Blue Christmases

Because I haven't been blogging as often as I used to, I have not yet mentioned my sweet baby angel precious love jewel dollface niece Puka. Puka is almost two. Puka is perfect and I will not have anyone say anything against her. Sure, if you think your baby is the cutest in the world, I'll allow it, but only because you're biased. Even Cobrastarshine thinks his little sister is amazing. He comforts her by patting her back when she gets time outs.

This story begins on a snowy December evening. Hawk and I were hosting Puka and Cobrastarshine for a sleepover. We've had Cobrastarshine overnight a few times, but never the two of them. Now that Cobrastarshine is four, he occasionally gets ... willful. However, he was so pleased to be hanging out with us that he didn't throw a tantrum that night, despite not wanting to put on his jammas.

He and Hawk built a zoo out of Duplo blocks while Puka and I looked at our Christmas tree.

When I was done failing to take photos of Puka in low light (because she is very fast), we tried to play in the zoo with the boys, but they were very absorbed in their game.

Hawk in a decent reproduction of the original Seahag* photo.

Bed time was not as difficult as I thought it was going to be. I'd hoped the kids would be a little scared or sad and would want cuddles in the big bed, but nope. Puka was perfectly happy in a playpen-cum-crib Hawk Sr. had brought for us. So happy, in fact, that as she sang herself to sleep, one of the words she cooed was "happy, happy, happy" along with other Puka classics like "onomatopoeia," "antidisestablishmentarianism," and "micropachycephalosaurus."

Cobrastarshine came for cuddles for approximately 2.5 microseconds before he decided to decamp to the living room couch where he would then bother Puka. It took both me and Hawk using our stern voices to wrangle him back into the office onto the pullout couch with its gorgeous dinosaur sheets. To prevent relapses, I had to stay up on the couch playing crossword puzzles until they both fell asleep, lit by the glow of our Christmas garland and tree, serenaded by Cobrastarshine's wee voice talking to his hippo and elephant toys, and Puka's sweet singing.

The next morning, Nana and Papa joined us for brunch at the Blue Plate Diner, then came over to hang out. Puka was in a dancing mood so she and I danced to Christmas music. While I held her in my arms, singing along to She and Him's rendition of "Blue Christmas," Cobrastarshine in the background demanding that I turn off that song because he doesn't like that song, stop that song!--it hit me very hard.

This would be my first Christmas without my sister. Since she was born, I mean.

She and I have been moping about it for weeks. Her inlaws now reside on Vancouver Island, so they're going there for Christmas. She and I are so miserable. She'll have a good time or whatever but that's not important. We're besties. We're the bestest besties that ever bestied, and it's just TOO MUCH.

Twenty-nine Christmases we've had together. Twenty nine.

And I'm not saying that Hawk's family, with our five nieces and newphews on that side, aren't awesome. But they're not MAGPIE and they're not PUKA and they're not COBRASTARSHINE!

Magpie and I like to get into trouble at Christmas. One year, with our cousin Palomino, we used dental floss to hang all the villagers from Nana's Christmas village by the neck until dead (us not them, we were dead meat) in Nana's Christmas tree.

Sometimes we do each other's makeup.

We make fun of EVERYTHING and EVERYONE.

Sometimes we watch stupid TV about deadly animals or Nostradamus.

One time ... ew ... we cuddled. Super gay in a sister way.

So yeah. It's gonna be a blue, blue Christmas.

At least I'll be able to cuddle Cora.

*The Seahag is a legend, but that's a story for another time.

Lame Epiphanies

While walking home from a delicious birthday lunch hosted by my mother-in-law, I saw a poster for a live show. The band? Viet Cong. I recalled reading a blurb about this band a few weeks ago. Or perhaps I heard it on the radio? Anyway, they named their band because they'd heard the phrase "Viet Cong" and thought it sounded cool. After making it onto the radio, they'd received flack for their band name, and just didn't get it.

When I saw the poster today, this all popped into my head and I thought, "Whatever, it's been like 50 years, it's not like it's Hitler."

I just Googled it. It's been 40 years, but I didn't know that at the time.

Anyway, I continued my lovely walk down Jasper Ave and it struck me like Agent Orange: the Viet Cong is Vietnam's Nazi Party!

For students of history, or anyone older than about 50, I guess, this may not be such a surprise. But for someone who is just turning 32 today, this leaves as sour a taste in my mouth as that Agent Orange joke should in yours.

I didn't need to think deep dark thoughts on my birthday

This morning, before lunch, I was having an internal rage fest on an entirely different matter. A friend posted an image on her Facebook and I took offence to it. I don't take offence to her; she didn't post it to offend me. She posted it to educate and to help people. But, I have a cold, and it made me angry. Or, to put it coherently: this morning, the following image made me SUPER DUPER MAD!

I was seething: "It's not my fault I was born cisgender. I'm not checking that. I don't do anything to hurt anyone. It's not my fault I was born middle class. BLAALLAAHAHHA."

I understand. These messages are important for some people. Some people don't know how to sympathise or empathise. Some people might see a person in transition in a washroom and heckle him or her. If I saw that happen, I'd step in. Because I'm not an asshole.

I think I was also upset because I'm a woman, and yes, even white, straight, cisgender women still have struggles to overcome. Do I have to fight the societal hurdles that a trans woman or man does? No. Does that mean what I struggle through doesn't matter? I hope not. I hope that the suffering of others, whether worse or lesser than mine, doesn't mean mine aren't important.

Do you remember Patricia Arquette's (white, cisgender) speech when she won at the Oscars in 2015? She asked everyone that feminism has helped to join forces in the fight against unfair wages. Meryl Streep (White, cisgender) led the standing ovation. Of course these two women are loaded up with privilege. They're beautiful, rich (class), able-bodied, hetero, and likely come from a Christian background. Wowza. The ovaries on that woman asking for help on a feminist issue that affects all women! The backlash was immediate. Non-white women were incensed.

I didn't get it. I know many women consider white feminism to be elitist, but I consider that racist. Sure, I have it easier than you. How does that affect our combined struggle for equality?

Well, these assholes enlightened me.

Your band name is bad and you should feel bad

Privilege, then, may be only learning European history. It's not about who's a better feminist or who has it harder. And it's not about checking your attitude—unless your attitude is bad.

Have you ever thought about how trans people might use a washroom before? It's all over the news. All. The. Time. You should have. If you haven't, then the check your privilege notice is for you.

If you get angry at the check your privilege notices, they're probably for you.

If they're not, you probably have other privileges you just haven't checked yet.