Facebook is not a public space. The same is true for other social media and content sharing sites on the Internet. You can replace what I am saying about Facebook with Twitter; or even WordPress.
Each of these is a privately owned corporate zone with unlocked windows and doors. You and I exist in these spaces as a supply of raw material to keep capital flowing. We have no inherent or natural right to be in these made places.
While in those artificial zones of being, we have no inherent right to speak and say whatever we feel. We do so because it is allowed by our corporate hosts. Your freedom of thought, freedom of speech, and freedom of conscious are your personal freedoms. They are not taken away from you because the host says please don’t do that here. Nothing prevents you from hosting your own web site with your own content and rules. Before the internet humans would print flyers and leaflets because newspapers and publishers would not print the content.
A private corporation does not have to lend you their platform to spread your words.
All social media platforms exist because someone is making money. Usually lots of money.
The goal of Facebook is to generate income by clicks, likes, views and shares.
Facebook doesn’t care about the content, only about the controversy. Turmoil is traffic. And traffic is money.
Remember juicy rumors and colourful lies travel faster than boring facts.
Humans prefer to be shocked over being bored.
Think about Facebook as a private party and our host is Mark Zuckerberg.
A fight breaks out between two guests and the two sides square off by dropping their pants and having a crap in the middle of the room. Then they proceed to throw their excrement at everything and everyone around them.
Do you think maybe our host Mark has an obligation to do something?
Instead he picks up the pants and stands back saying “I wouldn’t want to intrude on their freedoms…”
Then Mark quietly exits the room holding the pants with the wallets inside.
I wasn’t white until I grew up.
This is on my mind today after reading that, according to the USA census categories, “Arabs are white”. Yet Muslims are seen as “people of colour”. Somehow there is a disconnect in those two nuggets of information. But then bigotry was never big on logic. Or even thinking.
My background is a mix of Eastern European. A melange of Croatian, Hungarian, Roma(Gypsies) and no doubt a few other stray stands of genetic material. My parents fled the retribution that followed the failed Hungarian Revolution in 1956. They lived through a winter as refugees in what was then Yugoslavia. Eventually though a series of random events they ended up on a refugee ship bound for Quebec City, Canada.
A whole series of other random events led them to find work as ‘sharecroppers’ on the tobacco farms north of Toronto.
My mother made it clear to me that – while we were European – we were never considered “white” by the local measure of the 1960s. Even today in the Barrie area whiteness is bestowed by having Anglo-Saxon Protestant roots.
As a child I clearly remember being told I was a foreigner – even if my birth certificate said “Born in Canada”. I did not belong in the Great White North. My skin was permanently tanned – we might today call my skin-tone “olive”. In the summer I would turn a lovely shade of leather. My family has an almond shape to our eyes, and a very slight extra fold. Not quite Asian – yet in the brilliant white of 1960s British Ontario that is what I was called. Except not in the polite way. I was told I couldn’t be in certain groups because of my ‘heritage”.
One mom said to her blonde daughter, “You don’t play with that little china-boy do you?”
Being “not quite white” no doubt implied my hearing wasn’t quite in the normal range to hear past the white-noise all around me.
By the time the 1970s rolled around, I was apparently more white and less odd. It likely helped that a family with some indigenous blood now sent their children to school. They were a degree darker in shade, and clearly that meant they should now be shunned. Oh bigotry – you astound where you abound. Still, it wasn’t that I was now included in the circle of white. Rather I was less visible. Not better, but certainly less bitter.
In high school, the skin-tone separation returned to my reality. I again became, somehow, Asian. Until the Wong family came to school. Then it was clear I couldn’t be a “china-boy”. Nor was I Japanese (in spite of my obsession with Japanese culture and animation at the time!). I suddenly became a ‘native.’ And what was I doing off the reserve and pretending I was white?
The ultimate marker of my non-belonging was when the Asian crew thought they should beat me up. Grade 10 was hell. I became the daily target of attacks from the few Asian students in my grade. Punched in the head. Kicked when in line. Spat on. They knew no-one white would come to my aid. And there were no other “native” kids to come watch my back. I was Rezlad; and RezReject. And that made me a target.
Mostly I ignored it for the usual 20-seconds of discomfort it caused.
Still what I do remember most vividly about Grade 10 is the morning ‘nausea of fear’ and throwing-up in the bathroom before walking out to catch my bus.
The one thing about coming from Eastern European peasant stock is my genetic material is rather robust. And we lived on a farm. By the end of Grade 10, I was filling out from carrying 100 lb sacks of grain to the barn through the snow. That spring one of the tougher members of the Asian crew put me in a headlock as the others egged him on. I remember letting him bend my downwards and then my grabbing his nuts and squeezing. He screamed and fell to the ground rolling in pain. I walked away and never looked back. Grade 11 was a better year for me.
