It would be good if everyone was healthy, happy, and prosperous.
This isn’t reality.
And ignoring it isn’t actually working for the Left. People aren’t blind or numb to their own whispering problems.
With Trudeau, it is shallow gestures and empathy phrases with no core to it, He apologizes for other people’s actions of the past, thinking that means something.
Not if those injustices are still alive and well in the present and you don’t see them.
Anyone with drama training can shed a few crocodile tears. So can people clocked for speeding and bawl to the nice police officer not to give them a ticket.
Kids in toy stores can do it, too.
That doesn’t prove you have empathy, respect, or compassion.
I am still haunted by my grandmother’s agonizing death. She chose to live because she didn’t want to be away from her family. To her, she did not want to abandon us and sacrificed everything to look out for us. She worried about how much sleep I got and agonized about my derailed career. She gave me pep talks and advice as she lay dying.
I looked after her 24/7. I had been so focussed on her that I abandoned myself in the bargain. My mother did the same.
And then my mother was diagnosed with cancer and then I was, too a few short weeks later.
We looked after each other. I had to trudge in the snow to walk a long way to the hospital to see my mother after her surgery three weeks after have surgery to remove my left ovary.
They gutted me. My stomach muscle was split in two. I was oozing and in absolute agony. I didn’t take the morphine I was given. I didn’t even pick it up because I could not be under any influence because I had to drive and look after my mother.
And I can barely walk, but I make the trip twice a day to the hospital where my mother lost a lot of blood and had a hard time keeping awake because of it. I had to look after her as I am terrified that my cancer has spread.
But I march to the hospital every day like a soldier. I would go to Fortinos to buy my mother something with flavour to eat as I also would bring her coffee, and try to cheer her up, and I can barely sit in the hospital chair, still in shock that asymptomatic me had motherfucking ovarian cancer.
And then she comes home, and a few weeks later, she has to have another surgery because she had something so rare that the doctor who had to operate never seen it before.
It is a never-ending siege of trauma.
And I know there are people who not only had it as bad, they have it even worse.
They have children with incurable degenerative conditions.
I have a bracelet a student made for me in jewelry summer camp that I taught one year. She was the sweetest, cutest, kindest little girl who took the class so she could make things to raise money for the fatal disease she has.
But she gave me a present because even though she is ill, she wants me to know that she likes me.
And it moves me. If I had the power, I would make her problems disappear.
But I don’t, and it bothers me.
I have known people who are going through extraordinary lengths for their terminally ill children, fighting a brawl with the heavens to extract every extra second at the expense of everything.
And we have a deluded prime minister who has his panties in a knot because his rivals have his number and keep dialling it.
We have never had a prime minister — on the left or right, who put children first.
And no, photo ops of you reading to them doesn’t count. Fuck you.
Neither is giving people money per child — it encourages the wrong kind of people to keep having them for the free money. I used to sit in the solarium and watch outside my old house on Main Street East in Hamilton and see Stroller Row.
We have children in battered women’s shelters. We have children who are sex slaves being passed around and videotaped.
The Grits give money to newspapers who fucked up their own worthless profession — but completely ignore children’s services.
This is vile and disgusting.
I like my art. I like my surrealist paintings, my books, my theremin, my Kintsugi, my Alexander Katsulin pottery, Turkish coffee, and antique furniture.
I like Sherlock Holmes, Han Hoogerbrugge, the Hives, and the Blue Beetle.
I am self-indulgent and eccentric, and if you don’t like it, go fuck yourself.
You aren’t paying my bills. You don’t care that I had cancer. Go to hell. I don’t have respect for your negging.
Because it is all meaningless if you don’t have a moral compass.
And politics isn’t the place you’ll ever find it.
Neither is this neo-Victorian façade. It’s not genuine.
A kinder world comes from empathy and compassion.
That requires vulnerability and connect, not cheap acting stunts and empty words…