue notebook which is, in many ways, its predecessor.

When I graduated from high school my mom asked me which recipes from home I’d like to know how to make once I lived on my own. She bought a thick spiral-bound journal and then sat in the living room and copied out each recipe in her best elementary teacher printing (which, you can probably imagine, is painstakingly neat). Generally speaking, it took me about three or four years to learn to make any of these recipes passably (except lasagne and bolognese; those I was fairly adept at somehow but was too lazy to make) and a few more years on top of that to really master. I had even made my mom write out instructions for dishes she had never needed a recipe for (like hash brown potatoes). Ten years later, I still have not made every dish in my “little blue notebook”, but I now trust I have the competence, if not always the time, to do it.

Where the little blue notebook was a gift from my mother of my favourite recipes, my bridal shower recipe binder has continued to build on the foundation my mother laid out–the best recipes are not necessarily the fancy ones endorsed by celebrity chefs that necessitate owning a pestle and mortar, or the photogenic delights of Pinterest (that necessitate being a kept woman who spends all her time making angels out of marzipan or some such). The best recipes are the ones that are tried and true, the favourite meals and desserts that have been repeatedly successful over the years, the kind of food you can make with love for the people you love without needing to be a Gordon Ramsay or a Martha Stewart. Sure, some of the recipes in my new binder are from magazines and many, I’m sure, are originally from cookbooks. The point is not that the women (and men–hi Dad!) who contributed to this gift are culinary geniuses, the point is that these recipes are recommended because they work.

Flipping through my binder, I am beginning to realize that my favourite recipes as copied by my mom were just the beginning–just the foods I could think to ask for at the time, with the tastes and abilities of my 18-year-old self. I’d never really thought I could one day be making Grandma’s pirags, or my dad’s cabbage rolls. I hadn’t placed myself in the lineage of people cooking for their families. And now I have, through the contributions of loved ones from my side and my fiancé’s.

And it’s not just the women who contributed to the recipe binder that have become part of my cooking story. Many of the recipes have titles like “Fern’s Mandarin Orange Salad” or “Jackie’s Honey Chicken” (when the name of the contributor was not Fern or Jackie). Recipes have been passed from parent to child, friend to friend, and neighbour to neighbour. Even some of the recipes that came from cookbooks I am sure came from community and school cookbooks (I remember my family having a few of those) which are themselves collections of recommendations and favourites being passed from one member of a community to another. There is no way to know for sure where most of them really came from and in that way they belong to everyone.

Recipes in a purchased cookbook are great but they’re just lists of ingredients and instructions. Even with the fancy photographs in today’s cookbooks (which I actually don’t like because they seem fake), the recipes have no connection or relevance to me. They’re nothing until they’re made. What makes the recipes in both the little blue notebook that my mother gave me ten years ago and the recipes in the bridal shower binder collected by my future mother-in-law this spring so special is that they have been made, time and time again. They’ve been made for as long as I’ve been alive, by people who love me and wish the best for me. Some recipes are relatively new. Some are older than my grandmother. As I use them I begin to pencil in changes here and there, depending on what works for me, knowing full well my parents always did the same. And so it goes.

To all the women in my life and the ones who came before them, Happy Mother’s Day. May your culinary efforts always be appreciated and your children always do the dishes without complaint.

Bronies are Alright by Me

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[Official Trailer] Bronies: The Extremely Unexpected Adult Fans of My Little Pony

I don’t do much (or anything) to hide the fact that I like cartoons. Obviously, there are some very good cartoons for adults, like Bob’s Burgers, Archer, and Futurama, and it’s perfectly acceptable for adults to like those (and I do). I also like animated fare aimed at less mature audiences but that still give a wink to older viewers (Johnny Bravo, Angela Anaconda). And I do have fond memories of the cartoons I loved as a kid (Thundercats, Jem) including some very entertaining animated series based on toys (like Teddy Ruxpin, which was amazing).

So I wasn’t all that surprised to find that I enjoy watching the occasional episode of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic (a reboot of an 80s cartoon based on the Hasbro toys) on Netflix. However, the reason I checked out the show in the first place is that I was curious about another group of adult (and teenage) viewers I had heard about, viewers who not only like MLP:FIM, but who LOVE it to the point of full-blown fandom. I was curious because this group of adult super-fans is comprised primarily of men.

They call themselves “Bronies”, and they are the unexpected demographic whose devotion to My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic has created internet forums, merchandise, music, fan fiction/fan art, and major conventions (including BronyCon in the U.S., which draws thousands of Bronies each year). And I think that’s awesome.

Before I continue I should probably admit that when I first heard about Bronies I was confused and suspicious. Why would a group of grown men be obsessed with a show for little girls? I wondered. Is it some weird sex thing? Are they trying to socialize with children? What’s the deal here? I pictured an inappropriate presence of creepy old men crashing Pony events aimed at children. What I didn’t realize at the time is that Bronies have no interest in creeping on your little girl. They like the show for its own sake and have built communities of like-minded fans based around the show’s colourful animation and its core tenets of friendship, inclusion, and kindness. What’s not to like?

