On Thursday I surfaced to a voice that said, Hello. It was friendly, a tad curious, a young-ish woman standing at the end of the bed. This would be pleasant on most days, barring one minor detail; I was the only one in the room.
Voices. Friday was different, No voices but my own whirring, jumping in time and space determined to post something in support of the young protesting climate change. But there was also Brexit, an apologist’s column by Owen Jones that needed rectifying, and the plague of people wearing Canada Goose jackets in Vancouver.
Oh, and there was booking vacation time. The boss was going away. I had to book time off. Two months in to the year, burnout apparent, I have to get out. It took three attempts — first booking the wrong month, then the wrong type of day off – evidence enough I need to get out.
I don’t know where I’m going. Much of this depends on finding a seven year-old BC Ferries card that has $100 stored on it and how much more debt I’m prepared to add. I found a sweet deal on Galiano Island but it turned out I was looking at US$ prices – evidence again, I need to get out.
About twenty seconds in to Friday I saw the latest news; 49 people shot dead at a Mosque. I’m not sure what most people's response was, but mine was to feel like throwing up. I felt sick to the stomach.
Having refused to read analysis or opinion, because we know where that rabbit hole goes, I’m still processing, reminded of Baruch Goldstein killing 54 people — or was it 45? — at a mosque in the 90s. Yours truly went to Tunisia a few days later with an Israeli stamp decorating his passport. But hey, it was a BLUE British passport and those things have magical powers. The border officer skipped the one page that could have put me in a dark box.
Needless to say, I’ve been a little less daring since. Well, a lot. The gravlax plate and pot of Russian tea at Batard will do nicely, thank you.
As much as I’m cognisant of sadness and joy existing in the same space, it was impossible on Friday morning to post anything coherent about the climate change protests. Thirty minutes to shower, dress, write, and get out the door (actually several of them) was not enough time to grasp, digest, and package the news. Today, I would like to make an attempt:
I bear witness to the last twenty-seven years of betrayal by leaders of countries, leaders of industry, and leaders of media -- both traditional and modern -- over the issue of climate change. From Rio to Kyoto to Copenhagen to Paris, we have failed ourselves. We’ve had ample opportunity to effect change, whether it be reducing our reliance on fossil fuels, or beef. While we’ve made some progress, it’s been a slap in the face, a greenwash, a giant sham. Our societies have become more entrenched in destructive behaviour.
At age 15, I hated being called a kid. Greta Thunberg is more than a kid, a label set to dismiss her. I skipped school to watch Queen play one of their last concerts (my first one – woot!), Greta and her generation are skipping school because they are set to inherit the actions of their elders. Any adults dismissing their actions have their heads stuck up their arse (British variant of ass). The protestors are breaking free of another generation's lies. I wholly support them.