The only odd thing about Grade 11 (and the rest of my high school years) was I became an Eskimo. That became my nickname and my category. In the 1970s being Eskimo(Inuit) was better than being an Indian(First Nations). Why? I have no clue – maybe it was exotic in the worse sense of that words meaning? It still wasn’t white. Yet somehow it also inspired me. I read everything I could about the north and the people’s that lived there. I even taught myself how to carve soapstone, shaping small animals in my alone time. It was comforting. It was my (false) niche of contentment. I didn’t belong and I liked it.
It was only when I went to University and lived in a more ethnically diverse community that I became (mostly)white.
It only took 19 years before I was bestowed with that privilege. And let me tell you – in he end it really wasn’t all that great!
There is privilege in whiteness; and there is a burden of stereotype for what and who I must have been – and that has erased my lived experience.
The only thing I learned from that portion of my life is we humans are arbitrary in how we divide ourselves. Our pride is false. And our tribes are simply illusions that help us hide from reality.
The wee bit of Roma(Gypsy) in me knows that I still don’t belong, and never will.
And you know what? That is actually just fine!
whatever is that smell?
poetry gone rancid
in the summer swelter
old moldering musty reek
of words in decay…
ah such grand ideals,
and look at it fade
All things human are born to die
Here in the Great White North it is the celebration of creating a nation. The official launch of the experiment called Canada was launched: July 1st, 1867.
Now the reality is nations don’t just arise from spontaneous birth. One day nothing – and the next day BOOM – “look honey it’s a baby country. She will be awesome when she grows up!”
No. Political unions arise out of planned negotiations and random choices. This land was here before it was called the “Dominion of Canada’. This land was here before human’s even existed. This land has a history that begins before those of us who are living ever breathed the air of planet earth; before humans battled each other to lay down a set of values, laws, and government.
This land does not belong to any human, first and foremost it belongs to itself as part of Mother Earth.
I ended up here by accident. My parents fleeing the turmoil of 1956 Hungary, where refugees seeking shelter. Refugees looking for a place where they could top looking over their shoulders. A new home where they could stop worrying that the wrong sentence would get them arrested, imprisoned. Killed.
They had no idea where they were headed when they bundled up their two young children – a daughter about to have her 5th birthday, and their son not even 6-months old. They packed one small suitcase and walked across a frozen river into what was Yugoslavia (now Croatia). They became homeless.
The next 6 months they lived in refugee camps, while other governments made offers for a permanent home. My parents had talked about Belgium, and then the Canadian government offered them a home in Canada. They arrived by ship, landing in Quebec City, Canada in July 1957.
They became sharecroppers on tobacco farms near Barrie, Ontario. Investing in the planting, working the fields, maintaining the buildings and equipment. Learning English from the other immigrants and refugees around them. The promise of an autumn reward making them work hard in the summer heat. Eventually my parents realized there was no pot of gold at the end of the tobacco crop rainbow.
Somewhere in there another son was born. Then I was born on Canadian soil.
My father had always been handy with tools and fixing things. He began working as a handyman, and then as a carpenter. Eventually, in 1964, my parents saved enough to buy a small run-down farm from a local farmer and landowner – Mr. Smalley. He held the mortgage because no bank would give my parents a mortgage back in those days.
My father had a love for the land and tried to be a farmer – raising pigs, chickens, and geese. And it never really worked out. There would a good few years, followed by a horrible year. He had to keep working as a carpenter. He was a good carpenter, and so he became a site foreman for a small construction company. He earned a good wage, but ne was never wealthy. He never had a new car, and our clothes were mostly bought from thrift shops.
My mother stayed home with her 5 children, running the household. Keeping the livestock thriving. Planting massive vegetable gardens that feed us well through the summer, and throughout the winter. She canned the bounty, so that the pantry was always filled with pickles, relish, and canned fruit. I loved her pickled beets, and I have never been able to duplicate the flavour of the ones she made from the beets she grew.
So what is my point? Nothing really. Just a reflection on what it means for me to be here in Canada. This is a nation built on compromise and acceptance. It is a vast and complex thriving community of distinct cultures. This is a country based on a ideal of “peace, order, and good government.”
Mostly that basic vision has been maintained. Yet nothing is ever made; and no lives are ever lived without making some stupid choices. Along the way there were some horrible choices made. There is nothing that can remove the past; it is our choice to be bound by that past. We are here now and we must do better. And we will do better. It just takes time.
This nation is an experiment that is always being refined. What we value today may not be valued tomorrow.
My father taught me that you always do your best with what you have on hand to make things better. My mother taught me that you can only make choices based on what you know today. If you didn’t know something yesterday that you now know today – then admit it. You cannot change yesterday. You cannot guarantee tomorrow. All you can do is be the best you for today.
Happy Dominion Day Canada. You are not a perfect country by any measure. Yet the only truth I know is the world could use more Canada in it. Today was good. Tomorrow can be even better.