If you’re Fox News, you might concede that at least being a Brony is better than being a terrorist, and of course those who subscribe to outdated and restrictively macho gender roles will certainly think Bronies are an affront to “the way things should be”, but for the rest of us, Bronies are a subject usually treated with bewilderment and amusement, maybe even curiosity.

If you’re like me, curiosity eventually won out and I’ve not only watched a few episodes of the show to see what all the fuss was about, I’ve also watched the Kickstarter-funded documentary Bronies: The Extremely Unexpected Adult Fans of My Little Pony, which is available on Netflix. Though the documentary has been criticized by some Bronies for presenting a very narrow picture of the Brony culture, and by members of MLP:FIM‘s female fan subculture (sometimes called Pegasisters), for almost completely ignoring women’s contribution to the MLP:FIM fan community, TC and I still found it completely fascinating. Not being very familiar with other established fan cultures either (like Trekkies or Whovians), I find the level of commitment that would lead fans to shell out hundreds of dollars to attend conferences, etc. intriguing enough. The fact that most of the fans interviewed were male and were so into a show that is so outside of what we consider to be in the range of “normal” interests for men is, to me, incredibly interesting and kind of amazing.

Lauren Faust, creator of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, said in an interview that although she certainly did not expect Brony fandom when she conceived the show, she welcomes their support, and sees the interest taken by adults and men in the MLP as an affirmation that shows which are considered to be for “little girls” can be good and do have cultural value. It’s worth taking into account that Hollywood has been banking on and promoting our interest in “boy” cultural products for a long time–just look at the millions of dollars spent (and made) on blockbusters like the Transformers and G.I. Joe franchises. When it comes to Hollywood’s treatment of cultural products aimed at girls, their efforts are usually constrained to flimsy, hyper-sexualized fare like the Twilight saga or the underwhelming film version of Josie and the Pussycats (IMDB gives the film 5.3 stars out of 10 and includes trivia tidbits like, “Melody is never in the actual movie seen in a full shirt, i.e. a full neckline and sleeves. The only time she is seen in a real shirt is during flashbacks in the “Three Small Words” music sequence.”).

Though critics of the Bronies documentary are quick to point out that not all Bronies have faced persecution for their fandom (as opposed to the film’s portrayal, which treats being a Brony almost on par with being homosexual, following the stories of young men who have had to “come out” as Bronies to their confused families), the backlash some Bronies do face gives me pause. Why, when we splash “boy toys” all over the big screen, blowing up vehicles and buildings and killing people/monsters/evil robots, is it considered fun for the whole family (or for date night), while magical animated ponies, whose dearest ambition is to take care of each other and their community, are only meant “for girls”?

While I am certainly not qualified to discuss Brony culture, the contempt, confusion, and derision I have come across even while I discuss Bronies in my personal life makes me question, yet again, the values we hold as normal. Why are violence, cruelty, and misogyny the norm in our cultural products? Why can’t we see values like friendship, hard work, and kindness worthy of our energy?

And even if you don’t like My Little Pony (and it’s certainly not my favourite cartoon), what the hell do you care what gender or age its fans are?

“The Writer at Work” (#fiction)

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I have been struggling all week to write a blog post and have been drawing a rather unfortunate blank. As I watched East Vancouver roll past the Skytrain window on my way home from work on Wednesday afternoon, I realized with a great deal of relief that I had already written a cheeky little piece of fiction about this very struggle (to which I’m sure we can all relate…..maybe….ha ha).

And so, for your reading pleasure, I give you, The Writer at Work.

The Writer at Work

Knowing the importance of sleep to an intellectual and productive mind, our friend the writer never rises before the sun. On this day, he opens his eyes at his accustomed hour intending to begin his labours at once, however, he feels the dream that had visited him just prior to his waking is of great artistic significance and therefore, for the sake of his work, he is forced to lie abed nearly three quarters of an hour more in an attempt to recapture it. Alas, the dream has escaped him. No matter. When one is blessed with genius such as his, brilliant visions are forever unfolding in one’s mind, in a never-ending parade of wit, pathos, and profundity. The formidable task of his life is to render these visions in writing so as not to deny the world their splendour.

Speaking of his task, our friend resolves to begin straightaway, though not, of course, before the completion of an elaborate toilet in which hair, face, and hands, especially, are carefully attended to. Our friend the writer has such deep respect for the pages which background his gleaming passages that he cannot abide those bohemian writers, hunching in ateliers, hair uncombed and face unshaved, ink-stained fingers marking the very pages they are trying to seduce! Inexcusable slovenliness, our friend thinks, and now, satisfactorily washed and dressed (albeit still in his red velvet dressing gown, one of those pet comforts which serve to aid his genius), he is ready to begin his work. He rings for Mrs. Pimms (his housekeeper) and requests his usual cup of tea.

Before beginning any actual writing, it is our friend’s wont to wander through the rooms of his elegant home, with his cup of tea in hand and the sash of his dressing gown trailing behind him. The symmetry and comfort of his fine rooms and furnishings pleases our friend immensely, knowing as he does the importance of an appropriate environment to the maintenance of the creative faculties. Indeed, one could not wish for a more suitable birthing place for new literature. So thinks our friend the writer as he opens the French doors of his parlour and steps out onto his veranda. His gardens too are pleasing to the senses, sweet-smelling and well proportioned. Not so much as a leaf or a blade of grass is out of place—the gardener is clearly as meticulous in his work as our friend is in his writing. Perhaps a god may understand how such men feel, lovingly perfecting the fruits of their labours! By now, the sun is shining rapturously overhead; the morning-time has passed.

“Fol de rol,” our friend hums, pattering his fingers on the sides of his dressing gown, “there is no greater inspiration than Mother Nature herself. I shall take my luncheon out of doors, yes, I believe this will be the best course of action, and I will tell Mrs. Pimms so at once. I have an excellent feeling about this day, it will be, I believe, quite productive.”

Our friend is possessed of a firm belief that as he endeavours to work, so must he live. Therefore, he does not rush his repast but savours each separate course, allowing himself ample time for digestion and enjoyment between them. One would not rush ahead to the next chapter before being perfectly satisfied with the first, no indeed! Such a process would be the mark of a sloppy artist and such is our friend’s devotion to his craft that he takes great pains to exercise the same thoroughness and care in all aspects of his daily routine. Consequently, it is nearly three o’clock before our friend’s slippered feet can be heard padding along the carpeted hall towards the door of his study.

And what a study! It is the crown jewel of our friend’s estate, its contents, both furniture and objects, judiciously selected and carefully aligned to allow for the maximum influence of the creative muse and the greatest ease of transference from idea to page. And books! Such a collection of books, both new and antiquarian, both famous and obscure. And such wisdom, such inspiration to be found in their pages! Our friend turns to them now, for who would begin his work without first feeding his mind, allowing it time for proper focus and concentration? He lifts a book from the shelf and begins to read, furrowing his brow as he does so.

“Ah, Aristotle, you old scoundrel!” he cries, throwing down the venerable tome with the knowing smile one reserves for the peculiarities of one’s intimates, “Homer old boy, what have you to say this afternoon?” He flips lovingly through the pages of the masterpiece, but simply cannot bring himself to read more than a few lines at once. “Excellent works to be sure,” as he often remarks to his acquaintances, “but much better in the Greek, ever so much better in the Greek. ‘Tis a pity I have only the translations, mere shadows of the original genius; I can hardly bear to read them.” On one occasion the host of a dinner party did indeed have a very fine old copy of Homer, and in the superior Greek no less, but alas on this particular evening our accomplished friend had forgotten to bring his glasses.

Our friend the writer has a very broad, very beautiful desk of carved mahogany, and he sits at it now, satisfied at last that his mind has achieved its proper alignment of focus. He retrieves a stack of paper from one mahogany drawer and places it carefully on the surface of his desk, smoothing it with his hands and noting its superior creamy texture (our friend does not work on cheap paper). Opening another drawer, our friend retrieves his ink bottles and pens, carefully wiping each with a cloth and then meticulously arranging these tools on his writing surface in the particular way which he finds most agreeable. He picks up a pen and settles deep into his chair, closing his eyes for a moment to invite the visions of his mind to hold sway. At last he is ready to begin.

When he opens his eyes, our friend the writer notices that the sun is beginning to lower into the trees outside his study window in a glory of crimson and blush. It is nearly time for dinner, and our friend never works after he sups, believing that to write by any light but sunlight would cause damage to his eyes. Another day of creation, therefore, is drawing to its inevitable close. “Ah,” he sighs, as one who bears the burden of a monumental talent, “a writer’s work is never done.”

Why a picture of ducks? Why not?

Why a picture of ducks? Why not?

Find Yourself “Through the Gaze of a Navel”, April 23 -27

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Emilia Symington Fedy, performer Photo: Tim Matheson

Emilia Symington Fedy, performer.  Photo: Tim Matheson

Have you ever gone in search of yourself only to become lost amidst a sea of self-help literature, West Coast mysticism, wheat grass, and yoga pants? Have you ever wished that you could have a guide in this quest for self, someone who’s tried everything, someone who can help you sift through the affirmations and the crystal healings and maybe, just maybe, answer your most burning, pressing question:

Is this all a bunch of navel gazing?

For a limited time this April, storyteller, theatre artist, and self-proclaimed advice expert Emelia Symington Fedy will be sharing her wisdom in The Chop Theatre’s Through the Gaze of a Navel, presented as part of Boca del Lupo’s Micro Performance Series. Part theatre performance, part yoga class, Through the Gaze of a Navel promises to irreverently but unflinchingly explore the fuzzy line between enlightenment and navel gazing, and ask audiences what it is they are really searching for.

Having watched Symington Fedy perform before and having read some of her writing on her website, Trying to Be Good, I was incredibly excited to hear a show like this existed. I was also incredibly excited that Emelia Symington Fedy agreed to answer some of my questions about the show:

You have been described as a “professional seeker”, who “has been obsessed with making [yourself] better since [you] were a kid”. What made you decide that now was the time to share your experiences? 

My co-artistic director Anita Rochon and I were talking one day about how incredible it actually was that I’ve spent so much time and money on “healing” and spiritual pursuits. We realized that I had over the course of 20 years become somewhat of a “professional” at it. Satire is usually a comedic style we like to play with, so considering Vancouver and the overabundance of spiritual practices here, we decided that my personal investment in the material along with living in lotusland made a perfect match and a show began to take shape…

I’m very interested in the shared territory between popular self-help and enlightenment practices and performance. As a theatre student, we did yoga and pilates, we meditated, we had ritualized ways of entering and leaving a performance. What parts of your self-help life have you found performative? What parts of your work as a theatre artist have you found therapeutic?

All of the practices I’ve tried are performative in some way. Searching for an answer is inherently dramatic and the rooms are lit well and the stakes are always high. As well, all of my artistic endeavours have been in some way therapeutic. I make art that I’m personally connected to and means a shit load to me. That’s what makes it good. That doesn’t mean I figure my emotional state out on stage. I’ve figured it out a long time beforehand and now I’m playing around with it; which makes it safe for an audience.

Judging by the almost outrageous amount of self-help literature available on the Internet and on bookstore shelves, and the number of classes, seminars, and gurus advertising paths to wellness, it’s obvious that “self-help” is a lucrative business. Ironically, its success as a business model relies on people not actually finding what they’re looking for. As someone who has explored several different self-help paths, what has been your experience with the “business” side of enlightenment? And why do you think people keep coming back?

I call it “Spiritual Capitalism” and it’s the really disappointing side to a meaningful path. People try to make money of our longing for God and what can I say, it sucks.

There is a part of me that wants to name and shame and blame the folks involved in turning someone’s vulnerable and authentic search into personal gain but then that makes me part of the problem too–so instead we make a play that points satirically at a few of the dark parts in the community. With a light hand we turn the mirror on the audience and laugh together at the struggle of never being satisfied. We are not mean spirited in any way, but I play a character who thinks she knows a lot about yoga and meditation and enlightenment, and really, who can say that they know a lot about that?

In terms of why people keep coming back…we want answers. Why are we here? What is my purpose? Will I get a book deal? And we are willing to pay anything for it.

In grade 8 I studied a pyramid chart called the “Hierarchy of Needs”. At the bottom of the pyramid were needs like food and shelter, and at the very top of the pyramid was a need called “self-actualization”, which could not be sought for until the needs below it were met. With this in mind, do you think the modern journey towards enlightenment is primarily a luxury of wealthier countries, or do you think the quest for inner fulfillment and enlightenment is universal?

You can’t gaze at your navel if you are hungry. Yes, on one hand our ability to focus on “self actualization” is a product of being very lucky and being born in the right country. On the other hand, some people say that humans rising into a higher state of consciousness is our only way to transform and save the earth from extinction. So, like most things, it’s probably not simply good or bad. Folks who have the privilege to study spiritual pursuits are both helping the planet through learning how to raise their awareness and also possibly wasting precious time when they could be digging a well. You know what I mean?

[Yes, I know what you mean, Emelia! Cripes, you’re pithy. And now for a couple of logistical questions…]

I understand Through the Gaze of a Navel will have limited seating. Do you have an additional limit on the number of people who can participate in your yoga class portions of the performance, or are all audience members able to join in?

Everyone is welcome to do yoga. There are seats for folks with mobility issues and anyone who is shy but I have a strong sense that you will be on the mat soon enough when you see that it’s fun and I’m not pointing anyone out. I HATE audience participation when I watch theatre, so I make my shows really friendly and easy to be involved in. The goal is you find yourself saying “I cannot believe I’m doing this, and it’s so. much. fun.” Also, it’s built as a beginner class so everyone can access the poses.

Is there anything the audience members wishing to do the yoga should bring (yoga mats, water bottles, etc.)?

Wear comfy pants.

Having gone swimming with cosmic dolphins and even tried vaginal weightlifting classes, Emelia Symington Fedy is more than qualified to guide you in your search for your centre (whether that centre is spiritual fulfillment or just your own belly button). Remember, spaces are limited so book your ticket early and WEAR COMFY PANTS.

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Through the Gaze of a Navel will be performed at various times, April 23 – 27, at The Anderson Street Space (1405 Anderson St., Granville Island). Tickets are $10 and can be purchased online.

Notes: Boca del Lupo contacted me to inquire if I would be interested in writing about this show (and I definitely was). The decision to interview Emelia Symington Fedy, as well as to write this post, was mine. I would like to sincerely thank Emelia Symington Fedy for her time and her thoughtful, eloquent responses.

Dining in the Peanut Gallery

/ Lauren / 4 Comments

Empty plate with fork and knife.“How do you stay so slim eating steak and potatoes?”

This question came out of nowhere in the lunchroom yesterday at work. To put this remark in context, two coworkers were sitting at one end of the lunchroom table, having a conversation. I was sitting at the other end of the table, eating my aforementioned steak and potatoes (leftovers from dinner the night before) and reading my Maclean’s. Basically, I was minding my own business and really enjoying my meal. Until one of my coworkers decided to interrupt the conversation she was having to remark on the food I had chosen to eat for lunch.

My answer to her was the same answer I usually give in situations like this, “I guess I have a fast metabolism.” And then I added, by way of apology, “I’m sure it won’t last.”

The other coworker said, “You should have seen her at last year’s Staff Appreciation Breakfast.” To which I replied, by way of apology, “Yes, there was REAL WHIPPED CREAM and I just couldn’t help myself. It was amazing.” And that coworker remarked that I “sure can put away food.”

While we’re on the subject of the Staff Appreciation Breakfast, the next Breakfast is coming up next week. I look forward to the Staff Appreciation Breakfast at my workplace every year. It’s a day for the bosses and managers to acknowledge the work done by administrative staff to keep the department running, and it’s a morning of REALLY good food. Hashbrowns. Pancakes. Blueberry compote. Real whipped cream. The works. Sadly, the event has been ruined for me.

I DID eat a lot at last year’s staff appreciation breakfast. I filled my plate and then went back for seconds and thirds. As I said, the food was amazing. What wasn’t amazing, however, were the remarks my (female) coworkers made last year: “You’re going up there again?!”, “Oh wow, look at Lauren!”, “Someone’s got a sweet tooth!”, “Just wait until you’re our age, you won’t be able to eat like that anymore!”

I was humiliated. No one likes to be made self-conscious while they’re eating, especially not a woman. I felt put on the spot, and I felt that my coworkers had decided I was an acceptable target for this kind of shaming because I am thin. No one at that table last year would have dreamed of remarking upon the plates of any of my more curvacious coworkers, and my coworkers at lunch yesterday would never have said what they said to a larger woman, so why did they think it was okay to do it to me?

I had just begun to get over the squirmy uncomfortable embarrassment I’ve felt every time I thought of the Staff Appreciation Breakfast. I was starting to look forward to next week’s event. I thought surely no one but me would remember how much I ate last year (I certainly have no clue what anyone else ate), but yesterday’s lunch was a reminder that I will not escape scrutiny. If I don’t watch what I eat, other people will do it for me. Apparently there’s a sign on my back that says, “Go ahead and comment on how much I’m eating. Don’t worry, I’m thin, so it’s not rude.”

Except of course it is. And it hurts my feelings.

I think I should take this moment to acknowledge that Fat Shaming (i.e. shaming or making fun of people who are overweight as if their bodies are your business) is pervasive, dehumanizing, emotionally damaging, and completely wrong. I cannot believe the emotional abuse and humiliation people think is okay to heap on someone because of their weight.

This is not to say that thin women (or any women really) have a free pass, because obviously they don’t. What I eat has been a subject of scrutiny for my entire life. When I was a kid, it was because I was a picky eater (foods I wouldn’t eat included onions, peppers, mushrooms, cooked peas, cooked carrots, mashed potatoes, zucchini, whipped cream, spinach, avocado, yoghurt with peaches, peanut butter and jam sandwiches, cheese from a lunchbox, and anything else I had determined was icky due to texture, mostly). I cannot blame my parents for wanting me to eat more. It was their job to make sure I ate enough nutrients to be healthy and I know that they worried about me.

That said, they were my parents and they loved me and needed to make sure I didn’t get scurvy or Rickets or something. Everyone else can go suck on an egg.

Like the gymnastics instructor who pulled my little sister and me out of class to show her assistant how skinny our arms were and to have a good laugh about it (this is the same gymnastics instructor who missed presentation day because she was hungover and needless to say she never instructed in my town again). Or the complete stranger from my first week at a new school in grade 10 who, when I declined some gross-looking English potato chips said, “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you eat ANYTHING?” (this person had literally never seen me eat a meal so I don’t know what her problem was). Or the dweeb I dated briefly when I was fifteen who, after he badgered me into disclosing my struggles with disordered eating (that’s a story for another time), responded by saying, “No. You eat a LOT.” and then told me the story of the time he got meningitis which was obviously way more interesting than a bit of wonky dieting and some purging now and again.

Or the boyfriend in third year university who told me I got the flu because I don’t eat enough vegetables (which remarkably I didn’t find very comforting, in addition to it not being true, but at least he apologized later). Or the coworkers who’ve asked me how often I bring cheese and crackers and an apple for lunch (answer: almost every day, for four years, and I like it very much thank you). Or the countless numbers of women who have told me, with a hint of malevolent glee in their voices, that someday my metabolism will slow down and my eating habits (or at the very least, my eating habits as perceived by people who really don’t know a thing about them) will “catch up with me”. Basically, I’m damned if I don’t want to eat a lot (because then people think I’m “dieting”), and I’m damned if I do.

I have tried to tell myself that I should be flattered, that having people remark on my weight or my lunch because I am thinner than them (as opposed to larger) is not an insult, and that maybe they’re just jealous. It is very little comfort.

I don’t want anyone to be jealous of me, I want them to leave me alone and let me eat my damn lunch. I don’t need any warnings that someday my sinful ways will “catch up with me” and I’ll be fat and feel bad about myself; every woman who has ever been a teenaged girl is already afraid. And I shouldn’t have to justify my diet or describe it to ANYONE. But since so many people seem so bloody interested, I am going to say this once, and then never again:

I EAT JUST FINE.

Sure, I indulge at a free bonanza like the Staff Appreciation Breakfast. Why the hell not? Good food is one of the joys of life and, in the absence of allergies or other medical considerations, I see no reason to deny myself. For the most part though, I pay attention to the food groups, try to get in enough fruits and vegetables (though it’s hard), eat my fibre and my protein, never drink Coke or Pepsi or coffee, have primarily switched to organic meat and milk, enjoy cooking and baking, and yes, like most people, I have a sweet tooth that sometimes gets the better of me. I also take the bus to work which means I get a good 40-50 minutes of walking in every weekday, train in aerial silks, take Ukrainian dance classes, and like being active outside (though the city makes it harder). I know my genetics play a huge role in the shape of my body and my ability to maintain muscle, but I don’t eat poorly and when I do I don’t rub it in anyone’s faces.

And even if I ate fast food every damn day and never touched a vegetable, it still wouldn’t be any of your business. I don’t expect other women to apologize for their bodies so stop trying to get me to apologize for mine. I have the same insecurities you have and at times in my past they have cost me my health. I should not need to justify my desire to feed myself to you.

The next time some random person tells me I’m eating a lot maybe I should look at them coolly and say, “Don’t worry, I’m going to throw it all up later” and just keep eating with a weird smile on my face. That’d probably shut them up.

Or maybe (since eating disorders aren’t a joke even though I would find that hilarious) I should just look at them coolly and say, “That isn’t any of your business.” and leave it at that. I’m done apologizing for what I do and don’t eat. I’m done with acting like I should feel flattered by what is obviously negative attention, and I’m done with explanations. I NEVER notice or remark upon what other women are eating (except to occasionally say, “That looks/smells delicious!”). Humiliating me at the table serves only to patronize me (as if I were your child and not your colleague) and it won’t make you feel any better. So please focus your energy on enjoying YOUR lunch and let me do the same.

“AFTER” – Hilarious, Awkward, and Close to Home

/ Lauren / 1 Comment

AFTER-Poster-FinalThe premise of Martha Herrera-Lasso’s new play, After, is fairly simple: four young people navigate the murky waters of love and lust, all through conversations that take place after sex. While the premise may be simple, the emotional situations explored are anything but, rife with humour, heartbreak, and devastating shades of grey.

If you like sharp, fast-paced dialogue, nuanced performances with rapid-fire timing, and recognizing the awkwardness of your own life onstage, you will not want to miss dream of passion productions and Excavation Theatre‘s co-production of After, running at the Havana Theatre until April 5.

When it comes to intimacy and matters of the heart, once the moment of passion has ended few of us are secure enough with vulnerability to simply be. Instead, we protect ourselves: we make jokes, justify, feign nonchalance, contradict ourselves or lay blame. Many relationships are not what they seem, and the biggest fools are usually the ones with the front-row seats.  Herrera-Lasso’s intelligent, funny, and honest script requires performers who identify with their characters, even as they hurt others, hold tight to things they don’t want, hide from their partners and hide from themselves. Luckily for us, under the direction of Excavation Theatre’s Jessica Anne Nelson, the ensemble of four actors (dream of passion’s Stefania Indelicato, Al Miro, Jane Hancock, and Matthew McLellan) deliver tight performances that never miss a beat. Both perfectly natural and perfectly rehearsed, no gesture, line, or inflection is wasted as the performers feed off one another and carry the audience through an incredibly quick (but incredibly satisfying) 80 minutes.

What strikes me most about  After is the characters’ extreme lack of self-awareness, even as they are acutely self-conscious (whether due to insecurity, like the verbally incontinent Jackie, or narcissism, like the incorrigible James). Unhinged by their moments of vulnerability, these four young people fumble towards and away from one another, wanting both the satisfaction of intimacy and the safety of independence. After the Friday-night show, we overheard another audience member saying he had been all four of the characters at one time or another, and I think this is the play’s real strength. For my part, I certainly recognized myself in two or three of the characters (I won’t give myself away by saying which characters or why) and it is this familiarity and recognition that elevates a simple (rather comedic) premise into something much more impressive and special.

After plays at the Havana Theatre (1212 Commercial Drive) until Saturday, April 5. Tickets are $20 and can be purchased online at Brown Paper Tickets. Shows are at 8:00 p.m.

Disclosure: My TC and I attended Friday night’s performance courtesy of Excavation Theatre and dream of passion productions. My content is my own.

“Ghosts in Baghdad” and the Vulnerabilities of Heritage

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Sarah May Redmond (Malika) and Alec Willows (Khalil). Photo: Tim Matheson

Sarah May Redmond (Malika) and Alec Willows (Khalil). Photo: Tim Matheson

What would you do to protect your life’s work? Your country’s heritage? When does an object stop being a “thing” and become a treasure worth risking your life for? How far will you go to protect the treasures you hold dear?

These are the questions posed by Ghosts in Baghdad, a new script by playwright and Working Spark Theatre founder Michelle Deines. Inspired by a New York Times article by Roger Cohen, Deines’ script centres around the complex decisions faced by Khalil and Malika, two fictional museum directors who continue their work in fear and isolation ten years after the 2003 American invasion and the looting, destruction, and subsequent closure to the public of the Iraq Museum. With thousands of ancient historical and cultural objects still missing and the Museum open only to government officials and foreign diplomats, Khalil walks the empty halls alone, dreaming of the day he can throw open the doors and share his country’s history with its people. Malika, meanwhile, hides away in her office, hunching over a piece of stone tablet she has been translating for over a decade, and while she tries to decide if her affection for country and colleague are enough to keep her in a city still so dangerous and full of sorrow. When a desperate young boy appears claiming to have found the missing Mask of Warka, his arrival threatens to unravel the delicate webs of secrecy and betrayal that have sustained what is left of the damaged Museum.

The Little Mountain Gallery, which houses this production, is a spartan venue that certainly has its difficulties (I’ve performed there myself so I know first hand). Working Spark has done an exceptional job of transforming this space, building a new and larger platform for the actors and bringing in more comfortable multi-level seating for the house. That said, the space has its challenges. The performance I attended was the Thursday-night preview and it was clear, both from director John Murphy’s comments before the show and the slightly tentative energy of the performers onstage, that there were still a couple of kinks to be worked out in the space. Without a conventional “backstage” in the Little Mountain, the transitions between scenes seemed to be a particular challenge for this particular performance. However, I trust these transitions are going more smoothly during the actual run of the play, and also recommend simply choosing the seats in front of the shallow thrust stage (rather on the left or right side) where the “offstage” movements of the actors won’t be as visible.

Still, the actors fill their roles with natural ease and without pretension (Gili Roskies’ performance as the youth Dawood is particularly arresting) and Deines and Murphy made important choices in the writing and direction that support this ease. The actors’ voices are without put-on accents and their dialogue is as casual and full of expression as any other English dialogue. These choices (i.e. the choices NOT to have the actors use accents or speak using phrases or expressions that are different from those we would use in everyday English) are tremendously important in that Working Spark has managed to set a play in Baghdad without casting the characters as “the Other”. Of course there are no special accents–Iraqi people are not “foreign” in their own country. Of course there are no unfamiliar expressions–the expressions used by native Arabic speakers would not sound unfamiliar to other Arabic speakers. The point is not to exoticize Baghdad or to pass any kind of judgement on its culture, before or after the American invasion. The point is that culture is important in itself.

What Ghosts in Baghdad shows us is the way in which society’s treatment of historical, natural, and cultural artifacts is a measure for the condition of its people. When looters storm a national museum and force its closure to the public, they steal not from an enemy force but from themselves. Only extreme circumstances would create that kind of selfishness in most people–circumstances whose immediacy renders centuries and millennia of artistry miniscule. You can’t eat a statue, or live in an ancient vase. An artifact in a display case can’t protect you from bullets and heritage can’t buy your ticket to a safer place. But if money could do these things–and you could find the right buyer–could anyone blame you? Sadly, these treasures once lost are usually lost forever, and a people whose history has been stolen and who are unable to take pride in their collective culture will find it that much more difficult to heal–but what can they do?

In Ghosts in Baghdad these questions are turned back on themselves, as those champions who have sworn to preserve their cultural artifacts struggle to protect them from the desperation of poverty and fear–and also from themselves.

Ghosts in Baghdad plays at the Little Mountain Gallery (Main at 26th Ave.) until Sunday, April 6 (no show Monday, March 31). Tickets can be purchased online through Brown Paper Tickets.

Disclosure: TC and I attended the Thursday-night preview courtesy of Working Spark Theatre. My content is my own.

Grey Days and Gratitude

/ Lauren / 2 Comments
Picasso's "Woman Ironing"

Picasso’s “Woman Ironing”

Maybe it’s because it’s March, and I don’t like March. Maybe it’s because I’m in the thick of a busy busy week. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to plan a wedding for the summer and do not always feel very good at that kind of thing. Maybe it’s because the collapse of human civilization will be “difficult to avoid”, according to a recent NASA-funded study, and it’s all our fault. Maybe it’s because I’m getting older and I don’t yet feel confident, wealthy, or wise enough for the journey. Maybe it’s because there’s rabbit hair all over my couch despite my best efforts, or maybe it’s because that aforementioned “civilization is ending” report makes me feel like an asshole for being sad about anything else. Maybe it’s because I’m overwhelmed by everything I see, hear, read, and feel responsible for (it would be hard not be overwhelmed in the face of either wedding planning or our impending self-imposed destruction).

Whatever the reason, there have been some grey days lately. Days where doubt slowly drip-drips like icy water through your heart and you wonder what the hell you’re doing, who the hell ever made you think you could have everything you want, and how the hell you’re going to pay for all your dreams, because like it or not, most dreams have their price. Days where you worry–about your future, about your choices, about your ability to live in the future you made with your choices. About the situations in which you have no choice. Days when you feel that you’re running full speed just to stay in the same place. Days when the destination is far far away.

You don’t want to feel grey. You want the sun to break through those clouds to light up your path, with angel choirs fluttering past carrying banners that say “You’re on the right track, baby!”. You want to see Results, you want to make Progress, you want the future bright and your heart as light as air.

But that’s not today. Grey is what you have today. Maybe grey is what you have all week, or all month. Maybe that grey is so heavy right now, so persistent, that it deepens and settles in your stomach and then you have the Blues. This week, that’s my lot. I dealt with the usual culprits–I’ve been resting, I’ve been reading, and I’ve been out in the sun–but still I feel a little cloudy on the inside, whether I want to or not.

Back in August 2011, I wrote a blog post entitled And Now the Case for Being Happy. In the post I discussed happiness and the fears and struggles that came with it at that particular time. Of gratitude, I wrote, “To spend your life being merely grateful that things aren’t worse is not joyous living.”

But sometimes gratitude is all you’ve got. For most of us, it simply isn’t possible to be living joyously All The Time. Every day will bring its challenges; every sky will have its clouds. Perhaps I needed to be easier on myself. Perhaps I didn’t anticipate then some of the challenges I would have now. Perhaps there’s no one-size-fits-all, “Ten Habits of Happy People” Buzzfeed-list solution to how an individual human being might feel at any given time, when faced with any number or combination of obstacles. Perhaps feeling gratitude is the best I can do for myself right now.

Am I happy today? Not especially. Was I happy yesterday? No. But was the world beautiful? Was I loved? Am I grateful for it? Yes and yes and yes. Am I still worried? Yes. Do I have any solutions? Not today. But even when I crawl into bed at night with worry gnawing at my chest, I am crawling and worrying next to somebody I love, and I know I wouldn’t trade my problems for anyone else’s.

 

Dancing Monkey Presents: “Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me”

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Stop me if you’ve heard this one: an Irishman, an Englishman, and an American are chained to a wall–

swwomlogoNo, this is not the set-up for some lame stereotypical joke, but the premise for Frank McGuinness’ searing play Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me, a story set not against the backdrop of the Lebanon Hostage Crisis, but chained deep within its dark belly. Under the direction of the luminous Julie McIsaac, the players of Dancing Monkey Presents wade neck deep into the waters of fear, despair, madness, and hope that threaten to overwhelm us when we are, quite literally, hostage to forces beyond our control.

Though the play runs over two hours (with a short intermission), McGuinness’ script is witty, biting, and fast-paced, taking its characters careening between the polemic and the playful, the religious and the ridiculous, between anger, insanity, honesty, and love. Though the Lebanon Hostage Crisis and its casualties are, of course, deeply rooted in the political realm, McGuinness’ story does not dwell on this, choosing to focus on the human beings beneath the hostages, in all their fear, self-righteousness, and unexpected kindnesses, rather than on condemning or excusing either the hostage-takers or the governments who may or may not have done all within their power to secure their citizens’ safe release.

McIsaac’s staging of Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me is simple yet effective. Three men are chained in a small bare room, lit by a single dangling bulb. We do not know what time of day it is, or where they are, and neither do they. Against such a sparse backdrop, the performances of Jay Clift (Adam), Ashley O’Connell (Edward), and Kirk Smith (Michael) truly shine as McGuiness’ script races them, and us, through an emotional labyrinth at break-neck speed. Each character is a pressure cooker, roiling with physical energy they cannot expend, anger they cannot unleash, and fear they cannot relieve. The script, which is actually quite funny at times, swings each man from tears to laughter and back again, relentless and unflinching.  The skill that lies beneath the delicately controlled performances delivered by Clift, O’Connell, and Smith is not to be understated.

Though 1980s Lebanon is worlds away for most of us, McGuiness and his characters strip away the layers of distance and time that separate us, the comfortable audience, from them, the men waiting to find out if they will live or die, if will they ever see their families again, or if anyone even knows what has happened to them. In the isolation of a cell, with the possibility of madness an ever-present companion, three men encounter the same fears that gnaw at most of us–that it does not matter where we are from, how educated we are, whether we are good or bad people. Things will happen to us that we do not understand and cannot control. We will not know why. We will not know if there is even a why. What we will know is what our reality is, in the here and now. We will know what the darkness is and we will have to decide how to live with it, no matter how short or long our captivity. In the darkness there is loneliness and helplessness but also humanity.

If I were to have a complaint about the evening it would be that the intimate seating still contained several empty chairs and Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me deserves to play to packed houses. With a ticket price of $16 (affordability being part of Dancing Monkey Presents’ mandate) a script this good, and performances this strong, there is really no excuse not to see it if you can.

Someone Who’ll Watch Over Me plays at Renegade Studios (125 E. 2nd Ave., Vancouver) for one more week, March 18 – 23, at 8:00 p.m. each night. Tickets can be purchased online or at the door (though the house is small so booking early is advised). NB: The vents are turned off during the performance and the space does get a little cold during that time so dress appropriately!

Clockwise from top left: Jay Clift, Kirk Smith, Ashley O'Connell

Clockwise from top left: Jay Clift, Kirk Smith, Ashley O’Connell

Disclosure: My guest and I were provided tickets courtesy of Dancing Monkey Presents. My content is my own.